Part 27 (1/2)

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.