Chapter Twelve.
A Turn of the Wheel.
“Oh, lucky Jim!
How I envy hi-im!
Oh-h, Lucky Jim—
“Get up, old sportsman! It’s time for ‘scoff.’” And the singer thus breaking off from song to prose, dives his head into the tent door, and apostrophises about six-foot-one of recumbent humanity.
“All right, Jack! A fellow isn’t dead that it requires all that infernal row to wake him,” retorts Justin Spence, rather testily, for his dreams in the heat of the blazing forenoon have been all of love and roses, and the brusque awakening from such to the rough delights of a prospector’s camp in the wilds of sultry Mashunaland, is likely not to supply a soothing contrast.
His partner takes no notice of the passing ill-humour save for a light laugh, as he returns to his former occupation, the superintending and part assisting at, a certain cooking process under the shade of a tree, effected by a native boy and now nearly completed. A tent and a small waggon supply the residential quarters, the latter for the “boys,” who turn in on the ground underneath it—the former for their masters. A “scherm” of chopped boughs encloses the camp, and within this the donkeys are safeguarded at night: a case of learning wisdom by experience, for already two of these useful little animals have fallen a prey to lions through being left thus unprotected. Just outside this is a partially sunken shaft, surmounted by a rude windlass.
“What have we got for ‘scoff,’ Jack?” says Justin Spence, yawning lazily as he withdraws his dripping hands from the calabash wash-basin, and saunters across to the scene of culinary operations. “Oh, Lord!” giving a sniff or two as a vile and carrion-like effluvium strikes upon his nostrils. “There’s one of those beastly stink-ants around somewhere. Here, Sixpence!” calling to one of a trio of Mashuna boys lounging beneath the shade of the waggon aforesaid. “Hamba petula stink-ant—what the deuce is the word, Jack? ’Iye, yes, that’s it Bulal’iye. Comprenny? Well, clear then. Hamba. Scoot.”
A splutter of bass laughter went up from the natives at this lucid direction, which, however, the other man soon made clear.
“Oh, never mind about the stink-ant,” he said. “Why, man, it’s all in the day’s work. You must get used to these little trifles, or you’ll never do any good at prospecting.”
“Oh, damn prospecting! I hate it,” returned Justin, stretching his graceful length upon the ground. “Ladle out the scoff and let’s fall to. I want to have another smoke.”
“Oh, Lucky Jim!
How I envy him—”
resumed Jack Skelsey, while engaged in the above occupation.
“So do I, Jack, or anybody else to whom that word ‘lucky’ can be said to apply—and I’m afraid whoever that is it’ll never be us.”
“You never can tell, old man. Luck generally strikes a chap when least expected.”
“Then now’s the time for it to strike me; right now, Jack.”
“Oh, I don’t know we’ve much to grouse about, Spence. It’s beastly hot up here, and we’re sweating our souls out all for nothing. But after all, it’s better than being stuck away all one’s life in a musty old office, sometimes not even seeing the blessed light of day for a week at a time, if it happens to be foggy—a miserable jet of gas the only substitute for yonder jolly old sun. Rather! I’ve tried it and you haven’t. See?”
Nobody could have looked upon that simple camp without thoroughly agreeing with the speaker. It was hot certainly, but there were trees which afforded a cool and pleasant shade: while around for many a mile stretched a glorious roll of bush veldt—all green and golden in the unclouded sunlight—and the chatter of monkeys, the cackle of the wild guinea-fowl, the shrill crow of the bush pheasant together with the gleam of bright-winged birds glancing overhead, bespoke that this beautiful wilderness was redundant with life. The two men lounging there, with bronzed races and chests, their shirtsleeves turned up from equally bronzed wrists, looked the picture of rude health: surely if ever there was such a thing as a free life—open—untrammelled—this was it.
The day was Sunday, which may account for the lazy way in which we found one at any rate of the pair, spending the morning. For they had made it a rule to do no work on that day, not, we fear, from any particularly religious motive, but acting on the thoroughly sound and wholesome plan of taking one day in seven “off.” A thoroughly sound and wholesome appetite had they too. When they had done, Skelsey remarked:
“Shall we go and have a shoot?”
The other, who was tugging at a knot in the strings of his tobacco bag, looked up quickly.
“Er—no. At least I won’t go,” he said rather nervously. “Er—I think I’ll ride over to Blachland’s.”
“All right, old chap. Let’s go there instead.”
This did not suit Spence at all. “Don’t know whether you’d care for it, Jack. The fact is, Blachland’s away.”
“I see-ee!” rejoined Skelsey, significantly. “Oh-h, l-lucky Jim! How I envy hi-im—” he hummed.
“You know you always swear you hate talking to women,” said Spence eagerly, as though anxious to apologise for or explain his unfriendliness. “So I thought it only fair to warn you as to what you had to expect.”
“I see-ee!” repeated the other with a laugh and a wink. “Who’s this?” shading his eyes and gazing out over the veldt. “Jonah back already?”
A native was approaching, a clothed native; in fact one of their boys. He had been despatched to a trading store, a trifling distance of twenty-five miles away, to procure certain supplies, and now as he reappeared, he was bearing on his head a prodigious load.
“Now we shan’t be long!” ejaculated Skelsey, “and good biz too, for the grog was running most confoundedly low. Jonah is therefore for once a welcome sight.”
The load on being investigated was found to consist of a case of whisky and sundry unconsidered trifles in the grocery line. When this had been overhauled the boy, fumbling in the pockets of his greasy cord jacket, fished out a greasier bundle all rolled up in newspaper.
“The mail, by George!” cried Skelsey. “English mail too. Here you are, Spence. It’s all for you, confound it,” he added disappointedly. “Well, that jolly blue envelope bears a striking family likeness to our old friend the dun. Never mind, old chap, you’re out of that brute’s reach anyway.”
Justin was probably of the same opinion, for he looked dubiously at the suspicious enclosure, and put it aside, beginning upon his other two mail letters. Yet, when half through these something moved him to tear open the other. A glance at its contents—then he started and grew pale. What was this? His hands trembled, and a mist seemed to come between his eyes and the paper, as he held it in front of him, striving to master the contents. Was it real? Heavens! no! Some fool must have been putting up a practical joke on him. It was impossible. It could not be.
“No bad news I hope, old chap?”
His partner’s voice, anxious, sympathetic, sounded quite far away.
“No—no. Oh no—not bad news,” he answered unsteadily. “I’ll tell you bye-and-bye. Here, Sixpence! Hurry up and get in my horse. Tshetsha—d’you hear! Tshetsha!”
Skelsey watched him furtively and wondered. However, he made no further remark.
“Well, so long, Jack,” said Spence, as he led forth his horse. His partner had further observed that his hands shook during the process of saddling up—and that he seemed in a desperate hurry to be off. “I’ll be back to-night, but after dark, I expect.”
“No, you won’t,” thought Skelsey to himself. “Spence is making a bally fool of himself in that quarter. There’ll be a gorgeous bust-up one of these days.” Then aloud:
“So long, Spence. Remember me to the beautiful Mrs B.”
“No more of this life,” thought Spence to himself as he rode along. A very different one now threw wide its alluring portals before him. He would leave all his share in the joint outfit to Jack Skelsey. He was a good fellow was Jack—
“Oh, l-lucky Jim!
How I envy hi-im—”
Justin laughed aloud, lightheartedly, gleefully, as his chum’s favourite song arose fainter and fainter behind him. And then his chum’s strange prediction, uttered scarcely half an hour ago, recurred to his mind.
“‘Luck generally strikes a man when least expected!’ By Jove! Jack was right.”
We have said that Blachland had undergone a stormy time of it domestically, by reason of this new and sudden absence. But Hermia’s grievance was not a genuine one. So little indeed was it genuine that she was conscious of a distinct feeling of relief when he announced it. But side by side with this was an inherent instinct to deceive herself, since there was no other object on which to practise deception: to deceive herself into the idea that she really was a very ill-used person. He neglected her shamefully, she had declared. She had not bargained for leading this utterly lonely life when she decided to accompany him to this remote corner of the earth. Well, again let him take care. There were others who appreciated her if he did not. To which he had replied equably:—
“Meaning Spence,” and had gone on with his preparations.
It was this very imperturbability which had always dominated Hermia. She knew their relationship was dangerously near a rupture, and was not quite sure within her heart of hearts that she desired such. But a short while since, she emphatically did not; now it might be otherwise. Yet it was impracticable, for the first essential to her mind was comfort and liberty unstinted. Justin Spence was as poor as the proverbial church mouse, else why should he be out there prospecting? She knew that every cent he had in the world was drawn from an allowance—not a large one either—and that allowances are the most precarious of all means of subsistence, in that they depend solely upon the will and caprice of the allower. It was a thousand pities. If only he were well off, she would not have hesitated. She was perfectly sick of this uncivilised, lonely life. She longed for the world again. Justin adored her. Her will would be his law. Ah, why was he not independent and well off?
She looked back over her past, but it caused her no qualms. She looked back on a period of passion and love, but the retrospect only served to emphasise the subsequent disillusionment. To be content with the love of one—no, that was not in her. New life, new love—the new wine of life! That was to live indeed.
She looked around on the glowing veldt, shimmering in the afternoon heat. Away on yonder rise a line of black objects was moving. She got out the binocular, a clear and powerful glass, and the objects seemed about fifty yards away—a score of sable antelope moving through the low bush, some of them magnificent specimens of that noble buck, and she could clearly distinguish the great scimitar-like horns and black hides, so markedly defined. Yes, this was a grand country for men, but for women, debarred from all outdoor sport and excitement, why it was a living grave. And then, as she looked, suddenly the leaders of the line threw up their heads, stopped short, snuffing the air, and then the whole line turned about and trotted back in the direction from which they had come.
What had alarmed the animals? Sweeping the glass round carefully it revealed another object, a man on horseback, and her heart gave a great bound of delight.
“It is. It’s Justin,” she exclaimed half aloud. “The dear boy! How glad I am. But—what on earth—? What a hurry he’s in!”
For the advancing rider was coming along at something like a hard gallop, which was no pace at which to push a horse on a sweltering day like this. Then Hermia began a little piece of acting. She went into the house, and arranging herself on an old wicker couch covered with a leopard skin rug, began to read.
“Missis—Baas riding this way. Tink it Baas Spence.” This from the grinning woolly head of Tickey, inserted through the open doorway. Hermia rose, stretched herself, and the book still in her hand came and stood in the doorway. Then she stretched herself again and thus he found her.
“Why, Justin? Who would have thought of seeing you?” This with round, astonished eyes.
“But—aren’t you glad to, dearest?” He was looking her up and down, a tremor of love in his voice, a world of hungry passionate adoration in his gaze.
“You know I am, dear love. Come inside.”
She had put out her hand to him, and he, still holding it, needed no second bidding. Once within, however, he seized her splendid form—its lines the more seductive through the thin, summer transparency of her light attire—in a strong and passionate embrace.
“Justin, Justin, let me go!” she urged. “Really, you are getting perfectly unmanageable.” And she accompanied her words with a warning gesture towards the door of the inner room. The young man laughed aloud.
“No fear,” he said. “You’re all alone again as usual.”
“How do you know that?”
“Never mind how. I do know, and it wasn’t you who told me. But”—becoming suddenly reproachful—“why didn’t you?”
“Oh, I didn’t want to distract you from your work, for one thing. You have been neglecting it far too much of late. Hilary says you’ll never make a prospector.”
“Oh, damn Hilary! He doesn’t know everything.”
“Ssh—” with a hand over his mouth. “You mustn’t use swear words. And now, you dear ridiculous boy, what are you looking so absurdly happy about?”
“Ah, that’ll come in time. I’m not going to tell you all at once,” he retorted, suddenly becoming mysterious. “But, Hermia my darling, it’s like new life to see you again.”
She smiled softly, her dark eyes into his blue ones. It was like new life to her, this passionate and whole-hearted adoration. And he was so handsome too; the sunbrowned face with its refined features, the tall, well-knit figure, stirred the animal side of her, and she found herself contrasting him with the absent one. Hilary was really getting old and prosaic and satirical. He had no more sentiment left in him than a cuttlefish—was the result of the mental contrast which she drew. Whereas this one—it did occur to her that he, too, would one day lose the buoyancy and fire of youth, or even that this might come to be diverted on some object other than herself; but for the first, it was far enough off in all conscience—for the second, she had too much pride in her own powers to give it a thought.
“Ah, yes,” she answered. “You think so now, but—you wouldn’t always. Remember, Justin, I am older than you—well, only a little. But at any rate I have seen far more of the world—of life—than you can possibly have done. But what’s the use of talking? We shall have to part sooner or later.”
They had dropped down on the couch, and were seated side by side, he holding both her hands.
“But why shall we have to part sooner or later?” he asked, and the lack of lugubriousness with which he echoed her words struck her at the time.
“Well, Justin, just look at things in the face. Isn’t love in a cottage a synonym for the very height of absurdity? What about its Mashunaland equivalent—love in a prospector’s camp?”
He laughed aloud. There was something so happy and buoyant in his laugh that it struck her too.
“Yes, it strikes you as funny, doesn’t it?” she said. “Well, it is.”
“So it is,” he answered. “I quite agree. Now look here, Hermia. Supposing it were not a case of love in a prospector’s camp, but love in all the wide world—in any part of it that pleased you—no matter where—the brightest parts of it, where everything combined to make life all sunshine for you, while you made life all sunshine for me? What then?”
“Now you’re getting beyond me, Justin. Suppose you explain.”
“Yes. That’s all right. I will. No more prospecting for me, no need for that or anything else—only to enjoy life—with you. Look at this.”
He put into her hand the communication he had received in camp—the sight of which had caused him that great and sudden agitation, and which had moved his comrade so anxiously to utter a hope that it contained no bad news. Bad news! The news that it imparted was not exactly that he was a millionaire, but that all unexpectedly he had succeeded to a goodly heritage, just stopping short of five figures as a yearly income.
“Now, have we got to part sooner or later?” he cried triumphantly, watching the astonishment and then gladness which overspread her face. “Look, we have all the world before us, and need care for nobody. Come with me, Hermia my darling, my one love. Leave all this and come with me, and see what love really means.”
She did not immediately answer. She was looking him through with her large eyes, and was thinking. She looked back upon her life, and it seemed all behind her. Here was an opportunity of renewing it. Should she take him at his word, or should she play him a little longer? No, that was not advisable under the circumstances. It was now or never. It was strike while the iron is hot—and it was hot enough now in all conscience, she thought, as she looked at his pleading earnest face.
“Justin, my love, I believe I will take you at your word. Only it must be immediately or not at all. Shall I ever regret it, I wonder?” And again she looked him through with a fine expression of great and troubled seriousness.
“Never, darling,” he cried enraptured. “That old fossil doesn’t appreciate you. I will show you what appreciation means. You will go with me at once—to-morrow—never to part?”
“Yes,” she whispered.
“Ha-ha-haa!” laughed a jackal, questing after prey away in the gloaming shades of the now dusking veldt.
“Ha-ha-haa!” laughed his mate.