"You don't call Tom Carhayes a Britisher, do you?" objected another man.

"Yes, I do. At least, perhaps not altogether. He's been here a good number of years now and got into our ways. Still, I remember when he first came out. And Milne only came out the other day."

"Well, Milne's `blanket friends' have paid him off in a coin he didn't bargain for. Wonder what he thinks of 'em now--if he _can_ think," said someone, with an ill-natured sneer--for Eustace, like most men with any character in them, was not beloved by everybody.

"Ah, poor chap," went on the old man. "Milne was rather too fond of the Kafirs and Carhayes was a sight too much down on 'em. And now the Kafirs have done for them both, without fear, favour, or--"

"Tsh--tsh--tsh! Shut up, man alive, shut up!"

This was said in a low, warning whisper, and the speaker's sleeve was violently plucked.

"Eh? What's the row?" he asked, turning in amazement.

"Why, that's her!" was the reply, more earnest than grammatical.

"Her? Who?"

"His wife, of course."

A Cape cart was driving by, containing two ladies and two young girls.

Of the former one was Mrs Hoste, the other Eanswyth. As they pa.s.sed quite close to the speakers, Eanswyth turned her head with a bow and a smile to someone standing in front of the hotel. A dead, awkward silence fell upon the group of talkers.

"I say. She didn't hear, did she?" stage-whispered the old man eagerly, when the trap had gone by.

"She didn't look much as though she had--poor thing!" said another whom the serene, radiant happiness shining in that sweet face had not escaped.

"Poor thing, indeed," was the reply. "She ought to be told, though.

But I wouldn't be the man to do it, no--not for fifty pounds. Why, they say she can hardly eat or sleep since she heard Tom Carhayes was coming back, she's so pleased. And now, poor Tom--where is he? Lying out there hacked into Kafir mince-meat." And the speaker, jerking his hand in the direction of the Transkei, stalked solemnly down the steps of the _stoep_, heaving a prodigious sigh.

CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE.

"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 hors.e.m.e.n, 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 a.s.segais 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, p.r.o.nounced 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 sc.r.a.p 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 sc.r.a.p 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."