Chapter Ten.
As Good as her Word.
It was post day at Lannercost, and whereas the delivery of Her Majesty’s mails was only of weekly occurrence, the fact constituted a small event. Such delivery was effected by the usual harmless necessary native, who conveyed the mail bag by field and flood from the adjacent Field-cornet’s—in this instance from Earle’s.
“It’s just possible, Bayfield, I may hear something by this post which may necessitate my leaving you almost immediately.”
“Oh, hang it, Blachland! Are you at that game again? Where do you think of moving to next, if not an impertinent question?”
“Up-country again. I’ve interests there still. And things are beginning to look dickey. Lo Ben’s crowd is turning restive again. We’ve most of us thought all along that they were bound to force the old man’s hand. It’s only a question of time.”
“So?” And then they fell to talking over that and kindred questions, until finally a moving object, away down the valley, but rapidly drawing nearer, resolved itself into a mounted native.
The two men were sitting in the shade at the bottom of one of the gardens, where Bayfield had been doing an odd job or two with a spade—cutting out a water furrow here, or clearing one there and so forth—pausing every now and then for a smoke and a desultory chat.
“Hey, September! Bring the bag here,” he called out in Dutch, as the postboy was about to pass.
The boy swung himself from his pony, and handed over the leathern bag to his master.
“Great Scott, here’s a nuisance!” exclaimed the latter, fumbling in his pockets. “I believe I haven’t got the key. It’s up at the house. We’ll have to send September for it—or go up ourselves and open the bag there.”
The last thing that Blachland desired was either of these courses. If they sent up for the key, Lyn would be sure to come down with it herself. If they went themselves, the bag would be opened in her presence, and this, for good reasons of his own, he did not wish. In fact he had deftly manoeuvred Bayfield down here with the object of intercepting it.
“Ah, here it is!” cried the latter, disentangling a bunch of keys from the recesses of a pocket. “Got into the lining.”
In a trice the bag was unlocked and its contents extracted by the simple process of turning them out on to the ground.
“Here you are, Blachland,” handing him two. “Miss Bayfield, Miss Bayfield,” he read out, “that’s all for Lyn. Illustrated London News—George Bayfield—George Bayfield. Here’s another, that’s for you—no, it isn’t, it’s me. Looked like Blachland at first. That’s all. Here you are, September. Take that on to Miss Lyn,” replacing the latter’s correspondence in the bag.
“Ja, Baas.” And the Kaffir jogged off.
Blachland stood there, outwardly calm, but, in reality, stirred through and through. The blow had fallen. The writing on the enclosure which his friend had so nearly handed to him, how well he knew it; could it be, he thought, in a flash of sardonic irony—there had once been a time when it was the most welcome sight his glance could rest upon? The blow had fallen. Hermia had been as good as her word, but even then there were mitigating circumstances, for a ghastly idea had occurred to him that she might, in the plenitude of her malice, have written direct to Lyn, whereas the addresses on the girl’s correspondence were in different hands, and which in fact he had seen before. Indeed had it been otherwise he intended to warn Bayfield on no account to pass on the letter until that worthy had satisfied himself as to its contents.
“Just as I thought. I’ve got to clear, and rather sharp too. In fact, to-morrow,” running his eyes over his letters.
“Have you, old chap? What a beastly nuisance,” answered Bayfield, looking up. “We shall miss you no end.”
Would he? Why on earth didn’t the man get on with his correspondence, thought Blachland, for the tension was getting upon his nerves. But the other went chatting on—partly regrets over his own departure—partly about some stock sale of which he had just had news.
“Hallo! Who’s this from?” he said at last. “I don’t know that writing a hang. Well, it’s soon settled,” tearing the envelope open, with a laugh.
But in a moment the laugh died. George Bayfield was grave enough now. A whistle of amazement escaped him, and more than one smothered exclamation of disgust. Blachland, without appearing to, watched him narrowly. Would he never get to the end of that closely written sheet and a half?
“Have you any idea what this is about?”
The tone was short. All the old cordiality seemed to have left it.
“Very much of an idea, Bayfield. I expected something of the kind, and for that very reason, to be quite candid with you, I manoeuvred we should get the post out here away from the house.”
“I didn’t think you’d have done that to us, Blachland. To think of this—this person, under the same roof with—even shaking hands with—my Lyn. Faugh! Good Heavens! man, you might have spared us this!”
“Wouldn’t I—if it had been possible? But it was not. I give you my word of honour I had no more idea of that woman’s presence at Earle’s, or indeed in the neighbourhood, or even in this country, than you had yourself. You’ll do me the credit of believing that, won’t you?”
“Why, yes, Blachland. Anything you give me your word for I believe implicitly.”
“Thanks. You are a true friend, Bayfield. You may believe another thing—and that is that had I known of her presence in the neighbourhood, I should have kept away from it. Why, she didn’t even know of mine either. Each was about as surprised as the other when we met, yesterday morning. What could I do then, Bayfield? Raise a scene on the spot, and expose her—and kick up a horrible scandal, with the result of simply bespattering the air with mire, around the very one we intend to keep from any such contact? No good purpose could be served by acting otherwise than as I acted. Could it now?”
“No. I suppose not. In fact, I quite see the force of all you say. Still, it’s horrible, revolting.”
“Yes. Believe me, Bayfield, I am as distressed about it as you are. But there is this consolation. Not an atom of real harm has been done so far. Lyn is in blissful ignorance as to who it was she met, and there is no reason on earth why she should ever know.”
Even while he spoke there occurred to him another aspect of the case—and the probability that this had not been overlooked by Lyn’s father occurred to him too. Would not the latter regard him as upon much the same plane as Hermia herself?
“You see,” he went on, “I shall be clearing out the first thing in the morning, so she,” with a jerk of the thumb in the direction of far-away Earle’s, “is not likely to give you any further trouble. Besides, after giving herself away like this, she will have to go her way as well. If she doesn’t, I advise you to let Earle into the story. She won’t be long there after that. By the way, would you mind letting me see exactly what she has said? We shall know better where we are then.”
“Yes, I think so,” said the other.
Blachland took the letter and read it through carefully and deliberately from end to end. It was a narrative of their liaison, and that only. But the blame of its initiation the writer ascribed to himself. This he pointed out to Bayfield.
“The boot was, if anything on the other foot,” he said. “But let that pass. Now, why do you suppose she has given all this away?”
“To revenge herself upon you for leaving her.”
“But I didn’t leave her. She left me—cleared with a young ass of a prospector, during one of my necessary absences, of which I notice, she’s careful not to say one word. Clearly she never bargained for my seeing this at all.”
“By Jove! You don’t say so?”
“It’s hard fact. Well, her motive is to revenge herself upon me, but not for that. It is because she had entangled that young fool Percy West—had made him engage himself to her. He told me this the night we were at Earle’s, and I put my foot down on it at once. I gave her the chance of drawing out of it, of releasing him, and she refused it.—I put the alternative before her, and she simply defied me. ‘If you give me away, I’ll give you away,’ those were her words. I couldn’t allow the youngster to enter into any such contract as that, could I?”
“Of course not. Go on.”
“So I told him the whole thing on our way out the other morning. It choked him clean off her—of course. I was as good as my word, and she was as good as hers. That’s the whole yarn in a nutshell.”
Bayfield nodded. He seemed to be thinking deeply, as he filled his pipe meditatively, and passed the pouch over to Blachland. There was one thing for which the latter felt profoundly thankful. Remembering the more than insinuation Hermia had thrown out, he had noticed with unspeakable relief that there was no reference whatever to Lyn throughout the communication. Even she had shrunk from such an outrage as that, and for this he felt almost grateful to her.
“This Mrs Fenham, or St. Clair, or whatever her name is,” said Bayfield, glancing at the subscription of the letter, “seems to be a bad egg all round. Seems to be omnivorous, by Jove!”
“She has an abnormal capacity for making fools of the blunder-headed sex, as I can testify,” was the answer, given dryly. “Well Bayfield, I don’t want to whitewash myself, let alone trot out the old Adamite excuse—I don’t set up to be better than other people, and have been a good deal worse than some. You know, as a man of the world, that there is a certain kind of trap laid throughout our earlier life to catch us at every turn. Well, I’ve fallen into a good many such traps, but I can, with perfect honesty, say I’ve never set one. Do you follow?”
“Perfectly,” replied Bayfield, who thought that such was more than likely the case. He was mentally passing in review Blachland’s demeanour towards Lyn, during the weeks they had been fellow inmates, and he pronounced it to be absolutely flawless. The pleasant, unrestrained, easy friendship between the two had been exactly all it should be—on the part of the one, all that was sympathetic, courteous and considerate, with almost a dash of the paternal, for the girl was nearly young enough to be his daughter—on that of the other, a liking, utterly open and undisguised, for Lyn liked him exceedingly, and made no secret of it—and if hers was not a true instinct, whose was? Bayfield was not a man to adjudge another a blackguard because he had sown some wild oats, and this one he acquitted entirely—and he said something to that effect.
“Thanks,” was the reply. “I don’t care a rap for other people’s opinions about myself, good, bad, or indifferent, as a rule, but I’m rather glad you don’t judge me too hardly, on account of this infernal contretemps?”
“Oh, I don’t judge you at all, old chap, so don’t run away with that idea. We ain’t any of us silver-gilt saints if the truth were known, or if we are, it’s generally for want of opportunity to become the other thing, at any rate, that’s my belief. And Lyn likes you so much, Blachland, and her instinct’s never at fault.”
“God bless her!” was the fervent reply. “I don’t wonder, Bayfield, that you almost worship that child. I know if she were my child I should rather more than entirely.”
“Would you?” said the other, his whole face softening. “Well, that’s about what I do. Come along up to the house, Blachland, and let’s forget all about this rotten affair. I’ll take jolly good care I keep it away from her by hook or by crook, anyhow. It’s a beastly bore you’ve got to clear to-morrow, but you know your own business best, and it never does to let business slide. You’ll roll up again next time you’re down this way of course. I say though, you mustn’t go getting any more fever.”
As a matter of fact, Blachland’s presence was no more needed up-country, either in his own interests or anybody else’s, than was that of the Shah of Persia. But, it would simplify matters to leave then, besides affording Bayfield a freer hand: and for another thing, it would enable him to make sure of getting his young kinsman out of the toils.
Something of a gloom lay upon that household of three that evening, by reason of the impending departure of this one who had been so long an inmate in their midst, and had identified himself so completely with their daily life.
“Mr Blachland, but I wish I was big enough to go with you,” announced small Fred. “Man, but I’d like to see those Matabele chaps, and have a shot at a lion.”
“Some day, when you are big enough, perhaps you shall, Fred. And, look here, when your father thinks you are big enough to begin to shoot—and that’ll be pretty soon now—I’m to give you your first gun. That’s a bargain, eh, Bayfield?”
“Magtig! but you’re spoiling the nipper, Blachland,” was the reply. “You’re a lucky chap, Fred, I can tell you.”
Somehow, Lyn was not in prime voice for the old songs in the course of the evening, in fact she shut down the concert with suspicious abruptness. When it became time to say good night, she thrust into Blachland’s hand a small, flat, oblong packet:
“A few of my poor little drawings,” she said, rather shyly. “You said you would like to have one or two, and these will remind you perhaps a little of old Lannercost, when you are far away.”
“Why, Lyn, how awfully good of you. I can’t tell you how I shall value them. They will seem to bring back all the good times we have had together here. And, now, good night. I suppose it’s good-bye too.”
“Oh no, it isn’t. I shall be up to see you off.”
“But think what an ungodly hour I’m going to start at.”
“That doesn’t matter. Of course I’m going to see you off.”
“Why, rather,” struck in small Fred.
Morning dawned, frosty and clear, and the intending traveller appreciated the thick warmth of his heavy ulster to the full, as he prepared to mount to the seat of Bayfield’s buggy, beside the native boy who was to bring back the vehicle after depositing him at the district town, nearly fifty miles away. There was no apparent gloom about the trio now. They were there to give him a cheery send off.
“Well, good-bye, old chap,” cried Bayfield, as they gripped hands. “I think there’s everything in the buggy you’ll want on the way.”
“Good-bye, Bayfield, old pal,” was the hearty reply. “Good-bye, Lyn,” holding the girl’s hands in both of his, and gazing down affectionately into the sweet, pure face. “God bless you, child, and don’t forget your true and sincere old friend in too great a hurry. Fred—good-bye, old chappie.” And he climbed into his seat and was gone.
The trio stood looking after the receding vehicle until it disappeared over the roll of the hill—waving an occasional hat or a handkerchief as its occupant looked back. Then Fred broke forth:
“Man—Lyn, but Mr Blachland’s a fine chap! Tis waar, I’m sorry he’s gone—ain’t you?”
He had pretty well voiced the general sense. They felt somehow, that a vacant place had been set up in their midst.
Later that morning Bayfield chanced to return to the house from his work outside. It seemed empty. Small Fred was away at the bottom of the garden with a catapult, keeping down the swarming numbers of predatory mouse-birds and the wilier spreuw. But where was Lyn? Just then a sound striking upon the silence brought him to a standstill, amazement and consternation personified, so utterly strange and unwonted was such a sound in that household, and it proceeded from the girl’s room. Gently, noiselessly, he opened the door.
She was seated by her bed, her back towards him. Her face was buried in her hands, and her whole form was heaving with low convulsive sobs.
“Lyn! Great Heaven! What’s the matter? Lyn—My little Lyn!”
She rose at her father’s voice and came straight into his arms. Then she looked up at him, through her tears, forcing a smile.
“My little one, what is it? There, there, tell your old father,” he pleaded, a whirlwind of tenderness and concern shaking his voice as he held her to him. “Tell me, sweetheart.”
“It’s nothing, dearest,” she answered but quaveringly, and still forcing herself to smile. “Only— No, it’s nothing. But—when people are here a long time, and you get to like them a lot and they go away—why it’s—oh, it’s beastly. That’s all, old father—” dashing away her tears, and forcing herself to smile in real earnest. “And I’m a little fool, that’s all. But I won’t be any more. See, I’m all right now.”
“My little Lyn! My own little one!” he repeated, kissing her tenderly, now rather more moved than she was.
And Lyn was as good as her word. All his solicitous but furtive watching, failed to detect any sign or symptom that her outburst of grief was anything more than a perfectly natural and childlike manifestation of her warm little heart.
And yet, there were times, when, recurring to it in his own mind, honest George Bayfield would grow grave and shake his head and ejaculate softly to himself:
“My little Lyn! No—it can’t be. Oh, Great Scot!”
End of Book II.
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