If ever any man was in the state colloquially defined as over head and
ears in love, and if ever any man had practical demonstration that his
love was returned abundantly by the object thereof, assuredly the name
of that man was Justin Spence. Yet when the sun rose upon him on the
following morning he somehow did not feel as elate as he should have
done.
For, whatever poetic associations may cluster around the hour of sunset,
around that of sunrise there are none at all. It is an abominably
matter-of-fact and prosaic hour, an hour when the average human is wont
to feel cheap if ever, prone to retrospect, and, for choice, retrospect
of an unwelcome nature. All that he has ever done that is injudicious
or mean or _gauche_ will infallibly strike him as more injudicious and
meaner and more _gauche_ in the cold and judicial stare of the waking
hour. To this rule Justin Spence was no exception. His passion had not
cooled--no, not one whit; yet he awoke feeling mean. His conduct had
been weak--the development thereof shady: in short, in the words of his
own definition, "it was not playing the game."
The worst of it was that he was indebted to Blachland for more than one
good turn, and now, what had been his requital for such? The other was
his friend, and trusted him--and now, he had taken advantage of that
friend's absence. In the unsparing light of early morning the thing had
an ugly look--yes, very.
As against that, however, other considerations would arise to set
themselves. First of all, he himself was human, and human powers had
their limits. Then, again, the other did not in the least appreciate
this splendid gift, this matchless treasure which had fallen to his lot:
otherwise, how could he leave her all alone as he did, absent himself
for days, for weeks at a time? He had not always done so, Justin had
gathered; and from Hermia's reminiscences of camp life she seemed to
have enjoyed it. If he, Justin, had been in Blachland's place, not for
a single day should she have been away from him. But then, Justin was
very young, and all the circumstances and surroundings went to make him
think that way.
He had known these people for some months, but _of_ them he knew
nothing. The hard, reticent, self-reliant up-country trader was not the
man to make a confidant of one whom he regarded as a mere callow youth.
But he had been very kind to Justin, and had held out a helping hand to
him on more than one occasion. Hermia, for her part, had merely noted
that the young man was very handsome and well set up, and that in about
a week he was desperately in love with herself. There were two or three
others of whom the latter held good, even in that remote region, but
they awakened no reciprocal feeling in her. She would keep them
dangling simply as a mere matter of habit; but Justin Spence had touched
a responsive chord within her. It was one of a sheerly physical nature,
but she had more and more grown to look forward to his visits, and we
must admit that she had not long to look.
The more he thought it over the less he liked it. He could not even lay
the spurious balm to his soul that "every man for himself" was the maxim
which justified everything--that the glorious fascinations of this woman
went wholly unappreciated by the man who should have been the one of all
others to prize them, and therefore were reserved and destined for
another, and that himself. This sort of reasoning somehow would not do.
It struck him as desperately thin in the cool judicial hour of waking.
He had behaved shabbily towards Blachland, and, the worst of it was, he
knew he should go on doing so. And as though to confirm him in that
conviction, at that moment the voice of the siren, clear but soft, was
borne to his ears.
What had become of all his misgivings now, as he sprang out of bed, his
one and only thought that of joining her as soon as possible? The
voice, however, was not addressed to him. It was merely raised in
commonplace command to the small Mashuna boys. What a lovely voice it
was! he thought to himself, pausing to listen, lest the splashing of his
tub should cause him to lose a tone of it: and he was right so far.
Hermia owned a beautiful speaking voice, and it constituted not the
least of her fascinations. Recklessly now Justin cast his
self-accusations to the winds.
And Hermia? Well, she had none to cast. Self-accusation was a phase of
introspect in which she never indulged. Why should she, when the rule
of conduct on which she acted with a scrupulosity of observance worthy
of a better cause, was "Get all you can out of life, and while you can"?
Never a thought had she to waste on the absent. It was his fault that
he was absent. Never, moreover, a misgiving.
Yet when Spence joined her there in the gateway of the stockade, the
eager, happy glow in his face met with scant response in her own. She
affected a reproachful tone and attitude. They had both done very
wrong, it conveyed. It could not be helped now, but the least said,
soonest mended. They had been very weak, and very foolish, but it must
never occur again. And all the while she was killing herself in her
efforts to restrain her laughter, for she fully intended that it should
occur again--again and again--and that at no distant period: but she was
going to keep her adorer's appreciation up to fever heat. To this
intent, he must be kept well in hand at first.
Well, he was submissive enough even for her, and again she was convulsed
with suppressed mirth, for she promised herself keen enjoyment watching
his struggles to keep within the bounds of conventionality she had
imposed upon him. The whirlings and buzzings of the impaled beetle of
her childhood's days, as the luckless insect spun round and round in his
efforts to free himself from the transfixing pin, were not in it with
the fun held out to her by the writhings of this six-foot-one victim.
And the sport was already beginning in his blank face and piteous tone.
"No, I don't think you must even use my name, Justin," she said, in
wind-up of the programme she was laying before him as to his future rule
of conduct. "You will be forgetting, and rapping it out when Hilary is
here."
"What then? Would he be very jealous?" returned the victim shortly,
very sore with jealousy himself at this recalling of the absent one's
existence.
"Perhaps. There's no telling," answered Hermia, with a wholly
enigmatical smile. She was thinking that here was a new and
entertaining development of the situation. Hilary jealous! Heavens!
that would be a feat to have accomplished. She did not believe him
capable of any such foolish and youthful passion. And yet, if she
misjudged him? And recognising such a possibility, a spice of fear came
to season the excitement, only serving however to enhance its original
zest.
In the fair scene spread out before these two there was little enough to
suggest the growlings and roarings of ravening beasts making terrible
the dark night hours. The undulating roll of veldt, green after the
recent rains, and radiant in the golden morning, sparkled with
innumerable dewdrops. Birds called cheerily; bird-wings glanced through
the air in gorgeous colour and flash of sheeny streak; and the great
granite kopjes to the westward, rising to the cloudless blue, seemed to
tower twice their height in the shimmer and warmth of the newly risen
sun.
Upon this lovely outlook one of the two was gazing with a moody brow and
a heavy heart. Suddenly he started.
"Who's this, I wonder?" he exclaimed, shading his eyes.
A speck in the distance had arrested his attention--an approaching
speck. It might have represented a horseman, almost certainly it did.
"I believe it's Blachland," went on Spence. "I'll get the binocular,
and see."
The advancing object was hidden from sight as he dived into the house.
But it reappeared about the same time he did. It now took shape as a
horseman.
"Yes, it is Blachland," he went on, the glasses at his eyes. "But he's
all alone. Where's his waggon and Sybrandt? I wonder if--" And he
broke off, looking somewhat anxiously at his companion as he finished
the unspoken thought to himself. What if Blachland were returning thus
with a purpose--making a sort of surprise return? What if he had
intended returning much earlier, but had miscalculated time and
distance? What if he _had_ returned much earlier? Oh, Great Heaven!
And the thinker's countenance reflected the consternation of the
thought.
That of his companion, however, betrayed no responsive qualm. It was as
serene and unruffled as though she had never beheld the man at her side
until five minutes ago.
"Now, Justin," she said, as they watched the approach of the horseman.
"I want to give you a word of warning. First of all, you are not to
greet him as if he had just risen from the dead, and you wish to
goodness he hadn't. Secondly, you are not to look at and talk to me in
a sort of wistful and deathbed manner whenever you have occasion to look
at and talk to me. Remember, he's mighty sharp; I don't know any one
sharper. Come, brisk up, dear, and pull yourself together and be
natural, or you'll give away the whole show."
"That's the last sweet word I shall hear from you for a long time to
come, I suppose," said Justin, somewhat comforted. "But you didn't
really mean all you were saying a little while ago? You're not really
sorry?"
"Perhaps not," she answered softly. "Perhaps we shall have good times
again. Only, be careful now. It all depends upon that."
"Oh, then I'll be careful enough, with that to look forward to," he
returned, quite cheered up now. Wherein her object was attained.
To one of the two came a feeling of relief a moment after the new
arrival had dismounted at the stockade, for his greeting was perfectly
easy and natural and pleasant.
"Well, Spence, you're out early," was all he said.
Out early. Justin began to feel mean again. Should he say he had been
there all night? But Hermia saved him the task of deciding by
volunteering that information herself. She was not going to begin
making mysteries.
Well, there was no occasion to. Both forgot that the crucial moment was
not entirely that of the greeting. The last hundred yards or so before
dismounting had told Hilary Blachland all there was to tell. No--not
quite all.
"What have we got here?" said the returned master of the house, as,
after a tub and a change of clothing, he sat at the head of his table.
"Guinea-fowl?" raising the dish-cover.
"Yes, Justin shot five for me yesterday," answered Hermia. "By the way,
I am always calling him Justin. `Mr Spence' is absurdly formal in this
out-of-the-way part, and he is really such a boy. Aren't I right,
Hilary?"
"Oh, certainly," was the reply, but the dry smile accompanying it might
have meant anything. To himself the smiler was thinking, "So this is
the latest, is it? What an actress she is, and that being so, I won't
pay her the bad compliment of saying it's a pity she didn't go on the
stage."
Justin didn't relish that definition of him; however, he recollected
there was everything to console him for the apparent slight. And it was
part of the acting. In fact, he was even conscious of being in a
position to crow over the other, if the other only knew it, and though
he strove hard to dismiss the idea, yet the idea was there.
"By the way, Blachland," he said, "how are things doing in Matabeleland?
Niggers still cheeky?"
"They're getting more out of hand than ever. In fact, you prospectors
had better keep a weather eye open. And, Hermia, I've been thinking
things over, and I believe you'd better trek into Fort Salisbury."
"Is there going to be war then?" asked Justin quickly, for the words
were as a knell to his newly born fool's paradise. Had he found Hermia
only to lose her immediately?
"No, I'll stay on. I don't believe it'll be anything more than a
scare," answered the latter with a light laugh.
Hilary Blachland had been watching her, while not appearing to, watching
them both. The start of consternation which escaped Justin Spence at
the prospect of this separation had not escaped him. He noted, too,
that beneath Hermia's lightness of tone there lurked a shadowed anxiety.
He was sharp, even as she herself had defined him--yes, he was
decidedly sharp-witted was Hilary Blachland.