Part 22 (1/2)

”IT CANNOT BE.”

In the conjecture that his cousin had fallen into an infatuation for Hermia, Hilary Blachland was right--the only respect in which he had failed to grasp the full situation being that he had not fathomed the depth of that infatuation.

He knew her little ways, none better; knew well how insidiously dangerous she could be to those who did not know them, when she saw fit to lay herself out to attract. That she was laying herself out to entrap Percy was the solution of the whole problem.

Yet not all of it. She had been with the Earles before Percy's arrival, before she could even have known he was in the country at all. And what had become of Spence? Well, this, too, would be cleared up, for he knew as well as though she had told him in so many words, that before they parted again she meant to have a private talk with him, and an understanding, and to this he was not averse. It would probably be a stormy one, for he was not going to allow her to add young West to her list of victims; and this he was going to give her emphatically to understand.

A rustle and a rush in front, and a blekbuck leaped out of the long gra.s.s almost at his horse's feet, for they were riding in line--a hundred yards or so apart. Up went his gun mechanically--a crack and a suspicion of a puff of smoke. The graceful little animal turned a complete somersault, and lay, convulsively kicking its life away.

Another started up, crossing right in front of Percival. The latter slipped to the ground in a moment, got a sight on, and turned it over neatly, at rather a long distance shot.

”I say, Bayfield. Those two Britishers are leading off well,” said Earle, as they pulled in their horses and lighted pipes, to wait till the other two should be ready to take the line again.

There are more imposing, but few more enjoyable forms of sport, than this moving over a fine rolling expanse of bontebosch veldt, beneath the cloudless blue of the heavens, through the clear exhilarating air of an early African winter day; when game is plentiful, and anything may jump out, or rise at any moment; blekbuck or duiker, guinea-fowl or koorhaan, or partridge, with the possibility of a too confiding pauw, and other unconsidered trifles. All these conditions held good here, yet one, at any rate, of those privileged to enjoy them, keen sportsman as he was, felt that day that something was wanting--that a cloud was dimming the sun-lit beauty of the rolling plains, and an invisible weight crus.h.i.+ng the exhilaration of each successful shot.

Blachland, pursuing his sport mechanically, was striving to shake off an unpleasant impression, and striving in vain. Something seemed to have happened between yesterday and to-day. Or was it the thought that Lyn Bayfield would be more or less in Hermia's society throughout the whole of that day? Yet, even if such were the case, what on earth did it matter to him?

The day came to an end at last, but there had been nothing to complain of in the way of the sport. They had lunched in the veldt, in ordinary hunter fas.h.i.+on--and in the afternoon had got in among the guinea-fowl; and being lucky enough to break up the troop, had about an hour of pretty sport--for scattered birds lie well and rise well--and by the time they turned their faces homeward, were loaded up with about as much game--buck and birds--as the horses could conveniently carry.

A flutter of feminine dresses was visible on the stoep, as they drew near the house, seeing which, an eager look came into Percival West's face. It was not lost upon his kinsman, who smiled to himself sardonically, as he recalled how just such a light had been kindled in his own at one time, and by the same cause. What a long while ago that seemed--and to think, too, that it should ever have been possible.

A chorus of congratulation arose as the magnitude of the bag became apparent.

”Those two Britishers knocked spots out of us to-day!” cried Earle.

”Bayfield and I can clean take a back seat.”

”You wouldn't call Mr Blachland a Britisher, surely, Mr Earle?” struck in Hermia. ”Why, he's shot lions up-country.”

”Eh, has he? How d'you know?” asked Earle eagerly--while he who was most concerned mentally started.

”Didn't he tell us so this morning?” she said, and her glance of mischief was not lost upon Blachland, who remarked:

”Does that fact denationalise me, Mrs Fenham? You said I couldn't be counted a Britisher.”

”Well, you know what I meant.”

”Oh, perfectly.”

There was a veiled cut-and-thrust between these two: imperceptible to the others--save one.

That one was Lyn. Her straight instinct and true ear had warned her.

”She is an adventuress,” was the girl's mental verdict. ”An impostor, who is hiding something. Some day it will come out.” Now she said to herself, watching the two, ”He doesn't like her. No, he doesn't.” And there was more satisfaction in this conclusion than even its framer was aware of.

Throughout the evening, too, Hilary found himself keenly observing new developments, or the possibility of such. At supper, they were mostly shooting all the day's bag over again, and going back over the incidents of other and similar days. Percival, in his seat next Hermia, was dividing his attention between his host's multifold reminiscence and his next-door neighbour, somewhat to the advantage of the latter. A new development came, however, and it was after they had all got up from the table, and some, at any rate, had gone out on to the stoep to see the moon rise. Then it was, in the sudden transition from light to darkness, Blachland felt his hand stealthily seized and something thrust into it--something which felt uncommonly like a tiny square of folded paper. Hermia's wrap brushed him at the time, and Hermia's voice, talking evenly to Percival on the other side, arrested his ear. There was a good deal more talk, and lighting of pipes, and presently it was voted too cold to remain outside. But, on re-entering, the party had undergone diminution by two. Mrs Earle was looking more discontented than ever.

”What's the odds?” chuckled her jolly spouse, with a quizzical wink at his two male guests. ”They're a brace of Britishers. They only want to talk home shop. Fine woman that Mrs Fenham, isn't she, Blachland?”

”Yes. How did you pick her up?” he replied, noticing that the discontented look had deepened on the face of his hostess, and bearing in mind Bayfield's insinuations, thought that warm times might be in store for Hermia.

”Oh, the wife found her. I hadn't anything to do with it. But she's first-rate in her own line: gets the nippers on no end. Makes 'em learn, you know.”