"LOVE SETTLING UNAWARES."
"Well, old girl, and how have you been getting through the day," was
Carhayes' unceremonious greeting as he slid from his horse. Eustace
turned away his head, and the faintest shadow of contempt flitted across
his impassive countenance. Had this glorious creature stood in the same
relationship towards himself he could no more have dreamed of addressing
her as "old girl" than he could have of carving his name across the
front of the silver altar which is exhibited once a year in the
"Battistero" at Florence.
"Pretty well, Tom," she answered smilingly. "And you? I hope you
haven't been getting into any more mischief. Has he, Eustace."
"Well, I have, then," rejoined Carhayes, grimly, for Eustace pretended
not to hear. "What you'd call mischief, I suppose. Now what d'you
think? I caught that _schelm_ Goniwe having a buck-hunt--a buck-hunt,
by Jove! right under my very nose; he and three other niggers. They'd
got two dogs, good dogs too, and I couldn't help admiring the way the
_schepsels_ put them on by relays, nor yet the fine shot they made at
the buck with a kerrie. Well, I rode up and told them to clear out of
the light because I intended to shoot their dogs. Would you believe it?
they didn't budge. Actually squared up to me."
"I hope you didn't shoot their dogs," said Eanswyth anxiously.
"Didn't I! one of 'em, that is. Do you think I'm the man to be bounced
by Jack Kafir? Not much I'm not. I was bound to let daylight through
the brute, and I did."
"Through the Kafir?" cried Eanswyth, in horror, turning pale.
"Through both," answered Carhayes, with a roar of laughter. "Through
both, by Jove! Ask Eustace. He came up just in time to be in at the
death. But, don't get scared, old girl. I only `barked' the nigger,
and sent the dog to hunt bucks in some other world. I had to do it.
Those chaps were four to one, you see, and shied Icerries at me. They
had assegais, too."
"Oh, I don't know what will happen to us one of these days!" she cried,
in real distress. "As it is, I am uneasy every time you are out in the
_veldt_."
"You needn't be--no fear. Those chaps know me better than to attempt
any tricks. They're all bark--but when it comes to biting they funk
off. That _schelm_ I plugged to-day threatened no end of things; said
I'd better have cut off my right hand first, because it was better to
lose one's hand than one's mind--or some such bosh. But do you think I
attach any importance to that? I laughed in the fellow's face and told
him the next time he fell foul of me he'd likely enough lose his life--
and that would be worse still for him."
Eustace, listening to these remarks, frowned slightly. The selfish
coarseness of his cousin in thus revealing the whole unfortunate
episode, with the sure result of doubling this delicate woman's anxiety
whenever she should be left--as she so often was--alone, revolted him.
Had he been Carhayes he would have kept his own counsel in the matter.
"By the way, Tom," said Eanswyth, "Goniwe hasn't brought in his sheep
yet, and it's nearly dark."
"Not, eh?" was the almost shouted reply, accompanied by a vehement and
undisguised expletive at the expense of the defaulter. "He's playing
Harry--not a doubt about it. I'll make an example of him this time.
Rather! Hold on. Where's my thickest _sjambok_?"
[Sjambok: A whip, made out of a single piece of rhinoceros, or sea-cow
hide, tapering at the point. It is generally in the shape of a
riding-whip.]
He dived into the house, and, deaf to his wife's entreaties and
expostulations, armed himself with the formidable rawhide whip in
addition to his gun, and flinging the bridle once more across the
horse's neck, sprang into the saddle.
"Coming, Eustace?" he cried.
"No. I think not. The sheep can't be far off, and you can easily bring
them in, even if, as is not unlikely, Goniwe has sloped. Besides, I
don't think we ought to leave Eanswyth all alone."
With a spluttered exclamation of impatience, Carhayes clapped spurs to
his horse and cantered away down the kloof to recover his sheep and
execute summary vengeance upon their defective herd.
"Do go after him, Eustace. Don't think about me. I don't in the least
mind being left alone. Do go. You are the only one who can act as a
check upon him, and I fear he will get himself--all of us--into some
terrible scrape. I almost hope Goniwe has run away, for if Tom comes
across him in his present humour he will half kill the boy."
"He won't come across him. On that point you may set your mind quite at
ease. He will have no opportunity of getting into hot water, and I
certainly shan't think of leaving you alone here to-night for the sake
of salvaging a few sheep more or less. We must make up our minds to
lose some, I'm afraid, but the bulk of them will be all right."
"Still, I wish you'd go," she pursued anxiously. "What if Tom should
meet with any Kafirs in the _veldt_ and quarrel with them, as he is sure
to do?"
"He won't meet any. There isn't a chance of it. Look here, Eanswyth;
Tom must take care of himself for once. I'm not going to leave you
alone here now for the sake of fifty Toms."
"Why! Have you heard anything fresh?" she queried anxiously, detecting
a veiled significance in his words.
"Certainly not. Nothing at all. Haven't been near Komgha for ten days,
and haven't seen anyone since. Now, I'll just take my horse round to
the stable and give him a feed--and be with you in a minute."
As a matter of fact, there was an _arriere-pensee_ underlying his words.
For Eustace had been pondering over Hlangani's strangely worded threat.
And it was a strangely worded one. "_You had better have cut off your
right hand... for it is better to lose a hand than one's mind_."
Carhayes had dismissed it contemptuously from his thoughts, but Eustace
Milne, keen-witted, imaginative, had set to work to puzzle it out. Did
the Gcaleka chief meditate some more subtle and hellish form of
vengeance than the ordinary and commonplace one of mere blood for blood,
and, if so, how did he purpose to carry it out? By striking at Carhayes
through the one who was dearest to him? Surely. The words seemed to
bear just this interpretation--and at the bare contemplation of a
frightful danger hanging over Eanswyth, cool, even-minded Eustace Milne,
felt the blood flow back to his heart. For he loved her.
Yes, he loved her. This keen-witted, philosophical man of the world was
madly in love with the beautiful wife of his middle-aged cousin. He
loved her with all the raging abandonment of a strong nature that does
nothing by halves; yet during nearly a year spent beneath the same
roof--nearly a year of easy, pleasant, social intercourse--never by word
or sign had he betrayed his secret--at least, so he imagined.
But that no such blow should fall while he was alive, he resolved at all
hazards. Why had he come there at all, was a question he had been
asking himself for some time past? Why had he stayed, why did he stay?
For the latter he hated and despised himself on account of his miserable
weakness. But now it seemed that both were answered--that he had been
brought there for a purpose--to protect _her_ from the fearful
consequences entailed by the blundering ferocity of him who should have
been her first protector--to save her from some impending and terrible
fate. Surely this was sufficient answer.
Then a wild thrill set his pulses tingling--a thrill of joy, of fierce
expectation set on foot by a single thought, the intense expectation of
the gambler who sees fortune brought within his reach by the potential
turn of chances already strong in his favour. They were on the eve of
war. What might the chances of war not entail? Blind, blundering Tom
Carhayes running his head, like a bull, at every stone wall--were not
the chances of war increased tenfold _against_ such a man as this? And
then--and then--?
No man could be more unfitted to hold possession of such a priceless
treasure as this--argued the man who did not hold it.
"Confess, Eanswyth, that you are very glad I didn't take you at your
word and go after Tom," said Eustace, as they were sitting cosily at
table.
"Perhaps I am. I have been getting so dreadfully nervous and low
spirited of late--so different to the strong-minded creature I used to
be," she said with a rueful smile. "I am becoming quite frightened to
be left alone."
"Are you? Well, I think I can undertake to promise that you shall not
be left alone again. One of us must always make a point of being around
the house while the other is away. But look here, Eanswyth; I really
think you oughtn't to go on staying here at present. Why don't you go
down to the Colony and stay in one or other of the towns, or even at
that other farm of Tom's, until things are settled again?"
"I won't do that. And I'm really not in the least afraid for myself. I
don't believe the Kafirs would harm me."
"Then why are you nervous at being left alone?" was the very pertinent
rejoinder.
"Not on my own account. It is only that solitude gives me time to
think. I am always imagining Tom coming to frightful grief in some form
or other."
The other did not at once reply. He was balancing a knife meditatively
on the edge of his plate, his fine features a perfect mask of
impassibility. But in reality his thoughts ran black and bitter. It
was all "Tom" and "Tom." What the deuce had Tom done to deserve all
this solicitude--and how was it appreciated by its fortunate object?
Not a hair's-breadth. Then, as she rose from the table and went out on
the _stoep_ to look out for any sign of the absent one's return, Eustace
was conscious of another turn of the spear in the wound. Why had he
arrived on the scene of the fray that morning just in time to intervene?
suggested his evil angel. The delay of a few minutes, and...
"Would it do anything towards persuading you to adopt the more prudent
course and leave here for a while, if I were to tell you that Josane was
urging that very thing this morning?" said Eustace when she returned.
The said Josane was a grizzled old Kafir who held the post of
cattle-herd under the two cousins. He was a Gcaleka, and had fled from
Kreli's country some years previously, thereby narrowly escaping one of
the varied and horrible forms of death by torture habitually meted out
to those accused of his hypothetical offence--for he had been "smelt
out" by a witch-doctor. He was therefore not likely to throw in his lot
with his own countrymen against his white protectors, by whom he was
looked upon as an intelligent and thoroughly trustworthy man, which
indeed he was.
"I don't think it would," she answered with a deprecatory smile. "I
should be ten times more nervous if I were right away, and, as I said
before, I don't believe the Kafirs would do me the slightest harm."
Eustace, though he had every reason to suppose the contrary, said
nothing as he rose from the table and began to fill his pipe. He was
conscious of a wild thrill of delight at her steadfast refusal. What
would life be worth here without that presence? Well, come what might,
no harm should fall upon her, of that he made mental oath.
Eanswyth, having superintended the clearing of the table by the two
little Kafir girls who filled the _role_ rather indifferent handmaidens,
joined him on the _stoep_. It was a lovely night; warm and balmy. The
dark vault above was so crowded with stars that they seemed to hang in
golden patches.
"Shall we walk a little way down the kloof and see if we can meet Tom,"
she suggested.
"A good idea. Just half a minute though. I want to get another pipe."
He went into his room, slipped a "bull-dog" revolver of heavy calibre
into his pocket, and quickly rejoined her.
Then as they walked side by side--they two, alone together in the
darkness, alone in the sweet, soft beauty of the Southern night; alone,
as it were, outside the very world; in a world apart where none might
intrude; the rich shroud of darkness around them--Eustace began to
wonder if he were really made of flesh and blood after all. The pent-up
force of his self-contained and concentrated nature was in sore danger
of breaking its barriers, of pouring forth the fires and molten lava
raging within--and to do so would be ruin--utter, endless, irretrievable
ruin to any hopes which he might have ventured to form.
He could see every feature of that sweet, patrician face in the
starlight. The even, musical tones of that exquisitely modulated voice,
within a yard of his ears, fairly maddened him. The rich, balmy zephyrs
of the African night breathed around; the chirrup of the cricket, and
now and again the deep-throated booming croak of a bull-frog from an
adjacent _vlei_ emphasising its stillness. Again those wild, raging
fires surged up to the surface. "Eanswyth, I love you--love you--
worship you--adore you! Apart from you, life is worse than a blank!
Who, what, is the dull, sodden, senseless lout who now stands between
us? Forget him, darling, and be all heaven and earth to me!" The words
blazed through his brain in letters of flame. He could hardly feel sure
he had not actually uttered them.
"What is the matter, Eustace? I have asked you a question three times,
and you haven't answered me."
"I really beg your pardon. I--I--suppose I was thinking of something
else. Do you mind asking it again?"
The strange harshness of his voice struck her. It was well for him--
well for both of them--that the friendly darkness stood him in such good
stead.
"I asked you, how far do you think Tom would have to ride before finding
the sheep?"
"Tom" again! He fairly set his teeth. "Well into the Gaika location,"
was the savage reply that rose to his lips. But he checked it
unuttered.
"Oh, not very far," he answered. "You see, sheep are slow-moving brutes
and difficult to drive, especially in the dark. He'll turn up soon,
never fear."
"What is that? Look! Listen!" she exclaimed suddenly, laying a hand
upon his arm.
The loom of the mountains was blackly visible in the starlight. Away in
the distance, apparently in the very heart of them, there suddenly shown
forth a lurid glow. The V-shaped scarp of the slopes stood dully in
relief against the glare, which was as that of a furnace. At the same
time there floated forth upon the night a strange, weird chorus--a wild,
long-drawn eerie melody, half chant, half howl, faint and distant, but
yet distinct, though many miles away.
"What can they be up to at the location, Eustace? Can it be that they
have risen already?" ejaculated Eanswyth, turning pale in the starlight.
The reddening glare intensified, the fierce, wild cadence shrilled
forth, now in dirge-like wail, now in swelling notes of demon-like and
merciless exultation. There was a faint, muffled roar as of distant
thunder--a clamour as of fiends holding high revel--and still the wild
chorus gathered in volume, hideous in its blood-chilling menace, as it
cleft the dark stillness of the night.
"Oh, let us turn back!" cried Eanswyth. "There is something horrible
going on to-night. I really am quite frightened now. That hideous
noise! It terrifies me!"
Well it might. The deep-toned thunder note within the burning heart of
the volcano is of terrible import, for it portends fire and ruin and
widespread death. There were those who were then sitting on the verge
of a volcano--a mere handful in the midst of a vast, teeming population
of fierce and truculent savages. Well might that weird chorus strike
dismay into the hearts of its hearers, for it was the preliminary rumble
of the coming storm--the battle-song of the warlike and now hostile
Gaika clans.