Chapter Seven.
“It cannot be.”
In the conjecture that his cousin had fallen into an infatuation for Hermia, Hilary Blachland was right—the only respect in which he had failed to grasp the full situation being that he had not fathomed the depth of that infatuation.
He knew her little ways, none better; knew well how insidiously dangerous she could be to those who did not know them, when she saw fit to lay herself out to attract. That she was laying herself out to entrap Percy was the solution of the whole problem.
Yet not all of it. She had been with the Earles before Percy’s arrival, before she could even have known he was in the country at all. And what had become of Spence? Well, this, too, would be cleared up, for he knew as well as though she had told him in so many words, that before they parted again she meant to have a private talk with him, and an understanding, and to this he was not averse. It would probably be a stormy one, for he was not going to allow her to add young West to her list of victims; and this he was going to give her emphatically to understand.
A rustle and a rush in front, and a blekbuck leaped out of the long grass almost at his horse’s feet, for they were riding in line—a hundred yards or so apart. Up went his gun mechanically—a crack and a suspicion of a puff of smoke. The graceful little animal turned a complete somersault, and lay, convulsively kicking its life away. Another started up, crossing right in front of Percival. The latter slipped to the ground in a moment, got a sight on, and turned it over neatly, at rather a long distance shot.
“I say, Bayfield. Those two Britishers are leading off well,” said Earle, as they pulled in their horses and lighted pipes, to wait till the other two should be ready to take the line again.
There are more imposing, but few more enjoyable forms of sport, than this moving over a fine rolling expanse of bontebosch veldt, beneath the cloudless blue of the heavens, through the clear exhilarating air of an early African winter day; when game is plentiful, and anything may jump out, or rise at any moment; blekbuck or duiker, guinea-fowl or koorhaan, or partridge, with the possibility of a too confiding pauw, and other unconsidered trifles. All these conditions held good here, yet one, at any rate, of those privileged to enjoy them, keen sportsman as he was, felt that day that something was wanting—that a cloud was dimming the sun-lit beauty of the rolling plains, and an invisible weight crushing the exhilaration of each successful shot.
Blachland, pursuing his sport mechanically, was striving to shake off an unpleasant impression, and striving in vain. Something seemed to have happened between yesterday and to-day. Or was it the thought that Lyn Bayfield would be more or less in Hermia’s society throughout the whole of that day? Yet, even if such were the case, what on earth did it matter to him?
The day came to an end at last, but there had been nothing to complain of in the way of the sport. They had lunched in the veldt, in ordinary hunter fashion—and in the afternoon had got in among the guinea-fowl; and being lucky enough to break up the troop, had about an hour of pretty sport—for scattered birds lie well and rise well—and by the time they turned their faces homeward, were loaded up with about as much game—buck and birds—as the horses could conveniently carry.