CHAPTER FIVE.
AN EPISODE IN SIEVER'S KLOOF.
The days sped by and still Hilary Blachland remained as a guest atGeorge Bayfield's farm.
He had talked about moving on, but the suggestion had been met by afrank stare of astonishment on the part of his host.
"Where's your hurry, man?" had replied the latter. "Why, you've onlyjust come."
"Only just come! You don't seem to be aware, Bayfield, that I've beenhere nearly four weeks."
"No, I'm not. But what then? What if it's four or fourteen or forty?You don't want to go up-country again just yet. By the way, though, itmust be mighty slow here."
"Now, Bayfield, I don't want to hurt anybody's feelings, but you'retalking bosh, rank bosh. I don't believe you know it, though. Slowindeed!"
"Perhaps Mr Blachland's tired of us, father," said Lyn demurely, butwith a spice of mischief.
"Well, you know, you yourselves can have too much of a not very goodthing," protested Hilary, rather lamely.
"Ha-ha! Now we'll turn the tables. Who's talking bosh this time?" saidBayfield triumphantly.
"Man, Mr Blachland, you mustn't go yet," cut in small Fred excitedly."Stop and shoot some more bushbucks."
"Very well, Fred. No one can afford to run clean counter to publicopinion. So that settles it," replied Blachland gaily.
"That's all right," said Bayfield. "And we haven't taken him over toEarle's yet. I know what we'll do. We'll send and let Earle know weare all coming over for a couple of nights, and he must get up a shootin between. Then we'll show him the pretty widow."
A splutter from Fred greeted the words. "She isn't pretty a bit," hepronounced. "A black, ugly thing."
"Look out, sonny," laughed his father. "She'll take it out of you whenshe's your schoolmissis."
But the warning was received by the imp with a half growl, half jeer.The prospect of that ultimate fate, which had already been dangled overhim, and which he only half realised, may have helped to prejudice himagainst one whom he could not but regard as otherwise than his naturalenemy.
The unanimity wherewith the household of three voted against hisdeparture was more than gratifying to Hilary Blachland. Looking backupon life since he had been Bayfield's guest, he could only declare tohimself that it was wholly delightful. The said Bayfield, with hisunruffled, take-us-as-you-find-us way of looking at things--well, themore he saw of the man the more he liked him, and the two were on themost easy terms of friendship of all, which may best be defined thatneither ever wanted the other to do anything the other didn't want to.Even the small boy regarded him as an acquisition, while Lyn--well, thefrank, friendly, untrammelled intercourse between them constituted, hewas forced to admit to himself, the brightness and sunshine of thepleasant, reposeful days which were now his. He had no reason to ratehimself too highly, even in his own estimation, and the last three orfour weeks spent in her daily society brought this more and more home tohim. Well, whatever he had sown, whatever he might reap, in short,whatever might or might not be in store for him, he was the better now,would be to the end of his days, the better for having known her.Indeed it seemed to him now as though his life were divided into twocomplete periods--the time before he had known Lyn Bayfield, andsubsequently.
Thus reflecting, he was pacing the stoep smoking an after-breakfastpipe. The valley stretched away, radiant in the morning sunshine, andthe atmosphere was sharp and brisk with a delicious exhilaration. Downin the camps he could see the black dots moving, where great ostrichesstalked, and every now and then the triple boom, several times repeated,from the throat of one or other of the huge birds, rolled out upon themorning air. The song of a Kaffir herd, weird, full-throated, butmelodious, arose from the further hillside, where a large flock ofAngora goats was streaming forth to its grazing ground.
"What would you like to do to-day, Blachland?" said his host, joininghim. "I've got to ride over to Theunis Nel's about some stock, but itmeans the best part of the day there, so I don't like suggesting yourcoming along. They're the most infernal boring crowd, and you'd wishyourself dead."
Hilary thought this would very likely be the case, but before he couldreply there came an interruption--an interruption which issued from aside door somewhere in the neighbourhood of the kitchen, for they werestanding at the end of the stoep, an interruption wearing an ample white"kapje," and with hands and wrists all powdery with flour, but utterlycharming for all that.
"What's that you're plotting, father? No, you're not to take MrBlachland over to any tiresome Dutchman's. No wonder he talks aboutgoing away. Besides, I want to take him with me. I'm going to paint--in Siever's Kloof, and Fred isn't enough of an escort."
"I think I'll prefer that immeasurably, Miss Bayfield," replied he mostconcerned.
"I shall be ready, then, in half an hour. And--I don't like `MissBayfield'--it sounds so stiff, and we are such old friends now. Youought to say Lyn. Oughtn't he, father, now that he is quite one ofourselves?"
"Well, _I_ should--after that," answered Bayfield, comically, blowingout a big cloud of smoke.
But while he laughed pleasantly, promising to avail himself of theprivilege, Hilary was conscious of a kind of mournful impression thatthe frank ingenuousness of the request simply meant that she placed himon the same plane as her father, in short, regarded him as one of abygone generation. Well, she was right. He was no chicken after all,he reminded himself grimly.
"I say, Lyn, I'm going with you too!" cried Fred, who was seated on awaggon-pole a little distance off, putting the finishing touches to anew catapult-handle.
"All right. I'll be ready in half an hour," replied the girl.
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One of the prettiest bits in Siever's Kloof was the very spot whereonBlachland had shot the large bushbuck ram, and here the two had taken uptheir position. For nearly an hour Lyn had been very busy, and herescort seated there, lazily smoking a pipe, would every now and thenoverlook her work, offering criticisms, and making suggestions, some ofwhich were accepted, and some were not. Fred, unable to remain stillfor ten minutes at a time, was ranging afar with his air-gun--now putright again--and, indeed, with it he was a dead shot.
"I never can get the exact shine of these red krantzes," Lyn was saying."That one over there, with the sun just lighting it up now, I know Ishall reproduce it either the colour of a brick wall or a dead smudge.The shine is what I want to get."
"And you may get it, or you may not, probably the latter. There are twothings, at any rate, which nobody has ever yet succeeded in reproducingwith perfect accuracy, the colour of fire and golden hair--like yours.Yes, it's a fact. They make it either straw colour or too red, butalways dead. There's no shine in it."
Lyn laughed, lightheartedly, unthinkingly.
"True, O King! But I expect you're talking heresy all the same. Iwonder what that boy is up to?" she broke off, looking around.
"Why, he's a mile or so away up the kloof by this time. Do you ever gettired of this sort of life, Lyn?"
"Tired? No. Why should I? Whenever I go away anywhere, after thefirst novelty has worn off, I always long to get back."
"And how long a time does it take to compass that aspiration?"
"About a week. At the end of three I am desperately homesick, and longto get back here to old father, and throw away gloves and let my handsburn."
Blachland looked at the hands in question--long-fingered, tapering, butsmooth and delicate and refined--brown indeed with exposure to the air,but not in the least roughened. What an enigma she was, this girl. Hewatched, her as she sat there, sweet and cool and graceful as she pliedher brushes, the wide brim of her straw hat turned up in front so as notto impede her view. Every movement was a picture, he told himself--thequick lifting of the eyelid as she looked at her subject, the delicatesupple turn of the wrist as she worked in her colouring. And thesurroundings set forth so perfectly the central figure--the
varyingshades of the trees and their dusky undergrowth, the great krantzopposite, fringed with trailers, bristling with spiky aloes lining upalong its ledges. Bright spreuws flashed and piped, darting forth fromits shining face; and other bird voices, the soft note of the hoepoe,and the cooing of doves kept the warm golden air pleasant with harmony.
"What is your name the short for, Lyn?" he said, picking up one of herdrawing-books, whereon it was traced--in faded ink upon the faded cover.
She laughed. "It isn't a name at all really. It's only my initials. Ihave three ugly Christian names represented under the letters L.Y.N.,and it began with a joke among the boys when I was a very small kiddie.But now I rather like it. Don't you?"
"Yes. Very much... Why, what's the matter now?"
For certain shrill shouts were audible from the thick of the bush, butat no great distance away. They recognised Fred's voice, and he washallooing like mad.
"Lyn! Mr Blachland! Quick--quick! Man, here's a whacking big snake!"
"Oh, let's go and see!" cried the girl, hurriedly putting down herdrawing things, and springing to her feet. "No--no. You stay here.I'll go. You're quite safe here. Stay, do you hear?"
She turned in surprise. Her companion was quite agitated.
"Why, it's safe enough!" she said with a laugh, but still wondering."I'm not in the least afraid of snakes. I've killed several of them.Come along."
And answering Fred's shouts she led the way through the grass and stonesat an astonishing pace, entirely disregarding his entreaties to allowhim to go first.
"There! There!" cried Fred, his fist full of stones, pointing to somelong grass almost hiding a small boulder about a dozen yards away."He's squatting there. He's a big black ringhals. I threw him withthree stones--didn't hit him, though. Man, but he's `kwai.' Look,look! There!"
Disturbed anew by these fresh arrivals, the reptile shot up his headwith an ugly hiss. The hood was inflated, and waved to and frowickedly, as the great coil dragged heavily over the ground.
"There! Now you can have him!" cried Fred excitedly, as Blachlandstooped and picked up a couple of large stones. These, however, heimmediately dropped.
"No. Let him go," he said. "He wants to get away. He won't interferewith us."
"But kill him, Mr Blachland. Aren't you going to kill him?" urged theboy.
"No. I never kill a snake if I can help it. Because of something thatonce happened to me up-country."
"So! What was it?" said the youngster, with half his attention fixedregretfully on the receding reptile, which, seeing the coast clear, wasrapidly making itself scarce.
"That's something of a story--and it isn't the time for telling it now."
But a dreadful suspicion crossed the unsophisticated mind of the boy.Was it possible that Blachland was afraid? It did not occur to him thata man who had shot lions in the open was not likely to be afraid of aneveryday ringhals--not at the time, at least. Afterwards he would thinkof it.
They went back to where they had been sitting before, Fred chatteringvolubly. But he could not sit still for long, any more than he had beenable to before, and presently he was off again.
"You are wondering why I let that snake go," said Blachland presently."Did you think I was afraid of it?"
"Well, no, I could hardly think that," answered Lyn, looking up quickly.
"Yet I believe you thought something akin to it," he rejoined, with acurious smile. "Listen now, and I'll tell you if you care to hear--onlydon't let the story go any further. By the way, you are only the secondI have ever told it to."
"I feel duly flattered. Go on. I am longing to hear it. I'm sure it'sexciting."
"It was for me at the time--very." And then he told her of theexploration of the King's grave, and the long hours of that awful day,between two terrible forms of imminent death, told it so graphically asto hold her spellbound.
"There, that sounds like a tolerably tall up-country yarn," heconcluded, "but it's hard solid fact for all that."
"What a horrible experience," said Lyn, with something of a shudder."And now you won't kill any snake?"
"No. That _mamba_ held me at its mercy the whole of that day--and Ihave spared every snake I fell in with ever since. A curious sort ofgratitude, you will say, but--there it is."
"I don't wonder the natives had that superstition about the King'sspirit passing into that snake."
"No, more do I. The belief almost forced itself upon me, as I sat therethose awful hours. But, as old Pemberton said, there was no luck aboutmeddling with such places."
"No, indeed. What strange things you must have seen in all yourwanderings. It must be something to look back upon. But I suppose itwill go on all your life. You will return to those parts again,until--"
"Until I am past returning anywhere," he replied. "Perhaps so, andperhaps it is better that way after all. And now I think it is time toround up Fred, and take the homeward track."
"Yes, I believe it is," was all she said. A strange unwonted silencewas upon her during their homeward ride. She was thinking a great dealof the man beside her. He interested her as nobody ever had. She hadstood in awe of him at first, but now she hoped it would be a long timebefore he should find it necessary to leave them. What an idealcompanion he was, too. She felt her mind the richer for all the ideasshe had exchanged with him--silly, crude ideas, he must have thoughtthem, she told herself with a little smile.
But if she was silent, Fred was not. He talked enough for all three therest of the way home.
The Triumph of Hilary Blachland Page 18
