"THE TAIL WAGS THE DOG."
Eustace had plenty to occupy his thoughts during his homeward ride. The
emphatic warning of the Gaika chief was not to be set aside lightly.
That Ncanduku knew more than he chose to say was evident. He had spoken
out very plainly for one of his race, who dearly love veiled hints and
beating around the bush. Still there was more behind.
Especially did the chief's perturbation when Eanswyth was referred to
strike him as ominous to the last degree. Even in war-time there are
few instances of Kafirs seriously maltreating white women, and Eanswyth
was well liked by such of her dusky neighbours as she had come in
contact with. Yet in the present case so thoroughly hated was her
husband that it was conceivable they might even strike at him through
her.
Why had Carhayes not fallen in with the armed party instead of himself,
thought Eustace bitterly. That would have cut the knot of the
difficulty in a trice. They would not have spared him so readily. They
were Gcalekas, Hlangani's tribesmen. Hlangani's wound would have been
avenged, and Eanswyth would by this time be free.
Very fair and peaceful was the aspect of the farm as the last rise
brought it full into the horseman's view. The bleating of sheep,
mellowed by distance, as the flocks streamed forth white upon the green
of the _veldt_, and the lowing of cattle, floated upon the rich morning
air--together with the sound of voices and laughter from the picturesque
group of native huts where the farm servants dwelt. Doves cooed softly,
flitting among the sprays of mimosa fringing the mealie lands; and upon
the surface of the dam there was a shimmer of silver light. All seemed
peaceful--happy--prosperous; yet over all brooded the red cloud of war.
Eustace felt his pulses quicken and his heart stir as he strained his
eyes upon the house, to catch maybe the flutter of a light dress in the
veranda. Many a morning had he thus returned from a ride without so
much as a heartstirring. Yet now it was different. The ice had been
broken. A new light had been let in--a sweet new light, glowing around
his path like a ray of Paradise. They understood each other at last.
Yet did they? How would she receive him--how greet him after the
disclosure of last night? Would she have thought better of it? For the
first time in his life he felt his confidence fail him.
"Hallo, Eustace! Thought you had trekked off somewhere for the day,"
growled Carhayes, meeting him in the doorway. "Been looking up some of
your blanket friends?"
"Where are you off to yourself, Tom?" was the reply. For the other was
got up in riding boots and breeches, as if for a journey.
"To Komgha--I'm going over to lay an information against Nteya. I'll
have the old _schelm_ in the _tronk_ by to-night."
"Not much to be taken by that, is there? Just come this way a minute,
will you? I've heard something you may as well know."
With a mutter and a growl Carhayes joined him outside. In a few words
Eustace conveyed to him Ncanduku's warning. It was received
characteristically--with a shout of scornful laughter.
"Gammon, my dear chap. I never funked a nigger yet and I never will.
And, I say. You'd better take a ride round presently and look after the
sheep. I've been obliged to put on Josane's small boy in Goniwe's
place, and he may not be up to the mark. I daresay I'll be back before
dark."
"Well, the sheep will have to take their chance, Tom. I'm not going out
of call of the homestead while Eanswyth is left here alone."
"Bosh!" returned Carhayes. "She don't mind. Has she not been left
alone here scores of times? However, do as you like. I must be off."
They had been walking towards the stable during this conversation.
Carhayes led forth his horse, mounted, and rode away. Eustace put up
his, and having cut up a couple of bundles of oat-hay--for they were
short of hands--took his way to the house.
He had warned his cousin and his warning had been scouted. He had
struggled with a temptation not to warn him, but now it came to the same
thing, and at any rate his own hands were clean. The journey to Komgha
was long, and in these times for a man so hated as Tom Carhayes, might
not be altogether safe, especially towards dusk. Well, he had been
warned.
Eustace had purposely taken time over attending to his horse. Even his
strong nerves needed a little getting in hand before he should meet
Eanswyth that morning; even his pulses beat quicker as he drew near the
house. Most men would have been eager to get it over; would have
blundered it over. Not so this one. Not without reason had the Kafirs
nicknamed him "Ixeshane"--the Deliberate.
Eanswyth rose from the table as he entered. Breakfast was over, and Tom
Carhayes, with characteristic impulsiveness, had started off upon his
journey with a rush, as we have seen. Thus once more these two were
alone together, not amid the romantic witchery of the southern night,
but in the full broad light of day.
Well, and then? Had they not similarly been together alone countless
times during the past year? Yes, but now it was different--widely
different. The ice had been broken between them.
Still, one would hardly have suspected it. Eanswyth was perfectly calm
and composed. There was a tired look upon the sweet face, and dark
circles under the beautiful eyes as if their owner had slept but little.
Otherwise both her tone and manner were free from any trace of
confusion.
"I have put your breakfast to the kitchen fire to keep warm, Eustace,"
she said. "Well, what adventures have you met with in the _veldt_ this
morning?"
"First of all, how good of you. Secondly--leaving my adventures in
abeyance for the present--did you succeed in getting any rest?"
He was looking straight at her. There was a latent caress in his
glance--in his tone.
"Not much," she answered, leaving the room for a moment in order to
fetch the hot dish above referred to. "It was a trying sort of a night
for us all, wasn't it?" she resumed as she returned. "And now Tom must
needs go rushing off again on a fool's errand."
"Never mind Tom. A little blood-letting seems good for him rather than
otherwise," said Eustace, with a dash of bitterness. "About yourself.
I don't believe you have closed your eyes this night through. If you
won't take care of yourself, other people must do so for you. Presently
I am going to sling the hammock under the trees and you shall have a
right royal siesta."
His hand had prisoned hers as she stood over him arranging the plates
and dishes. A faint colour came into her face, and she made a movement
to withdraw it. The attempt, however, was a feeble one.
"I think we are a pair of very foolish people," she said, with a laugh
whose sadness almost conveyed the idea of a sob.
"Perhaps so," he rejoined, pressing the hand he held to his cheek a
moment, ere releasing it. "What would life be worth without its
foolishness?"
For a few moments neither spoke. Eanswyth was busying herself arranging
some of the things in the room, adjusting an ornament here, dusting one
there. Eustace ate his breakfast in silence, tried to, rather, for it
seemed to him at times as if he could not eat at all. The attempt
seemed to choke him. His thoughts, his feelings, were in a whirl. Here
were they two alone together, with the whole day before them, and yet
there seemed to have arisen something in the nature of a barrier between
them.
A barrier, however, which it would not be difficult to overthrow, his
unerring judgment told him; yet he fought hard with himself not to lose
his self-control. He noted the refined grace of every movement as she
busied herself about the room--the thoroughbred poise of the stately
head, the sheen of light upon the rich hair. All this ought to belong
to him--did belong to him. Yet he fought hard with himself, for he read
in that brave, beautiful face an appeal, mute but eloquent--an appeal to
him to spare her.
A rap at the door startled him--startled them both. What if it was some
neighbour who had ridden over to pay them a visit, thought Eustace with
dismay--some confounded bore who would be likely to remain the best part
of the day? But it was only old Josane, the cattle-herd. His master
had told him to look in presently and ask for some tobacco, which he had
been promised.
"I'll go round to the storeroom and get it for him," said Eanswyth.
"You go on with your breakfast, Eustace."
"No, I'll go. I've done anyhow. Besides, I want to speak to him."
Followed by the old Kafir, Eustace unlocked the storeroom--a dark, cool
chamber forming part of an outbuilding. The carcase of a sheep, freshly
killed that morning, dangled from a beam. Piles of _reims_, emitting a
salt, rancid odour--kegs of sheep-dip, huge rolls of Boer tobacco,
bundles of yoke-skeys, and a dozen other things requisite to the details
of farm work were stowed around or disposed on shelves. On one side was
a grindstone and a carpenter's bench. Eustace cut off a liberal length
from one of the rolls of tobacco and gave it to the old Kafir. Then he
filled his own pipe.
"Josane?"
"_Nkose_!"
"You are no fool, Josane. You have lived a good many years, and your
head is nearly as snow-sprinkled as the summit of the Great Winterberg
in the autumn. What do you thing of last night's performance over
yonder?"
The old man's shrewd countenance melted into a slight smile and he shook
his head.
"The Gaikas are fools," he replied. "They have no quarrel with the
English, yet they are clamouring for war. Their country is fertile and
well watered, yet they want to throw it away with both hands. They are
mad."
"Will they fight, Josane?"
"_Au_! Who can say for certain," said the old man with an expressive
shrug of the shoulders. "Yet, was ever such a thing seen? The dog wags
his tail. But in this case it is the tail that wags the dog."
"How so, Josane?"
"The chiefs of the Gaikas do not wish for war. The old men do not wish
for it. But the young men--the boys--are eager for it. The women taunt
them, they say; tell them they have forgotten how to be warriors. So
the boys and the women clamour for war, and the chiefs and the old men
give way. Thus the tail wags the dog. _Hau_!"
"And what about the Gcalekas?"
"The Gcalekas? It is this way, _Nkose_. If you shut up two bulls alone
in the same kraal, if you put two scorpions into a mealie stamp, how
long will it be before they fight? So it is with the Gcalekas and the
Fingoes. The land is not large enough for both. The Gcalekas are ready
for war."
"And Kreli?"
"The Great Chief is in one of his red moods," answered Josane, in a
different tone to that which he had employed when speaking of the
Gaikas. "He has a powerful witch-doctress. I know her. Was I not
`smelt out' by her? Was I not `eaten up' at her `word'? The toad! The
impostor! The jackal cat! The slimy fish! I know her. Ha!"
[Eaten up: Idiom for the total sequestration of a person's possessions.]
The old man's eyes glared and his tone rose to one of fierce excitement
at the recollection of his wrongs. Eustace, accustomed to study his
fellow-men, took careful note of the circumstance. Strange things
happened. It might serve him in good stead one day.
"The Gcalekas will fight," went on Josane. "Perhaps they are fighting
now. Perhaps the _Baas_ will have some news to bring when he returns
from Komgha. The telegraph is quick, but the voice of the bird in the
air is quicker," he added with a meaning smile, which convinced his
listener that he knew a great deal more than he chose to say.
"The fire stick is even now in the thatch," went on the Kafir, after a
few more puffs at his pipe. "There is a herald from the Great Chief
among the Gaika kraals."
"Hlangani?"
"Hlangani. The Gaikas are listening to his `word,' and are lighting the
war-fires. If he can obtain the ear of Sandili, his work is done.
_Whau_, Ixeshane," he went on, slipping into the familiar name in his
excitement. "You English are very weak people. You ought to arrest
Matanzima, and several others, and send a strong Resident to Sandili,
who should always keep his ear."
"We can't do that, Josane. There are wheels within wheels and a power
behind the throne. Well, we shall see what happens," he went on, rising
as a hint to the other to depart.
He did not choose, for reasons of his own, to ask Josane direct how
imminent the danger might be. To do so would be ever so slightly to
impair his own _prestige_. But in his own judgment he decided that the
sooner they set their affairs in order against the coming storm the
better.