Chapter Nine.

Conclusion.

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.