The Triumph of Hilary Blachland

“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. “And Blachland! 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’t believe 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 to fin-de-siècle ideas 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 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 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.