"THE CURSE HAS COME UPON ME..."
The party in the Cape cart were returning from a drive out to
Draaibosch, a roadside inn and canteen some ten or a dozen miles along
the King Williamstown road. Two troops of Horse, one of them
Brathwaite's, were encamped there the night before on their way
homeward, and a goodly collection of their friends and well-wishers had
driven or ridden over to see them start.
It was a lovely day, and the scene had been lively enough as the
combined troops--numbering upwards of two hundred horsemen, bronzed and
war-worn, but "fit" and in the highest of spirits, had struck their camp
and filed off upon their homeward way, cheering and being cheered
enthusiastically by the lines of spectators. An enthusiasm, however, in
no wise shared by groups of Hlambi and Gaika Kafirs from Ndimba's or
Sandili's locations, who, in all the savagery of their red paint and
blankets, hung around the door of the canteen with scowling sneers upon
their faces, the while bandying among themselves many a deep-toned
remark not exactly expressive of amity or affection towards their white
brethren. But for this the latter cared not a jot.
"Hey, Johnny!" sang out a trooper, holding out a bundle of assegais
towards one of the aforesaid groups as he rode past, "see these? I took
'em from one of Kreli's chaps, up yonder. Plugged him through with a
couple of bullets first."
"Haw! haw!" guffawed another. "You fellows had better behave yourselves
or we shall be coming to look you up next. Tell old Sandili that, with
our love. Ta-ta, Johnny. So long!"
It was poor wit, and those at whom it was directed appreciated it at its
proper value. The scowl deepened upon that cloud of dark faces, and a
mutter of contempt and defiance rose from more than one throat. Yet in
the bottom of their hearts the savages entertained a sufficiently
wholesome respect for those hardened, war-worn sharpshooters.
Handkerchiefs waved and hats were flourished in the air, and amid
uproarious and deafening cheers the mounted corps paced forth,
Brathwaite's Horse leading. And over and above the clamour and tumult
of the voices and the shouting. Jack Armitage's bugle might be heard,
wildly emitting a shrill and discordant melody, which common consent,
amid roars of laughter, pronounced to be a cross between the National
Anthem and "_Vat you goed an trek Ferreia_." [A popular old Boer song.]
Into the fun and frolic of the occasion Eanswyth entered with zest. She
had laughed until she nearly cried over the hundred-and-one comic little
incidents inseparable from this scene of universal jollity. Even the
boldest flights of wit attempted during the multifold and promiscuous
good-byes interchanged had moved her mirth. But it was the light,
effervescing, uncontrollable laughter of the heart.
The genial, careless jests of the light-hearted crowd, the good humour
on every face, found its echo in her. In the unclouded blue of the
heavens, the golden sunlit air, there seemed a vibrating chord of joyous
melody, a poetry in the sweeping plains, even in the red lines of
ochre-smeared savages filing along the narrow tracks leading to or from
their respective locations. Her heart sang within her as once more the
horses' heads were turned homeward. Any hour now might bring _him_.
Why, by the time they reached home _he_ might have arrived, or at any
rate an express hurried on in advance to announce the arrival of the
corps by nightfall.
"Rangers arrived?" repeated in reply to Mrs Hoste's eager question, one
of two acquaintances whom they met upon the road when within a mile of
the village. "N-no, not yet. They can't be far off, though. Three or
four of their men have come in--Shelton among them."
"Oh, thanks, so much!" cried both the ladies, apparently equally eager.
"We had better get on as soon as we can. Good-day."
In the fullness of her joy, the clouded expression and hesitating speech
accompanying the information had quite escaped Eanswyth--nor had it
struck her friend either. Then laughing and chatting in the highest of
spirits, they had driven past the conversing groups upon the _stoep_ of
the hotel, as we have seen.
The trap had been outspanned, and the horses turned loose into the
_veldt_. The household were about to sit down to dinner. Suddenly the
doorway was darkened and a head was thrust in--a black and dusty head,
surmounted by the remnant of a ragged hat.
"Morrow, missis!" said the owner of this get-up, holding out a scrap of
paper folded into a note. Mrs Hoste opened it carelessly--then a sort
of gasp escaped her, and her face grew white.
"Where--where is your _Baas_!" she stammered.
"_La pa_," replied the native boy, pointing down the street.
Flurried, and hardly knowing what she was about, Mrs Hoste started to
follow the messenger. Eanswyth had gone to her room to remove her hat,
fortunately.
"Oh, Mr Shelton--is it true?" she cried breathlessly, coming right upon
the sender of the missive, who was waiting at no great distance from the
house. "Is it really true? Can it be? What awful news! Oh, it will
kill her! What shall we do?"
"Try and be calm, Mrs Hoste," said Shelton gravely. "There is no doubt
about its truth, I am sorry to say. It is fortunate you had not heard
the first report of the affair which arrived here. All four of them
were rumoured killed, I'm told. But--No, don't be alarmed," he added,
hastily interrupting an impending outburst. "Your husband is quite
safe, and will be here this evening. But poor Tom is killed--not a
doubt about it--Milne too. And, now, will you break it to Mrs
Carhayes? It must be done, you know. She may hear it by accident any
moment; the whole place is talking about it, and just think what a shock
that will be."
"Oh, I can't. Don't ask me. It will kill her."
"But, my dear lady, it _must_ be done," urged Shelton. "It is a most
painful and heart-breaking necessity--but it is a necessity."
"Come and help me through with it, Mr Shelton," pleaded Mrs Hoste
piteously. "I shall never manage it alone."
Shelton was in a quandary. He knew Eanswyth fairly well, but he was by
nature a retiring man, a trifle shy even, and to find himself saddled
with so delicate and painful a task as the breaking of this news to her,
was simply appalling. He was a well-to-do man, with a wife and family
of his own, yet it is to be feared that during the three dozen paces
which it took them to reach the front door, he almost wished he could
change places with poor Tom Carhayes.
He wished so altogether as they gained the _stoep_. For in the doorway
stood a tall figure--erect, rigid as a post--with face of a ghastly
white, lips livid and trembling.
"What does this mean?" gasped Eanswyth. "What `bad news' is it? Please
tell me. I can bear it."
She was holding out a scrap of pencilled paper, Shelton's open note,
which Mrs Hoste, in her flurry and horror, had dropped as she went out.
It only contained a couple of lines:
Dear Mrs Hoste:
There is very bad news to tell, which regards Mrs Carhayes. Please
follow the bearer at once.
Yours truly, Henry Shelton.
"Quick--what is it--the `bad news'? I can bear it--Quick--you are
killing me," gasped Eanswyth, speaking now in a dry whisper.
One look at his accomplice convinced Shelton that he would have to take
the whole matter into his own hands.
"Try and be brave, Mrs Carhayes," he said gravely. "It concerns your
husband."
"Is he--is he--is it the worst!" she managed to get out.
"It is the worst," he answered simply, deeming it best to get it over as
soon as possible.
For a minute he seemed to have reason to congratulate himself on this
idea. The rigid stony horror depicted on her features relaxed, giving
way to a dazed, bewildered expression, as though she had borne the first
brunt of the shock, and was calming down.
"Tell me!" she gasped at length. "How was it? When? Where?"
"It was across the Bashi. They were cut off by the Kafirs, and killed."
"`They'? Who--who else?"
Shelton wished the friendly earth would open beneath his feet then and
there.
"Mrs Carhayes, pray be calm," he said unsteadily. "You have heard the
worst, remember--the worst, but not all. You cousin shared poor Tom's
fate."
"Eustace?"
The word was framed, rather than uttered, by those livid and bloodless
lips. Yet the listener caught it and bent his head in assent.
She did not cry out; she did not swoon. Yet those who beheld her almost
wished she had done both--anything rather than take the blow as she was
doing. She stood there in the doorway--her tall form seeming to tower
above them--her large eyes sparkling forth from her livid and bloodless
countenance--and the awful and set expression of despair imprinted
therein was such as the two who witnessed it prayed they might never
behold on human countenance again.
She had heard the worst--the worst, but not all--her informant had said.
Had she? The mockery of it! The first news was terrible; the second--
death; black, hopeless, living death. Had heard the worst! Ah, the
mockery of it! And as these reflections sank into her dazed brain--
driven in, as it were, one after another by the dull blows of a hammer,
her lips even shaped the ghost of a smile. Ah, the irony of it!
Still she did not faint. She stood there in the doorway, curdling the
very heart's blood of the lookers on with that dreadful shadow of a
smile. Then, without a word, she turned and walked to her room.
"Oh! I must go to her!" cried Mrs Hoste eagerly. "Oh, this is too
fearful."
"If you take my advice--it's better not! Not at present, at any rate,"
answered Shelton. "Leave her to get over the first shock alone. And
what a shock it is. Bereaved of husband and cousin at one stroke. And
the cousin was almost like a brother, wasn't he?"
"Yes," and the recollection of her recent suspicions swept in with a
rush upon the speaker's mind, deepening her flurry and distress. "Yes.
That is--I mean--Yes, I believe she was very fond of him. But how
bravely she took it."
"Rather too bravely," answered the other with a grave shake of the head.
"I only hope the strain may not be too much for her--affect her brain,
I mean. Mrs Carhayes has more than the average share of
strong-mindedness, yet she strikes me as being a woman of
extraordinarily strong feeling. The shock must have been frightful, and
although she didn't scream or faint, the expression of her face was one
that I devoutly hope never to see upon any face again. And now,
good-bye for the present. I'll call around later and hear how she's
getting on. Poor thing!"
------------------------------------------------------------------------
The sun of her life had set--had gone down into black night--yet the
warm rays of the summer sunshine glanced through the open window of her
room, glowing down upon the wide _veldt_ outside and upon the distant
sparkle of the blue sea. Never again would laughter issue from those
lips--yet the sound of light-hearted chat and peals of mirth was ever
and anon borne from without. The droning hum of insects in the
afternoon air--the clink of horse-hoofs, the deep-toned conversation of
natives passing near the window--all these familiar sounds of everyday
life found a faint and far-away echo in her benumbed brain. What,
though one heart was broken--the world went on just the same.
Stay! Was it but a few minutes ago that she passed out through that
door trilling the cheerful fragments of the airiest of songs--but a few
minutes since she picked up that fatal scrap of paper, and then stood
face to face with those who brought her news which had laid her life in
ruins! Only a few minutes! Why, it seemed years--centuries--aeons.
Was it a former state of existence that upon which she now looked back
as across a great and yawning gulf? Was she now dead--and was this the
place of torment? The fire that burned forever and ever! How should
she quench the fire in her heart and brain?
There was a very stoniness about her grief as if the blow had petrified
her. She did not fling herself upon the couch in her agony of despair.
No tears did she shed--better if she had. For long after she had gained
her room and locked herself in alone she stood--stood upright--and
finally when she sought a chair it was mechanically, as with the
movement of a sleep walker. Her heart was broken--her life was ended.
He had gone from her--it only remained for her to go to him.
And then, darting in across her tortured brain, in fiery characters,
came the recollection of his own words--spoken that first and last
blissful morning at Anta's Kloof. "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," and to this she had
responded "Amen." How soon had those words come true. The judgment had
fallen. He had gone from her, but she could not go to him. Their love,
unlawful in this world, could never be ratified in another. And then,
indeed, there fell upon her the gloom of outer darkness. There was no
hope.