The Triumph of Hilary Blachland Part 13

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 suns.h.i.+ne for you, while you made life all suns.h.i.+ne 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 n.o.body. 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 circ.u.mstances. 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 s.h.i.+ning 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 s.h.i.+vered. 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 p.r.o.nounced 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 a.s.suredly 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 a.s.segais and s.h.i.+elds 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, pa.s.s 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 circ.u.mstances 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 a.s.segai.

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 m.u.f.fled 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 pa.s.sages to their burrow. Scared, anxious-looking, they opened the gate.