CHAPTER SEVEN.
"THAT IRRECLAIMABLE SCAMP!"
For some while after his departure from Lannercost, their recent guestoccupied a very large share in the conversation and thoughts of itsinmates. He had been so long with them, had become so much one ofthemselves in their quiet, rather isolated life, and now his absence hadleft a very real void.
He had written to them with fair frequency, telling of up-countrydoings--of the growing aggressiveness of the Matabele, and of thecontemplated expedition, with the object of bringing Lo Bengula to book,then of the actual formation of such expedition, by that time on the eveof a start, and how he and young West had volunteered upon the SalisburyColumn, and were to serve in the scouting section. Then correspondencehad ceased. The expedition had set out.
It was then that Bayfield found himself importuned to increase thecirculation of two or three other newspapers, in addition to thoseregularly sent him, by one subscriber, in order that no chance might bemissed of seeing the very latest concerning the Matabele war, and uponsuch, Lyn and small Fred would fasten every post day.
"I say, Lyn!" cried the latter, disinterring his nose from a newlyopened sheet, "but won't Mr Blachland make Lo Bengula scoot, when oncehe gets at him? Man! but I'd like to be there."
"But he and the King are great friends, Fred."
"Pooh! How can they be friends if they're at war? _Nouw ja_--but hejust will scoot old Lo Ben! I'd like to be there."
"I hope they'll take all sorts of proper precautions against surprises,"said Lyn seriously, for she was just old enough to remember the shudderof gloom which ran through the whole country when the disastrous news ofIsandhlwana had come upon it like a storm-burst fourteen yearspreviously. It had struck vividly upon her childish imagination thenand she had not forgotten it.
"Surprises! I'd like to see them surprise a commando that MrBlachland's on," returned Fred, magnificent in his whole-souled contemptthat any one could even imagine any such possibility. "And theseMatabele chaps ain't a patch on the Zulus. I've heard Mr Blachland sayso again and again. _Ja_, he's a fine chap! Won't he make old Lo Bensit up!"
Lyn would smile at this kind of oft-repeated expression of her youngbrother's honest and whole-hearted idolatry, in which, although morereticent herself, she secretly shared. And the object of it? He wasalways in her thoughts. She delighted to think about him--to talk abouthim. Why not? He was her ideal, this man who had been an inmate oftheir roof for so long, who had been her daily companion throughout thattime and had stored her mind with new thoughts, new ideas, which allunconsciously to herself, had expanded and enlarged it--and not one ofwhich but had improved it. He represented something like perfection toher, this man, no longer young, weather-beaten, somewhat lined, who hadcome there in the capacity of her father's friend. Strange, you see,but then, life is teeming with eccentricities.
This state of Lyn's mind was not without one interested spectator, andthat her father. Half amused, half concerned, he watched it--and puttwo and two together. That outburst of grief in which he had surprisedher had never been repeated, and, watching her with loving care, hefailed to descry any symptom of it having been, even in secret. But thegirl's clear mind was as open and as honest as a mirror. There was noshadow of hesitation or embarrassment in her manner or speech when theytalked of their late guest--even before strangers. George Bayfield waspuzzled. But through it all, as an undercurrent, there ran an idea. Herecalled the entire pleasure which Blachland had taken in Lyn's society,the frank, open admiration he had never failed to express when she orher doings formed the topic of conversation between them--the excellentand complete understanding between him and the girl. What if--Too old!Not a bit of it. He himself had married very young, and Blachland wasquite half a dozen years his junior. Why, he himself was in his prime--and as for the other, apart from that shake of fever, he was as hard asnails.
Now this idea, the more and more it struck root in Bayfield's mind, wasanything but distasteful to him. The certainty that he must some daylose Lyn, was the one ever-haunting grief of his life. He had picturedsome externally showy, but shallow-pated youth--on the principle thatsuch things go by opposites--who should one day carry off his Lyn, andamid new surroundings and new interests, teach her--unconsciouslyperhaps, but none the less effectually--to forget her old home, and thefather who loved and adored her from the crown of her sweet golden headto her little feet. But here was a man whose experience of the worldwas greater than his own, a man with an exhaustive knowledge of life,who had immediately seen and appreciated this pearl of great price, astrong man who had lived and done--no mere empty-headed,self-sufficient, egotistical youth; and this man was his friend. He wasthoroughbred too, and the worst that could be said of him was that hehad sown some wild oats. But apart from the culminating stage in thesowing of that crop--and even there probably there were greatextenuating circumstances--nothing mean, nothing dishonourable had everbeen laid to Hilary Blachland's charge. Personally, he had an immenseliking and regard for him, and, as he had said to himself before, Lyn'sinstinct was never at fault. He remembered now that Blachland haddeclared he could never stand English life again--and--he rememberedtoo, something else, up till now forgotten--how Blachland had halfchaffingly commissioned him to find out the lowest terms its owner wouldaccept for a certain farm which adjoined Lannercost, and which was forsale, because he believed he would squat down for a little quiet lifewhen he returned from up-country. All this came back to him now, andwith a feeling of thankful relief, for it meant, in the event of hisidea proving well-founded, that his little Lyn would not be taken rightaway from him after all.
So the months went by after Hilary Blachland's departure, but still hismemory was kept green and fresh within that household of three.
One day, when Bayfield was outside, indulging in some such speculationas the above, out to him ran Lyn, flourishing one of the newly arrivednewspapers. She seemed in a state of quite unwonted excitement, and ather heels came small Fred.
"Father, look, here's news! Look. Read that. Isn't it splendid?"
Bayfield took the paper, but before looking at the paragraph she wastrying to point out, he glanced admiringly at the girl, thinking what asweet picture she made, her golden hair shining in the sun, her blueeyes wide with animation, and a glow of colour suffusing her lovelyclear-cut face. Then he read:
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"Gallantry of a Scout."
It was just such a paragraph as is sure to occur from time to time inthe chronicling of any of the little wars in which the forces of theBritish Empire are almost unceasingly engaged, in some quarter or otherof the same, and it set forth in stereotyped journalese, how HilaryBlachland of the Scouting Section attached to the Salisbury Column, haddeliberately turned his horse and ridden back into what looked likecertain death, in order to rescue Trooper Spence, whose horse had beenkilled, and who was left behind dismounted, and at the mercy of a largeforce of charging Matabele, then but a hundred or two yards distant--andhow at immense risk to his rescuer, whose horse was hardly equal to thedouble load, Spence had been brought back to the laager, unharmed,though closely pursued and fired upon all the way. Bayfield gave asurprised whistle.
"What, father? Isn't it splendid?" cried Lyn, wondering.
"Yes. Of course." What had evoked the outburst of amazement was thename--the identity of the rescued man--but of this to be sure, Lyn knewnothing. So of all others it was destined to be the man who had playedhim a scurvy dog's trick that Blachland was destined to imperil his ownlife to save: true that the said trick had been a very great blessing indisguise, but that feet did not touch the motive thereof. It remained.
"Bah! The swine wasn't worth it," went on Bayfield, unconsciously.
"No, very likely not," assented Lyn. "But that makes it all the moresplendid--doesn't it, father?"
"Eh, what? Yes, yes--of course it does," agreed Bayfield, becomingalive to the f
act that he had been thinking out loud. "By Jove, Lyn,you'll have to design a new order of merit for him when he gets back.What shall it be?"
"Man, Lyn! Didn't I tell you he'd make old Lo Ben scoot?" said Fredtriumphantly, craning over to have another look at the paragraph, whichhis father was reading over again. It did not give much detail, butfrom the facts set forth it was evident that the deed had been one ofintrepid gallantry. Bayfield, yet deeper in the know, opined that itdeserved even an additional name, and his regard and respect for hisfriend increased tenfold. For the other two--well, there was lesschance than ever of Hilary Blachland's name and memory being allowed togrow dim in that household.
"Why, he'll soon be back now," said Lyn. "The war must be nearly overnow they've got to Bulawayo."
"Perhaps. But--they haven't got Lo Ben yet," replied her father,unconsciously repeating Blachland's own words. "They'll have to gethim. Fancy him blowing up his own place and clearing!"
"_Ja_. I knew he'd make old Lo Ben scoot," reiterated Fred.
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There was another household something over six thousand miles distantfrom Bayfield's in which the name of Hilary Blachland was held inhonour, which is strange, because the last time we glanced within thewalls of this establishment, the reverse was the case. "That out andout irreclaimable scamp!" was the definition of the absent one then. Itwas hard winter around Jerningham Lodge when the news of Spence's rescuearrived there, and it was sprung upon Sir Luke Canterby in precisely thesame manner as he had learned the whereabouts of his erring nephew onthat occasion--through the daily papers to wit. He had congratulatedhimself mightily on the success of Percival's mission. The latter'scorrespondence was full of Hilary, and what great times they were havingtogether up-country. Then the war broke out and the tidings whichreached Sir Luke of his absent nephews were few and far between.Thereupon he waxed testy, and mightily expatiated to his old friendCanon Lenthall.
"They're ungrateful dogs the pair of them. Yes, sir--Ungrateful dogs Isaid, and I'll say it again. What business had they to go running theirnecks into this noose?"
The Canon suggested that in all probability they couldn't helpthemselves, that they couldn't exactly turn tail and run away. Sir Lukerefused to be mollified.
"It was their duty to. Hang it, Canon. What did I send Percy out therefor? To bring the other rascal home, didn't I? And now--and now hestays away himself too. It's outrageous."
Then had come the news of the capture and occupation of Bulawayo, andthe events incidental to the progress of the column thither, and SirLuke's enthusiasm over his favourite nephew's deed knew no bounds. Hebecame something like a bore on the subject whenever he could buttonholea listener, indeed to hear him would lead the said listener to supposethat never a deed of self-sacrificing gallantry had been done before,and certainly never would be again, unless perchance by that formerlycontemned and now favoured individual hight Hilary Blachland.
"That out and out irreclaimable scamp," murmured the Canon with a verycomic twinkle in his eyes. Then, as his old friend looked ratherfoolish--"See here, Canterby, I don't think I gave you bad advice when Irecommended you to put that draft behind the fire."
"Bad advice! No, sir. I'm a fool sometimes--in fact, very often.But--oh hang it, Dick, this is splendid news. Shake hands on it, sir,shake hands on it, and you've got to stay and dine with me to-night, andwe'll put up a bottle of the very best to drink his health."
And the two old friends shook hands very heartily.
The Triumph of Hilary Blachland Page 30