The Triumph of Hilary Blachland

“‘Luck generally strikes a man when least expected!’ By Jove! Jack was right.”

We have said that Blachland had undergone a stormy time of it domestically, by reason of this new and sudden absence. But Hermia’s grievance was not a genuine one. So little indeed was it genuine that she was conscious of a distinct feeling of relief when he announced it. But side by side with this was an inherent instinct to deceive herself, since there was no other object on which to practise deception: to deceive herself into the idea that she really was a very ill-used person. He neglected her shamefully, she had declared. She had not bargained for leading this utterly lonely life when she decided to accompany him to this remote corner of the earth. Well, again let him take care. There were others who appreciated her if he did not. To which he had replied equably: —

“Meaning Spence,” and had gone on with his preparations.

It was this very imperturbability which had always dominated Hermia. She knew their relationship was dangerously near a rupture, and was not quite sure within her heart of hearts that she desired such. But a short while since, she emphatically did not; now it might be otherwise. Yet it was impracticable, for the first essential to her mind was comfort and liberty unstinted. Justin Spence was as poor as the proverbial church mouse, else why should he be out there prospecting? She knew that every cent he had in the world was drawn from an allowance – not a large one either – and that allowances are the most precarious of all means of subsistence, in that they depend solely upon the will and caprice of the allower. It was a thousand pities. If only he were well off, she would not have hesitated. She was perfectly sick of this uncivilised, lonely life. She longed for the world again. Justin adored her. Her will would be his law. Ah, why was he not independent and well off?

She looked back over her past, but it caused her no qualms. She looked back on a period of passion and love, but the retrospect only served to emphasise the subsequent disillusionment. To be content with the love of one – no, that was not in her. New life, new love – the new wine of life! That was to live indeed.

She looked around on the glowing veldt, shimmering in the afternoon heat. Away on yonder rise a line of black objects was moving. She got out the binocular, a clear and powerful glass, and the objects seemed about fifty yards away – a score of sable antelope moving through the low bush, some of them magnificent specimens of that noble buck, and she could clearly distinguish the great scimitar-like horns and black hides, so markedly defined. Yes, this was a grand country for men, but for women, debarred from all outdoor sport and excitement, why it was a living grave. And then, as she looked, suddenly the leaders of the line threw up their heads, stopped short, snuffing the air, and then the whole line turned about and trotted back in the direction from which they had come.

What had alarmed the animals? Sweeping the glass round carefully it revealed another object, a man on horseback, and her heart gave a great bound of delight.

“It is. It’s Justin,” she exclaimed half aloud. “The dear boy! How glad I am. But – what on earth – ? What a hurry he’s in!”

For the advancing rider was coming along at something like a hard gallop, which was no pace at which to push a horse on a sweltering day like this. Then Hermia began a little piece of acting. She went into the house, and arranging herself on an old wicker couch covered with a leopard skin rug, began to read.

“Missis – Baas riding this way. Tink it Baas Spence.” This from the grinning woolly head of Tickey, inserted through the open doorway. Hermia rose, stretched herself, and the book still in her hand came and stood in the doorway. Then she stretched herself again and thus he found her.

“Why, Justin? Who would have thought of seeing you?” This with round, astonished eyes.

“But – aren’t you glad to, dearest?” He was looking her up and down, a tremor of love in his voice, a world of hungry passionate adoration in his gaze.

“You know I am, dear love. Come inside.”

She had put out her hand to him, and he, still holding it, needed no second bidding. Once within, however, he seized her splendid form – its lines the more seductive through the thin, summer transparency of her light attire – in a strong and passionate embrace.

“Justin, Justin, let me go!” she urged. “Really, you are getting perfectly unmanageable.” And she accompanied her words with a warning gesture towards the door of the inner room. The young man laughed aloud.

“No fear,” he said. “You’re all alone again as usual.”

“How do you know that?”

“Never mind how. I do know, and it wasn’t you who told me. But” – becoming suddenly reproachful – “why didn’t you?”

“Oh, I didn’t want to distract you from your work, for one thing. You have been neglecting it far too much of late. Hilary says you’ll never make a prospector.”

“Oh, damn Hilary! He doesn’t know everything.”

“Ssh – ” with a hand over his mouth. “You mustn’t use swear words. And now, you dear ridiculous boy, what are you looking so absurdly happy about?”

“Ah, that’ll come in time. I’m not going to tell you all at once,” he retorted, suddenly becoming mysterious. “But, Hermia my darling, it’s like new life to see you again.”

She smiled softly, her dark eyes into his blue ones. It was like new life to her, this passionate and whole-hearted adoration. And he was so handsome too; the sunbrowned face with its refined features, the tall, well-knit figure, stirred the animal side of her, and she found herself contrasting him with the absent one. Hilary was really getting old and prosaic and satirical. He had no more sentiment left in him than a cuttlefish – was the result of the mental contrast which she drew. Whereas this one – it did occur to her that he, too, would one day lose the buoyancy and fire of youth, or even that this might come to be diverted on some object other than herself; but for the first, it was far enough off in all conscience – for the second, she had too much pride in her own powers to give it a thought.

“Ah, yes,” she answered. “You think so now, but – you wouldn’t always. Remember, Justin, I am older than you – well, only a little. But at any rate I have seen far more of the world – of life – than you can possibly have done. But what’s the use of talking? We shall have to part sooner or later.”

They had dropped down on the couch, and were seated side by side, he holding both her hands.

“But why shall we have to part sooner or later?” he asked, and the lack of lugubriousness with which he echoed her words struck her at the time.

“Well, Justin, just look at things in the face. Isn’t love in a cottage a synonym for the very height of absurdity? What about its Mashunaland equivalent – love in a prospector’s camp?”

He laughed aloud. There was something so happy and buoyant in his laugh that it struck her too.

“Yes, it strikes you as funny, doesn’t it?” she said. “Well, it is.”

“So it is,” he answered. “I quite agree. Now look here, Hermia. Supposing it were not a case of love in a prospector’s camp, but love in all the wide world – in any part of it that pleased you – no matter where – the brightest parts of it, where everything combined to make life all sunshine for you, while you made life all sunshine for me? What then?”

“Now you’re getting beyond me, Justin. Suppose you explain.”

“Yes. That’s all right. I will. No more prospecting for me, no need for that or anything else – only to enjoy life – with you. Look at this.”

He put into her hand the communication he had received in camp – the sight of which had caused him that great and sudden agitation, and which had moved his comrade so anxiously to utter a hope that it contained no bad news. Bad news! The news that it imparted was not exactly that he was a millionaire, but that all unexpectedly he had succeeded to a goodly heritage, just stopping short of five figures as a yearly income.

“Now, have we got to part sooner or later?” he cried triumphantly, watching the astonishment and then gladness which overspread her face. “Look, we have all the world before us, and need care for nobody. Come with me, Hermia my darling, my one love. Leave all this and come with me, and see what love really means.”

She did not immediately answer. She was looking him through with her large eyes, and was thinking. She looked back upon her life, and it seemed all behind her. Here was an opportunity of renewing it. Should she take him at his word, or should she play him a little longer? No, that was not advisable under the circumstances. It was now or never. It was strike while the iron is hot – and it was hot enough now in all conscience, she thought, as she looked at his pleading earnest face.

“Justin, my love, I believe I will take you at your word. Only it must be immediately or not at all. Shall I ever regret it, I wonder?” And again she looked him through with a fine expression of great and troubled seriousness.

“Never, darling,” he cried enraptured. “That old fossil doesn’t appreciate you. I will show you what appreciation means. You will go with me at once – to-morrow – never to part?”

“Yes,” she whispered.

“Ha-ha-haa!” laughed a jackal, questing after prey away in the gloaming shades of the now dusking veldt.

“Ha-ha-haa!” laughed his mate.

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

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.