There was just this much to bear out the ill-natured comments of the
scandal-mongers, in that the re-appearance of the missing cousin had
gone very far towards consoling the young widow for the loss of the dead
husband.
The fact was that where her strongest, deepest feelings were concerned,
Eanswyth, like most other women, was a bad actress. The awful poignancy
of her suffering had been too real--the subsequent and blissful
revulsion too overpowering--for her to be able to counterfeit the one or
dissemble the other, with anything like a satisfactory result. Those
who had witnessed the former, now shook their heads, feeling convinced
that they had then mistaken the object of it. They began to look at
Eanswyth ever so little, askance.
But why need she care if they did? She was independent, young and
beautiful. She loved passionately, and her love was abundantly
returned. A great and absorbing interest has a tendency to dwarf all
minor worries. She did not, in fact, care.
Eustace, thanks to his cool and cautious temperament, was a better
actor; so good, indeed, that to those who watched them it seemed that
the affection was mainly, if not entirely, on one side. Sometimes he
would warn her.
"For your own sake, dearest," he would say on such rare occasions when
they were alone together. "For your own sake try and keep up
appearances a little longer; at any rate until we are out of this
infernal back-biting, gossipy little hole. Remember, you are supposed
to be plunged in an abyss of woe, and here you are looking as absurdly
happy as a bird which has just escaped from a cage."
"Oh, darling, you are right as usual," she would reply, trying to look
serious. "But what am I to do? No wonder people think I have no
heart."
"And they think right for once, for you have given it away--to me. Do
keep up appearances, that's all. It won't be for much longer."
Eustace had secured a couple of rooms for his own use in one of the
neighbouring cottages. The time not spent with Eanswyth was got through
strolling about the camp, or now and then taking a short ride out into
the _veldt_ when the _entourage_ was reported safe. But this, in
deference to Eanswyth's fears, he did but seldom.
"Why on earth don't you go to the front again, Milne?" this or that
friend or acquaintance would inquire. "You must find it properly slow
hanging on in this hole. I know I do. Why, you could easily get a
command of Fingo or Hottentot levies, or, for the matter of that, it
oughtn't to be difficult for a fellow with your record to raise a
command on your own account."
"The fact is I've had enough of going to the front," Eustace would
reply. "When I was there I used often to wonder what business it was of
mine anyway, and when the Kafirs made a prisoner of me, my first thought
was that it served me devilish well right. I give you my word it was.
And I tell you what it is. When a man has got up every day for nearly a
month, not knowing whether he'd go to bed between his blankets that
night or pinned down to a black ants' nest, he's in no particular hurry
to go and expose himself to a repetition of the process. It tells upon
the nerves, don't you know."
"By Jove, I believe you," replied the other. "I never knew Jack Kafir
was such a cruel devil before, at least not to white men. Well, if I'd
gone through what you have, I believe I'd give the front a wide berth,
too. As it is, I'm off in a day or two, I hope."
"I trust you may meet with better luck," said Eustace.
One day a considerable force of mounted burghers started for the
Transkei--a good typical force--hardened, seasoned frontiersmen all,
well mounted, well armed; in fact, a thoroughly serviceable looking
corps all round. There was the usual complement of spectators seeing
them off--the usual amount of cheering and hat-waving. On the outskirts
of the crowd was a sprinkling of natives, representing divers races and
colours.
"_Au_!" exclaimed a tall Gaika, as the crowd dispersed. "_That_ will be
a hard stone for Kreli to try and crush. If it was the _Amapolise_
[Police] he could knock them to pieces with a stick. Mere boys!"
"What's that you say, Johnny?" said a hard-fisted individual, turning
threateningly upon the speaker.
"Nothing. I only made a remark to my comrade," replied the man in his
own language.
"Did you?" said the other walking up to the Kafir and looking him
straight in the eye. "Then just keep your damned remarks to yourself,
Johnny, or we shall quarrel. D'you hear?"
But the Kafir never quailed, never moved. He was a tall, powerful
native and carried his head grandly. The white man, though shorter,
looked tough and wiry as whip cord. The crowd, which had been
scattering, gathered round the pair with the celerity of a mob of London
street-cads round a fallen cab-horse.
"What's the row? A cheeky nigger? Give him fits, Mister! Knock him
into the middle of next week!" were some of the cries that burst from
the group of angry and excited men.
"I have committed no offence," said the Kafir. "I made a remark to a
comrade, saying what a fine lot of men those were."
"Oh, yes? Very likely!" shouted several ironically.
"See here now. You get out of this," said the first man. "Do you hear,
get out. Don't say another word--or--"
He did not finish. Stung by a contemptuous look in the Kafir's eyes, he
dashed his fist full into his face.
It was a crushing blow--but the native did not fall. Like lightning he
aimed a blow at his assailant's head with his heavy kerrie--a blow which
would have shattered the skull like an egg shell. But the other threw
up his arm in time, receiving nearly the full force of the blow on that
member, which dropped to his side completely paralysed. Without
attempting to follow up his success the savage sprang back, whirling his
kerrie round his head. The crowd, taken by surprise, scattered before
him.
Only for a moment, though. Like a pack of hounds pressed back by a stag
at bay they gave way but to close up again. In a trice the man's kerrie
was struck from his grasp, and he was thrown down, beaten, kicked, and
very roughly handled.
"Tie up the _schelm_!"
"Give him six dozen well-laid on!" "Six dozen without counting!"
"Cheeky brute!" were some of the shouts that accompanied each kick and
blow dealt or aimed at the prostrate Kafir, who altogether seemed to be
having a pretty bad time of it.
"That's a damned shame!" exclaimed a voice behind them.
All started and turned their heads, some astonished--all angry--some
perhaps a little ashamed of themselves--towards the owner of the voice,
a horseman who sat calmly in his saddle some twenty yards away--an
expression of strong disgust upon his features.
"What have you got to say to it anyhow, I'd like to know?" cried the man
who had just struck the native.
"What I said before--that it's a damned shame," replied Eustace Milne
unhesitatingly.
"What's a shame, Mister?" sneered another. "That one o' your precious
black kids is getting a hidin' for his infernal cheek?"
"That it should take twenty men to give it him, and that, too, when he's
down."
"I tell you what it is, friend," said the first speaker furiously. "It
may take rather less than twenty to give you one, and that, too, when
you're up!" which sally provoked a blatant guffaw from several of the
hearers.
"I'm not much afraid of that," answered Eustace tranquilly. "But now,
seeing that British love of fair play has been about vindicated by a
score of Englishmen kicking a prostrate Kafir, how would it be to let
him get up and go?"
The keen, biting sarcasm told. The group, which mainly consisted of the
low element, actually did begin to look a trifle ashamed of itself. The
better element composing it gave way and took itself off, as Eustace
deliberately walked his horse up to the fallen native. There were a few
muttered jeers about "the nigger's friend" and getting into the Assembly
on the strength of "blanket votes," [The native franchise, derisively so
termed] and so forth, but none offered any active opposition except one,
however, and that was the man who had originated the disturbance.
"Look here," he shouted savagely. "I don't know who you are and I don't
care. But if you don't take yourself off out of this mighty quick, I'll
just about knock you into a jelly; you see if I don't."
"_Ja_, that's right. Serve him as you did the nigger!" yelled the
bystanders, a lot of rowdy hobbledehoys and a contingent of town loafers
whom the prospect of an easy-going, devil-may-care life in the _veldt_
had drawn from the more sober avocations of bricklaying and
waggon-building within the Colony, and who, it may be added,
distinguished themselves at the seat of hostilities by such a line of
drunken mutinous insubordination as rendered them an occasion of
perennial detestation and disgust to their respective commanders. These
now closed up around their bullying, swash-bucklering champion,
relieving their ardently martial spirits by hooting and cat's calls. It
was only one man against a crowd. They felt perfectly safe.
"Who sold his mate to the blanked niggers!" they yelled. "Ought to be
tarred and feathered. Come on, boys; let's do it. Who's for tarring
and feathering the Kafir spy?"
All cordially welcomed this spicy proposal, but curiously enough, no one
appeared anxious to begin, for they still kept some paces behind the
original aggressor. That worthy, however, seemed to have plenty of
fight in him, for he advanced upon Eustace unhesitatingly.
"Come now. Are you going to clear?" he shouted. "You're not? All
right. I'll soon make you."
A stirrup-iron, wielded by a clever hand, is a terribly formidable
weapon. Backing his horse a pace or two Eustace wrenched loose his
stirrup. Quick as lightning, it whirled in the air, and as his
assailant sprang wildly at him down it came. The aggressive bully went
to earth like a felled ox.
"Any more takers for the tar-and-feather line of business?" said Eustace
quietly, but with the light of battle in his eyes.
The insulting jeers and the hooting still continued. But no one
advanced. No one seemed anxious to tackle that particularly resolute
looking horseman.
"Get out of this, you cowardly skunks!" sung out a voice behind him,
which voice proceeded from another horseman, who had ridden up unseen
during the _emeute_. "Twenty to one! Faugh! For two pins we'll
sjambok the lot of you."
"Hallo, Errington! Where have you dropped from? Thought you were away
down in the Colony," said Eustace, turning to the new arrival, a fine
soldierly looking man of about his own age, in whom he recognised a
former Field-Captain in Brathwaite's Horse. The crowd had already begun
to melt away before this new accession of force.
"Yer--send yer winder to be cleaned! Stick it in yer breeches pocket!"
were some of the witticisms yelled back by the retreating rowdies, in
allusion to the eye-glass worn by the newcomer.
"By jove, Milne. You seem to have been in the wars," said the latter
looking from one to the other of the injured parties. "What's the row,
eh?"
"It speaks for itself. Nothing much, though. I've only been reminding
our valiant friends there that fair play is a jewel even when its only a
Kafir that's concerned."--"Which unsavoury Ethiop seems to have been
knocked about a bit, however," rejoined the other, sticking his glass
into his eye to examine the fallen native.
The Kafir, who had raised himself to a sitting posture, was now staring
stupidly about him as though half dazed. Blood was issuing from his
nose and mouth, and one of his eyes was completely closed up. His
assailants had all slunk away by now, the arrival upon the scene of this
unwelcome ally having turned the scale against any plan they might have
entertained of showing further unpleasantness toward the solitary
intervener.
Some three or four of the Gaika's countrymen, who had held aloof, now
came up to the assistance of their friend. These gave their version of
the story. Eustace listened attentively.
"It was a foolish thing to make any remark at such a time and in such a
place," he said. "It was sure to provoke strife. Go and get him a tot
of grog," throwing them a sixpence, "and then you'd better get away
home."
"I tell you what it is, Milne," said Errington in a low tone. "I know
that fellow you floored so neatly. He's one of the best bruisers in the
country, and I'm afraid you haven't seen the last of him. You'd better
keep a bright lookout as long as you're in this part. He's bound to
play you some dog's trick at the earliest opportunity."
"Is he? Well I must try and be ready for him. I suppose now we must
bring the poor devil round, eh? He seems about stunned."
Errington had a flask in his pocket. Dismounting he raised the fallen
man's head and poured some of the contents into his mouth.
The fellow revived--gradually, stupidly. He had received a bad blow,
which only a thick slouch hat and a thicker skull had saved from being a
worse one.
"Who the hell are you?" he growled surlily, as he sat up. "Oh, I know
you," he went on as his glance lit upon Eustace. "All right, my fine
feller, wait a bit, till I'm all right again. You'll be sorry yet for
that damned coward's whack you've given me. See if you're not."
"You brought it upon yourself. Why did you try and rush me?"
"I didn't rush you with a stirrup-iron, did I?"
"No. But see here. If I'm attacked I'm not going to leave the choice
of my means of defence to the enemy. Not much. How would that pan out
for an idea in fighting old Kreli, for instance?"
"Of course," struck in Errington. "That's sound sense, and you know it
is, Jackson. You and Milne have had a bit of a scrimmage and you've got
the worst of it. It might easily have been the other way. So don't let
us have any grudge-bearing over it. Take another drink, man," pouring
out a liberal modicum of whiskey into the cup of the flask, "and shake
hands and make it up."
The man, who was not a bad fellow at bottom, gave a growl as he tossed
off the tendered potion. Then he held out his hand to Eustace.
"Well, Mister, I don't bear no grudge. If you'll jest say you're sorry
you hit me--"
"I'll say that with pleasure, Jackson," replied Eustace, as they shook
hands. "And look here, if you still feel a bit groggy on your pins,
jump on my horse and ride home. I'll walk."
"No, thanks. I'm all right now. Besides I ain't going your way. My
waggon's outspanned yonder on the flat. Good-night."
"I stand very much indebted to you, Errington, for two services
rendered," said Eustace as they rode towards the township. "And I'm not
sure that the last isn't by far the most important."
"Pooh! not at all, my dear fellow. That howling rabble wouldn't have
come within twenty yards of you."
"I don't know about that. The vagabonds were rather beginning to
realise that twenty to one meant long odds in favour of the twenty, when
you came up. But the deft way in which you smoothed down our friend
with the broken head was diplomatic to a degree. I hate rows, and the
knowledge that some fellow is going about day and night seeking an
opportunity of fastening a quarrel upon you unawares is tiresome.
Besides, I'm nothing of a boxer, and if I were should hate a shindy just
as much."
"I quite agree with you," said the other, who _was_ something of a
boxer. "To form the centre of attraction to a howling, yahooing rabble,
making an undignified exhibition of yourself bashing and being bashed by
some other fellow like a couple of butcher's boys in the gutter, is
bound to be a revolting process whichever way you look at it. Even the
law of the pistol seems to be an improvement on it."
"I think so, too. It puts men on better terms of equality. Any man may
become a dead shot and a quick drawer, but not one man in ten can fulfil
all the conditions requisite to becoming a good boxer. The fact is,
however, I hate rows of any kind, even when only a spectator. When
fellows say they like them I never altogether believe them."
"Unless they are very young. But the Berserk taint soon wears off as
you get on into life a bit," said Errington.
"Well now--I turn off here. Good-evening."