The Triumph of Hilary Blachland Part 27

AS GOOD AS HER WORD.

It was post day at Lannercost, and whereas the delivery of Her Majesty's mails was only of weekly occurrence, the fact const.i.tuted a small event.

Such delivery was effected by the usual harmless necessary native, who conveyed the mail bag by field and flood from the adjacent Field-cornet's--in this instance from Earle's.

"It's just possible, Bayfield, I may hear something by this post which may necessitate my leaving you almost immediately."

"Oh, hang it, Blachland! Are you at that game again? Where do you think of moving to next, if not an impertinent question?"

"Up-country again. I've interests there still. And things are beginning to look d.i.c.key. Lo Ben's crowd is turning restive again.

We've most of us thought all along that they were bound to force the old man's hand. It's only a question of time."

"So?" And then they fell to talking over that and kindred questions, until finally a moving object, away down the valley, but rapidly drawing nearer, resolved itself into a mounted native.

The two men were sitting in the shade at the bottom of one of the gardens, where Bayfield had been doing an odd job or two with a spade-- cutting out a water furrow here, or clearing one there and so forth-- pausing every now and then for a smoke and a desultory chat.

"Hey, September! Bring the bag here," he called out in Dutch, as the postboy was about to pa.s.s.

The boy swung himself from his pony, and handed over the leathern bag to his master.

"Great Scott, here's a nuisance!" exclaimed the latter, fumbling in his pockets. "I believe I haven't got the key. It's up at the house.

We'll have to send September for it--or go up ourselves and open the bag there."

The last thing that Blachland desired was either of these courses. If they sent up for the key, Lyn would be sure to come down with it herself. If they went themselves, the bag would be opened in her presence, and this, for good reasons of his own, he did not wish. In fact he had deftly manoeuvred Bayfield down here with the object of intercepting it.

"Ah, here it is!" cried the latter, disentangling a bunch of keys from the recesses of a pocket. "Got into the lining."

In a trice the bag was unlocked and its contents extracted by the simple process of turning them out on to the ground.

"Here you are, Blachland," handing him two. "Miss Bayfield, Miss Bayfield," he read out, "that's all for Lyn. _Ill.u.s.trated London News_--George Bayfield--George Bayfield. Here's another, that's for you--no, it isn't, it's me. Looked like Blachland at first. That's all. Here you are, September. Take that on to Miss Lyn," replacing the latter's correspondence in the bag.

"_Ja, Baas_." And the Kaffir jogged off.

Blachland stood there, outwardly calm, but, in reality, stirred through and through. The blow had fallen. The writing on the enclosure which his friend had so nearly handed to him, how well he knew it; could it be, he thought, in a flash of sardonic irony--there had once been a time when it was the most welcome sight his glance could rest upon? The blow had fallen. Hermia had been as good as her word, but even then there were mitigating circ.u.mstances, for a ghastly idea had occurred to him that she might, in the plenitude of her malice, have written direct to Lyn, whereas the addresses on the girl's correspondence were in different hands, and which in fact he had seen before. Indeed had it been otherwise he intended to warn Bayfield on no account to pa.s.s on the letter until that worthy had satisfied himself as to its contents.

"Just as I thought. I've got to clear, and rather sharp too. In fact, to-morrow," running his eyes over his letters.

"Have you, old chap? What a beastly nuisance," answered Bayfield, looking up. "We shall miss you no end."

Would he? Why on earth didn't the man get on with his correspondence, thought Blachland, for the tension was getting upon his nerves. But the other went chatting on--partly regrets over his own departure--partly about some stock sale of which he had just had news.

"Hallo! Who's this from?" he said at last. "I don't know that writing a hang. Well, it's soon settled," tearing the envelope open, with a laugh.

But in a moment the laugh died. George Bayfield was grave enough now.

A whistle of amazement escaped him, and more than one smothered exclamation of disgust. Blachland, without appearing to, watched him narrowly. Would he never get to the end of that closely written sheet and a half?

"Have you any idea what this is about?"

The tone was short. All the old cordiality seemed to have left it.

"Very much of an idea, Bayfield. I expected something of the kind, and for that very reason, to be quite candid with you, I manoeuvred we should get the post out here away from the house."

"I didn't think you'd have done that to us, Blachland. To think of this--this person, under the same roof with--even shaking hands with--my Lyn. Faugh! Good Heavens! man, you might have spared us this!"

"Wouldn't I--if it had been possible? But it was not. I give you my word of honour I had no more idea of that woman's presence at Earle's, or indeed in the neighbourhood, or even in this country, than you had yourself. You'll do me the credit of believing that, won't you?"

"Why, yes, Blachland. Anything you give me your word for I believe implicitly."

"Thanks. You are a true friend, Bayfield. You may believe another thing--and that is that had I known of her presence in the neighbourhood, I should have kept away from it. Why, she didn't even know of mine either. Each was about as surprised as the other when we met, yesterday morning. What could I do then, Bayfield? Raise a scene on the spot, and expose her--and kick up a horrible scandal, with the result of simply bespattering the air with mire, around the very one we intend to keep from any such contact? No good purpose could be served by acting otherwise than as I acted. Could it now?"

"No. I suppose not. In fact, I quite see the force of all you say.

Still, it's horrible, revolting."

"Yes. Believe me, Bayfield, I am as distressed about it as you are.

But there is this consolation. Not an atom of real harm has been done so far. Lyn is in blissful ignorance as to who it was she met, and there is no reason on earth why she should ever know."

Even while he spoke there occurred to him another aspect of the case-- and the probability that this had not been overlooked by Lyn's father occurred to him too. Would not the latter regard him as upon much the same plane as Hermia herself?

"You see," he went on, "I shall be clearing out the first thing in the morning, so she," with a jerk of the thumb in the direction of far-away Earle's, "is not likely to give you any further trouble. Besides, after giving herself away like this, she will have to go her way as well. If she doesn't, I advise you to let Earle into the story. She won't be long there after that. By the way, would you mind letting me see exactly what she has said? We shall know better where we are then."

"Yes, I think so," said the other.

Blachland took the letter and read it through carefully and deliberately from end to end. It was a narrative of their _liaison_, and that only.

But the blame of its initiation the writer ascribed to himself. This he pointed out to Bayfield.

"The boot was, if anything on the other foot," he said. "But let that pa.s.s. Now, why do you suppose she has given all this away?"

"To revenge herself upon you for leaving her."

"But I didn't leave her. She left me--cleared with a young a.s.s of a prospector, during one of my necessary absences, of which I notice, she's careful not to say one word. Clearly she never bargained for my seeing this at all."

"By Jove! You don't say so?"

"It's hard fact. Well, her motive is to revenge herself upon me, but not for that. It is because she had entangled that young fool Percy West--had made him engage himself to her. He told me this the night we were at Earle's, and I put my foot down on it at once. I gave her the chance of drawing out of it, of releasing him, and she refused it.--I put the alternative before her, and she simply defied me. 'If you give me away, I'll give you away,' those were her words. I couldn't allow the youngster to enter into any such contract as that, could I?"

"Of course not. Go on."

"So I told him the whole thing on our way out the other morning. It choked him clean off her--of course. I was as good as my word, and she was as good as hers. That's the whole yarn in a nutsh.e.l.l."

Bayfield nodded. He seemed to be thinking deeply, as he filled his pipe meditatively, and pa.s.sed the pouch over to Blachland. There was one thing for which the latter felt profoundly thankful. Remembering the more than insinuation Hermia had thrown out, he had noticed with unspeakable relief that there was no reference whatever to Lyn throughout the communication. Even she had shrunk from such an outrage as that, and for this he felt almost grateful to her.

"This Mrs Fenham, or St. Clair, or whatever her name is," said Bayfield, glancing at the subscription of the letter, "seems to be a bad egg all round. Seems to be omnivorous, by Jove!"

"She has an abnormal capacity for making fools of the blunder-headed s.e.x, as I can testify," was the answer, given dryly. "Well Bayfield, I don't want to whitewash myself, let alone trot out the old Adamite excuse--I don't set up to be better than other people, and have been a good deal worse than some. You know, as a man of the world, that there is a certain kind of trap laid throughout our earlier life to catch us at every turn. Well, I've fallen into a good many such traps, but I can, with perfect honesty, say I've never set one. Do you follow?"

"Perfectly," replied Bayfield, who thought that such was more than likely the case. He was mentally pa.s.sing in review Blachland's demeanour towards Lyn, during the weeks they had been fellow inmates, and he p.r.o.nounced it to be absolutely flawless. The pleasant, unrestrained, easy friends.h.i.+p between the two had been exactly all it should be--on the part of the one, all that was sympathetic, courteous and considerate, with almost a dash of the paternal, for the girl was nearly young enough to be his daughter--on that of the other, a liking, utterly open and undisguised, for Lyn liked him exceedingly, and made no secret of it--and if hers was not a true instinct, whose was? Bayfield was not a man to adjudge another a blackguard because he had sown some wild oats, and this one he acquitted entirely--and he said something to that effect.

"Thanks," was the reply. "I don't care a rap for other people's opinions about myself, good, bad, or indifferent, as a rule, but I'm rather glad you don't judge me too hardly, on account of this infernal _contretemps_?"