"...AND THE WORLD IS CHANGED."
They stood for some moments watching the receding figure of the Kafir in
silence. Eanswyth was the first to break it.
"What have you been talking about all this time, Eustace? Is it any new
danger that threatens us?"
"N-no. Rather the reverse if anything," and his features cleared up as
if to bear out the truth of his words. "I don't see, though, why you
shouldn't know it. That's the man we fell foul of in the _veldt_
yesterday--you remember the affair of the white dog?"
"Oh!" and Eanswyth turned very pale.
"Now don't be alarmed, dearest. I believe he only loafed round here to
try and collect some compensation."
"Is that really all, Eustace?" she went on anxiously. "You seemed very
much disturbed, dear. I don't think I ever saw you look so thoroughly
disturbed."
There was no perturbation left in his glance now. He took her face
lovingly between his hands and kissed it again and again.
"Did you not, my sweet? Well, perhaps there has never existed such
ground for it. Perhaps I have never met with so inopportune an
interruption. But now, cheer up. We must make the most of this day,
for a sort of instinct tells me that it is the last we shall have to
ourselves, at any rate for some time to come. And now what shall we do
with ourselves? Shall we go back to the house or sit here a little
while and talk?"
Eanswyth was in favour of the latter plan. And, seated there in the
shade of a great acacia, the rich summer morning sped by in a golden
dream. The fair panorama of distant hills and wooded kloofs; the
radiant sunlight upon the wide sweep of mimosa-dotted plains, shimmering
into many a fantastic mirage in the glowing heat; the call of bird
voices in the adjacent brake, and the continuous chirrup of crickets;
the full, warm glow of the sensuous air, rich, permeating, life-giving;
here indeed was a very Eden. Thus the golden morning sped swiftly by.
But how was it all to end? That was the black drop clouding the
sparkling cup--that was the trail of the serpent across that sunny Eden.
And yet not, for it may be that this very rift but served only to
enhance the intoxicating, thrilling delights of the present--that this
idyl of happiness, unlawful alike in the sight of God or man, was a
hundredfold sweetened by the sad vein of undercurrent running through
it--even the consciousness that it was not to last. For do we not, in
the weak contrariety of our mortal natures, value a thing in exact
proportion to the precariousness of our tenure!
Come good, come ill, never would either of them forget that day: short,
golden, idyllic.
"Guess how long we have been sitting here!" said Eanswyth at last, with
a rapid glance at her watch. "No--don't look," she added hurriedly, "I
want you to _guess_."
"About half an hour, it seems. But I suppose it must be more than
that."
"Exactly two hours and ten minutes."
"Two hours and ten minutes of our last peaceful day together--gone. Of
our first and our last day together."
"Why do you say our last, dear?" she murmured, toying with his hair.
His head lay on her lap, his blue eyes gazing up into her large grey
ones.
"Because, as I told you, I have a strong inkling that way--at any rate,
for some time to come. It is wholly lamentable, but, I'm afraid,
inevitable."
She bent her head--her beautiful stately head--drooped her lips to his
and kissed them passionately.
"Eustace, Eustace, my darling--my very life! Why do I love you like
this!"
"Because you can't help it, my sweet one!" he answered, returning her
kisses with an ardour equalling her own.
"Why did I give way so soon? Why did I give way at all? As you say,
because I couldn't help it--because--in short, because it was _you_.
You drew me out of myself--you forced me to love you, forced me to.
Ah-h! and how I love you!"
The quiver in her tones would not be entirely suppressed. Even he had
hardly suspected the full force of passion latent within this woman,
only awaiting the magic touch to blaze forth into bright flame. And his
had been the touch which had enkindled it.
"You have brought more than a Paradise into my life," he replied, his
glance holding hers as he looked up into her radiant eyes. "Tell me,
did you never suspect, all these months, that I only _lived_ when in the
halo-influence of your presence?"
"I knew it."
"You knew it?"
"Of course I did," she answered with a joyous laugh, taking his face
between her hands and kissing it again. "I should have been no woman if
I had not. But, I have kept my secret better than you. Yes, my secret.
I have been battling against your influence far harder than you have
against mine, and you have conquered." He started, and a look of
something like dismay came into his face.
"If that is so, you witching enchantress, why did you not lift me out of
my torment long ago," he said. "But the worst is this. Just think what
opportunities we have missed, what a long time we have wasted which
might have been--Heaven."
"Yet, even then, it may be better as things have turned out. My love--
my star--I could die with happiness at this moment. But," and then to
the quiver of joy in her voice succeeded an intonation of sadness,
"but--I suppose this world does not contain a more wicked woman than
myself. Tell me, Eustace," she went on, checking whatever remark he
might have been about to make, "tell me what you think. Shall we not
one day be called upon to suffer in tears and bitterness for this
entrancingly happy flood of sunshine upon our lives now?"
"That is an odd question, and a thoroughly characteristic one," he
replied slowly. "Unfortunately all the events of life, as well as the
laws of Nature, go to bear out the opinions of the theologians.
Everything must be paid for, and from this rule there is no escape.
Everything, therefore, resolves itself into a mere question of price--
e.g., Is the debt incurred worth the huge compound interest likely to be
exacted upon it in the far or near future? Now apply this to the
present case. Do you follow me?"
"Perfectly. If our love is wrong--wicked--we shall be called upon to
suffer for it sooner or later?"
"That is precisely my meaning. I will go further. The term `poetic
justice' is, I firmly believe, more than a mere idiom. If we are doing
wrong through love for each other we shall have to expiate it at some
future time. We shall be made to suffer _through_ each other. Now,
Eanswyth, what do you say to that?"
"I say, amen. I say that the future can take care of itself, that I
defy it--no--wait!--not that. But I say that if this delirious,
entrancing happiness is wrong, I would rather brave torments a
thousand-fold, than yield up one iota of it," she answered, her eyes
beaming into his, and with a sort of proud, defiant ring in her voice,
as if throwing down the gage to all power, human or divine, to come
between them.
"I say the same--my life!" was his reply.
Thus the bargain was sealed--ratified. Thus was the glove hurled down
for Fate to take up, if it would. The time was coming when she--when
both--would remember those defiant, those deliberate words.
Not to-day, however, should any forebodings of the Future be suffered to
cloud the Present. They fled, all too quickly, those short, golden
hours. They melted one by one, merged into the dim glories of the past.
Would the time come when those blissful hours should be conjured forth
by the strong yearnings of a breaking heart, conjured forth to be lived
through again and again, in the day of black and hopeless despair, when
to the radiant enchantment of the Present should have succeeded the woe
of a never-ending and rayless night?
But the day was with them now--idyllic, blissful--never to be forgotten
as long as they two should live. Alas, that it fled!
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Tom Carhayes returned that evening in high good humour. He was
accompanied by another man, a neighbouring settler of the name of Hoste,
a pleasant, cheery fellow, who was a frequent visitor at Anta's Kloof.
"Well, Mrs Carhayes," cried the latter, flinging his right leg over his
horse's neck and sliding to the ground side-saddle fashion, "your
husband has been pretty well selling up the establishment to-day. What
do you think of that? Hallo, Milne. How 'do?"
"I've made a good shot this time," assented Carhayes, "I've sold off
nearly three thousand of the sheep to Reid, the contractor, at a pound a
head all round. What do you think of that, Eustace? And a hundred and
thirty cattle, too, heifers and slaughter stock."
"H'm! Well, you know best," said Eustace. "But why this wholesale
clearance, Tom?"
"Why? Why, man, haven't you heard? No, of course he hasn't. War!
That's why. War, by the living Jingo! It's begun. Our fellows are
over the Kei already, peppering the niggers like two o'clock."
"Or being peppered by them--which so far seems to be the more likely
side of the question," struck in Hoste. "A report came into Komgha
to-day that there had been a fight, and the Police had been licked.
Anyhow, a lot more have been moved across the river."
"Wait till _we_ get among them," chuckled Carhayes. "Eh, Hoste? We'll
pay off some old scores on Jack Kafir's hide. By the Lord, won't we?"
"_Ja_. That's so. By-the-by, Mrs Carhayes, I mustn't forget my
errand. The wife has picked up a cottage in Komgha, and particularly
wants you to join her. She was lucky in getting it, for by now every
hole or shanty in the village is full up. There are more waggons than
houses as it is, and a lot of fellows are in tents. They are going to
make a big _laager_ of the place."
Eanswyth looked startled. "Are things as bad as all that?" she said.
"They just are," answered Hoste. "You can't go on staying here. It
isn't safe--is it, Carhayes? Everyone round here is trekking, or have
already trekked. I met George Payne in Komgha to-day. Even he had
cleared out from Fountains Gap, and there's no fellow laughs at the
scare like he does."
"Hoste is right, Eanswyth," said Carhayes. "So you'd better roll up
your traps and go back with him to-morrow. I can't go with you, because
Reid is coming over to take delivery of the stock. Eustace might drive
you over, if he don't mind."
Eustace did _not_ mind--of that we may be sure. But although no glance
passed between Eanswyth and himself, both were thinking the same thing.
To the mind of each came back the words of that morning: "_A sort of
instinct tells me it is the last day we shall have to ourselves for some
time to come_!" And it would be.
They sat down to supper. Tom Carhayes was in tremendous spirits that
evening. He breathed threatenings and slaughter against the whole of
the Xosa race, chuckling gleefully over the old scores he was going to
pay off upon it in the persons of its fighting men. In fact, he was as
delighted over the certainty of an outbreak as if he held half a dozen
fat contracts for the supply of the troops and levies.
"I'll keep a tally-stick, by Jove; and every nigger I pot I'll cut a
nick," he said. "There'll be a good few notches at the end of the war!
It was a first-class stroke of luck doing that deal with Reid, wasn't
it, Eustace? We shall have our hands entirely free for whatever fun
turns up."
Eustace agreed. He had reasons of his own for wanting to keep his hands
free during the next few months--possibly, however, they were of a
different nature to those entertained by his cousin.
"We can move the rest of the stock to Swaanepoel's Hoek," went on
Carhayes. "Bentley will be only too glad to look after it for a
consideration. Then for some real sport! Eustace, pass the grog to
Hoste."
"That your Somerset East farm?" said the latter, filling his glass.
"Yes. Not a bad place, either; only too stony."
"You're a jolly lucky fellow to have a Somerset East farm to send your
stock to," rejoined Hoste. "I wish I had, I know. The few sheep I have
left are hardly worth looking after. There are safe to be a lot of
Dutchmen in _laager_ with _brandt-zick_ flocks, and ours will be covered
with it by the time it's all over. Same thing with cattle. Red water
and lung sickness will clear them all out too."
"Well, we'll lift a lot from old Kreli to make up for it," said
Carhayes. "By the way, Eustace. Talking of Kreli--he's been summoned
to meet the Governor and won't go."
"H'm. Small wonder if he won't. What was the upshot of his father,
Hintza, being summoned to meet the Governor?"
"Oh, you're always harping on that old string," said Carhayes
impatiently. "Hang it all--as if a lot of red-blanket niggers are to be
treated like civilised beings! It's ridiculous, man. They've got to do
as they are told, or they must be made to."
"That's all very pretty, Tom. But the `making' hasn't begun yet. By
the time it's ended, we shall have a longish bill to pay--and a good
many vacant chairs at various household tables. Fair play _is_ fair
play--even between our exalted selves and `a lot of red-blanket
niggers.'"
"Milne is right, Carhayes," struck in Hoste. "Milne is right so far.
Kafirs have got long memories, and I, for one, don't blame old Kreli for
snapping his fingers at the Governor. But I don't agree with him that
we haven't treated him fairly on the whole. Hang it, what have they got
to complain of?"
"I don't say they have anything in that line," said Eustace. "My remark
about treating them fairly was only in answer to what Tom suggested.
Still, I think it a mistake to have located the Fingoes and Gcalekas
next door to each other, with a mere artificial boundary between. It
was safe to produce a shindy sooner or later."
Thus the ball of conversation rolled on. Carhayes, excited over the
prospect of hostilities, took a glass or two of grog more than was good
for him, and waxed extremely argumentative as they adjourned to the
_stoep_ for an _al fresco_ smoke. So he and his guest began, continued,
and ended the campaign according to a great diversity of plans, each
highly satisfactory to its originators and proportionately disastrous to
the dark-skinned enemy.
In this conversation Eanswyth did not join. The sweet and soothing
influences of the day just passed filled her mind--and all this noisy
talk jarred upon her. To her also the prospect of the coming campaign
was a welcome one. After the events of the last twenty-four hours to go
on living as heretofore would be a terrible strain. Her newly awakened
love for the one man was so overwhelming as to engender in her a
proportionate feeling of aversion towards the other. It was a fearful
position. The temporary separation involved by the campaign would be
more than welcome. But separation from the one meant separation from
the other. That was not welcome.
And that other--what if he were to fall? He was so fearless--so
foolhardy and confident. What if he undertook some insane mission and
was treacherously murdered?--O Heaven--what would life be without him
now? And a rush of tears brimmed to her eyes at the mere thought.
Eustace, who had remained behind for a moment, to light his pipe, looked
up and caught her glance.
"I suppose I had better arrange to drive you over to Komgha to-morrow?"
he said, aloud and in an ordinary voice. Outside the other two were
talking and arguing at a great rate.
"Yes, I would not forego that for anything," she whispered. "But--leave
me now, or I shall break down. Quick! I wish it."
One glance, straight into her eyes, and he obeyed. But that glance had
said enough--had said more than many words could have done.
"By the way, Tom," said Eustace, joining the pair of wranglers outside.
"What about Nteya? You were going to have him run in, you know."
"So! Well, you see, it's this way: I got on that deal with Reid, first
thing, and that drove the other out of my head. I had a job to find
Reid, in the first place, but when you hear of a man willing to give a
lumping big price for what you want to sell, that man's worth some
hunting for, I can tell you. So I let Nteya slide--until we reach the
Gaika location. Then I'll take it out of him, and a good many more of
them too."
------------------------------------------------------------------------
Next morning, shortly after sunrise, the contractor arrived to take
delivery of the stock. So he and Carhayes were extremely busy, the
latter too much so to be able to afford more than an off-hand and
hurried farewell to his wife.
But the same held not good of his cousin and partner. Indeed one would
think that Eustace had no concern whatever in the sale for all the
interest he took in it. Far more concerned was he to ensure that
Eanswyth had every conceivable thing that might conduce to her comfort
and convenience during her journeying to and sojourn in the settlement,
than to satisfy himself that Contractor Reid, a canny Scot and a knowing
file at a deal, should be allowed no loop-hole for climbing down from or
getting behind his bargain.
"I say, Milne," cried Hoste, while the horses were being inspanned.
"It's rather slow work riding by one's self. Let's span in my horse as
a leader, and drive unicorn. There's room for my saddle if we tie it on
behind--and I can get in the cart with you. More sociable like. See?"
But Eustace didn't see, or rather didn't want to see. This was clearly
a case of "two's company, three's a crowd."
Equally clearly was it a case wherein the third might be excused for
omitting to apply the maxim.
"There's a goodish weight in the trap already," he replied dubiously.
But Eanswyth struck in:
"We can make room for you, Mr Hoste. Certainly. And if we have the
additional pull of your horse it will neutralise the additional weight."
Eustace said nothing. If Eanswyth's mood had undergone something of a
change since last night, that was only natural, he allowed. The
arrangement was not to his liking. But then, of most arrangements in
this tiresome world the same held good. With which reflection, being a
philosopher, he consoled himself.
There was not much sign of the disturbed state of the country during the
first part of the drive. But later, as they drew nearer the settlement,
an abandoned homestead--standing silent and deserted, its kraals empty
and the place devoid of life, or a trek of sheep and cattle raising a
cloud of dust in the distance, together with a waggon or two loaded with
the families and household goods of those, like themselves, hastening
from their more or less isolated positions to seek safety in numbers,
spoke eloquently and with meaning. Now and again a small group of
Kafirs would pass them on the road, and although unarmed, save for their
ordinary kerries, there seemed a world of grim meaning in each dark
face, a menace in the bold stare which did duty for the ordinarily
civil, good-humoured greeting, as if the savages knew that their time
was coming now.
It was a splendid day, sunny and radiant. But there was an
oppressiveness in the atmosphere which portended a change, and ever and
anon came a low boom of thunder. An inky cloud was rising behind the
Kabousie Heights, spreading wider and wider over the plains of
Kafirland. A lurid haze subdued the sunshine, as the rumble of the
approaching storm drew nearer and nearer, and the blue electric flashes
played around the misty hilltops where the ill-omened war-fires had
gleamed two nights before. Even so, in like fashion, the brooding cloud
of war swept down upon the land, darker and darker.