The Triumph of Hilary Blachland. Mitford Bertram
for him, so far from growing would, in time, diminish. He was younger than she was; his knowledge of the world – let alone his experience of life – immeasurably inferior to hers. Why, even his whole-souled and entire devotion to herself was the outcome of a certain callowness, the adoration of a boy. But to her omnivorous appetite for adoration it counted for something at any time, and here, where the article was scarce, why, like everything else in that remote corner of the earth, its value stood vastly enhanced. Yet even she could not in candour persuade herself that it contained the element of durability.
And that other? Well, he was tired of her – and she was just a little tired of him. Yet she had at one time pictured to herself, and to him, that life, alone with him, such as she was now leading, would be simple and unalloyed Paradise – they two, the world apart. She had looked up to him as to a god: now she wondered how she could ever have done so; there were times, indeed, when she was not careful to avoid saying as much. He had never replied, but there was that in his look which had told her plainer than words that she was fast driving nail after nail into the coffin of their love. His absences had grown more frequent and more prolonged. When at home he was graver, less communicative, never confidential.
And yet – and yet? Could that past ever be slurred over? Had it not left too deep, too indelible a mark on her, on both of them for that? This was a side, however, upon which Hermia never dwelt. Though physically seductive beyond the average, she was lacking in imagination. This kept her from looking forward, still more from such unprofitable mental exercise as retrospect. In sum, she was little more than a mere animal, enjoying the sunniness of life, cowering and whimpering when its shadow came. Just now, sunshine was uppermost, and her strong, full-blooded temperament expanded and glowed with pulsating and generous life.
Her meditations were broken in upon, and that by the sound of distant whistling, rapidly drawing nearer. Somehow the strains of “A bicycle made for two,” and “Ta-ra-ra boomdeay,” seemed to frame a jarring harmony to the sweet sunset beauty of that green and golden sweep of surrounding – the feathery mimosa and the tropical mahobo-hobo tree, and the grey granite piles, yonder, against the purple and red of the western sky – but the shrill whoop and dark forms of the Mashuna boys bringing in the cattle fitted in with the picture. But no eye or ear had she for any such incongruities, any such contrast. Justin Spence was drawing nearer and nearer to the house, with rapid impatient strides, and she could see that he was not returning empty-handed either.
Assuming her most seductive manner and most bewitching smile, she strolled down to the gate to welcome him.
Chapter Five.
The Net Spread
“Look at this – and this. Five altogether, and I only had six chances. Not bad, is it? They were beastly wild, you know, and I had to scramble all over that second kopje after them.”
He flung down two substantial feathered bunches, representing in toto the guinea-fowl just enumerated.
“You are a dear good boy, Justin,” replied Hermia, looking down at the spoils which he had literally laid at her feet, and then up into his eyes. They were clear and blue, the clearer for the healthy brown of the face. How handsome he was, she thought, glancing with a thrill of approval at the tall well set-up form, in all the glory of youth and the full vigour of health. “You are really very reliable – and – you need not go yet. Come in now, and well put away the gun, and you shall stay and have some supper with me; for really I am awfully lonely. Unless, of course, you are afraid of going to your camp so late. They say lion spoor has been seen again.”
“If it had been the devil’s spoor it would matter about as much or as little,” he replied, with huge and delighted contempt.
“Sh! Don’t talk about unpleasant subjects – or people,” she retorted. “It isn’t lucky.”
They had entered the house. After the glow of light without, it seemed almost dark, and the sun had just gone off the world, leaving the brief pretence of an African twilight. An arm stole around her, imprisoning her tightly.
“I want my reward for having carried out your instructions so efficiently,” said the young man. “Now give it me.”
“Reward! Virtue is its own reward, you silly boy,” answered Hermia, glancing up into his eyes, with her mocking ones. “In this case, it will have to be.”
“Will it indeed?” he retorted shortly; and, stirred by the maddening proximity, likewise encouraged by a certain insidious yielding of her form within the enforced embrace, he dropped his lips on hers, and kissed them full, passionately, again and again.
“There, that will do,” she gasped, striving to restrain the thrill that ran through her frame. “I didn’t say you might do that. Really, Justin, I shall have to forbid you the house. Let me go, do you hear?”
“Hear? Yes, but I don’t intend to obey. Oh – damn!”
The last remark was addressed at large as he changed his mind with marvellous alacrity, and, wheeling round, was endeavouring to hang the bandolier to the wall upon a pin that would hardly have held a Christmas card, as though his life depended upon it. For there had suddenly entered behind them one of the small Mashuna boys who did the house and other work – had entered silently withal, the sooty little rascal; and now his goggle eyes were starting from their sockets with curiosity as he went about doing whatever he had to do, sending furtive and interested glances at these two, whom he had surprised in such unwonted proximity.
“See, now, where your impulsiveness comes in,” said Hermia, when the interrupter had gone out.
“Is that the name of that small black nigger?” said Justin Spence, innocently. “I always thought he was yours.”
“Don’t be foolish, dear. It’s a serious matter.”
“Pooh! Only a small black nigger. A thing that isn’t more than half human.”
“Even a small black nigger owns a tongue, and is quite human enough to know how to wag it,” she reminded him.
“I’ll cut it out for the young dog if he does,” was the ferocious rejoinder.
“Excellent, as a figure of speech, my dear Justin. Only, unfortunately, in real life, even in Mashunaland, it can’t be done.”
“Well, shall I give him a scare over it?”
“You can’t, Justin. In the first place, you could hardly make him understand. In the second, even if you could, you would probably make matters worse. Leave it alone.”
“Oh, it was on your account. It was of you I was thinking.”
“Then you don’t mind on your own?”
“Not a hang.”
She glanced at him in silent approval. This straight, erect fearlessness – this readiness to defy the whole world for her sake appealed to her. She was of the mind of those women of other times and peoples – the possession of whom depended on the possessor’s ability to take and keep.
“Well, I must leave you now for a little while,” she said. “Those two pickannins are only of any use when I am looking after them. They haven’t even learnt to lay a table.”
“Let me help you.”
“No. Candidly, I don’t want you. Be a good boy, Justin, and sit still and rest after your walk. Oh, by the way – ” And unlocking a cupboard, she produced a bottle of whisky. “I was very forgetful. You’ll like something to drink after the said walk?”
“No, thanks. Really I don’t.”
“You don’t? No wonder you’ve done no good prospecting. A prospector who refuses a drink after a hot afternoon’s exertion! Why, you haven’t learnt the rudiments of your craft yet. But you must want one, and so I’ll fix it up for you. There, say when – is that right?” she went on brightly, holding out the glass. “Yes, I know what you are going to say – of course it is, if I mixed it. You ought to be ashamed to utter such a threadbare banality.”
He took the glass from her hand, but set it down untasted. The magnetism of her