CHAPTER FOUR.
LYN.
"Well, Mr Blachland, what luck have you had?"
The speaker was standing on the stoep, whither she had come out to meetthem. She was rather a tall girl, with a great deal of golden hair,arranged in some wonderful way of her own which somehow enhanced itsvolume without appearing loose or untidy. She had blue eyes whichlooked forth straight and frank, and an exquisite skin, which even thefierce glare of the summer sun, and a great deal of open-air life hadnot in the least roughened, and of which a few tiny freckles, ratheradding piquancy to a sweetly pretty face, oval, refined and full ofcharacter, were the only trace. If there was a fault to be found in thesaid face, it was that its owner showed her gums slightly when shelaughed--but the laugh was so bright, so whole-hearted, and lighted upthe whole expression so entrancingly that all but the superlativelyhypercritical lost sight of the defect altogether.
"He's bowled over that thundering big bushbuck ram we've been trying forso often in Siever's Kloof, Lyn," answered her father for his guest.
"Well done!" cried the girl. "You know, Mr Blachland, some of thepeople around here were becoming quite superstitious about that buck.They were beginning to declare he couldn't be killed. I suggested asilver bullet such as they had to make for those supernatural stags inthe old German legends."
"A charge of treble A was good enough this time--no, I think I usedloepers," laughed Blachland.
"I almost began to believe in it myself," went on the girl. "Some ofour best shots around here seemed invariably to miss that particularbuck, Mr Earle for instance, and Stephanus Bosch, and, I was nearlysaying--father--"
"Oh don't, then," laughed Bayfield. "A prophet has no honour in his owncountry. Keep up the tradition, Lyn."
"And, as for the Englishman, the one that came over here with theEarles, why he missed it both barrels, and they drove it right over himtoo."
"By the way, Lyn," said her father, "what was that Britisher's name?I've clean forgotten."
"That's not strange, for you'll hardly believe it, but so have I."
"Um--ah--no, we won't believe it. A good-looking young fellow likethat!"
"Even then I've forgotten it. Yes, he was a nice-looking boy."
"Boy!" cried her father. "Why, the fellow must be a precious dealnearer thirty than twenty."
"Well, and what's that but a boy?"
"Thanks awfully, Miss Bayfield," said Blachland. "The implication isgrateful and comforting to a battered fogey of a precious deal nearerforty than thirty."
For answer the girl only laughed--that bright, whole-hearted laugh ofhers. It was a musical laugh too, full-throated, melodious. She andher father's guest were great friends. Though now living somewhat of anout-of-the-world life, she had been well-educated, and her tastes wereartistic. She drew and painted with no mean skill, and her musicalattainments were above the average. So far from feeling bored anddiscontented with the comparative isolation of her lot, she had anaffection for the free and healthy conditions of her surroundings, thebeauties of which, moreover, her artistic temperament rendered hercapable of perceiving and appreciating. Then this stranger had comeinto their life, and at first she had been inclined to stand somewhat inawe of him. He was so much older than herself, and must have seen somuch; moreover, his quiet-mannered demeanour, and the life-worn look ofhis firm dark countenance, seemed to cover a deal of character. But hehad entered so thoroughly and sympathetically into her tastes andpursuits that the little feeling of shyness had worn off within thefirst day, and now, after a fortnight, she had come to regard hispresence in their midst as a very great acquisition indeed.
"I say, Lyn," struck in her father. "Better take Blachland inside--yes,and light up some logs in the fireplace. There's a sharp tinge in theair after sundown, which isn't good for a man with up-country fever inhis bones, as I was telling him just now. I must just go and take alast look round."
"Did you do any more to my drawing to-day?" asked Hilary, as the twostood within the sitting-room together, watching the efforts of ayellow-faced Hottentot girl to make the logs blaze up.
"I've nearly finished it. I've only got to put in a touch or two."
"May I see it now?"
"No--not until it is finished. I may not be satisfied with it then, andtear it up."
"But you are not to. I'm certain that however it turns out it will betoo good to treat in that way."
"Oh, Mr Blachland, I am surprised at such a speech from you," she said,her eyes dancing with mischief. "Why, that's the sort of thing thatEnglish boy might have said. But you! Oh!"
"Well, I mean it. You know I never hesitate to criticise and thatfreely. Look at our standing fight over detail in foreground, as aflagrant instance."
The drawing under discussion was a water-colour sketch of the house andits immediate surroundings. He would treasure it as a reminder after hehad gone, he declared, when asking her to undertake it. To which shehad rejoined mischievously that he seemed in a great hurry to talk about"after he had gone," considering that he had only just come.
Now the entrance of George Bayfield and his youngest born put an end tothe discussion, and soon they sat down to supper.
"Man, Mr Blachland, but that is a _mooi_ buck," began the boy. "Jaftasays he never saw a _mooi-er_ one."
"Perhaps it'll bring you luck," said Lyn, looking exceedingly reposefuland sweet, behind the tea-things, in her twenty-year-old dignity at thehead of the table.
"I don't know," was the reply. "I did something once that was supposedto bring frightful ill-luck, and for a long time it seemed as if it wasgoing to. But--indirectly it had just the opposite effect."
"Was that up-country, Mr Blachland?" chimed in the boy eagerly. "Dotell us about it."
"Perhaps some day, Fred. But it's a thing that one had better have leftalone."
"These children'll give you no peace if you go on raising theircuriosity in that way," said Bayfield.
"I'll go up-country when I'm big," said the boy. "Are you going again,Mr Blachland?"
"I don't know, Fred. You see, I've only just come down."
The boy said no more on the subject. He had an immense admiration fortheir guest, who, when they were alone together, would tell him tales ofwhich he never wearied--about hunting and trading, and Lo Bengula, andexperiences among savages far wilder and more formidable than their ownhalf-civilised and wholly deteriorated Kaffirs. But he was sharp enoughto notice that at other times the subject of "up-country" was not afavourite one with Blachland. Perhaps the latter was tired of it as hehad had so much. At any rate, with a gumption rare in small boys of hisage, Fred forbore to worry the topic further.
This was one of those evenings which the said guest was wont to prizenow, and was destined in the time to come to look back upon as among thevery happiest experiences of his life. He regarded his host indeed witha whole-hearted envy, that such should be his daily portion. There wasjust enough sharpness in the atmosphere to render indoors and a bright,snug fire in a well-lighted room especially reposeful and cosy, as theyadjourned to the sitting-room where Lyn's piano was.
"Fill up, Blachland," said his host, pushing over a large bladdertobacco-pouch. "Where's my pipe? No--not that one. The deep one withthe wire cover."
"I've got it, father," cried Lyn. "I'm filling it for you."
"Thanks, darling," as she brought it over. "You know, Blachland, myafter-supper pipe never tastes so good unless this little girlie fillsit for me. She's done so ever since she was a wee kiddie so high."
Blachland smiled to himself, rather sadly, as he watched the longtapering fingers pressing down the tobacco into the bowl, and wonderedhow his friend would feel when the time came--and come it must, indeedany day might bring it--when he would have no one to render this and ahundred and one other little services of love, such as he had noticedduring his stay--when Bayfield should be left lonely, and the bright andsweet and sunny presence which irradiated this simple home should betransf
erred to another. Somehow the thought was distasteful to him,vaguely, indefinably so, but still distasteful.
Meanwhile Lyn had opened the piano, and after an appeal to them for anypreference in the way of songs, which was met by an assurance that anyand all were equally acceptable, had begun singing. The two men satback in their armchairs at the further end of the room, listening insupremest content. From the first Blachland had excused himself fromattending her at the piano. He wanted thoroughly to enjoy herperformance, which he could not do standing fussing around, and Lyn hadappreciated the real and practical compliment thus conveyed. And he didenjoy it. Song after song she sang, now grave and pathetic, now gay andarch, and it seemed to him he could sit there listening for ever. Herswas no concert-hall voice, but it was very sweet and true, and wasentirely free from mannerism. She did not think it necessary to rollher r's in the approved professional style whenever that consonant cameat the end of a word, or to pronounce "love" exactly according to itsphonetic spelling, but every word was enunciated distinctly, andtherefore as intelligible as though she had been talking. In short, hersinging was utterly without self-consciousness or affectation, andtherein lay no small a proportion of its charm.
"There! That's enough for one night!" she cried at last, closing theinstrument.
"Not for us," declared Blachland. "But you mustn't overstrain yourvoice. Really to me this has been an immense treat."
"I'm so glad," said the girl brightly. "I suppose, though, you don'thear much music up-country. Don't you miss it a great deal?"
"Yes, indeed," he answered, and then a picture crossed his mind ofevening after evening, and Hermia yawning, and reiterating how intenselybored to death she was. What on earth was it that made retrospect soutterly distasteful to him now? He would have given all he possessed tobe able to blot that episode out of his life altogether. Hermia thechances were as five hundred to one he would never set eyes on again--and if he did, she was powerless to injure him; for she had not theslightest legal hold upon him whatever. But the episode was there, ablack, unsavoury, detestable fact, and it there was no getting round.
"Now, sonny, it's time for you to turn in," said Bayfield. "By George,I'll have to think seriously about sending that nipper to school," headded, as the boy, having said good-night, went out of the room. "Buthang it, what'll we do without the chappie? He's the only one left.But he ought to learn more than Lyn can teach him now."
"Father, you _are_ mean," laughed the girl. "Reflecting on my carefultuition that way. Isn't he, Mr Blachland?"
"I wonder how it would be," pursued Bayfield, "to make some arrangementwith Earle and send him over there four or five days a week to becoached by that new English teacher they've got."
"Who is he?" said Blachland. "A Varsity man?"
"'Tisn't `he.' It's a she," returned the other, with a very meaninglaugh. "A regular high-flyer too. Mrs Earle isn't so fond of her asshe might be, but I expect that young Britisher has put Earle's nose outof joint in that quarter. They say she's a first-rate coach, though."
"Now, father, you're not to start talking scandal," said Lyn. "I don'tbelieve there's any harm in Mrs Fenham at all. And she isn't evenpretty."
"Ho-ho! Who's talking scandal now?" laughed her father. "Taking awayanother woman's personal appearance, eh, Lyn? By the way, there areseveral round there you won't get to agree with you on that head."
"Oh, she's married, then?" said Blachland, though as a matter of factthe subject did not interest him in the least.
"Has been," returned Bayfield. "She's a widow--a young widow, and withall due deference to Lyn's opinion, rather a fetching one. Now, isn'tthat a whole code of danger-signals in itself? Get out some grog,little girl," he added, "and then I suppose you'll want to be turningin."
"Yes, it's time I did," replied Lyn, as she dived into a sideboard infulfilment of the last request. "Good night, Mr Blachland. Goodnight, old father. Now, you're not to sit filling up Mr Blachland withall sorts of gossip. Do you hear?"
"All right," with a wink over at his guest. "Good night, my littleone."
Blachland had long ceased to wonder--even if he had done so at first--atthe extraordinary tenderness existing between Bayfield and this child ofhis. Cudgel his experience as he would, he could find in it no instanceof a girl anything like this one. Sunny beauty, grace, and the mostperfect refinement, a disposition of rare sweetness, yet withal plentyof character--why, it would require a combination of the best points ofany half-dozen girls within that experience to make up one Lyn Bayfield,and then the result would be a failure. To his host he said as muchwhen they were alone together. The latter warmed up at once.
"Ah, you've noticed that, have you, Blachland? Well, I suppose youcould hardly have been in the house the short time you have withoutnoticing it. Make allowances for an old fool, but there never was sucha girl as my Lyn--no, never. And--I may lose her any day."
"Great Heavens, Bayfield, surely not! What's wrong? Heart?"
"No--no. Not that way, thank God--by the by, I'm sorry I startled you.I mean she's bound to marry some day."
"Ah, yes, I see," returned Blachland, reassured, yet furtively hopingthat the smile wherewith he accepted the reassurance was not a verysickly one. But the other did not notice it, and now fairly on thesubject, launched out into a narrative of Lyn's sayings and doings, asit seemed, from the time of her birth right up till now, and it was latebefore he pulled up, with profuse apologies for having bored the verysoul out of his guest, and that on a subject in which the latter couldtake but small interest.
But Blachland reassured him by declaring that he had not been bored inthe very least, and so far from feeling small interest in the matter, hehad been very intensely interested.
And the strangest thing of all was that he meant it--every word.