The other went on: "He's lonely in camp, and you're lonely here. That's
about the British of it; eh, Hermia?"
"Well, can you wonder? Here I am, left all by myself to get through
time as best I can. How long have you been away this time? Four
weeks?"
"Just under. And this was a short trip. It is hard lines, rather; but
then, you always knew what life up here was going to mean. You did it
with your eyes open."
"It is mean of you to throw it at me. I never thought you would have
done it," she flashed.
"Throw what? Oh, I see. I wasn't referring to--that. You might as
well give me the benefit of the doubt, Hermia. You ought to know that I
was referring to our coming out here at all. We might have gone
anywhere else, so it wasn't England."
She looked down at him as he sat there, for she was standing, or
restlessly moving about. How cool and passionless he was now, she
thought. He had not always been so. Decidedly he was tired of her.
She could not help drawing a mental contrast between him and the other.
The countenance of this one, with its well-cut features, but lined and
weather-worn, dark and bronzed by sun and exposure, was indeed a
contrast to that of the other, in its smooth, clear-skinned blue-eyed
comeliness of youth. Yet, this one, sitting there, strong,
reposeful-looking in his cool white raiment was, and would always be,
_the_ one when she came to pass in review her polyandrous experiences.
Now his very tranquillity, indifference she called it, nettled her. At
any other time, indeed, it would have served as a powerful draw in
keeping her to him; now however, the entirely fresh excitement she had
struck formed an effective counterblast. If he was tired of her, she
would let him see that she was even more tired of him, whether she was
so or not.
"To revert to Spence," he said. "What pleasure can it give you to make
a bigger fool of the young idiot than his parents and Nature have
already made him?"
"He isn't at all a fool," snapped Hermia, shortly.
"Not eh? Well, everything is relative, even in terminology. We'll call
him not so wise as some other people, if you prefer it. If he was as
wise, he might be over head and ears in love with you without giving it
away at every turn--in fact, thrusting it into the very face of the
ordinary observer."
"Why, Hilary, you really are jealous!" she cried with a ringing laugh.
For a moment, however, she had looked perturbed.
"Ha, ha! That's good--distinctly good. Jealous! There is, or ought to
be, no such thing, once past the callowness of youth. The self-respect
of any man should be above whining to any one woman because she prefers
somebody else. The mere fact of her doing so renders her utterly
valueless in his sight there and then."
"You don't really mean that, Hilary?" she said. "You're only just
talking, you know."
"Try it and see."
His eyes were full on hers. For the life of her, she could not as
straightly meet that straight, firm glance. This was the only man she
had never been able to deceive. Others she could hoodwink and fool at
will, this one never. So, with a light laugh, with a shade of
nervousness in it that would have been patent to an even less acute
faculty of perception than his, she rejoined--
"Well, you're out of it this time, Hilary. Justin isn't in love with me
at all. Why, it's ridiculous!"
She turned away uneasily. For he knew that she was lying, and she knew
that he did.
"One moment, Hermia," he called out to her. She paused. "While we are
on the subject: are you not getting a little tired of--our partnership?"
"Why?"
"I've seen symptoms of it lately, and I don't think I'm mistaken.
Because, if you are, say so squarely and openly. It'll be much better
in the long run."
"I think you are tired of it," she flashed. "I suppose you have a lot
of black wives over yonder, like that disgusting old Pemberton and
Young. That's why you're so fond of going into the Matabele country,
and leaving me all alone for weeks."
"Apparently you know more about Pemberton's and Young's conjugal
arrangements than I do, but let me assure you you're utterly wrong in
your estimate of mine."
"I don't believe it. You are all of you alike, once you take to going
among those beastly natives."
"You don't believe it? That I can't help, so there it stays. And now
I've lazed long enough, I must rustle about and see to things."
Left there, Hermia watched his tall form, like a pillar of white,
wending up the low kopje at the back of the stockade. He had become
very reserved, very self-contained and inscrutable of late; so much so
indeed, that it was almost impossible to gauge how much he knew or
suspected. Now she felt uneasy, uncomfortable with a dim consciousness
of having come off second best in the recent cut and thrust. Well,
perhaps he was right. She was tired of the existing state of affairs--
perhaps a trifle tired of him.
And he? The kopje up which he had taken his way, ascended by an easy
acclivity to a point which commanded an immense view to the south and
westward. Range upon range of rolling slope and wooded ridge lay there
outspread--vast and scarcely inhabited country, a land given over to
wild game and a few shrinking, starving remnants of tribes living in
daily fear of the sweep of the terrible Matabele besom. The evening was
still, and golden, and beautiful, and, seated under a mahobo-hobo tree,
Blachland lit his pipe, and began to think out the position.
So Hermia was tired of their life together! He had seen it coming on,
and at first the knowledge had caused him some concern. He contrasted
the lives of other pioneers, living all alone, or in native fashion,
with two or three dusky-hued daughters of the land, in rough,
uncivilised manner, growing more and more into the happy-go-lucky,
soulless simplicity of life of the barbarous aborigines themselves,--
contrasted them with the life he himself led, its comfort, and refined
companionship, and, until lately, love,--and, doing so, a qualm of
regret tinged his mind. It was evanescent however. For he himself was
growing tired of this mode of life. He had embarked on it when he and
Hermia had reckoned the world well lost for each other's sake. Now,
neither of them so reckoned any more; nay, further, to be perfectly
candid with themselves, they wondered how they ever could have. Why not
leave it then, move to some more cheerful and civilised quarter of the
globe? To do so would be tantamount to leaving each other.
Hermia had taxed him with being jealous, and he had replied, and
rightly, that he was past the capacity for any such foolishness. But he
had no intention of remaining her dupe. That he had ample cause for
jealousy in the matter just under discussion, he was well aware; but
that was nothing to what he would meet with should they return to
civilisation together. She could no more cleave to one, and one only,
than she could fly over the moon. They had better part.
Over the vast roll of country beneath, stretching away into misty
dimness, his glance swept. How would he take to civilisation again?
The old restlessness would come upon him. The wandering up-country life
had got into his system. The other kind, too, was not so very great as
to lure him back to it either. He supposed he had made a mess of
things. Well, most people did one way and another, and it couldn't be
helped.
Up the slope, through the sparse bushes, a herd of cattle was
threading--his cattle; and in the tall dark form of their driver he
recognised Hlangulu, the Matabele. Mechanically, however, he took in
this while his thoughts reverted to their former train. Would they miss
each other? he wondered; or, rather, would he miss Hermia? That she
would hardly waste a regret on him he knew, for he had long since
discovered the shallow emptiness of her nature, and that what he had at
one time taken for depth was the mere frenzied abandonment of a passing
passion, wholly unrestrained and absorbing for the time being; but now,
and indeed long since, burnt out. Turning, he looked back on the group
of primitive buildings within the protecting stockade, his home. A
stillness and peace seemed to brood over it in the evening light. He
could make out Hermia's form crossing a section of the enclosure. He
thought of the years they had been together. Had those years been
happy? Well, hardly. Disillusionment had not been long in coming, and
with its growth their brief and spurious happiness had faded. They did
not quarrel, but it was a case of mutual toleration. And now, at last,
he had returned one fine day to recognise that his place was filled by
another. Decidedly the time had come for them to part.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
"_Nkose_!"
Blachland looked up. His meditations must have run on, for the utterer
of this sonorous salutation was he who, but a moment ago it seemed, was
right away down there driving the cattle, yet he had had time to take
them borne and return here himself.
"What is it, Hlangulu?"
The man dropped down into a squatting attitude, and began to talk.
Blachland, who understood natives, let him run on about nothing in
particular--the state of the country, the new settlements of the
pioneers, the King, the decreasing of the game, and so forth,--for he
knew something was coming. Presently it came.
"_Nkose_ is even as Umlimo. The dark mysteries of the Great bold no
terrors for him?"
"Not any," was the laconic reply.
"Yet it is certain death to look into such."
"Death is certain, but the time of death, never. I have looked at
`certain death' before, yet here I am."
"_Au_, _Nkose_! What you desire is not possible, save by one way."
"And that way?"
"Is known to me alone."
"And you are going to make it known to me. Now, Hlangulu, men are men,
and men have motives. Why are you going to do this?"
"What is that which is most desired by all white men, _Nkose_?"
"Gold."
"_Yeh-bo, Nkose_, and by black ones, too, if with it they can buy cattle
and wives. _Hau_! In the abode of the mighty dead there is much of
it."
Blachland didn't start, but his nerves were all a thrill. The man's
words were plain enough. A quantity of treasure had been buried with
the dead King. That was the interpretation.
"Is the gold like this, Hlangulu?" he said, producing a sovereign.
"_Eh-he, Nkose_!" assented the Matabele. "It is in a bag, so high,"--
holding his hand about a couple of feet from the ground.
Then they talked, the white man and the savage,--talked long and
earnestly. The superstitions of the latter precluded him from going
near the dreaded sepulchre, let alone entering it. But for the former
no such barrier existed. Hlangulu knew a way of getting him through the
pickets: then he could accomplish a double purpose, explore the interior
of the King's grave, and bring away the concealed wealth which lay
there; and this they would share equally.
It was quite dark when they separated: Blachland all braced up by the
prospect of a new and interesting adventure, which, coming when it did,
was peculiarly welcome; Hlangulu to dream of an idyllic existence, in
some far-away land where Lo Bengula's arm could not reach, where he
could sit in his kraal and count his vast herds of cattle, and buy
wives, young and new, whenever inclined.