Chapter Thirteen.Gone!When Hilary Blachland awoke to consciousness, the moon was shining full down on his face.He was chilled and stiff—but the rest and sleep had done him all the good in the world, and now as he sat up in the hard damp rock-crevice, he began to collect his scattered thoughts.He shivered. Thoughts of fever, that dread bugbear of the up-country man, took unpleasant hold upon his mind. A sleep in the open, blanketless, inadequately protected from the sudden change which nightfall brings, in the cool air of those high plateaux—the more pronounced because of the steamy tropical heat of the day—had laid many a good man low, sapping his strength with its insidious venom, injecting into his system that which should last him throughout the best part of his life.He peered cautiously out of his hiding-place. Not a sign of life was astir. He shook himself. Already the stiffness began to leave him. He drained his flask, and little as there was, the liquor sent a warming glow through his veins. The next thing was to find his way back to where he had left Hlangulu.Somehow it all looked different now, as he stepped forth. In the excitement of the projected search he had not much noticed landmarks. Now for a moment or so he felt lost. But only for a moment. The great monolith of the King’s grave rose up on his left front, the granite pile, white in the moonlight. Now he had got his bearings.Cautiously he stepped forth. There was still a reek of smoke on the night air, ascending from the spot of sacrifice and wafted far and wide over the veldt. But of those who had occupied it there was no sign. They had gone. Cautiously now he stole through the shade of the bushes: the light of the moon enabling him to step warily and avoid stumbling. He was glad to put all the distance possible between himself and that accursed spot. His bruised ankle was painful to a degree, and he was walking lame. That there was no luck in meddling with Umzilikazi’s last resting-place assuredly he had found.He travelled but slowly, peering cautiously over every rise prior to surmounting it, not needlessly either, for once he came upon a Matabele picket, the glow of whose watch-fire was concealed behind a great rock. The savages were stretched lazily on the ground, their assegais and shields beside them, some asleep, others chatting drowsily. Well for him that he was cautious and that they were drowsy. But—where was Hlangulu?Then a thought stabbed his mind. He had brought back no spoil. The Matabele, foiled in his cupidity, would have no further motive for guiding him into safety. All his malevolence would be aroused. He would at once jump to the conclusion that he had been cheated—that Blachland had hidden the gold in some place of safety, intending to return and possess himself of the whole of it. He would never for a moment believe there was none there, or if there was that it was inaccessible. A white man could do everything, was the burden of native reasoning. If this white man had returned without the spoil it would not be that there was no spoil there, but that he had hidden it, intending to keep it all for himself. Acting on this idea Blachland filled the pockets of his hunting coat with small stones so as to give to the appearance of those useful receptacles a considerable bulge. That would deceive his guide until they two were in safety once more—and then—he didn’t care.A sound struck upon his ear, causing him to stop short. It was that of one stone against another. Then it was repeated. It was the signal agreed upon between them. But it was far away on the left. He had taken a wrong bearing, and was shaping a course which would lead him deeper and deeper into the heart of the Matopo Hills. He waited a moment, then picking up a good-sized stone, struck it against a rock, right at hand, thus answering the signal.Had Hlangulu heard it, he wondered? It was of no use to go in his direction. They might miss in the darkness, pass each other within a few yards. So he elected to sit still. The rest was more than welcome. His bruised ankle was stiff and sore and inflamed. Fortunately he would soon come to where he had left his horse. Much more walking was out of the question. Time wore on. He longed to smoke, but dared not. He was still within the dangerous limits. He was just about to give the signal once more, when—a voice raised in song hardly louder than a whisper! It was Hlangulu.The eyes of the savage were sparkling with inquiry as he ran them over the white man. The latter rather ostentatiously displayed his bulged pockets, but said nothing—signing to the other to proceed. Not a word was spoken between the two as they held on through the night—and towards the small hours came upon the spot where the horse had been left concealed.A European could hardly have dissembled his curiosity as to what had happened. The Matabele, however, asked no questions, and if a quick, fleeting look across his mask-like countenance, as they took their way onward through the starlight, betrayed his feelings it was all that did. Just before dawn they turned into a secure hiding-place formed by the angle of two great boulders, walled in in front by another accidental one—to rest throughout the hours of daylight.And now a sure and certain instinct had taken hold upon Blachland, and the burden of it was that under no circumstances whatever dare he go to sleep. Once or twice he had detected a look upon the sinister race of his confederate and guide which implanted it more and more firmly within his mind. Yet, in spite of the few hours of half-unconscious doze, he was worn out for lack of rest, and there were two more nights and three whole days before he could reach home. He was feeling thoroughly done up. The fiery, gnawing pain of his swelled ankle, the strain which all that he had gone through had placed upon his nerves—combined to render him almost light-headed, yet, with it all, a marvellous instinct of self-preservation moved him to watchfulness. This could not go on. He must put it to the test one way or the other.“I think I will try to sleep a little, Hlangulu,” he said. “Afterwards we can talk about what has been.”“Nkose!” replied the Matabele, effusively, striving to quell the dark look of fierce delight which shot across his sinister countenance.Blachland lay down, drawing his blanket half over his head. The Matabele sat against a rock and smoked.Blachland watched him through his closed lids, but still Hlangulu sat and smoked. He became really sleepy. The squatting form of the savage was visible now only as through a far-away misty cloud. He dropped off.Suddenly he awoke. The same instinct, however, which had warned him against going to sleep warned him now against opening his eyes. Through the merest crack between their lids he looked forth, and behold, some one was bending over him, but not so much as to conceal the haft of a short, broad-bladed, stabbing assegai.There was not much time to decide. Cool now, as ever, in the face of ordinary and material danger, Blachland realised that his hands were imprisoned in his blanket, and that before he could free them, the blade of the savage would transfix his heart. He heaved a sigh that was partly a snore—and made a movement as though in his sleep, which if continued would still more invitingly present his breast to the deadly stroke. The murderer saw this too and paused.But not for long. He spun round wildly, his weapon flying from his outstretched hand, then fell, heavily, on his face—and this simultaneously with the muffled roar of an explosion beneath the blanket. The supposed sleeper had stealthily drawn his hip-pocket revolver, and, firing through the covering, had shot Hlangulu dead. Then the sleep which was overpowering him came upon him, and with a profound sense of security he dropped off, slumbering peacefully, where, but a few yards off lay the corpse of his victim and would-be murderer.There is often a sort of an instinct which tells that a place is empty, whether house or room—empty, untenanted by its ordinary occupant. Just such a feeling was upon Blachland as he drew near his home. The gate of the stockade was shut and no smoke arose—nor was there any sign of life about the place. It had a deserted look.The fact depressed him. He was feeling fatigued and ill; in short, thoroughly knocked up. He had even realised that there were times when it is pleasant to have a home to return to, and this was one of them, and now as he rode up to his own gate there was no sign of a welcoming presence.He raised his voice in a stentorian hail. The two little Mashuna boys shot out of the back kitchen as scared as a couple of rabbits when the ferret is threading the winding passages to their burrow. Scared, anxious-looking, they opened the gate.“Where is your mistress?” he asked in Sindabele.“Gone,Nkose,” was the reply.“Gone!” he echoed mentally.So Hermia had taken him at his word, and had decided to retreat to Fort Salisbury. Perhaps though, some disquieting news had arrived since his departure, causing her to take that step. His feeling of depression deepened as he entered the empty house. Ah! What was this?A letter stared at him from a conspicuous place, a sealed enclosure—and it was directed in Hermia’s handwriting. That would explain, he thought. And it did with a vengeance.“You will not be astonished, Hilary,” it began, “because even you must have seen that this life was getting beyond endurance. You will not miss me, because for some time past you have been growing more and more tired of me. So it is best for us to part: and you can now go back to your Matabele wives, or bring them here if you prefer it; for I shall never return to this life we have been leading. I warned you that if you did not appreciate me, others did—and now I am leaving, not only this country but this continent. I am going into the world again, and now, you too, will be able to make a fresh start. We need never meet again and in all probability we never shall. Farewell.“Hermia.”Twice he read over this communication—slowly, carefully, as though weighing every word. So she had gone, had deserted him. There was truth in what she wrote. He had been growing tired of her—very: for he had long since got to the bottom of the utter shallowness of mind which underlay her winning and seductive exterior—winning and seductive, that is, when laying herself out to attract admiration, a thing she had long since ceased to do in his own case. The sting too, about his Matabele wives, he never having possessed any, was a not very adroit insinuation designed to place him in the wrong, and was all in keeping with a certain latent vulgarity of mind which would every now and then assert itself in her, with the result of setting his teeth on edge.He smiled to himself, rather bitterly, rather grimly. He was sorry for Spence. The boy was merely a fool, and little knew the burden he had loaded up on his asinine and youthful shoulders, and, as for Hermia, his smile became more saturnine still, as he pictured her roughing it in a prospector’s camp: for he looked upon her statement about leaving Africa as mere mendacious bounce, and of course was unaware of any change for the better in Spence’s fortunes. For her he was not sorry, nor for himself. As she had said, he would now be able to make a fresh start, and this he fully intended to do. Yet, as he stood there, ill and tired and shaken, looking around on his deserted home, it may be that some tinge of abandonment and desolation crept over him. Hermia had chosen her time well, at any rate, he thought, as he busied himself fomenting and bandaging his throbbing and swollen ankle.The sun had gone down, and the shades of evening seemed to set in with a strange, unaccountable chill, as he limped about, looking after his stock and other possessions. Decidedly there was a lonely feeling, vague, indefinable, which hovered about him. And then those dreadful chills increased. Lying out in that rock-crevice, in fact lying out for several nights insufficiently covered, had sown the seeds. Assuredly no luck had come to him through meddling with the King’s grave. And then, before evening had merged for an hour into dark night, Hilary Blachland lay shivering beneath his piled-up blankets as though they had been ice—shivering in the terrible ague-throes of that deadly malaria—weak, helpless as a child, deserted, alone.End of Book I.
When Hilary Blachland awoke to consciousness, the moon was shining full down on his face.
He was chilled and stiff—but the rest and sleep had done him all the good in the world, and now as he sat up in the hard damp rock-crevice, he began to collect his scattered thoughts.
He shivered. Thoughts of fever, that dread bugbear of the up-country man, took unpleasant hold upon his mind. A sleep in the open, blanketless, inadequately protected from the sudden change which nightfall brings, in the cool air of those high plateaux—the more pronounced because of the steamy tropical heat of the day—had laid many a good man low, sapping his strength with its insidious venom, injecting into his system that which should last him throughout the best part of his life.
He peered cautiously out of his hiding-place. Not a sign of life was astir. He shook himself. Already the stiffness began to leave him. He drained his flask, and little as there was, the liquor sent a warming glow through his veins. The next thing was to find his way back to where he had left Hlangulu.
Somehow it all looked different now, as he stepped forth. In the excitement of the projected search he had not much noticed landmarks. Now for a moment or so he felt lost. But only for a moment. The great monolith of the King’s grave rose up on his left front, the granite pile, white in the moonlight. Now he had got his bearings.
Cautiously he stepped forth. There was still a reek of smoke on the night air, ascending from the spot of sacrifice and wafted far and wide over the veldt. But of those who had occupied it there was no sign. They had gone. Cautiously now he stole through the shade of the bushes: the light of the moon enabling him to step warily and avoid stumbling. He was glad to put all the distance possible between himself and that accursed spot. His bruised ankle was painful to a degree, and he was walking lame. That there was no luck in meddling with Umzilikazi’s last resting-place assuredly he had found.
He travelled but slowly, peering cautiously over every rise prior to surmounting it, not needlessly either, for once he came upon a Matabele picket, the glow of whose watch-fire was concealed behind a great rock. The savages were stretched lazily on the ground, their assegais and shields beside them, some asleep, others chatting drowsily. Well for him that he was cautious and that they were drowsy. But—where was Hlangulu?
Then a thought stabbed his mind. He had brought back no spoil. The Matabele, foiled in his cupidity, would have no further motive for guiding him into safety. All his malevolence would be aroused. He would at once jump to the conclusion that he had been cheated—that Blachland had hidden the gold in some place of safety, intending to return and possess himself of the whole of it. He would never for a moment believe there was none there, or if there was that it was inaccessible. A white man could do everything, was the burden of native reasoning. If this white man had returned without the spoil it would not be that there was no spoil there, but that he had hidden it, intending to keep it all for himself. Acting on this idea Blachland filled the pockets of his hunting coat with small stones so as to give to the appearance of those useful receptacles a considerable bulge. That would deceive his guide until they two were in safety once more—and then—he didn’t care.
A sound struck upon his ear, causing him to stop short. It was that of one stone against another. Then it was repeated. It was the signal agreed upon between them. But it was far away on the left. He had taken a wrong bearing, and was shaping a course which would lead him deeper and deeper into the heart of the Matopo Hills. He waited a moment, then picking up a good-sized stone, struck it against a rock, right at hand, thus answering the signal.
Had Hlangulu heard it, he wondered? It was of no use to go in his direction. They might miss in the darkness, pass each other within a few yards. So he elected to sit still. The rest was more than welcome. His bruised ankle was stiff and sore and inflamed. Fortunately he would soon come to where he had left his horse. Much more walking was out of the question. Time wore on. He longed to smoke, but dared not. He was still within the dangerous limits. He was just about to give the signal once more, when—a voice raised in song hardly louder than a whisper! It was Hlangulu.
The eyes of the savage were sparkling with inquiry as he ran them over the white man. The latter rather ostentatiously displayed his bulged pockets, but said nothing—signing to the other to proceed. Not a word was spoken between the two as they held on through the night—and towards the small hours came upon the spot where the horse had been left concealed.
A European could hardly have dissembled his curiosity as to what had happened. The Matabele, however, asked no questions, and if a quick, fleeting look across his mask-like countenance, as they took their way onward through the starlight, betrayed his feelings it was all that did. Just before dawn they turned into a secure hiding-place formed by the angle of two great boulders, walled in in front by another accidental one—to rest throughout the hours of daylight.
And now a sure and certain instinct had taken hold upon Blachland, and the burden of it was that under no circumstances whatever dare he go to sleep. Once or twice he had detected a look upon the sinister race of his confederate and guide which implanted it more and more firmly within his mind. Yet, in spite of the few hours of half-unconscious doze, he was worn out for lack of rest, and there were two more nights and three whole days before he could reach home. He was feeling thoroughly done up. The fiery, gnawing pain of his swelled ankle, the strain which all that he had gone through had placed upon his nerves—combined to render him almost light-headed, yet, with it all, a marvellous instinct of self-preservation moved him to watchfulness. This could not go on. He must put it to the test one way or the other.
“I think I will try to sleep a little, Hlangulu,” he said. “Afterwards we can talk about what has been.”
“Nkose!” replied the Matabele, effusively, striving to quell the dark look of fierce delight which shot across his sinister countenance.
Blachland lay down, drawing his blanket half over his head. The Matabele sat against a rock and smoked.
Blachland watched him through his closed lids, but still Hlangulu sat and smoked. He became really sleepy. The squatting form of the savage was visible now only as through a far-away misty cloud. He dropped off.
Suddenly he awoke. The same instinct, however, which had warned him against going to sleep warned him now against opening his eyes. Through the merest crack between their lids he looked forth, and behold, some one was bending over him, but not so much as to conceal the haft of a short, broad-bladed, stabbing assegai.
There was not much time to decide. Cool now, as ever, in the face of ordinary and material danger, Blachland realised that his hands were imprisoned in his blanket, and that before he could free them, the blade of the savage would transfix his heart. He heaved a sigh that was partly a snore—and made a movement as though in his sleep, which if continued would still more invitingly present his breast to the deadly stroke. The murderer saw this too and paused.
But not for long. He spun round wildly, his weapon flying from his outstretched hand, then fell, heavily, on his face—and this simultaneously with the muffled roar of an explosion beneath the blanket. The supposed sleeper had stealthily drawn his hip-pocket revolver, and, firing through the covering, had shot Hlangulu dead. Then the sleep which was overpowering him came upon him, and with a profound sense of security he dropped off, slumbering peacefully, where, but a few yards off lay the corpse of his victim and would-be murderer.
There is often a sort of an instinct which tells that a place is empty, whether house or room—empty, untenanted by its ordinary occupant. Just such a feeling was upon Blachland as he drew near his home. The gate of the stockade was shut and no smoke arose—nor was there any sign of life about the place. It had a deserted look.
The fact depressed him. He was feeling fatigued and ill; in short, thoroughly knocked up. He had even realised that there were times when it is pleasant to have a home to return to, and this was one of them, and now as he rode up to his own gate there was no sign of a welcoming presence.
He raised his voice in a stentorian hail. The two little Mashuna boys shot out of the back kitchen as scared as a couple of rabbits when the ferret is threading the winding passages to their burrow. Scared, anxious-looking, they opened the gate.
“Where is your mistress?” he asked in Sindabele.
“Gone,Nkose,” was the reply.
“Gone!” he echoed mentally.
So Hermia had taken him at his word, and had decided to retreat to Fort Salisbury. Perhaps though, some disquieting news had arrived since his departure, causing her to take that step. His feeling of depression deepened as he entered the empty house. Ah! What was this?
A letter stared at him from a conspicuous place, a sealed enclosure—and it was directed in Hermia’s handwriting. That would explain, he thought. And it did with a vengeance.
“You will not be astonished, Hilary,” it began, “because even you must have seen that this life was getting beyond endurance. You will not miss me, because for some time past you have been growing more and more tired of me. So it is best for us to part: and you can now go back to your Matabele wives, or bring them here if you prefer it; for I shall never return to this life we have been leading. I warned you that if you did not appreciate me, others did—and now I am leaving, not only this country but this continent. I am going into the world again, and now, you too, will be able to make a fresh start. We need never meet again and in all probability we never shall. Farewell.“Hermia.”
“You will not be astonished, Hilary,” it began, “because even you must have seen that this life was getting beyond endurance. You will not miss me, because for some time past you have been growing more and more tired of me. So it is best for us to part: and you can now go back to your Matabele wives, or bring them here if you prefer it; for I shall never return to this life we have been leading. I warned you that if you did not appreciate me, others did—and now I am leaving, not only this country but this continent. I am going into the world again, and now, you too, will be able to make a fresh start. We need never meet again and in all probability we never shall. Farewell.
“Hermia.”
Twice he read over this communication—slowly, carefully, as though weighing every word. So she had gone, had deserted him. There was truth in what she wrote. He had been growing tired of her—very: for he had long since got to the bottom of the utter shallowness of mind which underlay her winning and seductive exterior—winning and seductive, that is, when laying herself out to attract admiration, a thing she had long since ceased to do in his own case. The sting too, about his Matabele wives, he never having possessed any, was a not very adroit insinuation designed to place him in the wrong, and was all in keeping with a certain latent vulgarity of mind which would every now and then assert itself in her, with the result of setting his teeth on edge.
He smiled to himself, rather bitterly, rather grimly. He was sorry for Spence. The boy was merely a fool, and little knew the burden he had loaded up on his asinine and youthful shoulders, and, as for Hermia, his smile became more saturnine still, as he pictured her roughing it in a prospector’s camp: for he looked upon her statement about leaving Africa as mere mendacious bounce, and of course was unaware of any change for the better in Spence’s fortunes. For her he was not sorry, nor for himself. As she had said, he would now be able to make a fresh start, and this he fully intended to do. Yet, as he stood there, ill and tired and shaken, looking around on his deserted home, it may be that some tinge of abandonment and desolation crept over him. Hermia had chosen her time well, at any rate, he thought, as he busied himself fomenting and bandaging his throbbing and swollen ankle.
The sun had gone down, and the shades of evening seemed to set in with a strange, unaccountable chill, as he limped about, looking after his stock and other possessions. Decidedly there was a lonely feeling, vague, indefinable, which hovered about him. And then those dreadful chills increased. Lying out in that rock-crevice, in fact lying out for several nights insufficiently covered, had sown the seeds. Assuredly no luck had come to him through meddling with the King’s grave. And then, before evening had merged for an hour into dark night, Hilary Blachland lay shivering beneath his piled-up blankets as though they had been ice—shivering in the terrible ague-throes of that deadly malaria—weak, helpless as a child, deserted, alone.
End of Book I.
Chapter One.Wiser Counsels.“That scamp! That out-and-out irreclaimable scamp! A hundred is just ninety-nine pound nineteen more than he deserves. A hundred. No—I’ll make it two.”Sir Luke Canterby looked up from the document he had been perusing and annotating, and biting the end of his pen, sat gazing meditatively out of the window. It was a lovely day of early spring, and the thrushes were hopping about the lawn, and the rooks in the great elms were making a prodigious cawing and fuss over their nest-building. All Nature was springing into new life in the joyous gladsome rush of the youthful year, but the old man, sitting there, was out of harmony with rejuvenated Nature. His meditations and occupation were concerned, not with life, but with death. The document before him was nothing less momentous than the draft of his last will and testament.In appearance, however, there was nothing about Sir Luke Canterby to suggest impending dissolution, either now or in the near future. Seated there surrounded by the dark oak of his library, he represented a pleasant and wholesome type of old age. He was tall and spare, and, for his years, wonderfully straight. He had refined features and wore a short beard, now silvery white, and there was a kindly twinkle in his eyes. He was a rich man, but had not always been, and, although of good parentage, had made his money in commerce. He had been knighted on the occasion of a Royal visit to the mercantile centre wherein at the time he was prominent, but in his heart of hearts, thought but little of the ‘honour’ in fact, would have declined it could he have done so with a good grace.His gaze came back to the paper with a troubled look, which deepened as he made the correction. For although to the legatee in question two hundred pounds would be better than none, yet the said legatee had had reason to expect that the bulk of the whole would be left to him. Still the testator sat staring at what he had just effected, as if it were something he did not relish at all, and in fact, no more he did. Then an interruption occurred in the shape of a knock at the door and the entrance of a servant.“Canon Lenthall is here, Sir Luke, and would be glad to know if you can see him?”“Eh? Yes, certainly. Show him up here. The very thing,” he added to himself. “I’ll take Dick’s opinion about it. Ah, there he is. Come in, Canon. Real glad to see you, especially just now.”“Nothing wrong, Canterby?” said the other, as the two men shook hands cordially.“Don’t know about wrong, Dick. But I’m in a puzzle over something, and you always had a sound judgment. Sit down.”The Very Reverend Richard Lenthall was one of the canons attached to the Roman Catholic Cathedral in the adjacent town of Passmore; and the difference in their creeds notwithstanding, for Sir Luke did not profess the ancient faith, the two men had been fast friends for nearly a lifetime. In aspect and manner they were totally dissimilar. The priest was a broad, thick-set man of medium height, with a strong but jovial face, square-jawed and surmounted by a fine forehead, and illuminated by a pair of fine dark eyes, wonderfully searching, as they gazed forth from beneath bushy brows. He had a brisk, hearty, genial manner, differing entirely from the somewhat reposeful and dignified one of his friend. But mentally, both had many points in common—notably a keen sense of humour—and a delight in studying the contrasts and ironies of the satirical side of life.“What’s the puzzle?” he now said, dropping into a chair.“I’ll tell you. Oh, by the way, let me ring for a glass of wine for you after your walk.”“No, thanks. I’ll wait till lunch. I’m going to stop and lunch with you, but I’ll have to get away directly after.”“As to that you know your own business best. Look here, old friend, advise me. Do you know what this confounded document is?” holding it up.“Um. It might be a lease, or a deed of partnership—or of sale.”“No. Try again.”“Or your will.”“You’ve struck it. That’s just what it is. The draft of my will. And—I want you to read it.”“Why?”“Because I want your opinion, man—doesn’t it stand to reason?”“See here, Luke,” said the other, and there was a twinkle in his eye. “Aren’t you afraid of the much-abused priest who is supposed to be always poking his nose into other people’s business and interfering in family matters? You know.”“I only know that you are talking bosh when you ought to be serious, Dick. Do run through that paper and make any remarks on it you like.”“Well, if you really wish it,” said the Canon, serious enough now, as he got out his glasses, and began to peruse attentively the masses of legal jargon which covered up the testator’s designs. He had not got far, however, before he came upon that which perturbed him not a little, but of such his trained impassive countenance betrayed no sign. Sir Luke sat looking out of the window, watching the thrushes hopping about the lawn.“Well?” he said at last, but not extending a hand to receive the document which the other was holding out to him.“You have altered all your former dispositions,” said the Canon.“Yes. I have been thinking things carefully over. I daren’t trust him, that scamp. He has simply gone from bad to worse, and would make ducks and drakes of the lot. Percival won’t.”“That scamp!” The hardly perceptible quiver in his old friend’s voice as he uttered the word, did not escape the shrewd ecclesiastic. Indeed, to that skilled and experienced master of human nature in all its phases, the state of his friend’s mind at this moment was a very wide open book.“Are you sure of yourself, Canterby?” he said. “Is it quite just to entail upon him so ruthlessly sweeping a penalty as this? Are you sure of yourself?”“Of course I am.”“No, you’re not. My dear old friend, you can’t throw dust in my eyes. You are not sure of yourself. Then why not give him another chance?”“Why, that’s just what I have done. Anybody else would have cut him off with a shilling—with the traditional shilling. By George, sir, they would.”Canon Lenthall smiled to himself, for he knew that when a man of his friend’s temperament begins to wax warm in an argument of this sort, it is a sure sign that he is arguing against himself. He considered the victory almost won. Turning over the sheets of the draft once more, he read out a clause—slowly and deliberately:“To my nephew, Hilary Blachland, I bequeath the sum of two hundred pounds—in case he might find himself in such a position that its possession would afford him a last chance.”“Well?” queried Sir Luke.“Please note two things, Canterby,” said the Canon. “First you say I am to advise you, then that I am to read this document and make any remarks I like.”“Of course.”“Well then, I’ll take you at your word. I advise you to draw your pen right through that clause.”“Why? Hilary is an irreclaimable scamp.”“No, he is not.”“Not, eh? ‘St. Clair, St. Clair and Blachland.’ Have you forgotten that, Canon?” snorted Sir Luke. “AndBlachland! My nephew!”“How long ago was that?”“How long ago? Why, you know as well as I do. Six years. Rather over than under.”“Yes. Six years is a long time. Time enough for a man to recognise that he has made worse than a fool of himself. How do you know that Hilary has not come to recognise that—is not doing all he can to wipe out that sin?”“Exactly. How do I know? That’s just it. He has never had the grace or decency to let me know that he has—to let me know whether he’s dead or alive.” The other smiled to himself. “That’s not the solitary one of his carryings on, either. Yes. He’s an out-and-out scamp.”“I don’t agree with you, Canterby. The very fact that he has refrained from communicating with you makes for the contrary. It is a sign of grace. Had he been the scamp you—don’tbelieve him to be, you’d have heard from him fast enough, with some pitiful appeal for assistance.”“But he ought to have let me hear. I might be thinking him dead.”“Well, the last thing you told him was that he ought to be. If I recollect rightly, you strongly recommended him to go and blow his brains out.”“Well, he didn’t. He went off with the woman instead.”“That isn’t to say he’s with her now.”“I’m surprised at you, Canon,” snorted Sir Luke. “Hanged if I ever thought to find you defending—er—vice.”“And you haven’t found me doing so yet. But everything has to be determined on its own merits.”“But there aren’t any merits in this case. It was a bad case, sir, a rotten bad case.”“Well, we’ll say demerits then, if you prefer it. Now there are, or were, two extenuating circumstances in this particular one—the personality of the woman, and—heredity. For the first I have seen her, for the second, Hilary’s father. You knew him pretty well, Canterby, but I knew him even better than you did.”“But what would you have me do? I daren’t put him into possession of large responsibilities. He has disgraced his family as it is. I can’t have him coming here one day, and disgracing it further.”“You would rather put Percival into the position then?”“Of course. He would fill it worthily. The other wouldn’t.”“I don’t know about that. I am perfectly certain about one thing, and that is that Percival himself would never accept it at the expense of his cousin, if he knew he was to do so. That boy has a rarely chivalrous soul, and he used almost to worship Hilary.”“Pooh! That wouldn’t go so far as to make him deliberately choose to be left nearly a pauper in order to benefit the other,” sneered Sir Luke. But he was a man who did not sneer well. It was not natural to him to sneer at all—therefore his sneer was not convincing.“I don’t agree with you, Canterby. I believe he would. There are some few natures like that, thank Heaven, although it must be conceded they are marvellously scarce. But he need not ‘be left a pauper’—though that of course rests with you—and that without doing the other any injustice—and yourself too. For you know as well as I do, Luke, that Hilary holds and always will hold the first place in your heart.”“And the same holds good of Percy in regard to yours, eh, Canon? Yet you are arguing against him for all you know how.”“I am arguing against you, not against him. You invited remark upon the contents of this document, Luke, and asked me to advise you, and I have done my best to comply with both desires. Don’t be in a hurry to commit an act of injustice which you yourself may bitterly repent when it is too late, and past remedying. You are at present sore and vindictive against Hilary, but you know perfectly well in your heart of hearts that he is to you as your own and only son. Stretch out a hand of blessing over him from beyond the grave, not one of wrath and retribution and judgment.”“It isn’t that, you know,” urged Sir Luke, rather feebly. “My reasons are different. I don’t want him to come here and play ducks and drakes with what I have taken a lifetime to build up—and not easily either—and to bring scandal on my name and memory. That’s what it amounts to.”“That’s what you are trying to persuade yourself into thinking it amounts to, but you can’t humbug me, old friend. My advice to you therefore is to lock that draft away, or better still, put it in the fire, and leave things as they are.”“You mean with Hilary as my heir?”“Just that. I have, however, a suggestion to append. Find out Hilary; not necessarily directly, but find out about him—where he is and what doing. The fact that he has never applied to you for help, is, as I said before, a point in his favour. He may have carved out a position for himself—may be of use in the world by his life and example. Anyway, give him a chance.”“But if I find just the reverse? What if I find him a thoroughly hardened and disreputable scamp?”“Then I have nothing further to urge. But somehow I have an instinct that you will find him nothing of the sort.”A perceptible brightening came over the old man’s face. The priest had struck the right chord in saying that Hilary Blachland had been to his friend rather as an only son than as a nephew, and now the thought of having him at his side again was apparent in the lighting up of his face. Then his countenance fell again.“It’s all very well to say ‘Find out Hilary,’” he said. “But how is it to be done? We last heard of him from South Africa. He was trading in the interior with the natives. Seemed to like the life and could make a little at it.”“Well, there you are. You can soon find out about him. Although covering a vast area in the vague region geographically defined as South Africa, the European population is one of those wherein everybody knows everybody else, or something about them. Send Percival out. The trip would do him a world of good. You need not tell him its precise object in every particular, I mean of course that he is sent out there to report. But let him know that he is to find Hilary, and he will throw himself into it heart and soul. Then his indirect report will tell us all we want to know.”“By Jove, Canon, that is sound judgment, and I’ll act upon it!” cried Sir Luke eagerly. “What on earth are your people about that they don’t make you a Cardinal Archbishop? Send Percival! Why, that’ll be the very thing. I shall miss the boy though, while he’s away, but oh, confound it, yes—I would like to see that other scamp again before I die. Here—this can go in the fire,” throwing the draft document into the grate and stirring it up with the poker to make it burn. “We’ll send Percival. Ha! That sounds like his step. Shall we say anything to him now about it? Yes. Here he is.”
“That scamp! That out-and-out irreclaimable scamp! A hundred is just ninety-nine pound nineteen more than he deserves. A hundred. No—I’ll make it two.”
Sir Luke Canterby looked up from the document he had been perusing and annotating, and biting the end of his pen, sat gazing meditatively out of the window. It was a lovely day of early spring, and the thrushes were hopping about the lawn, and the rooks in the great elms were making a prodigious cawing and fuss over their nest-building. All Nature was springing into new life in the joyous gladsome rush of the youthful year, but the old man, sitting there, was out of harmony with rejuvenated Nature. His meditations and occupation were concerned, not with life, but with death. The document before him was nothing less momentous than the draft of his last will and testament.
In appearance, however, there was nothing about Sir Luke Canterby to suggest impending dissolution, either now or in the near future. Seated there surrounded by the dark oak of his library, he represented a pleasant and wholesome type of old age. He was tall and spare, and, for his years, wonderfully straight. He had refined features and wore a short beard, now silvery white, and there was a kindly twinkle in his eyes. He was a rich man, but had not always been, and, although of good parentage, had made his money in commerce. He had been knighted on the occasion of a Royal visit to the mercantile centre wherein at the time he was prominent, but in his heart of hearts, thought but little of the ‘honour’ in fact, would have declined it could he have done so with a good grace.
His gaze came back to the paper with a troubled look, which deepened as he made the correction. For although to the legatee in question two hundred pounds would be better than none, yet the said legatee had had reason to expect that the bulk of the whole would be left to him. Still the testator sat staring at what he had just effected, as if it were something he did not relish at all, and in fact, no more he did. Then an interruption occurred in the shape of a knock at the door and the entrance of a servant.
“Canon Lenthall is here, Sir Luke, and would be glad to know if you can see him?”
“Eh? Yes, certainly. Show him up here. The very thing,” he added to himself. “I’ll take Dick’s opinion about it. Ah, there he is. Come in, Canon. Real glad to see you, especially just now.”
“Nothing wrong, Canterby?” said the other, as the two men shook hands cordially.
“Don’t know about wrong, Dick. But I’m in a puzzle over something, and you always had a sound judgment. Sit down.”
The Very Reverend Richard Lenthall was one of the canons attached to the Roman Catholic Cathedral in the adjacent town of Passmore; and the difference in their creeds notwithstanding, for Sir Luke did not profess the ancient faith, the two men had been fast friends for nearly a lifetime. In aspect and manner they were totally dissimilar. The priest was a broad, thick-set man of medium height, with a strong but jovial face, square-jawed and surmounted by a fine forehead, and illuminated by a pair of fine dark eyes, wonderfully searching, as they gazed forth from beneath bushy brows. He had a brisk, hearty, genial manner, differing entirely from the somewhat reposeful and dignified one of his friend. But mentally, both had many points in common—notably a keen sense of humour—and a delight in studying the contrasts and ironies of the satirical side of life.
“What’s the puzzle?” he now said, dropping into a chair.
“I’ll tell you. Oh, by the way, let me ring for a glass of wine for you after your walk.”
“No, thanks. I’ll wait till lunch. I’m going to stop and lunch with you, but I’ll have to get away directly after.”
“As to that you know your own business best. Look here, old friend, advise me. Do you know what this confounded document is?” holding it up.
“Um. It might be a lease, or a deed of partnership—or of sale.”
“No. Try again.”
“Or your will.”
“You’ve struck it. That’s just what it is. The draft of my will. And—I want you to read it.”
“Why?”
“Because I want your opinion, man—doesn’t it stand to reason?”
“See here, Luke,” said the other, and there was a twinkle in his eye. “Aren’t you afraid of the much-abused priest who is supposed to be always poking his nose into other people’s business and interfering in family matters? You know.”
“I only know that you are talking bosh when you ought to be serious, Dick. Do run through that paper and make any remarks on it you like.”
“Well, if you really wish it,” said the Canon, serious enough now, as he got out his glasses, and began to peruse attentively the masses of legal jargon which covered up the testator’s designs. He had not got far, however, before he came upon that which perturbed him not a little, but of such his trained impassive countenance betrayed no sign. Sir Luke sat looking out of the window, watching the thrushes hopping about the lawn.
“Well?” he said at last, but not extending a hand to receive the document which the other was holding out to him.
“You have altered all your former dispositions,” said the Canon.
“Yes. I have been thinking things carefully over. I daren’t trust him, that scamp. He has simply gone from bad to worse, and would make ducks and drakes of the lot. Percival won’t.”
“That scamp!” The hardly perceptible quiver in his old friend’s voice as he uttered the word, did not escape the shrewd ecclesiastic. Indeed, to that skilled and experienced master of human nature in all its phases, the state of his friend’s mind at this moment was a very wide open book.
“Are you sure of yourself, Canterby?” he said. “Is it quite just to entail upon him so ruthlessly sweeping a penalty as this? Are you sure of yourself?”
“Of course I am.”
“No, you’re not. My dear old friend, you can’t throw dust in my eyes. You are not sure of yourself. Then why not give him another chance?”
“Why, that’s just what I have done. Anybody else would have cut him off with a shilling—with the traditional shilling. By George, sir, they would.”
Canon Lenthall smiled to himself, for he knew that when a man of his friend’s temperament begins to wax warm in an argument of this sort, it is a sure sign that he is arguing against himself. He considered the victory almost won. Turning over the sheets of the draft once more, he read out a clause—slowly and deliberately:
“To my nephew, Hilary Blachland, I bequeath the sum of two hundred pounds—in case he might find himself in such a position that its possession would afford him a last chance.”
“Well?” queried Sir Luke.
“Please note two things, Canterby,” said the Canon. “First you say I am to advise you, then that I am to read this document and make any remarks I like.”
“Of course.”
“Well then, I’ll take you at your word. I advise you to draw your pen right through that clause.”
“Why? Hilary is an irreclaimable scamp.”
“No, he is not.”
“Not, eh? ‘St. Clair, St. Clair and Blachland.’ Have you forgotten that, Canon?” snorted Sir Luke. “AndBlachland! My nephew!”
“How long ago was that?”
“How long ago? Why, you know as well as I do. Six years. Rather over than under.”
“Yes. Six years is a long time. Time enough for a man to recognise that he has made worse than a fool of himself. How do you know that Hilary has not come to recognise that—is not doing all he can to wipe out that sin?”
“Exactly. How do I know? That’s just it. He has never had the grace or decency to let me know that he has—to let me know whether he’s dead or alive.” The other smiled to himself. “That’s not the solitary one of his carryings on, either. Yes. He’s an out-and-out scamp.”
“I don’t agree with you, Canterby. The very fact that he has refrained from communicating with you makes for the contrary. It is a sign of grace. Had he been the scamp you—don’tbelieve him to be, you’d have heard from him fast enough, with some pitiful appeal for assistance.”
“But he ought to have let me hear. I might be thinking him dead.”
“Well, the last thing you told him was that he ought to be. If I recollect rightly, you strongly recommended him to go and blow his brains out.”
“Well, he didn’t. He went off with the woman instead.”
“That isn’t to say he’s with her now.”
“I’m surprised at you, Canon,” snorted Sir Luke. “Hanged if I ever thought to find you defending—er—vice.”
“And you haven’t found me doing so yet. But everything has to be determined on its own merits.”
“But there aren’t any merits in this case. It was a bad case, sir, a rotten bad case.”
“Well, we’ll say demerits then, if you prefer it. Now there are, or were, two extenuating circumstances in this particular one—the personality of the woman, and—heredity. For the first I have seen her, for the second, Hilary’s father. You knew him pretty well, Canterby, but I knew him even better than you did.”
“But what would you have me do? I daren’t put him into possession of large responsibilities. He has disgraced his family as it is. I can’t have him coming here one day, and disgracing it further.”
“You would rather put Percival into the position then?”
“Of course. He would fill it worthily. The other wouldn’t.”
“I don’t know about that. I am perfectly certain about one thing, and that is that Percival himself would never accept it at the expense of his cousin, if he knew he was to do so. That boy has a rarely chivalrous soul, and he used almost to worship Hilary.”
“Pooh! That wouldn’t go so far as to make him deliberately choose to be left nearly a pauper in order to benefit the other,” sneered Sir Luke. But he was a man who did not sneer well. It was not natural to him to sneer at all—therefore his sneer was not convincing.
“I don’t agree with you, Canterby. I believe he would. There are some few natures like that, thank Heaven, although it must be conceded they are marvellously scarce. But he need not ‘be left a pauper’—though that of course rests with you—and that without doing the other any injustice—and yourself too. For you know as well as I do, Luke, that Hilary holds and always will hold the first place in your heart.”
“And the same holds good of Percy in regard to yours, eh, Canon? Yet you are arguing against him for all you know how.”
“I am arguing against you, not against him. You invited remark upon the contents of this document, Luke, and asked me to advise you, and I have done my best to comply with both desires. Don’t be in a hurry to commit an act of injustice which you yourself may bitterly repent when it is too late, and past remedying. You are at present sore and vindictive against Hilary, but you know perfectly well in your heart of hearts that he is to you as your own and only son. Stretch out a hand of blessing over him from beyond the grave, not one of wrath and retribution and judgment.”
“It isn’t that, you know,” urged Sir Luke, rather feebly. “My reasons are different. I don’t want him to come here and play ducks and drakes with what I have taken a lifetime to build up—and not easily either—and to bring scandal on my name and memory. That’s what it amounts to.”
“That’s what you are trying to persuade yourself into thinking it amounts to, but you can’t humbug me, old friend. My advice to you therefore is to lock that draft away, or better still, put it in the fire, and leave things as they are.”
“You mean with Hilary as my heir?”
“Just that. I have, however, a suggestion to append. Find out Hilary; not necessarily directly, but find out about him—where he is and what doing. The fact that he has never applied to you for help, is, as I said before, a point in his favour. He may have carved out a position for himself—may be of use in the world by his life and example. Anyway, give him a chance.”
“But if I find just the reverse? What if I find him a thoroughly hardened and disreputable scamp?”
“Then I have nothing further to urge. But somehow I have an instinct that you will find him nothing of the sort.”
A perceptible brightening came over the old man’s face. The priest had struck the right chord in saying that Hilary Blachland had been to his friend rather as an only son than as a nephew, and now the thought of having him at his side again was apparent in the lighting up of his face. Then his countenance fell again.
“It’s all very well to say ‘Find out Hilary,’” he said. “But how is it to be done? We last heard of him from South Africa. He was trading in the interior with the natives. Seemed to like the life and could make a little at it.”
“Well, there you are. You can soon find out about him. Although covering a vast area in the vague region geographically defined as South Africa, the European population is one of those wherein everybody knows everybody else, or something about them. Send Percival out. The trip would do him a world of good. You need not tell him its precise object in every particular, I mean of course that he is sent out there to report. But let him know that he is to find Hilary, and he will throw himself into it heart and soul. Then his indirect report will tell us all we want to know.”
“By Jove, Canon, that is sound judgment, and I’ll act upon it!” cried Sir Luke eagerly. “What on earth are your people about that they don’t make you a Cardinal Archbishop? Send Percival! Why, that’ll be the very thing. I shall miss the boy though, while he’s away, but oh, confound it, yes—I would like to see that other scamp again before I die. Here—this can go in the fire,” throwing the draft document into the grate and stirring it up with the poker to make it burn. “We’ll send Percival. Ha! That sounds like his step. Shall we say anything to him now about it? Yes. Here he is.”
Chapter Two.A Waft of Strange News.“I say, Uncle Luke. Do you happen to be aware that it’s jolly well tiffin time—Hallo, Canon! Didn’t know you were here. How are you?”He who thus unceremoniously burst in upon them, in blissful ignorance of the momentous matter under discussion and of course of how his own fortunes had been balancing in the scale, was a goodly specimen of English youth, tall, and well-hung, and athletic, but the bright frank sunniness of his face, his straight open glance, and entirely unaffected and therefore unspoiled manner rendered him goodly beyond the average. Percival West and Hilary Blachland were both orphaned sons of two of Sir Luke’s sisters, and had been to him even as his own children. There was a difference of many years between their ages, however, and their characters were totally dissimilar, as we have heard set forth.“Time for tiffin is it, Percy?” said Sir Luke, glancing at his watch. “You see we old fogies haven’t got your fine healthy jackass-and-a-bundle-of-greens appetite. We must have overlooked it.”“I don’t agree with you at all, Canterby,” laughed the Canon. “I’ll answer for it. I feel uncommonly like beefsteaks, or anything that’s going. And what have you been doing with yourself, Percy?”“Biking. Got ten miles out beyond Passmore since eleven o’clock. Oh, bye-the-bye, Canon, I saw the Bishop in Passmore. He wanted you badly.”“Percy, speak the truth, sir,” returned the Canon, with a solemn twinkle in his eyes. “You said the Bishop wanted me badly? And—his Lordship happens to be away!”“Every word I said is solemn fact,” replied Percival. “I saw the Bishop in Passmore, but I didn’t say to-day though. And there’s no denying he did want you badly. Eh, Canon?”“You’re a disrespectful rascal, chaffing your seniors, sir, and if I were twenty years younger, I’d put on the gloves and take it out of you.”“Come along in to tiffin, Canon, and take it out of that,” rejoined Percival with his light-hearted laugh, dropping his hand affectionately on to the old man’s shoulder. And the trio adjourned to the dining-room.Jerningham Lodge, Sir Luke Canterby’s comfortable, not to say luxurious establishment, was a roomy old house, standing within a walled park of about a hundred and fifty acres. Old, without being ancient, it was susceptible of being brought up tofin-de-siècleideas of comfort, and the gardens and shrubberies were extensive and well kept. It had come into his possession a good many years before, and soon after that he was left a childless widower. Thus it came about that these two nephews of his had found their home here.The elder of the two, however, did not turn out entirely to the satisfaction of his uncle.“Hilary is such a confounded young rake,” the latter used to say. “He’ll get himself into a most infernal mess one of these days.”Both dicta were true. Headstrong and susceptible, there was hardly ever a time when Hilary Blachland was outside some entanglement: more than once getting him into a serious scrape. Such, however, did not invariably come to the ears of his uncle, though now and then they did, and on one occasion Sir Luke found himself obliged to pay down a heavy sum to keep an uncommonly awkward breach of promise case against his nephew from coming into court. Hilary at last made Passmore too hot to hold him, but the worst of it was that sooner or later the same held good of everywhere else. Still, the infinity of trouble he gave him notwithstanding, this scapegrace was the one of his two nephews for whom Sir Luke had the softest place in his heart—but at last the climax arrived, and the name of that climax was the name of the suit which we have just heard Sir Luke mention. Therein Hilaryhadgot himself—as his uncle had forcibly put it—“into a most infernal mess.” His said uncle, moreover, had found himself called upon to pay the somewhat heavy damages and costs.He need not have done so, of course. He might have left the scapegrace to drag himself out of the mud he had got into. But, unlike many men who have coined their own wealth, there was nothing close-fisted about Sir Luke Canterby. He had disbursed the large sum with scarcely a murmur—anything to close down the confounded scandal. But with Hilary Blachland he was seriously angry and disgusted, and told him as much in no halting terms. The other replied he had better go abroad—and the sooner the better. So he took himself off—which, declared Sir Luke, was the most sensible thing he had decided to do for some time. He changed his mind though, on learning that Hilary had not gone alone, and—missed him, as he put it to himself and his most intimate friend, viz. Canon Lenthall, “like the very devil.”“By the way,” said Percival when lunch was half through. “I brought out a later paper from Passmore. Here it is,” producing it from the pocket of his Norfolk jacket. “Want to see it, uncle? Not much news, I expect.”“Let’s see the stock and share column,” holding out one hand for the paper, and fixing his glasses with the other. A glance up and down a column, then a turning over of the sheet. Then a sudden, undisguised start.“God bless my soul! What’s this?”His hand shook as he held the news sheet, running his glance hastily down it. “Why, that must be Hilary. There, Canon, read it out I can hardly see—there—that paragraph.”The old priest took the paper. “‘Trouble brewing in Mashonaland’? Is that it? Yes? Well, here’s what they say:—“‘Stirring times seem in store for our Chartered Company’s pioneers in their new Eldorado. It has been known that Lo Bengula’s concession of the mining rights in Mashonaland to that Company was very distasteful to his people, and for some time past these have been manifesting their displeasure in such wise as to show that it is only a question of time when the settlers of Mashonaland will find themselves called upon to vindicate their rights by force, against their truculent neighbours. The last instance that we have seems to have happened early in November, when an armed force of Matabele crossed into Mashonaland, raiding and threatening at their own sweet will. Several native servants in the employ of settlers were murdered in cold blood, Lo Bengula’s warriors asserting their right to carry on their time-honoured pastime, declaring that the lives of these people were not included in the concession; but so far they have refrained from murdering Europeans. One specific example of the unbridled aggressiveness of these savages is also to hand. The impi went to the house of a man named Blachland, a trader and hunter residing near the head waters of the Umnyati river. Two of his servants had got wind of its approach, and after warning their master fled for their lives to the bush. It appears however, that Blachland was ill with a bad attack of fever, and too weak to move.’”An exclamation from Percival and Sir Luke caused the reader to pause.“Go on, Canon, go on,” said the latter hurriedly.“‘It appears that the induna in charge of the impi was well known to the sick man, and while he entered the house and engaged the latter in conversation, his followers amused themselves by ransacking the out-premises. Here they discovered two little Mashona boys, Blachland’s servants, who were hiding in terror. These were dragged forth, and regardless of their shrieks for mercy, were ruthlessly speared, the bloodthirsty savages roaring with delight as they tossed the miserable little wretches to and fro among each other, on the blades of their great assegais. Then they went away, leaving the bleeding and mangled corpses lying in the gateway, and calling out to the sick occupant of the place that the time for killing white people had not come yet.“‘From there they proceeded to the camp of two prospectors named Skelsey and Spence. The last-named was away, but Skelsey had got wind of their coming and had promptly put his camp into a position of defence—and prepared to give them a warm reception. When they arrived he showed them his magazine rifle and revolver, and called out to the induna in command that he was going to shoot until he hadn’t a cartridge left, if they advanced a step nearer. They did not appear to relish the prospect, and drew off, uttering threats. Thus this brave fellow saved the lives of his four scared and cowering Mashona servants, who, however, showed their appreciation by deserting next day.“‘Blachland, it is reported, is out of favour with Lo Bengula, who recently ordered him out of his country for some reason or other, while he was on a trading trip at Bulawayo.’”Then followed some more comments on the insecurity of life and property at the mercy of savage neighbours, and the necessity for prompt and decided action, and the paragraph ended.“I suppose there’s no doubt about it being Hilary?” said Percival, when the reader had stopped. “Blachland isn’t such a common name, and he did go out there as a trader or something. By Jove, wouldn’t I like to be with him!”Both his seniors smiled. They were thinking his wish might soon be realised.“Down with fever, poor chap!” said Sir Luke. “But that up-country fever isn’t fatal, I’ve heard, not if men take proper care of themselves. He ought to have a run home though. The voyage would soon set him on his feet again.”“Rather!” echoed Percival, enthusiastically. “It would be grand to see the dear old chap again.”“Well, perhaps we may, Percy, perhaps we may,” rejoined his uncle, rather excitedly. “How would you like to go over and fetch him?”“Me? By George! I’d like it better than anything else in the world. But—suppose he wouldn’t come?”“Of course he’d come. Why shouldn’t he come?” testily answered Sir Luke, to whom this afterthought was not a pleasant one. And the rest of the time was spent in discussing this news from a far-away land.“Strange, isn’t it?” said Sir Luke, thereafter, Percival having gone out of the room. “Just as we were talking over Hilary, and here this bit of news comes right in upon us from outside. If Percy hadn’t brought back that paper we might never have heard it.”“Looks like an omen, doesn’t it, Luke?” laughed the Canon. “Looks as if he were to be instrumental in bringing Hilary back.”“I hope to Heaven he may. I say, Dick, old friend, I’m more than glad you turned in here to-day, in time to make me put that abominable draft in the fire.”“Will you walk back with me a little way, Percy?” said the Canon as he was taking his leave, having refused Sir Luke’s offer to send him back on wheels.“Why rather. Wait, I’ll just get my bike. I can wheel it along, and ride it back.”They passed down the village street together, nodding here and there to an acquaintance, or acknowledging the salutation of a rustic. The rector of the parish passed them on a bicycle, and the two professors of rival creeds exchanged a cordial and friendly greeting, for somehow, no one was anything other than friendly with Canon Lenthall. But it was not until they had left the village behind and had gained the open country that he began to discourse seriously with his younger friend as to the matter of which both were thinking.“Let me see. How long is it since you saw Hilary?” he began.“Oh, about half a dozen years—just before he got into that—er—mess. What a splendid chap he was, Canon. I’ve sometimes thought Uncle Luke was a bit hard on him that time.”“You’re quite wrong, Percy. Hard is the one thing your uncle could not be. Why, he’s the softest hearted man in existence.”“Yes, I know. But, does he really want me to go out there and hunt up Hilary?”“I believe so. As a matter of fact, we happened to be discussing that very thing just before you came in. It was a strange coincidence that you should unconsciously have brought the news you did.”Percival whistled. “Were you really? Strange indeed. Well, I’m on for the scheme. It doesn’t matter if I enter at the Temple now, or in six or eight months’ time—and, what an experience it’ll be in the mean time.”They were nearing Passmore, and the chimneys and spires of the town were growing larger and larger in front of them—and already the haze of smoke was dimming the bright green of the expanse of meadow between. They had gained the wooden road-bridge, beneath which the sluggish water ran oily between the black piers, and here the Canon paused.“It will be a great thing if we can bring Hilary back to his uncle, so that they are thoroughly reconciled. But Percy, my boy—remember that so far, for all these years past you have been the first and only one near him. How will you feel when you see another first—and to all appearances of more consequence than yourself, as is natural in the case of one who has long been away. Are you sure of yourself?”But the young man burst into a free, frank and hearty laugh.“Great Scot, Canon!” he cried merrily. “What sort of a bounder are you trying to take me for? There’s nothing I’d like so much as to see the dear old chap back again.”The old priest gazed steadily at him for a moment, and felt greatly relieved. The answer rang so spontaneous, so true.“Well, I had that to say to you, and have said it. In fact I brought you with me now on purpose to say it. Now, good-bye my boy, and God bless you.”
“I say, Uncle Luke. Do you happen to be aware that it’s jolly well tiffin time—Hallo, Canon! Didn’t know you were here. How are you?”
He who thus unceremoniously burst in upon them, in blissful ignorance of the momentous matter under discussion and of course of how his own fortunes had been balancing in the scale, was a goodly specimen of English youth, tall, and well-hung, and athletic, but the bright frank sunniness of his face, his straight open glance, and entirely unaffected and therefore unspoiled manner rendered him goodly beyond the average. Percival West and Hilary Blachland were both orphaned sons of two of Sir Luke’s sisters, and had been to him even as his own children. There was a difference of many years between their ages, however, and their characters were totally dissimilar, as we have heard set forth.
“Time for tiffin is it, Percy?” said Sir Luke, glancing at his watch. “You see we old fogies haven’t got your fine healthy jackass-and-a-bundle-of-greens appetite. We must have overlooked it.”
“I don’t agree with you at all, Canterby,” laughed the Canon. “I’ll answer for it. I feel uncommonly like beefsteaks, or anything that’s going. And what have you been doing with yourself, Percy?”
“Biking. Got ten miles out beyond Passmore since eleven o’clock. Oh, bye-the-bye, Canon, I saw the Bishop in Passmore. He wanted you badly.”
“Percy, speak the truth, sir,” returned the Canon, with a solemn twinkle in his eyes. “You said the Bishop wanted me badly? And—his Lordship happens to be away!”
“Every word I said is solemn fact,” replied Percival. “I saw the Bishop in Passmore, but I didn’t say to-day though. And there’s no denying he did want you badly. Eh, Canon?”
“You’re a disrespectful rascal, chaffing your seniors, sir, and if I were twenty years younger, I’d put on the gloves and take it out of you.”
“Come along in to tiffin, Canon, and take it out of that,” rejoined Percival with his light-hearted laugh, dropping his hand affectionately on to the old man’s shoulder. And the trio adjourned to the dining-room.
Jerningham Lodge, Sir Luke Canterby’s comfortable, not to say luxurious establishment, was a roomy old house, standing within a walled park of about a hundred and fifty acres. Old, without being ancient, it was susceptible of being brought up tofin-de-siècleideas of comfort, and the gardens and shrubberies were extensive and well kept. It had come into his possession a good many years before, and soon after that he was left a childless widower. Thus it came about that these two nephews of his had found their home here.
The elder of the two, however, did not turn out entirely to the satisfaction of his uncle.
“Hilary is such a confounded young rake,” the latter used to say. “He’ll get himself into a most infernal mess one of these days.”
Both dicta were true. Headstrong and susceptible, there was hardly ever a time when Hilary Blachland was outside some entanglement: more than once getting him into a serious scrape. Such, however, did not invariably come to the ears of his uncle, though now and then they did, and on one occasion Sir Luke found himself obliged to pay down a heavy sum to keep an uncommonly awkward breach of promise case against his nephew from coming into court. Hilary at last made Passmore too hot to hold him, but the worst of it was that sooner or later the same held good of everywhere else. Still, the infinity of trouble he gave him notwithstanding, this scapegrace was the one of his two nephews for whom Sir Luke had the softest place in his heart—but at last the climax arrived, and the name of that climax was the name of the suit which we have just heard Sir Luke mention. Therein Hilaryhadgot himself—as his uncle had forcibly put it—“into a most infernal mess.” His said uncle, moreover, had found himself called upon to pay the somewhat heavy damages and costs.
He need not have done so, of course. He might have left the scapegrace to drag himself out of the mud he had got into. But, unlike many men who have coined their own wealth, there was nothing close-fisted about Sir Luke Canterby. He had disbursed the large sum with scarcely a murmur—anything to close down the confounded scandal. But with Hilary Blachland he was seriously angry and disgusted, and told him as much in no halting terms. The other replied he had better go abroad—and the sooner the better. So he took himself off—which, declared Sir Luke, was the most sensible thing he had decided to do for some time. He changed his mind though, on learning that Hilary had not gone alone, and—missed him, as he put it to himself and his most intimate friend, viz. Canon Lenthall, “like the very devil.”
“By the way,” said Percival when lunch was half through. “I brought out a later paper from Passmore. Here it is,” producing it from the pocket of his Norfolk jacket. “Want to see it, uncle? Not much news, I expect.”
“Let’s see the stock and share column,” holding out one hand for the paper, and fixing his glasses with the other. A glance up and down a column, then a turning over of the sheet. Then a sudden, undisguised start.
“God bless my soul! What’s this?”
His hand shook as he held the news sheet, running his glance hastily down it. “Why, that must be Hilary. There, Canon, read it out I can hardly see—there—that paragraph.”
The old priest took the paper. “‘Trouble brewing in Mashonaland’? Is that it? Yes? Well, here’s what they say:—
“‘Stirring times seem in store for our Chartered Company’s pioneers in their new Eldorado. It has been known that Lo Bengula’s concession of the mining rights in Mashonaland to that Company was very distasteful to his people, and for some time past these have been manifesting their displeasure in such wise as to show that it is only a question of time when the settlers of Mashonaland will find themselves called upon to vindicate their rights by force, against their truculent neighbours. The last instance that we have seems to have happened early in November, when an armed force of Matabele crossed into Mashonaland, raiding and threatening at their own sweet will. Several native servants in the employ of settlers were murdered in cold blood, Lo Bengula’s warriors asserting their right to carry on their time-honoured pastime, declaring that the lives of these people were not included in the concession; but so far they have refrained from murdering Europeans. One specific example of the unbridled aggressiveness of these savages is also to hand. The impi went to the house of a man named Blachland, a trader and hunter residing near the head waters of the Umnyati river. Two of his servants had got wind of its approach, and after warning their master fled for their lives to the bush. It appears however, that Blachland was ill with a bad attack of fever, and too weak to move.’”
“‘Stirring times seem in store for our Chartered Company’s pioneers in their new Eldorado. It has been known that Lo Bengula’s concession of the mining rights in Mashonaland to that Company was very distasteful to his people, and for some time past these have been manifesting their displeasure in such wise as to show that it is only a question of time when the settlers of Mashonaland will find themselves called upon to vindicate their rights by force, against their truculent neighbours. The last instance that we have seems to have happened early in November, when an armed force of Matabele crossed into Mashonaland, raiding and threatening at their own sweet will. Several native servants in the employ of settlers were murdered in cold blood, Lo Bengula’s warriors asserting their right to carry on their time-honoured pastime, declaring that the lives of these people were not included in the concession; but so far they have refrained from murdering Europeans. One specific example of the unbridled aggressiveness of these savages is also to hand. The impi went to the house of a man named Blachland, a trader and hunter residing near the head waters of the Umnyati river. Two of his servants had got wind of its approach, and after warning their master fled for their lives to the bush. It appears however, that Blachland was ill with a bad attack of fever, and too weak to move.’”
An exclamation from Percival and Sir Luke caused the reader to pause.
“Go on, Canon, go on,” said the latter hurriedly.
“‘It appears that the induna in charge of the impi was well known to the sick man, and while he entered the house and engaged the latter in conversation, his followers amused themselves by ransacking the out-premises. Here they discovered two little Mashona boys, Blachland’s servants, who were hiding in terror. These were dragged forth, and regardless of their shrieks for mercy, were ruthlessly speared, the bloodthirsty savages roaring with delight as they tossed the miserable little wretches to and fro among each other, on the blades of their great assegais. Then they went away, leaving the bleeding and mangled corpses lying in the gateway, and calling out to the sick occupant of the place that the time for killing white people had not come yet.“‘From there they proceeded to the camp of two prospectors named Skelsey and Spence. The last-named was away, but Skelsey had got wind of their coming and had promptly put his camp into a position of defence—and prepared to give them a warm reception. When they arrived he showed them his magazine rifle and revolver, and called out to the induna in command that he was going to shoot until he hadn’t a cartridge left, if they advanced a step nearer. They did not appear to relish the prospect, and drew off, uttering threats. Thus this brave fellow saved the lives of his four scared and cowering Mashona servants, who, however, showed their appreciation by deserting next day.“‘Blachland, it is reported, is out of favour with Lo Bengula, who recently ordered him out of his country for some reason or other, while he was on a trading trip at Bulawayo.’”
“‘It appears that the induna in charge of the impi was well known to the sick man, and while he entered the house and engaged the latter in conversation, his followers amused themselves by ransacking the out-premises. Here they discovered two little Mashona boys, Blachland’s servants, who were hiding in terror. These were dragged forth, and regardless of their shrieks for mercy, were ruthlessly speared, the bloodthirsty savages roaring with delight as they tossed the miserable little wretches to and fro among each other, on the blades of their great assegais. Then they went away, leaving the bleeding and mangled corpses lying in the gateway, and calling out to the sick occupant of the place that the time for killing white people had not come yet.
“‘From there they proceeded to the camp of two prospectors named Skelsey and Spence. The last-named was away, but Skelsey had got wind of their coming and had promptly put his camp into a position of defence—and prepared to give them a warm reception. When they arrived he showed them his magazine rifle and revolver, and called out to the induna in command that he was going to shoot until he hadn’t a cartridge left, if they advanced a step nearer. They did not appear to relish the prospect, and drew off, uttering threats. Thus this brave fellow saved the lives of his four scared and cowering Mashona servants, who, however, showed their appreciation by deserting next day.
“‘Blachland, it is reported, is out of favour with Lo Bengula, who recently ordered him out of his country for some reason or other, while he was on a trading trip at Bulawayo.’”
Then followed some more comments on the insecurity of life and property at the mercy of savage neighbours, and the necessity for prompt and decided action, and the paragraph ended.
“I suppose there’s no doubt about it being Hilary?” said Percival, when the reader had stopped. “Blachland isn’t such a common name, and he did go out there as a trader or something. By Jove, wouldn’t I like to be with him!”
Both his seniors smiled. They were thinking his wish might soon be realised.
“Down with fever, poor chap!” said Sir Luke. “But that up-country fever isn’t fatal, I’ve heard, not if men take proper care of themselves. He ought to have a run home though. The voyage would soon set him on his feet again.”
“Rather!” echoed Percival, enthusiastically. “It would be grand to see the dear old chap again.”
“Well, perhaps we may, Percy, perhaps we may,” rejoined his uncle, rather excitedly. “How would you like to go over and fetch him?”
“Me? By George! I’d like it better than anything else in the world. But—suppose he wouldn’t come?”
“Of course he’d come. Why shouldn’t he come?” testily answered Sir Luke, to whom this afterthought was not a pleasant one. And the rest of the time was spent in discussing this news from a far-away land.
“Strange, isn’t it?” said Sir Luke, thereafter, Percival having gone out of the room. “Just as we were talking over Hilary, and here this bit of news comes right in upon us from outside. If Percy hadn’t brought back that paper we might never have heard it.”
“Looks like an omen, doesn’t it, Luke?” laughed the Canon. “Looks as if he were to be instrumental in bringing Hilary back.”
“I hope to Heaven he may. I say, Dick, old friend, I’m more than glad you turned in here to-day, in time to make me put that abominable draft in the fire.”
“Will you walk back with me a little way, Percy?” said the Canon as he was taking his leave, having refused Sir Luke’s offer to send him back on wheels.
“Why rather. Wait, I’ll just get my bike. I can wheel it along, and ride it back.”
They passed down the village street together, nodding here and there to an acquaintance, or acknowledging the salutation of a rustic. The rector of the parish passed them on a bicycle, and the two professors of rival creeds exchanged a cordial and friendly greeting, for somehow, no one was anything other than friendly with Canon Lenthall. But it was not until they had left the village behind and had gained the open country that he began to discourse seriously with his younger friend as to the matter of which both were thinking.
“Let me see. How long is it since you saw Hilary?” he began.
“Oh, about half a dozen years—just before he got into that—er—mess. What a splendid chap he was, Canon. I’ve sometimes thought Uncle Luke was a bit hard on him that time.”
“You’re quite wrong, Percy. Hard is the one thing your uncle could not be. Why, he’s the softest hearted man in existence.”
“Yes, I know. But, does he really want me to go out there and hunt up Hilary?”
“I believe so. As a matter of fact, we happened to be discussing that very thing just before you came in. It was a strange coincidence that you should unconsciously have brought the news you did.”
Percival whistled. “Were you really? Strange indeed. Well, I’m on for the scheme. It doesn’t matter if I enter at the Temple now, or in six or eight months’ time—and, what an experience it’ll be in the mean time.”
They were nearing Passmore, and the chimneys and spires of the town were growing larger and larger in front of them—and already the haze of smoke was dimming the bright green of the expanse of meadow between. They had gained the wooden road-bridge, beneath which the sluggish water ran oily between the black piers, and here the Canon paused.
“It will be a great thing if we can bring Hilary back to his uncle, so that they are thoroughly reconciled. But Percy, my boy—remember that so far, for all these years past you have been the first and only one near him. How will you feel when you see another first—and to all appearances of more consequence than yourself, as is natural in the case of one who has long been away. Are you sure of yourself?”
But the young man burst into a free, frank and hearty laugh.
“Great Scot, Canon!” he cried merrily. “What sort of a bounder are you trying to take me for? There’s nothing I’d like so much as to see the dear old chap back again.”
The old priest gazed steadily at him for a moment, and felt greatly relieved. The answer rang so spontaneous, so true.
“Well, I had that to say to you, and have said it. In fact I brought you with me now on purpose to say it. Now, good-bye my boy, and God bless you.”
Chapter Three.Bayfield’s Farm.There is a rustling in the cover, faint at first, but drawing nearer. As it does so, the man with the gun, who has been squatting half concealed by a shrub in one corner of the little glade, picks himself up stealthily, noiselessly, and now widely on the alert. A fine bushbuck ram leaps lightly into the open, and as its large protruding eye lights on this unusual object, its easy, graceful bound becomes a wild rush. Then the gun speaks. The beautiful animal sinks in his stride and falls, a frantic, kicking heap, carried forward some six or eight yards by the impetus of his pace. Twirling, twisting, now attempting to rise, and almost succeeding, then rolling back, but still fighting desperately for life—the blood welling forth over his black hide where the deadlyloepershave penetrated—the stricken buck emits loud raucous bellowings of rage and fear and agony. But the man with the gun knows better than to approach too near, knows well the power of those long, needle-pointed horns, and the tenacity of life contained within the brain beneath them; knows well that a stricken bushbuck ram, with all that life still in him, can become a terribly dangerous and formidable antagonist, and this is a very large and powerful unit of the species.The crash of the shot reverberates, roaring from the overhanging krantz—dislodging a cloud of spreuws from its rocky ledges. These dart hither and thither, whistling and chattering, their shrill din mingling with the bellowings of the wounded buck. But upon this arises another din and it is that of canine throats. Two great rough-haired dogs leap forth into the glade, following upon the line taken by the buck. Then ensues a desperate game. The stricken animal, summoning all his remaining strength to meet these new foes, staggers to his feet, and, with head lowered and menacing, it seems that no power on earth can stay the foremost of the dogs from receiving the full length of these fourteen-inch horns in his onward rush. These, however, are no puppies, but old, well-seasoned dogs, thoroughly accustomed to bush-hunting. Wonderfully quick are they in their movements as, just avoiding each deadly thrust, they leap, snapping and snarling, round their quarry—until one, seeing his chance, seizes the latter just below the haunch in such fashion as promptly to hamstring him. The game antelope is done for now. Weakened, too, by the jets of blood spurting from his wounds, he totters and falls. The fight is over.With it the man with the gun has deemed it sound policy not to interfere. To encourage the dogs would render them too eager—at the expense of their judgment—and to fire a second shot would be seriously to imperil them. Besides, he is interested in this not so very ill-matched combat. Now, however, it is time to call them off.To call is one thing, but to be obeyed is quite another. The two great dogs, excited and savage, are snarling and worrying at the carcase of their now vanquished enemy—and the first attempt to enforce the order is met with a very menacing and determined growl, for this man is not their master. Wisely he desists.“Confound it, they’ll tear that fine skin to ribbons!” he soliloquises disgustedly. Then—“Oh, there you are, Bayfield. Man, call those brutes off. They don’t care a damn for me.”A horseman has dashed into the glade. He, too, carries a gun, but in a trice he has torn areimfrom the D. of his saddle, and is lashing and cursing with a will among the excited hounds. These draw off, still snarling savagely, for he is their master.“Magtig! Blachland, but you’re in luck’s way!” he exclaimed. “That’s the finest ram that’s been shot here for the last five years. Well done! I believe it’s the same one I drove right over that Britisher last month, and he missed it clean with both barrels. That young fellow stopping with Earle.”“Who’s he? A jackaroo?”“No. A visitor. I don’t know who he is. By the way, I must take you over to Earle’s one of these days. He’s got a good bit of shoot. Look here, Jafta,” turning to a yellow-skinned Hottentot, also mounted, who had just arrived on the scene, “Baas Blachland has shot our biggest bushbuck ram at last.”“Ja. That is true, Baas,” grinned the fellow, who was Bayfield’s after-rider, inspecting the edge of his knife preparatory to the necessary disembowelling and loading up of the quarry.“We may as well be getting along,” said Bayfield. “Jafta, go and fetch Baas Blachland’s horse.”“I thought an up-country man like you would turn up his nose at our hunting, Blachland,” said Bayfield as they rode along. “But what you can’t turn up your nose at is our air—eh? Why, you’re looking twice the man you were a fortnight ago even. I suppose that infernal fever’s not easily shaken off.”“It’s the very devil to shake off, but if anything will do it, this will.” And the speaker glanced around with a feeling of complete and restful enjoyment.The kloof they were threading afforded in itself a noble and romantic scene. Great krantzes soaring up to the unclouded blue, walls of red ironstone gleaming like bronze in the sun-rays—or, in tier upon tier, peeping forth from festoons of creeper and anchored tree and spiky aloe. Yonder a sweep of spur on the one hand, like a combing wave of tossing tumbling foliage, on the other a mighty cliff, forming a portal beyond which was glimpsed a round, rolling summit, high above in the distance—but everywhere foliage, its many shades of green relieved here and there by the scarlet and pink of the wild geranium, the light blue of the plumbago, and half a dozen other splashes of colour, bright and harmonising; aglow, too, with the glancing of brilliant-winged birds, tuneful with their melodious piping and the murmuring hum of bees. And the air—strong, clear, exhilarating, such as never could be mistaken for the enervating steaminess of up-country heat—for the place was at a good elevation, and in one of the settled parts of the Cape Colony.Gazing around upon all this, Hilary Blachland seemed to be drinking in new draughts of life. The bout of fever, in the throes of which we last saw him lying, helpless and alone, had proved to be an exceptionally sharp one; indeed, but for the accident of Sybrandt happening along almost immediately after the Matabele raid, the tidings of which had reached England, as we have seen—it is probable that a fatal termination might have ensued. But Sybrandt had tended him with devoted and loyalcamaraderie, and when sufficiently restored, he had decided to sell off everything and clear out. “You’ll come back again, Blachland,” Sybrandt had said. “Mark my words, you’ll come back again. We all do.” And he had answered that perhaps he would, but not just yet awhile.He had gone down country to the seaside, but the heat at Durban was so great at the time of year as to counteract the beneficial effect of the sea air. Then he had bethought himself of George Bayfield, a man he had known previously and liked, and who had more than once pressed him to pay him a visit at his farm in the Eastern Province. And now, here he was.A great feeling of restfulness and self-gratulation was upon him. He was free once more, free for a fresh clean start. The sequence of his foolishness, which had hung around his neck like a millstone, for years, had been removed, had suddenly fallen off like a load. For he had come to see things clearer now. His character had changed and hardened during that interval, and he had come to realise that hitherto, his views of life, and his way of treating its conditions, had been very much those of a fool.George Bayfield had received him with a very warm welcome. He was a colonial man, and had never been out of his native land, yet contrasting them as they stood together it was Blachland who looked the harder and more weather-beaten of the two, so thorough an acclimatising process had his up-country wanderings proved. Bayfield was a man just the wrong side of fifty, and a widower. Two of his boys were away from home, and at that time his household consisted of a small son of eleven, and a daughter—of whom more anon.The kloof opened out into a wide open valley, covered mainly with rhenoster brush and a sprinkling of larger shrubs in clumps. From this valley on either side, opened lateral kloofs, similar to the one from which they had just emerged, kloofs dark with forest and tangled thickets, very nurseries for tiger and wild-dogs, Bayfield declared—but they had the compensating element of affording good sport whenever he wanted to go out and shoot a bushbuck or two—as in the present case. His boundary lines ran right along the highrandwhich shut in the broad valley on either side, and the farm was an excellent one for sheep and ostriches. In fact the valley portion of it was a perfect network of wire fencing, and in their respective “camps” the great black bipeds stalked to and fro, uttering their truculent boom, or lazily picking at the aromatic grasses, which constituted their natural and aboriginal food. And the name of the place was Lannercost.“These confounded ostriches spoil half the shooting on the place, and, for the matter of that, anywhere,” remarked Bayfield, as they ambled along through one of the large camps, where one exceptionally fierce bird hung about their flank, only kept from a nearer approach by the presence of the two dogs. “You flush a covey of partridges or a big troop of guinea-fowl, and away they go and squat in complete security under the wing of some particularly ‘kwai’ bird in the next camp. It’s beastly tantalising. Ever shot any wild ostriches up-country, Blachland?”“Yes, on two occasions—and I enjoyed it for that very reason. I was held up once on top of a rail for nearly two hours besieged on each side by an infuriated tame one. Had to wait until dark to get down. So you see it was a kind of poetic justice to turn the tables on the wild ones.”“Rather. These are good game preservers though, in that they keep the niggers from killing the small bucks in the camps. Look at those few springbuck I’m trying to preserve. They’d all have been killed off if it wasn’t for the ‘kwai’ birds in the camp. By George! the sun’ll be down before we get home. That isn’t good for a man with fever still in his system at this time of year.”“Oh, that’s no matter. I’m a good deal too tough.”“Don’t you be so sure about that. We’d better push the nags on a bit.”The house stood at the head of the valley, and had been growing larger and larger as they drew near. The sun was dropping, and that wondrously beautiful glow which heralds his departure from the vivid, clear South African day was upon the surroundings, softening, toning everything. Hundreds of doves cooed melodiously from the sprays, and as they passed through a gateway, ascending a winding path between high quince hedges, clouds of twittering finks and long-tailed mouse-birds scattered with a whirr on either side of the way. Spreuws, too, whistling among the tall fig-trees in the orchard, helped to swell the chorus of Nature’s evensong.“There are a sight too many of these small birds,” observed Bayfield. “They want keeping down. Sonny’s getting lazy with that air-gun of his. They’ll play the mischief with the garden if he gives them much more rope. There he is, theschepsel. Hi! Sonny!” he called out, as a good-looking boy came down the path to meet them. “Why don’t you thin off some of these birds? Look at ’em all. No one would think you’d got an air-gun and half a dozen catapults.”“The gun’s out of order, father,” answered the boy.“It’s always getting out of order. Those air-guns are frauds. Where’s Lyn?”“She was about just now. We watched you from beyond the third gate. There she is.”Following his gaze they descried a white-clad feminine form in front of the house, which they were now very near.
There is a rustling in the cover, faint at first, but drawing nearer. As it does so, the man with the gun, who has been squatting half concealed by a shrub in one corner of the little glade, picks himself up stealthily, noiselessly, and now widely on the alert. A fine bushbuck ram leaps lightly into the open, and as its large protruding eye lights on this unusual object, its easy, graceful bound becomes a wild rush. Then the gun speaks. The beautiful animal sinks in his stride and falls, a frantic, kicking heap, carried forward some six or eight yards by the impetus of his pace. Twirling, twisting, now attempting to rise, and almost succeeding, then rolling back, but still fighting desperately for life—the blood welling forth over his black hide where the deadlyloepershave penetrated—the stricken buck emits loud raucous bellowings of rage and fear and agony. But the man with the gun knows better than to approach too near, knows well the power of those long, needle-pointed horns, and the tenacity of life contained within the brain beneath them; knows well that a stricken bushbuck ram, with all that life still in him, can become a terribly dangerous and formidable antagonist, and this is a very large and powerful unit of the species.
The crash of the shot reverberates, roaring from the overhanging krantz—dislodging a cloud of spreuws from its rocky ledges. These dart hither and thither, whistling and chattering, their shrill din mingling with the bellowings of the wounded buck. But upon this arises another din and it is that of canine throats. Two great rough-haired dogs leap forth into the glade, following upon the line taken by the buck. Then ensues a desperate game. The stricken animal, summoning all his remaining strength to meet these new foes, staggers to his feet, and, with head lowered and menacing, it seems that no power on earth can stay the foremost of the dogs from receiving the full length of these fourteen-inch horns in his onward rush. These, however, are no puppies, but old, well-seasoned dogs, thoroughly accustomed to bush-hunting. Wonderfully quick are they in their movements as, just avoiding each deadly thrust, they leap, snapping and snarling, round their quarry—until one, seeing his chance, seizes the latter just below the haunch in such fashion as promptly to hamstring him. The game antelope is done for now. Weakened, too, by the jets of blood spurting from his wounds, he totters and falls. The fight is over.
With it the man with the gun has deemed it sound policy not to interfere. To encourage the dogs would render them too eager—at the expense of their judgment—and to fire a second shot would be seriously to imperil them. Besides, he is interested in this not so very ill-matched combat. Now, however, it is time to call them off.
To call is one thing, but to be obeyed is quite another. The two great dogs, excited and savage, are snarling and worrying at the carcase of their now vanquished enemy—and the first attempt to enforce the order is met with a very menacing and determined growl, for this man is not their master. Wisely he desists.
“Confound it, they’ll tear that fine skin to ribbons!” he soliloquises disgustedly. Then—“Oh, there you are, Bayfield. Man, call those brutes off. They don’t care a damn for me.”
A horseman has dashed into the glade. He, too, carries a gun, but in a trice he has torn areimfrom the D. of his saddle, and is lashing and cursing with a will among the excited hounds. These draw off, still snarling savagely, for he is their master.
“Magtig! Blachland, but you’re in luck’s way!” he exclaimed. “That’s the finest ram that’s been shot here for the last five years. Well done! I believe it’s the same one I drove right over that Britisher last month, and he missed it clean with both barrels. That young fellow stopping with Earle.”
“Who’s he? A jackaroo?”
“No. A visitor. I don’t know who he is. By the way, I must take you over to Earle’s one of these days. He’s got a good bit of shoot. Look here, Jafta,” turning to a yellow-skinned Hottentot, also mounted, who had just arrived on the scene, “Baas Blachland has shot our biggest bushbuck ram at last.”
“Ja. That is true, Baas,” grinned the fellow, who was Bayfield’s after-rider, inspecting the edge of his knife preparatory to the necessary disembowelling and loading up of the quarry.
“We may as well be getting along,” said Bayfield. “Jafta, go and fetch Baas Blachland’s horse.”
“I thought an up-country man like you would turn up his nose at our hunting, Blachland,” said Bayfield as they rode along. “But what you can’t turn up your nose at is our air—eh? Why, you’re looking twice the man you were a fortnight ago even. I suppose that infernal fever’s not easily shaken off.”
“It’s the very devil to shake off, but if anything will do it, this will.” And the speaker glanced around with a feeling of complete and restful enjoyment.
The kloof they were threading afforded in itself a noble and romantic scene. Great krantzes soaring up to the unclouded blue, walls of red ironstone gleaming like bronze in the sun-rays—or, in tier upon tier, peeping forth from festoons of creeper and anchored tree and spiky aloe. Yonder a sweep of spur on the one hand, like a combing wave of tossing tumbling foliage, on the other a mighty cliff, forming a portal beyond which was glimpsed a round, rolling summit, high above in the distance—but everywhere foliage, its many shades of green relieved here and there by the scarlet and pink of the wild geranium, the light blue of the plumbago, and half a dozen other splashes of colour, bright and harmonising; aglow, too, with the glancing of brilliant-winged birds, tuneful with their melodious piping and the murmuring hum of bees. And the air—strong, clear, exhilarating, such as never could be mistaken for the enervating steaminess of up-country heat—for the place was at a good elevation, and in one of the settled parts of the Cape Colony.
Gazing around upon all this, Hilary Blachland seemed to be drinking in new draughts of life. The bout of fever, in the throes of which we last saw him lying, helpless and alone, had proved to be an exceptionally sharp one; indeed, but for the accident of Sybrandt happening along almost immediately after the Matabele raid, the tidings of which had reached England, as we have seen—it is probable that a fatal termination might have ensued. But Sybrandt had tended him with devoted and loyalcamaraderie, and when sufficiently restored, he had decided to sell off everything and clear out. “You’ll come back again, Blachland,” Sybrandt had said. “Mark my words, you’ll come back again. We all do.” And he had answered that perhaps he would, but not just yet awhile.
He had gone down country to the seaside, but the heat at Durban was so great at the time of year as to counteract the beneficial effect of the sea air. Then he had bethought himself of George Bayfield, a man he had known previously and liked, and who had more than once pressed him to pay him a visit at his farm in the Eastern Province. And now, here he was.
A great feeling of restfulness and self-gratulation was upon him. He was free once more, free for a fresh clean start. The sequence of his foolishness, which had hung around his neck like a millstone, for years, had been removed, had suddenly fallen off like a load. For he had come to see things clearer now. His character had changed and hardened during that interval, and he had come to realise that hitherto, his views of life, and his way of treating its conditions, had been very much those of a fool.
George Bayfield had received him with a very warm welcome. He was a colonial man, and had never been out of his native land, yet contrasting them as they stood together it was Blachland who looked the harder and more weather-beaten of the two, so thorough an acclimatising process had his up-country wanderings proved. Bayfield was a man just the wrong side of fifty, and a widower. Two of his boys were away from home, and at that time his household consisted of a small son of eleven, and a daughter—of whom more anon.
The kloof opened out into a wide open valley, covered mainly with rhenoster brush and a sprinkling of larger shrubs in clumps. From this valley on either side, opened lateral kloofs, similar to the one from which they had just emerged, kloofs dark with forest and tangled thickets, very nurseries for tiger and wild-dogs, Bayfield declared—but they had the compensating element of affording good sport whenever he wanted to go out and shoot a bushbuck or two—as in the present case. His boundary lines ran right along the highrandwhich shut in the broad valley on either side, and the farm was an excellent one for sheep and ostriches. In fact the valley portion of it was a perfect network of wire fencing, and in their respective “camps” the great black bipeds stalked to and fro, uttering their truculent boom, or lazily picking at the aromatic grasses, which constituted their natural and aboriginal food. And the name of the place was Lannercost.
“These confounded ostriches spoil half the shooting on the place, and, for the matter of that, anywhere,” remarked Bayfield, as they ambled along through one of the large camps, where one exceptionally fierce bird hung about their flank, only kept from a nearer approach by the presence of the two dogs. “You flush a covey of partridges or a big troop of guinea-fowl, and away they go and squat in complete security under the wing of some particularly ‘kwai’ bird in the next camp. It’s beastly tantalising. Ever shot any wild ostriches up-country, Blachland?”
“Yes, on two occasions—and I enjoyed it for that very reason. I was held up once on top of a rail for nearly two hours besieged on each side by an infuriated tame one. Had to wait until dark to get down. So you see it was a kind of poetic justice to turn the tables on the wild ones.”
“Rather. These are good game preservers though, in that they keep the niggers from killing the small bucks in the camps. Look at those few springbuck I’m trying to preserve. They’d all have been killed off if it wasn’t for the ‘kwai’ birds in the camp. By George! the sun’ll be down before we get home. That isn’t good for a man with fever still in his system at this time of year.”
“Oh, that’s no matter. I’m a good deal too tough.”
“Don’t you be so sure about that. We’d better push the nags on a bit.”
The house stood at the head of the valley, and had been growing larger and larger as they drew near. The sun was dropping, and that wondrously beautiful glow which heralds his departure from the vivid, clear South African day was upon the surroundings, softening, toning everything. Hundreds of doves cooed melodiously from the sprays, and as they passed through a gateway, ascending a winding path between high quince hedges, clouds of twittering finks and long-tailed mouse-birds scattered with a whirr on either side of the way. Spreuws, too, whistling among the tall fig-trees in the orchard, helped to swell the chorus of Nature’s evensong.
“There are a sight too many of these small birds,” observed Bayfield. “They want keeping down. Sonny’s getting lazy with that air-gun of his. They’ll play the mischief with the garden if he gives them much more rope. There he is, theschepsel. Hi! Sonny!” he called out, as a good-looking boy came down the path to meet them. “Why don’t you thin off some of these birds? Look at ’em all. No one would think you’d got an air-gun and half a dozen catapults.”
“The gun’s out of order, father,” answered the boy.
“It’s always getting out of order. Those air-guns are frauds. Where’s Lyn?”
“She was about just now. We watched you from beyond the third gate. There she is.”
Following his gaze they descried a white-clad feminine form in front of the house, which they were now very near.