The Triumph of Hilary Blachland Part 22

"IT CANNOT BE."

In the conjecture that his cousin had fallen into an infatuation for Hermia, Hilary Blachland was right--the only respect in which he had failed to grasp the full situation being that he had not fathomed the depth of that infatuation.

He knew her little ways, none better; knew well how insidiously dangerous she could be to those who did not know them, when she saw fit to lay herself out to attract. That she was laying herself out to entrap Percy was the solution of the whole problem.

Yet not all of it. She had been with the Earles before Percy's arrival, before she could even have known he was in the country at all. And what had become of Spence? Well, this, too, would be cleared up, for he knew as well as though she had told him in so many words, that before they parted again she meant to have a private talk with him, and an understanding, and to this he was not averse. It would probably be a stormy one, for he was not going to allow her to add young West to her list of victims; and this he was going to give her emphatically to understand.

A rustle and a rush in front, and a blekbuck leaped out of the long gra.s.s almost at his horse's feet, for they were riding in line--a hundred yards or so apart. Up went his gun mechanically--a crack and a suspicion of a puff of smoke. The graceful little animal turned a complete somersault, and lay, convulsively kicking its life away.

Another started up, crossing right in front of Percival. The latter slipped to the ground in a moment, got a sight on, and turned it over neatly, at rather a long distance shot.

"I say, Bayfield. Those two Britishers are leading off well," said Earle, as they pulled in their horses and lighted pipes, to wait till the other two should be ready to take the line again.

There are more imposing, but few more enjoyable forms of sport, than this moving over a fine rolling expanse of bontebosch veldt, beneath the cloudless blue of the heavens, through the clear exhilarating air of an early African winter day; when game is plentiful, and anything may jump out, or rise at any moment; blekbuck or duiker, guinea-fowl or koorhaan, or partridge, with the possibility of a too confiding pauw, and other unconsidered trifles. All these conditions held good here, yet one, at any rate, of those privileged to enjoy them, keen sportsman as he was, felt that day that something was wanting--that a cloud was dimming the sun-lit beauty of the rolling plains, and an invisible weight crushing the exhilaration of each successful shot.

Blachland, pursuing his sport mechanically, was striving to shake off an unpleasant impression, and striving in vain. Something seemed to have happened between yesterday and to-day. Or was it the thought that Lyn Bayfield would be more or less in Hermia's society throughout the whole of that day? Yet, even if such were the case, what on earth did it matter to him?

The day came to an end at last, but there had been nothing to complain of in the way of the sport. They had lunched in the veldt, in ordinary hunter fashion--and in the afternoon had got in among the guinea-fowl; and being lucky enough to break up the troop, had about an hour of pretty sport--for scattered birds lie well and rise well--and by the time they turned their faces homeward, were loaded up with about as much game--buck and birds--as the horses could conveniently carry.

A flutter of feminine dresses was visible on the stoep, as they drew near the house, seeing which, an eager look came into Percival West's face. It was not lost upon his kinsman, who smiled to himself sardonically, as he recalled how just such a light had been kindled in his own at one time, and by the same cause. What a long while ago that seemed--and to think, too, that it should ever have been possible.

A chorus of congratulation arose as the magnitude of the bag became apparent.

"Those two Britishers knocked spots out of us to-day!" cried Earle.

"Bayfield and I can clean take a back seat."

"You wouldn't call Mr Blachland a Britisher, surely, Mr Earle?" struck in Hermia. "Why, he's shot lions up-country."

"Eh, has he? How d'you know?" asked Earle eagerly--while he who was most concerned mentally started.

"Didn't he tell us so this morning?" she said, and her glance of mischief was not lost upon Blachland, who remarked:

"Does that fact denationalise me, Mrs Fenham? You said I couldn't be counted a Britisher."

"Well, you know what I meant."

"Oh, perfectly."

There was a veiled cut-and-thrust between these two: imperceptible to the others--save one.

That one was Lyn. Her straight instinct and true ear had warned her.

"She is an adventuress," was the girl's mental verdict. "An impostor, who is hiding something. Some day it will come out." Now she said to herself, watching the two, "He doesn't like her. No, he doesn't." And there was more satisfaction in this conclusion than even its framer was aware of.

Throughout the evening, too, Hilary found himself keenly observing new developments, or the possibility of such. At supper, they were mostly shooting all the day's bag over again, and going back over the incidents of other and similar days. Percival, in his seat next Hermia, was dividing his attention between his host's multifold reminiscence and his next-door neighbour, somewhat to the advantage of the latter. A new development came, however, and it was after they had all got up from the table, and some, at any rate, had gone out on to the stoep to see the moon rise. Then it was, in the sudden transition from light to darkness, Blachland felt his hand stealthily seized and something thrust into it--something which felt uncommonly like a tiny square of folded paper. Hermia's wrap brushed him at the time, and Hermia's voice, talking evenly to Percival on the other side, arrested his ear. There was a good deal more talk, and lighting of pipes, and presently it was voted too cold to remain outside. But, on re-entering, the party had undergone diminution by two. Mrs Earle was looking more discontented than ever.

"What's the odds?" chuckled her jolly spouse, with a quizzical wink at his two male guests. "They're a brace of Britishers. They only want to talk home shop. Fine woman that Mrs Fenham, isn't she, Blachland?"

"Yes. How did you pick her up?" he replied, noticing that the discontented look had deepened on the face of his hostess, and bearing in mind Bayfield's insinuations, thought that warm times might be in store for Hermia.

"Oh, the wife found her. I hadn't anything to do with it. But she's first-rate in her own line: gets the nippers on no end. Makes 'em learn, you know."

Would surprises never end? thought Hilary Blachland. Here was an amazing one, at any rate, for he happened to know that Hermia's mind, as far as the veriest rudiments of education were concerned, was pretty nearly a blank. How on earth, then, did she contrive to impart instruction to others? He did not believe she could, only that she had succeeded in humbugging these people most thoroughly.

Then they had manoeuvred Lyn to the piano, and got her to sing, but Hilary, leaning back in his chair, thought that somehow it did not seem the same as up there in her own home, when night after night he had sat revelling in the sweet, clear, true notes. And then the other two, entering from their moonlight stroll, had subsided into a corner together. The sight reminded him of Spence, who must needs make an open book of his callow, silly face. Percival was doing the same.

"Just as I thought," he said to himself, an hour later, as under cover of all the interchange of good nights, he managed to slip away for a moment to investigate the contents of the mysterious paper. "'Meet to-morrow and have an explanation, or I may regret it all my life.'

Um--ah! very likely I shall do that in any case. Still, I'm curious about the explanation part of it myself, so meet we will."

"Come along, old chap," said Percival, grabbing him by the arm. "You've got to doss down in my diggings, and we'll have a good round jaw until we feel sleepy. Phew! it's cold!" he added, as they got out on to the stoep--for Percival's room was at the end of the stoep, and was quite shut off from the house. The moonlit veldt stretched away in dim beauty around, its stillness broken by the weird yelp of hunting jackals, or the soft whistle of the invisible plover overhead.

They had been talking of all sorts of indifferent things. Blachland knew, however, that the other wanted to talk on a subject that was not indifferent, and was shy to lead up to it. He must help him through directly, because he didn't want to be awake all night. But when they had turned in and had lit their pipes for a final smoke, Percival began--

"I say, Hilary, what do you think of that Mrs Fenham?"

"Rather short acquaintance to give an opinion upon, isn't it?"

"No. Skittles! But I say, old chap, she's devilish fetching, eh?"

"So you seem to find. It strikes me, Percy, you're making a goodish bit of running in that quarter. Look out."

The other laughed good-humouredly, happily in fact.

"Why 'look out?' I mean making running there. By Jove, I never came across any one like her!"

Blachland smiled grimly to himself behind a great puff of smoke. He had good reason to believe that statement.

"It's a fact," went on Percival. "But I say, old chap, she doesn't seem to fetch you at all. I'm rather glad, of course--in fact, devilish glad. Still, I should have thought she'd be just the sort of woman who'd appeal to you no end. You must be getting _blase_."

"My dear Percy, a man's idiocies don't stay with him all his life, thank Heaven--though their results are pretty apt to."

"Well, Hilary, I'm mortal glad to have the field clear in this case, because I want you to help me."

"I don't think you need any help. Judging from the very brief period of observation vouchsafed to me, the lady herself seems able and willing to help you all she knows."

"No, but you don't understand. I mean business here--real serious--"

"Strictly honourable--or--"

The young fellow flushed up.

"If any one else had said that--" he began, indignantly.

"Oh, don't be an a.s.s. You surely don't expect me--me, mind--to cotton to heroics in a matter of this kind. What do you know about the woman?

Nothing."

"I don't care about that I can't do without her."

"She can do without you, I expect, eh?"