Kitabı oku: «The Triumph of Hilary Blachland», sayfa 12
Chapter Ten.
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 constituted 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 dickey. 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 pass.
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. Illustrated 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 circumstances, 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 pass 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 pass. 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 ass 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 nutshell.”
Bayfield nodded. He seemed to be thinking deeply, as he filled his pipe meditatively, and passed 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 sex, 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 passing in review Blachland’s demeanour towards Lyn, during the weeks they had been fellow inmates, and he pronounced it to be absolutely flawless. The pleasant, unrestrained, easy friendship 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?”
“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.”
“God bless her!” was the fervent reply. “I don’t wonder, Bayfield, that you almost worship 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 ungodly 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. “God 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 – ” dashing 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 ejaculate 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 appetite, 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 assume 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 shining 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 assailed 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 attitude, 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 grass roofs lay yellow and shining 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 space in front of the King’s enclosure, was given over to the warriors.
With these it was nearly filled. Regiment upon regiment was mustered there: each drafted according to the standing of those who composed its ranks, from the Ingubu, which enjoyed the high privilege of attending as bodyguard upon the King, hence its name – the Blanket, i.e. the King’s – ever around the royal person – the fighting Imbizo, and the Induba – down to the slave regiments such as the Umcityu, composed of slaves and the descendants of conquered and therefore inferior races. All these were in full war array. The higher of them wore the intye, a combination of cape and headpiece made of the jetty plumage of the male ostrich, others were crowned with the isiqoba, a ball of feathers nodding over the forehead, and supporting the tall, pointed wing feather of the vulture, or the blue crane. Mútyas of monkey-skin and cat-tails, in some few instances leopard’s skin, fantastic bunches of white cowhair at elbow and knee and ankle, with bead necklaces, varying in shape and colour, completed the adornment. But all were fully armed. The national weapon, the traditional implement of Zulu intrepidity and conquest, the broad-bladed, short-handled, close-quarter assegai – of such each warrior carried two or three: a murderous-looking battle-axe with its sickle-like blade: a heavy-headed, short-handled knob-kerrie, and the great war-shield, black, with its facings of white, a proportion white entirely – others red – others again, streaked, variegated, and surmounted by its tuft of fur or jackal’s tail, or cowhair – this array, chanting in fierce strophes, stamping in unison, and clashing time with weapon-haft upon hard hide shield, amid the streaming dust, made up a picture – as terrific as it was formidable – of the ferocious and pent-up savagery of a hitherto unconquered, and in its own estimation, unconquerable race.
A musky, foetid effluvium hung in the air, the mingled result of all this gathering of perspiring, moving humanity, and vast heaps of decaying bones, already decomposing in the fierce sunlight there on the killing place just outside the huge kraal at its eastern end, where a great number of the King’s cattle had been slaughtered on the previous day in order to feast the regiments mustered for war – while myriads of buzzing flies combined to render the surcharged atmosphere doubly pestilential. Seated together, in a group apart, the principal indunas of the nation were gathered in earnest conference, while, further on, the whole company of izanusi, or war-doctors, arrayed in the hideous and disgusting trappings of their order, were giving a final eye to the removal of huge mutt bowls, containing some concoction equally hideous and disgusting, from the secluded and mysterious precincts wherein such had been brewed: for the whole army was about to be doctored for war.
Now a fresh stir arose among the excited armed multitude gathered there, and all eyes were turned to the eastward. Away over the rolling plain, from the direction of the flat-topped Intaba-’Zinduna, a moving mass was approaching, and as it drew nearer the gleam of spears and the sheen of hide shields flickered above the dark cloud. It was the Insukamini regiment, for whose presence those here had been waiting in order to render the master complete. As it swung up the slope, an old war-song of Umalikazi came volleying through the air to those here gathered:
With full-throated roar the vast gathering took it up, re-echoing the fell chorus until it became indescribable in its strength of volume, and soon, the newly arrived regiment, over a thousand strong, filed in, and fell into line, amid the thunder of its vociferous welcome.
Then the company of ixanuri came forward, and for some time these were busy as they went along the lines, administering to each warrior a morsel of the horrible hotch-potch they had been concocting, and which was designed to render him, if not quite impervious to the enemy’s missiles, at any rate to lessen his chances of being struck, and to make him a very lion of strength and courage in the day of battle.
This over, yet one ceremony remained, to sing the war-song in the presence of the King, and depart. A silence had fallen upon all after the doctoring was concluded. Soon, however, it was broken by the “praisers” shouting the King’s titles.
As Lo Bengula appeared in front of his warriors, the whole immense crescent fell forward like mown corn, and from every throat went up in one single, deep-voiced, booming roar, the royal greeting:
Kumalo!
The King did not seat himself. With head erect and kindling eyes, he paced up and down slowly, surveying the whole martial might of his nation. He, too, was arrayed in full war costume, crowned with the towering intye, and wearing a mútya of splendid leopard skin. He was attended by his shield-bearer, holding aloft the great white shield of state, but in his hand he carried another and a smaller shield, also white, and a long-hafted, slender, casting assegai.
Long and loud were the shouts of sibonga which rent the air as the warriors fell back into a squatting posture, their shields lying flat in front of them. They hailed him by every imaginable title of power and of might – as their father, as their divinity, as the source of all that was good and beneficial which they possessed. They called the lightnings of the clouds, the thunders of the air – everything – into requisition to testify as to his immensity – till at last, as though in obedience to some sudden and mysterious signal, they subsided into silence. Then Lo Bengula spoke:
“Children of Matyobane, the enemy is already in your land. These Amakiwa, who came to me few and poor, and begging, are now many and rich, and proud. They begged for a little land wherein to dig gold, and I gave it them, but, lo, they want more. Like devouring locusts, these few whites who came begging, and sat down here so humbly before me, were but the advance-guard of a swarm. I gave them meat, and now they require a whole ox. I gave them an ox, and now they require the whole herd. I gave them the little land they craved for, and now, nothing will satisfy them but to devour the whole land. Soon they will be here.
“There are dogs who bark and turn away, and there are dogs who bite. There are dogs who are brave when it is a matter of pulling down an antelope, but who put down their tails and slink away when it is a lion who fronts them. Of which are ye?
