The New Year is very young now, and Lannercost is well-nigh hidden in
its wealth of leafiness, and very different is the rich languorous
midsummer air to the bracing crispness under which we last saw it.
Other things are different too, as we, perchance, shall see, but what is
not different is the warmth of welcome accorded to Hilary Blachland to
that which he expected it to be--for the war in far-away Matabeleland is
practically over, and this man who has borne so full a part in it, is
enjoying a much-needed and well-earned rest.
The news of his first deed of self-sacrificing daring had hardly had
time to cool before it was followed by that of the second, more heroic
because more hopeless still, but the fact of him being given up for dead
by those who witnessed it, did not transpire until after his return to
safety, for, as it happened, he reached Bulawayo at about the same time
as the returning patrol.
Of the bare mention of these two deeds, however, he most concerned in
them is heartily sick and tired. Skelsey and Spence between them had
started the ball and kept it rolling, being enthusiastically aided and
abetted therein by Percival West. Here at Lannercost he had stipulated
that the subject be absolutely taboo, an understanding however, not
always strictly carried out, the greatest offender being small Fred.
"Quite sure you're not making a mistake in putting off going to England,
Blachland?" Bayfield was saying, as the two men, seated together under
a tree in front of the stoep, were talking over a transaction just
effected.
"Dead cert. I've earned a rest, and bucketing off on an infernal sea
voyage is anything but that. I'll go later. Percy can make my peace
for me so long, and he'll do it too, for he's about as effective a
trumpeter as--well, all the rest of you, Bayfield. No. Now I've taken
on that farm, I'm going to try my hobby, and see how many kinds of
up-country animals I can keep there. Shall have to go to England some
day, and then I think we'd better all go together."
"Don't know. We might. Did you hear that, Lyn? We are all to go to
England together."
The girl had just appeared on the stoep. She was looking exquisitely
fair and sweet. There were times when Hilary Blachland could hardly
believe that he was wide awake, and not merely dreaming, that the
presence which had been with him in spirit throughout his wanderings, in
hardship and direst peril, was actually and really with him now, from
day to day, and this was one of them.
"I think it would be rather nice," she answered, coming over to join
them. "But you don't really mean it, father? When?"
"Ask Blachland," was the quizzical rejoinder. "It's his scheme--Eh--
What's up, Jafta?"
For that estimable Hottentot had appeared on the scene with intent to
bespeak his master's presence and attention as to some everyday matter.
"Oh, well, I suppose I must go and see about it," said Bayfield, getting
up.
Over the green gold of the hilltops the summer sunlight swept
gloriously--and the valley bottom lay in a hot shimmer, but here in the
leafy shade it was only warm enough to convey the idea of restful ease.
Bright butterflies flitted amid the flowers, and the hum of bees mingled
with the twittering of noisy finks and the piping of spreuws--not having
the fear of Fred's air-gun before their eyes--in the bosky recesses of
the garden.
Hilary Blachland, lounging there in his cane chair--the very
personification of reposeful ease in his cool white attire--was watching
the beautiful face opposite, noting every turn of the sweet golden head.
There was a difference in Lyn, he decided. It was difficult to define
it exactly, but the difference was there. Was it that something of the
old, frank, childlike ingenuousness seemed to have disappeared?
"Do you remember what we were talking about here, Lyn, that evening we
got back from the Earles'?" he said. "You were wishing that I and your
father were partners."
"Yes. I remember," and the lighting up of her face was not lost upon
him. "And you predicted we should soon find you a most desperate bore.
See how well I remember the very words."
"Quite right, little Lyn. Well, both predictions are going to be
fulfilled."
"But--how?"
"And--I shall be here always, as you were wishing then. Are you still
pleased, little Lyn?"
"Oh, you know I am."
It came out so spontaneously, so whole-heartedly. He went on:
"You see that beacon away yonder on top of the _rand_? Well, that's my
boundary. Mine! I'm your next-door neighbour now. Your father and I
spent three mortal hours this morning haggling with five generations of
Van Aardts, and now that eight thousand morgen is mine. So I shall
always be here, as you said then. Now I wonder if you will always be as
pleased as you are now."
So do we, reader, but the conditions of life are desperately uncertain,
wherefore who can tell? That it is unsafe to prophesy unless you know,
is eke a wise saw, which for present purposes we propose to bear in
mind. Nevertheless--
The End.