The Triumph of Hilary Blachland Part 16

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 sc.r.a.pe. 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 Pa.s.smore 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 Hilary _had_ got 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 Pa.s.smore. 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 gla.s.ses with the other. A glance up and down a column, then a turning over of the sheet. Then a sudden, undisguised start.

"G.o.d 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 a.s.serting 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 a.s.segais. 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, d.i.c.k, 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 pa.s.sed down the village street together, nodding here and there to an acquaintance, or acknowledging the salutation of a rustic. The rector of the parish pa.s.sed 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 Pa.s.smore, 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 G.o.d 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 deadly _loepers_ have 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.