The Triumph of Hilary Blachland Part 28

"Oh, I don't judge you at all, old chap, so don't run away with that idea. We ain't any of us silver-gilt saints if the truth were known, or if we are, it's generally for want of opportunity to become the other thing, at any rate, that's my belief. And Lyn likes you so much, Blachland, and her instinct's never at fault."

"G.o.d bless her!" was the fervent reply. "I don't wonder, Bayfield, that you almost wors.h.i.+p that child. I know if she were my child I should rather more than entirely."

"Would you?" said the other, his whole face softening. "Well, that's about what I do. Come along up to the house, Blachland, and let's forget all about this rotten affair. I'll take jolly good care I keep it away from her by hook or by crook, anyhow. It's a beastly bore you've got to clear to-morrow, but you know your own business best, and it never does to let business slide. You'll roll up again next time you're down this way of course. I say though, you mustn't go getting any more fever."

As a matter of fact, Blachland's presence was no more needed up-country, either in his own interests or anybody else's, than was that of the Shah of Persia. But, it would simplify matters to leave then, besides affording Bayfield a freer hand: and for another thing, it would enable him to make sure of getting his young kinsman out of the toils.

Something of a gloom lay upon that household of three that evening, by reason of the impending departure of this one who had been so long an inmate in their midst, and had identified himself so completely with their daily life.

"Mr Blachland, but I wish I was big enough to go with you," announced small Fred. "Man, but I'd like to see those Matabele chaps, and have a shot at a lion."

"Some day, when you are big enough, perhaps you shall, Fred. And, look here, when your father thinks you are big enough to begin to shoot--and that'll be pretty soon now--I'm to give you your first gun. That's a bargain, eh, Bayfield?"

"_Magtig_! but you're spoiling the nipper, Blachland," was the reply.

"You're a lucky chap, Fred, I can tell you."

Somehow, Lyn was not in prime voice for the old songs in the course of the evening, in fact she shut down the concert with suspicious abruptness. When it became time to say good night, she thrust into Blachland's hand a small, flat, oblong packet:

"A few of my poor little drawings," she said, rather shyly. "You said you would like to have one or two, and these will remind you perhaps a little of old Lannercost, when you are far away."

"Why, Lyn, how awfully good of you. I can't tell you how I shall value them. They will seem to bring back all the good times we have had together here. And, now, good night. I suppose it's good-bye too."

"Oh no, it isn't. I shall be up to see you off."

"But think what an unG.o.dly hour I'm going to start at."

"That doesn't matter. Of course I'm going to see you off."

"Why, rather," struck in small Fred.

Morning dawned, frosty and clear, and the intending traveller appreciated the thick warmth of his heavy ulster to the full, as he prepared to mount to the seat of Bayfield's buggy, beside the native boy who was to bring back the vehicle after depositing him at the district town, nearly fifty miles away. There was no apparent gloom about the trio now. They were there to give him a cheery send off.

"Well, good-bye, old chap," cried Bayfield, as they gripped hands. "I think there's everything in the buggy you'll want on the way."

"Good-bye, Bayfield, old pal," was the hearty reply. "Good-bye, Lyn,"

holding the girl's hands in both of his, and gazing down affectionately into the sweet, pure face. "G.o.d bless you, child, and don't forget your true and sincere old friend in too great a hurry. Fred--good-bye, old chappie." And he climbed into his seat and was gone.

The trio stood looking after the receding vehicle until it disappeared over the roll of the hill--waving an occasional hat or a handkerchief as its occupant looked back. Then Fred broke forth:

"Man--Lyn, but Mr Blachland's a fine chap! _Tis waar_, I'm sorry he's gone--ain't you?"

He had pretty well voiced the general sense. They felt somehow, that a vacant place had been set up in their midst.

Later that morning Bayfield chanced to return to the house from his work outside. It seemed empty. Small Fred was away at the bottom of the garden with a catapult, keeping down the swarming numbers of predatory mouse-birds and the wilier spreuw. But where was Lyn? Just then a sound striking upon the silence brought him to a standstill, amazement and consternation personified, so utterly strange and unwonted was such a sound in that household, and it proceeded from the girl's room.

Gently, noiselessly, he opened the door.

She was seated by her bed, her back towards him. Her face was buried in her hands, and her whole form was heaving with low convulsive sobs.

"Lyn! Great Heaven! What's the matter? Lyn--My little Lyn!"

She rose at her father's voice and came straight into his arms. Then she looked up at him, through her tears, forcing a smile.

"My little one, what is it? There, there, tell your old father," he pleaded, a whirlwind of tenderness and concern shaking his voice as he held her to him. "Tell me, sweetheart."

"It's nothing, dearest," she answered but quaveringly, and still forcing herself to smile. "Only--No, it's nothing. But--when people are here a long time, and you get to like them a lot and they go away--why it's-- oh, it's beastly. That's all, old father--" das.h.i.+ng away her tears, and forcing herself to smile in real earnest. "And I'm a little fool, that's all. But I won't be any more. See, I'm all right now."

"My little Lyn! My own little one!" he repeated, kissing her tenderly, now rather more moved than she was.

And Lyn was as good as her word. All his solicitous but furtive watching, failed to detect any sign or symptom that her outburst of grief was anything more than a perfectly natural and childlike manifestation of her warm little heart.

And yet, there were times, when, recurring to it in his own mind, honest George Bayfield would grow grave and shake his head and e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.e softly to himself:

"My little Lyn! No--it can't be. Oh, Great Scot!"

End of Book II.

CHAPTER ONE.

"WOZ'UBONE, KITI KWAZULU."

Lo Bengula sat within the _esibayaneni_--the sacred enclosure wherein none dare intrude--at his great kraal, Bulawayo.

The occupation on which the King was then engaged, was the homely and prosaic one of eating his breakfast. This consisted of a huge dish of _bubende_, being certain ingredients of the internal mechanism of the bullock, all boiled up with the blood, to the civilised palate an appalling article of diet, but highly favoured by the Matabele. Yet, while devouring this delicacy with vast appet.i.te, the royal countenance was overcast and gloomy in the extreme.

Lo Bengula sat alone. From without a continuous roar of many voices reached him. It was never hushed, the night through it had hardly been hushed, and this was early morning. Song after song, some improvised, others the old war-songs of the nation, interluded with long _paeans_ of his own praises, rising from the untiring throats of thousands of his warriors--yet the King, in his heart of hearts, was tired of the lot.

He looked around upon his sheep and goats--for the sacred enclosure included the kraal which contained his private and particular flock--and he loved them, for he was by nature a born farmer, called by accident, and even then, reluctantly, to rule this nation of fierce and turbulent fighters. He looked upon the flocks surrounding him and wondered how much longer they would be his--how much longer anything would be his-- for war was not merely in the air but was actually at his gates; war with the whites, with whom he had ever striven to live on friendly and peaceful terms. But, as had long been foreseen, his people had forced his hand at last.

Unwillingly he had bowed to the inevitable, he the despot, he, before whose frown those ferocious and bloodthirsty human beasts trembled, he the dark-skinned savage, whose word was law, whose ire conveyed terror over a region as wide-spreading and vast as that under the sway of any one of the greater Powers in Europe. But as long as the nation was a nation and he was alive, he intended to remain its King, however reluctant he had been to a.s.sume the supreme reins of government, and consistently with this it had been out of his power to check the aggressive ebullitions of his fiery adherents. And now war was within the land, and hourly, runners were bringing in tidings of the advance-- straight, fell, unswerving of purpose--of a strong and compact expedition of whites--their goal his capital.

Yes, day by day these were drawing nearer. The intelligence brought by innumerable spies and runners was unvarying. The approaching force in numbers was such that a couple of his best regiments should be able to eat it up at a mouthful. But it was splendidly armed, and its organisation and discipline were perfect. Its leaders seemed to take no risks, and at the smallest alarm all those waggons could be turned into a complete and defensive fort almost as quickly as a man might clap his hands twice. And then, from each corner, from every face of this unscaleable wall, peeped forth a small, insignificant thing, a little s.h.i.+ning tube that could be placed on the back of a horse--yet this contemptible-looking toy could rain down bullets into the ranks of his warriors at a rate which would leave none to return to him with the tale. Nay more, even the cover of rocks and bushes would not help them, for other deadly machines had these whites, which could throw great bags of bullets into the air to fall and scatter wherever they chose, and that at well-nigh any distance. All of this Lo Bengula knew and appreciated, but his people did not, and now from without, ever and increasing upon his ears, fell the din and thunder of their boasting songs of war.

"_Au_! They are poor, lean dogs!" he growled to himself. "They will be even as dogs who snarl and run away, when they get up to these whites.

They bark loudly now and show their teeth. Will they be able to bite?"

Personally, too, he liked the English. He had been on very friendly terms with several of them. They were always bringing him presents, things that it was good to have, and of which now he owned considerable store. He liked conversing with them too, for these were men who had travelled far and had seen things--and could tell him wonders about other lands, inhabited by other whites, away beyond the great sea. They were not fools, these English. And their bravery! Who among dark races would go and place themselves in the power of a mighty and warrior race as these did? What three or four men of such would dare to stand before him here--at this very place, calm, smiling, unmoved, while thousands of his warriors were standing around, howling and clamouring for their blood? Not one. Then, too, their knowledge was wonderful. Had not several of them, from time to time, done that which had eased him of his gout, and of the shooting pains which afflicted his eyes, and threatened to deprive him of his sight? No, of a truth he desired not to quarrel with such. Well, it might be, that when these dogs of his had been whipped back--when they had thought to hunt bucks and found that they had a.s.sailed instead, a herd of fierce and fearless buffalo bulls--that then he might order them to lie down, and that peace between himself and the whites might again prevail.

Having arrived at this conclusion, and also at that of his repast, the King gave utterance to a call, and immediately there appeared two _izinceku_, or personal attendants of the royal household. These ran forward in a crouching att.i.tude, with bodies bent low, and while one removed the utensils and traces of the feast, the other produced a great bowl of baked clay, nearly filled with fresh water. Into this the King plunged his hands, throwing the cold water over his face and head with great apparent enjoyment, then, having dried himself with a towel of genuine civilisation, he rose, strode over to his waggon--the two attendants lying prostrate in the dust before him as he moved--and lifting the canvas flap, disappeared from mortal ken: for this waggon was the place of his most sacred seclusion, and woe indeed to the luckless wight who should presume to disturb him in that retreat.

Without, the aspect of the mighty circle was stirring and tumultuous to the last degree. The huge radius of gra.s.s roofs lay yellow and s.h.i.+ning in the fierce sunlight, alive too, with dark forms ever on the move, these however, being those of innumerable women, and glistening, rotund brats, chattering in wide-eyed excitement; for the more important spot, the great open s.p.a.ce in front of the King's enclosure, was given over to the warriors.