"IT IS THE VOICE OF AN ORACLE."
Swaanepoel's Hoek, poor Tom Carhayes' other farm, was situated in the
division of Somerset East, somewhere between the Great and Little Fish
Rivers. It was rather an out-of-the-way place, lying in a mountainous
district, sparsely inhabited and only reached by rough wheel-tracks
through narrow, winding _poorts_. But the scenery was wild and romantic
to a degree. The bold sweep of bush-grown slopes, the lofty heights
culminating in red iron-bound _krantzes_ whose inaccessible hedges
afforded nesting place for colonies of _aasvogels_, the thunder of the
mountain torrent pent-up between black rocky walls where the maiden-hair
fern hung in solid festoons from every crack and cranny, the cheerful
and abundant sounds of bird and animal life--all this rendered the place
a wonderfully pleasant and attractive, if somewhat out-of-the-way,
residence.
To Eanswyth Carhayes, however, this very isolation constituted an
additional charm. The solemn grandeur of the soaring mountains, the
hush of the seldom trodden valleys, conveyed to her mind, after the
bustle and turmoil of the crowded frontier settlement, the perfection of
peace. She felt that she could spend her whole life on this beautiful
spot. And it was her own.
She had only once before visited the place--shortly after her marriage--
and then had spent but three or four days there. Its beauties had
failed at that time to strike her imagination. Now it was different.
All the world was a Paradise. It seemed that there was nothing left in
life for her to desire.
The house was a fair size, almost too large for the overseer and his
family. That worthy had asked Eustace whether Mrs Carhayes would
prefer that they should vacate it. There was a substantial outbuilding,
used--or rather only half of it was used--as a store, and a saddle and
harness room. They could make themselves perfectly snug in that, if
Mrs Carhayes wished to have the house to herself.
"I can answer for it: Mrs Carhayes wishes nothing of the sort," he had
replied. "In fact, we were talking over that very thing on the way
down."
"Sure the children won't disturb her, Mr Milne?"
"Well, it hasn't looked like it up till now. Those youngsters of yours
don't seem particularly obstreperous, Bentley, and Mrs Carhayes appears
rather to have taken a fancy to them than otherwise."
"If there's a kind sweet lady in this world, Mr Milne, it's Mrs
Carhayes," said the overseer earnestly. "I know the wife'll make her
right comfortable while she's here. She'll save her all bother over
housekeeping or anything of that sort. Excuse the question, but is she
likely to be making a long stay?"
"I shouldn't wonder. You see, there's nowhere else for her to go, and
the quiet of this place suits her after all she has gone through. And
she has gone through some pretty lively times, I need hardly tell you."
"I should think so. Why, what a narrow escape she had that time you
were bringing her away from Anta's Kloof, when the trap broke down.
That was a frightful position for any lady to be in, in all conscience."
"Oh, you heard of that, did you? Ah, I forgot. It was in every paper
in the Colony--more or less inaccurately reported, of course," added
Eustace drily, and then the two men lit their pipes and chatted for an
hour or so about the war and its events.
"By the way, Bentley," said Eustace presently. "Talking about that
outbuilding. I've decided to knock out the partition--it's only a
wooden one--between the two rooms next to the storeroom, turn them into
one, and use it as a bedroom for myself. The house is rather congested
with the lot of us in it, after all. We might go to work at it this
afternoon."
"Certainly, Mr Milne, certainly," replied the overseer. And forthwith
the tool-chest was laid under requisition, and in a couple of hours the
necessary alterations were effected.
This move did not altogether meet with Eanswyth's approval, and she
expostulated accordingly.
"Why should you be the one turned out in the cold," she said. "There's
no earthly necessity for it. You will be horribly uncomfortable over
there, Eustace, and in winter the nights will be quite bitter. Then
again, the roof is a thatched one, and the first rain we get will start
it leaking like a sieve. Besides, there's plenty of room in the house."
"It isn't that, you dear, thoughtful, considerate guardian angel," he
answered. "It isn't quite that, though I put it that way for Bentley's
behoof. It is something of a concession to Mother Grundy, for even here
that arch-hag can make her upas power felt, and I don't want to have all
the tongues in the district wagging like the tails of a pack of
foxhounds just unkennelled. We had enough of that at Komgha. So I've
arranged that at any rate we shan't be under the same roof. See?"
"Yes; but it's ridiculous all the same. As if we weren't relations,
too."
"And will be closer relations soon--in fact, the closest. I suppose we
must wait a year--but that rests with you."
"I don't know. It's an awfully long time," and she sighed. Then rather
hesitatingly: "Darling, you have never yet shown me the little silver
box. We are alone now, and--"
"And you are dying to see it. Well, Eanswyth, it is really a most
remarkable coincidence--in fact, almost makes a man feel superstitious."
It was near sundown. A soft, golden light rested upon the great slopes,
and the cooing of doves floated melodiously from the mealie lands in the
valley. The mountain stream roared through its rocky bed at their feet,
and among the crannies and ledges of a profusion of piled up boulders
forming miniature cliffs around, a whole colony of bright eyed little
_dasjes_ [The "rock rabbit"--really a species of marmot] were disporting
themselves, scampering in and out with a boldness which augured volumes
in favour of the peaceable aspect of the two human intruders upon their
sequestered haunt.
"As you say, the time and place are indeed fitting," said Eustace,
sitting down upon a boulder and taking the box from its place of
concealment. "Now, my darling, look at this. The assegai point is
broken short off, driven with such force that it has remained embedded
in the lid."
It was even as he said. Had the blade been driven with a powerful
hammer it could not have been more firmly wedged within the metal.
"That was the blow I received during the fight," he went on. "The dent
at the side of it was done when I stood up to the witch-doctress. It
did not penetrate much that time; not that the blow wasn't hard enough,
for it nearly knocked me down, but the assegai was a rotten one and made
of soft iron, and the point flattened out like a Snider bullet.
Heavens! but that was an ordeal--something of a nerve-tickler!" he
added, with a grave and meditative look in his eyes, as if he were
mentally re-enacting that trying and critical scene.
Eanswyth shuddered, but said nothing. She nestled rather closer to his
side, as he continued:
"Now to open the box--a thing I haven't done since, partly from
superstitious motives--partly that I intended we should do so together--
if we ever were to be again together, that is."
He pressed the spring, but it was out of order. It needed the wrench of
a strong knife blade before the lid flew open.
"Look at that. The assegai point is so firmly wedged that it would take
a hammer to drive it out--but I propose to leave it in--use it as a
`charm' next war perhaps. Now for the letter. It has gone through and
through it--through the photograph too--and has just dinted the bottom
of the box."
He spread out the letter. Those last tender, loving words, direct from
her overflowing heart, were pierced and lacerated by the point of the
murderous weapon.
"If this is not an oracle, there never was such a thing," he went on.
"Look at this"--reading--"`I dare not say "God bless you." Coming from
me it would entail a curse, rather than a blessing...' The point has
cut clean through the words `a curse'--Mfulini's assegai has made short
work of that malediction. Is not that the voice of an oracle?"
She made no reply. She was watching the development of the
investigation with rapt, eager attention.
"Here again--`Were anything to befall you--were you never to come back
to me my heart would be broken...' As the paper is folded it has cut
through the word `heart'--And--by Jove, this is more than a coincidence!
Here again, it has gone clean through the same word. Look at the end.
`_I want you in all your dangers and hardships to have, with you, these
poor little lines, coming, as they are, warm from my hand and heart_'...
And now for the photograph. It is a sweetly lifelike representation of
you, my dearest--"
A cry from her interrupted him. The portrait was a three parts length
cabinet one, cut round to enable it to fit the box, which it did
exactly. Right through the breast of the portrait, the assegai point
had pierced.
"O Eustace--this is an oracle, indeed!" she cried. "Do you not see?
The spear point has gone right through my `heart' again for the third
time. My dearest love, thrice has my `heart' stood between you and
death--once in the portrait, twice in the letter. At the same time it
has obliterated the word `curse.' It is, indeed, an `oracle' and--What
if I had never given you that box at all?"
"I should be a lot of dry bones scattered about the _veldt_ in
Bomvanaland at this moment," he rejoined. "Now you see how your love
has twice stood between me and death; has preserved my life for itself.
My sweet guardian angel, does not that look as if some Fate had always
intended us for each other from the very first!"