As we rested, an hour or two later, in the ill-furnished back room, discussing this sudden turn of affairs with our host and some neighbours—for, of course, all Salisbury was eager for news from the scene of the massacres—I happened to raise my head, and saw, to my great surprise…a haggard white face peering in at us through the window.
It peered round a corner, stealthily. It was an ascetic face, very sharp and clear-cut. It had a stately profile. The long and wiry grizzled moustache, the deep-set, hawk-like eyes, the acute, intense, intellectual features, all were very familiar. So was the outer setting of long, white hair, straight and silvery as it fell, and just curled in one wave-like inward sweep where it turned and rested on the stooping shoulders. But the expression on the face was even stranger than the sudden apparition. It was an expression of keen and poignant disappointment—as of a man whom fate has baulked of some well-planned end, his due by right, which mere chance has evaded.
“They say there’s a white man at the bottom of all this trouble,” our host had been remarking, one second earlier. “The niggers know too much; and where did they get their rifles? People at Rozenboom’s believe some black-livered traitor has been stirring up the Matabele for weeks and weeks. An enemy of Rhodes’s, of course, jealous of our advance; a French agent, perhaps; but more likely one of these confounded Transvaal Dutchmen. Depend upon it, it’s Kruger’s doing.”
As the words fell from his lips, I saw the face. I gave a quick little start, then recovered my composure.
But Hilda noted it. She looked up at me hastily. She was sitting with her back to the window, and therefore, of course, could not see the face itself, which indeed was withdrawn with a hurried movement, yet with a certain strange dignity, almost before I could feel sure of having seen it. Still, she caught my startled expression, and the gleam of surprise and recognition in my eye. She laid one hand upon my arm. “You have seen him?” she asked quietly, almost below her breath.
“Seen whom?”
“Sebastian.”
It was useless denying it to her. “Yes, I have seen him,” I answered, in a confidential aside.
“Just now—this moment—at the back of the house—looking in at the window upon us?”
“You are right—as always.”
She drew a deep breath. “He has played his game,” she said low to me, in an awed undertone. “I felt sure it was he. I expected him to play; though what piece, I knew not; and when I saw those poor dead souls, I was certain he had done it—indirectly done it. The Matabele are his pawns. He wanted to aim a blow at me; and this was the way he chose to aim it.”
“Do you think he is capable of that?” I cried. For, in spite of all, I had still a sort of lingering respect for Sebastian. “It seems so reckless—like the worst of anarchists—when he strikes at one head, to involve so many irrelevant lives in one common destruction.”
Hilda’s face was like a drowned man’s.
“To Sebastian,” she answered, shuddering, “the End is all; the Means are unessential. Who wills the End, wills the Means; that is the sum and substance of his philosophy of life. From first to last, he has always acted up to it. Did I not tell you once he was a snow-clad volcano?”
“Still, I am loth to believe—” I cried.
She interrupted me calmly. “I knew it,” she said. “I expected it. Beneath that cold exterior, the fires of his life burn fiercely still. I told you we must wait for Sebastian’s next move; though I confess, even from him, I hardly dreamt of this one. But, from the moment when I opened the door on poor Tant Mettie’s body, lying there in its red horror, I felt it must be he. And when you started just now, I said to myself in a flash of intuition—‘Sebastian has come! He has come to see how his devil’s work has prospered.’ He sees it has gone wrong. So now he will try to devise some other.”