CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE.
"THE CURSE HAS COME UPON ME..."
The party in the Cape cart were returning from a drive out toDraaibosch, a roadside inn and canteen some ten or a dozen miles alongthe King Williamstown road. Two troops of Horse, one of themBrathwaite's, were encamped there the night before on their wayhomeward, and a goodly collection of their friends and well-wishers haddriven or ridden over to see them start.
It was a lovely day, and the scene had been lively enough as thecombined troops--numbering upwards of two hundred horsemen, bronzed andwar-worn, but "fit" and in the highest of spirits, had struck their campand filed off upon their homeward way, cheering and being cheeredenthusiastically by the lines of spectators. An enthusiasm, however, inno wise shared by groups of Hlambi and Gaika Kafirs from Ndimba's orSandili's locations, who, in all the savagery of their red paint andblankets, hung around the door of the canteen with scowling sneers upontheir faces, the while bandying among themselves many a deep-tonedremark not exactly expressive of amity or affection towards their whitebrethren. But for this the latter cared not a jot.
"Hey, Johnny!" sang out a trooper, holding out a bundle of assegaistowards 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 acouple of bullets first."
"Haw! haw!" guffawed another. "You fellows had better behave yourselvesor we shall be coming to look you up next. Tell old Sandili that, withour love. Ta-ta, Johnny. So long!"
It was poor wit, and those at whom it was directed appreciated it at itsproper value. The scowl deepened upon that cloud of dark faces, and amutter of contempt and defiance rose from more than one throat. Yet inthe bottom of their hearts the savages entertained a sufficientlywholesome respect for those hardened, war-worn sharpshooters.
Handkerchiefs waved and hats were flourished in the air, and amiduproarious and deafening cheers the mounted corps paced forth,Brathwaite's Horse leading. And over and above the clamour and tumultof 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 NationalAnthem and "_Vat you goed an trek Ferreia_." [A popular old Boer song.]
Into the fun and frolic of the occasion Eanswyth entered with zest. Shehad laughed until she nearly cried over the hundred-and-one comic littleincidents inseparable from this scene of universal jollity. Even theboldest flights of wit attempted during the multifold and promiscuousgood-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 humouron every face, found its echo in her. In the unclouded blue of theheavens, the golden sunlit air, there seemed a vibrating chord of joyousmelody, a poetry in the sweeping plains, even in the red lines ofochre-smeared savages filing along the narrow tracks leading to or fromtheir respective locations. Her heart sang within her as once more thehorses' heads were turned homeward. Any hour now might bring _him_.Why, by the time they reached home _he_ might have arrived, or at anyrate an express hurried on in advance to announce the arrival of thecorps by nightfall.
"Rangers arrived?" repeated in reply to Mrs Hoste's eager question, oneof two acquaintances whom they met upon the road when within a mile ofthe village. "N-no, not yet. They can't be far off, though. Three orfour 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 speechaccompanying the information had quite escaped Eanswyth--nor had itstruck her friend either. Then laughing and chatting in the highest ofspirits, they had driven past the conversing groups upon the _stoep_ ofthe 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 thedoorway 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 ofpaper folded into a note. Mrs Hoste opened it carelessly--then a sortof 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 tofollow the messenger. Eanswyth had gone to her room to remove her hat,fortunately.
"Oh, Mr Shelton--is it true?" she cried breathlessly, coming right uponthe sender of the missive, who was waiting at no great distance from thehouse. "Is it really true? Can it be? What awful news! Oh, it willkill her! What shall we do?"
"Try and be calm, Mrs Hoste," said Shelton gravely. "There is no doubtabout its truth, I am sorry to say. It is fortunate you had not heardthe first report of the affair which arrived here. All four of themwere rumoured killed, I'm told. But--No, don't be alarmed," he added,hastily interrupting an impending outburst. "Your husband is quitesafe, and will be here this evening. But poor Tom is killed--not adoubt about it--Milne too. And, now, will you break it to MrsCarhayes? It must be done, you know. She may hear it by accident anymoment; the whole place is talking about it, and just think what a shockthat 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 mostpainful and heart-breaking necessity--but it is a necessity."
"Come and help me through with it, Mr Shelton," pleaded Mrs Hostepiteously. "I shall never manage it alone."
Shelton was in a quandary. He knew Eanswyth fairly well, but he was bynature a retiring man, a trifle shy even, and to find himself saddledwith 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 familyof his own, yet it is to be feared that during the three dozen paceswhich it took them to reach the front door, he almost wished he couldchange places with poor Tom Carhayes.
He wished so altogether as they gained the _stoep_. For in the doorwaystood a tall figure--erect, rigid as a post--with face of a ghastlywhite, lips livid and trembling.
"What does this mean?" gasped Eanswyth. "What `bad news' is it? Pleasetell 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 arekilling me," gasped Eanswyth, speaking now in a dry whisper.
One look at his accomplice convinced Shelton that he would have to takethe whole matter into his own hands.
"Try and be brave, Mrs Carhayes," he said gravely. "It concerns yourhusband."
"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 assoon as possible.
For a minute he seemed to have reason to congratulate himself on thisidea. The rigid stony horror depicted on her features relaxed, givingway to a dazed, bewildered expression, as though she had borne the firstbrunt 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 andthere.
"Mrs Carhayes, pray be calm," he said unsteadily. "You have heard theworst, remember--the worst, but not all. You cousin shared poor Tom'sfate."
"Eustace?"
The word was framed, rather th
an uttered, by those livid and bloodlesslips. 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 almostwished she had done both--anything rather than take the blow as she wasdoing. She stood there in the doorway--her tall form seeming to towerabove them--her large eyes sparkling forth from her livid and bloodlesscountenance--and the awful and set expression of despair imprintedtherein was such as the two who witnessed it prayed they might neverbehold 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, themockery 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 thevery heart's blood of the lookers on with that dreadful shadow of asmile. Then, without a word, she turned and walked to her room.
"Oh! I must go to her!" cried Mrs Hoste eagerly. "Oh, this is toofearful."
"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. Andwhat a shock it is. Bereaved of husband and cousin at one stroke. Andthe cousin was almost like a brother, wasn't he?"
"Yes," and the recollection of her recent suspicions swept in with arush 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 howbravely 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 ofstrong-mindedness, yet she strikes me as being a woman ofextraordinarily strong feeling. The shock must have been frightful, andalthough she didn't scream or faint, the expression of her face was onethat 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'sgetting on. Poor thing!"
------------------------------------------------------------------------
The sun of her life had set--had gone down into black night--yet thewarm rays of the summer sunshine glanced through the open window of herroom, glowing down upon the wide _veldt_ outside and upon the distantsparkle of the blue sea. Never again would laughter issue from thoselips--yet the sound of light-hearted chat and peals of mirth was everand anon borne from without. The droning hum of insects in theafternoon air--the clink of horse-hoofs, the deep-toned conversation ofnatives passing near the window--all these familiar sounds of everydaylife 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 thatdoor trilling the cheerful fragments of the airiest of songs--but a fewminutes since she picked up that fatal scrap of paper, and then stoodface to face with those who brought her news which had laid her life inruins! Only a few minutes! Why, it seemed years--centuries--aeons.Was it a former state of existence that upon which she now looked backas across a great and yawning gulf? Was she now dead--and was this theplace of torment? The fire that burned forever and ever! How shouldshe quench the fire in her heart and brain?
There was a very stoniness about her grief as if the blow had petrifiedher. 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 gainedher room and locked herself in alone she stood--stood upright--andfinally when she sought a chair it was mechanically, as with themovement 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 lastblissful morning at Anta's Kloof. "If we are doing wrong through lovefor each other we shall have to expiate it at some future time. Weshall be made to suffer _through_ each other," and to this she hadresponded "Amen." How soon had those words come true. The judgment hadfallen. 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 nohope.
'Tween Snow and Fire: A Tale of the Last Kafir War Page 25