Several months had gone by.
The war was nearly over now. Struck on all sides--decimated by the
terrible breech-loading weapons of the whites--harried even in their
wildest strongholds, their supplies running low, their crops destroyed,
and winter upon them--the insurgent tribes recognised that they were
irretrievably worsted. They had no heart for further fighting--their
principal thought now was to make the best terms they could for
themselves. So all along the frontier the disheartened savages were
flocking in to lay down their arms and surrender. Those who belonged to
independent tribes in the Transkei were treated as belligerents--and
after being disarmed were located at such places as the Government
thought fit. Those who were British subjects, and whose locations were
within the colonial boundaries, such as the Gaikas, Hlambis, and a
section of the Tembus, were treated as rebels and lodged in gaol until
such time as it should please the authorities to put them on their trial
for high treason, treason, felony, or sedition, according to their rank,
responsibilities, or deeds. Still the unfortunate barbarians preferred
to discount the chances of the future against present starvation--and
continued to come in, in swarms. The gaols were soon crammed to
overflowing; so, too, were the supplementary buildings hired for the
emergency.
Not all, however, had preferred imprisonment with plenty to liberty with
starvation. There were still armed bands lurking in the forest recesses
of the Amatola, and in the rugged and bushy fastnesses beyond the Kei.
While most of the chiefs of the colonial tribes had either surrendered
or been slain, the head and Paramount Chief of all was still at large.
"Kreli must be captured or killed," was the general cry. "Until this is
done the war can never be considered at an end." But the old chief had
no intention of submitting to either process if he could possibly help
it. He continued to make himself remarkably scarce.
Another character who was very particularly wanted was Hlangani, and for
this shrewd and daring leader the search was almost as keen as for Kreli
himself. Common report had killed him over and over again, but somehow
there was no satisfactory evidence of his identification. Then a wild
rumour got about that he had been sent by his chief on a mission to
invoke the aid of the Zulu King, who at that time was, rightly or
wrongly, credited with keeping South Africa in general, and the colony
of Natal in particular, in a state of uneasiness and alarm. But,
wherever he was, like his chief, and the "bold gendarmes" of the
burlesque song, he continued to be "when wanted never there."
All these reports and many more reached Eustace Milne, who had taken no
active part in frontier affairs since we saw him last. He had even been
sounded as to his willingness to undertake a post on behalf of the
Government which should involve establishing diplomatic relations with
the yet combatant bands, but this he had declined. He intended to do
what he could for certain of the rebels later on, but meanwhile the time
had not yet come.
Moreover, he was too happy amid the peaceful idyllic life he was then
leading to care to leave it even for a time in order to serve a
potentially ungrateful country. And it was idyllic. There was quite
enough to do on the place to keep even his energetic temperament active.
The stock which had constituted the capital of their common partnership
and had been sent to Swaanepoel's Hoek at the outbreak of the war
required considerable looking after, for, owing to the change of
_veldt_, it did not thrive as well as could be wished. And then the
place afforded plenty of sport; far more than Anta's Kloof had done.
Leopards, wild pigs, and bushbucks abounded in the bushy kloofs; indeed,
there were rather too many of the former, looking at it from the farming
point of view. The valley bottoms and the water courses were full of
guinea-fowl and francolins, and high up on the mountain slopes, the vaal
rykbok might be shot for the going after, to say nothing of a plentiful
sprinkling of quail and now and then a bustard. Eustace was often
constrained to admit to himself that he would hardly have believed it
possible that life could hold such perfect and unalloyed happiness.
He had, as we have said, plenty of wholesome and congenial work, with
sport to his heart's content, and enjoyed a complete immunity from care
or worry. These things alone might make any man happy. But there was
another factor in this instance. There was the sweet companionship of
one whom he had loved passionately when the case was hopeless and she
was beyond his reach, and whom he loved not less absorbingly now that
all barriers were broken down between them, now that they would soon
belong to each other until their life's end. This was the influence
that cast a radiant glow upon the doings and undertakings of everyday
life, encircling everything with a halo of love, even as the very peace
of Heaven.
Not less upon Eanswyth did the same influences fall. The revulsion
following upon that awful period of heart-break and despair had given
her fresh life indeed. In her grand beauty, in the full glow of health
and perfect happiness, no one would have recognised the white, stricken
mourner of that time. She realised that there was nothing on earth left
to desire. And then her conscience would faintly reproach her. Had she
a right to revel in such perfect happiness in the midst of a world of
sorrow and strife?
But the said world seemed to keep very fairly outside that idyllic
abode. Now and then they would drive or ride into Somerset East, or
visit or be visited by a neighbour--the latter not often. The bulk of
the surrounding settlers were Boers, and beyond exchanging a few
neighbourly civilities from time to time they saw but little of them.
This, however, was not an unmixed evil.
Bentley had been as good as his word. His wife was a capital
housekeeper and had effectively taken all cares of that nature off
Eanswyth's hands. Both were thoroughly good and worthy people, of
colonial birth, who, by steadiness and trustworthy intelligence, had
worked their way up from a very lowly position. Unlike too many of
their class, however, they were not consumed with a perennial anxiety to
show forth their equality in the sight of Heaven with those whom they
knew to be immeasurably their superiors in birth and culture, and to
whom, moreover, they owed in no small degree their own well-being. So
the relations existing between the two different factors which composed
the household were of the most cordial nature.
There had been some delay in settling up Tom Carhayes' affairs--in fact,
they were not settled yet. With a good sense and foresight, rather
unexpected in one of his unthinking and impulsive temperament, poor Tom
had made his will previous to embarking on the Gcaleka campaign.
Everything he possessed was bequeathed to his wife--with no restriction
upon her marrying again--and Eustace and a mutual friend were appointed
executors.
This generosity had inspired in Eanswyth considerable compunction, and
was the only defective spoke in the wheel of her present great
happiness. Sometimes she almost suspected that her husband had guessed
at how matters really stood, and the idea cost her more than one
remorseful pang. Yet, though she had failed in her allegiance, it was
in her heart alone. She would have died sooner than have done so
otherwise, she told herself.
Twice had the executors applied for the necessary authority to
administer the estate. But the Master of the Supreme Court professed
himself not quite satisfied. The evidence as to the testator's actual
death struck him as inadequate--resting, as it did, upon the sole
testimony of one of the executors, who could not even be positive that
the man was dead when last seen by him. He might be alive still, though
held a prisoner. Against this view was urged the length of time which
had elapsed, and the utter improbability that the Gcaleka bands, broken
up and harried, as they were, from point to point, would hamper
themselves with a prisoner, let alone a member of that race toward which
they had every reason to entertain the most uncompromising and
implacable rancour. The Supreme Court, however, was immovable. When
hostilities were entirely at an end, they argued, evidence might be
forthcoming on the part of natives who had actually witnessed the
testator's death. That fact incontestably established, letters of
administration could at once be granted. Meanwhile the matter must be
postponed a little longer.
This delay affected those most concerned not one whit. There was not
the slightest fear of Eanswyth's interests suffering in the able hands
which held their management. Only, the excessive caution manifested by
the law's representatives would at times communicate to Eustace Milne a
vague uneasiness. What if his cousin should be alive after all? What
if he had escaped under circumstances which would involve perforce his
absence during a considerable period? He might have gained the sea
shore, for instance, and been picked up by a passing ship bound to some
distant country, whose captain would certainly decline to diverge many
days out of his course to oblige one unknown castaway. Such things had
happened. Still, the idea was absurd, he told himself, for, even if it
was so, sufficient time had elapsed for the missing man, in these days
of telegraphs and swift mail steamers, to make known his whereabouts,
even if not to return in person. He had not seen dim actually killed in
his conflict with Hlangani--indeed, the fact of that strange duel having
been fought with kerries, only seemed to point to the fact that no
killing was intended. That he was only stunned and disabled when
dragged away out of sight Eustace could swear, but why should that
implacable savage make such a point of having the absolute disposal of
his enemy, if it were not to execute the most deadly ferocious vengeance
upon him which lay in his power? That the wretched man had been
fastened down to be devoured alive by black ants, even as the pretended
wizard had been treated, Eustace entertained hardly any doubt--would
have entertained none, but that the witch-doctress's veiled hint had
pointed to a fate, if possible, even more darkly horrible. No, after
all this time, his unfortunate cousin could not possibly be alive. The
actual mode of his death might forever remain a mystery, but that he was
dead was as certain as anything in this world can be. Any suspicion to
the contrary he resolved to dismiss effectually from his mind.
Eanswyth would often accompany her lover during his rides about the
_veldt_ looking after the stock. She would not go with him, however,
when he was on sporting intent, she had tried it once or twice, but the
bucks had a horrid knack of screaming in the most heart-rending fashion
when sadly wounded and not killed outright, and Eustace's assurance that
this was due to the influence of fear and not of pain, entirely failed
to reconcile her to it. [A fact. The smaller species of antelope here
referred to, however badly wounded, will not utter a sound until seized
upon by man or dog, when it screams as described. The same holds good
of the English hare.] But when on more peaceful errand bent, she was
never so happy as when riding with him among the grand and romantic
scenery of their mountain home. She was a first-rate horsewoman and
equally at home in the saddle when her steed was picking his way along
some dizzy mountain path on the side of a grass slope as steep as the
roof of a house with a series of perpendicular _krantzes_ below, or when
pursuing some stony and rugged bush track where the springy _spekboem_
boughs threatened to sweep her from her seat every few yards.
"We are partners now, you know, dearest," she would say gaily, when he
would sometimes urge the fatigue and occasionally even the risk of these
long and toilsome rides. "While that law business still hangs fire the
partnership can't be dissolved, I suppose. Therefore I claim my right
to do my share of the work."
It was winter now. The clear mountain air was keen and crisp, and
although the nights were bitterly cold, the days were lovely. The sky
was a deep, cloudless blue, and the sun poured his rays down into the
valleys with a clear, genial warmth which just rendered perceptible the
bracing exhilaration of the air. Thanks to the predominating _spekboem_
and other evergreen bushes, the winter dress of Nature suffered but
little diminution in verdure; and in grand contrast many a stately
summit soared proudly aloft, capped with a white powdering of snow.
Those were days of elysium indeed, to those two, as they rode abroad
among the fairest scenes of wild Nature; or, returning at eve, threaded
the grassy bush-paths, while the crimson winged louris flashed from tree
to tree, and the francolins and wild guinea-fowl, startled by the
horses' hoofs, would scuttle across the path, echoing their grating note
of alarm. And then the sun, sinking behind a lofty ridge, would fling
his parting rays upon the smooth burnished faces of the great red cliffs
until they glowed like molten fire.
Yes, those were indeed days to look back upon.