But serious thoughts will intrude upon the mirth and great cordiality present in the gathering. The hand of Death has been laid upon the familiar circle since last we saw it here assembled, and well-loved faces have dropped out of it, never to be beheld again on earth. Jim Brathwaite—jovial, light-hearted, and popular in the best sense of the word—reigns at Seringa Vale now; but in two hearts especially to-day lingers a very warm and loving remembrance of the dear old couple whose kindly, genial presence ere while made sunshine in that room.
And the grisly war-god, too, had exacted his tribute even from that small circle, and poor Jack Armitage, that best of good comrades, would no more enliven them with his quizzical countenance and reckless, boyish love of fun. Even Allen sadly missed his erewhile tormentor, and thought his immunity from chaff and practical jokes dearly purchased. But the dead man lies in his lonely grave away in savage Kafirland, and his young widow weeps for him, and his old comrades think of him with an affectionate, but shadowed regret. Poor Jack!
When the good fellowship and general cordiality is at its height, Hicks is suddenly inspired with an idea that some speech-making would very appropriately mark the occasion, which idea he communicates to Jim; but he is overruled, on the ground that “the women would be safe to turn on the hose” if anything of that kind were started, which would inevitably put a damper on the prevailing good spirits; while Thorman, who has overheard him on the other side, remarks, with a contemptuous growl, “that Hicks, of all people, on his legs, speechifying, would remind him of nothing so much as a damned bear jumping up at an apple tied to a string, because he’d be trying to catch at something that wouldn’t come—he would, by so and so, and so and so.” A statement, however, which in no wise disturbed the exuberant good-humour of the subject thereof.
Meanwhile, behind the cattle-kraal are seated, in close confab, two other personages who have played no unimportant part in this history. These are Sam and Xuvani. And how comes the latter here?
After he had so deftly turned the tables on the Cuban mulatto, Xuvani retraced his steps in the direction of Sandili’s kraal, keeping the while a careful lookout for Tambusa, whom he expected to join him. But, after a while, his nephew not appearing, the old man began to suspect that something had gone wrong. He redoubled his caution, but the lone, silent bush betrayed nothing of the tragedy of blood just enacted in its cruel depths. He was perplexed. If the plot had been discovered, and the lad was captured before he could make good his escape, he would be dead by this, and it was clearly useless for himself to rush on to the very points of his countrymen’s avenging assegais. While pondering over his plan of action a shadow passed between him and the sun. He looked up. It was a vulture; and another and another swept between the tree-tops and the blue sky. The mystery was explained now. A few steps more and the old man knelt beside the stiffening corpse, not long cold, of the luckless Tambusa. The murderers had gone down to him to ensure that he was dead, and had left him there in the rocky glen just where he had fallen, and the traces and footmarks supplied all the missing links in the bloody tale to the eye of the shrewd savage. Hastily piling a heap of stones on the dead body of his nephew, Xuvani left the spot, decided as to his future course of action. To return to Sandili would be to commit suicide. He regretted poor Tambusa’s fate, but accepted the event with true native philosophy—it was done, and it couldn’t be helped now. They had both been guilty of an act of treason towards their countrymen, albeit of one of chivalrous gratitude towards the white man; and the lad had fallen a victim. It was unfortunate, but could not be helped. So, acting upon Claverton’s advice, Xuvani then and there made his way quietly into the colony, where he engaged himself as a labourer on some railway works in the Western Province, and where a powerful, able-bodied, well-conducted Kafir like himself was too good a workman for any questions to be asked. There he remained some months, till at length, the war over, and as soon as he could safely do so, he returned to the frontier, and obtained employment under Jim Brathwaite, in his former capacity.
So here he is at Seringa Vale again, looking a trifle chapfallen, perhaps, but on the whole, deeming himself marvellously lucky, when he thinks of the frightful grief to which have come so many of his old companions in arms. And he is, moreover, enjoying substantial advantage by reason of having saved Claverton’s life; for he already owns more good cattle than ever he pictured to himself in his dreams, and will own even more when things are settled, and he knows where to bestow his possessions. And he professes great veneration for Lilian, and is enormously proud of a large, handsome and curiously-wrought armlet which she has given him, and, although to expect him to declare that he prefers this to the more material benefits would be to demand an effort of gallantry too great for Kafir human nature, yet there is no doubt that he looks upon the ornament as a very great distinction indeed, with which nothing would induce him to part.
Sam and the old Gaika have struck up a great alliance, and the only subject on which they fall out is that of the respective prowess of the Kafirs and the colonists in the field—for the war is an inexhaustible topic between them—on which occasion Sam would inevitably be tempted to fire off the Kafir equivalent of his pet ejaculation, “Amaxosa nigga no good,” were it not that such a course would either draw down upon him the old man’s anger, or contempt for him as a “boy,” and the sly dog has a reason for standing well within the other’s good books just now.
And this is the reason. It happens that Xuvani owns a couple of nieces—half-sisters of poor Tambusa—whom he has brought to keep house for him, their father having been slain in the war. Both are fine, well-made, bright-eyed wenches, with a merry laugh and a wealth of cheerful spirits, and Master Sam has developed very decided intentions in that direction. Even now, as he sits there, he is warily trying to ascertain the smallest number of cattle old Xuvani is likely to accept for one of them, and turning over in his mind whether his savings will be sufficient to enable him to lay in the stock needed for the requisite lobola (the price in cattle paid to the father or lawful guardian, for a wife), and if not, whether his master will help him. And yet another difficulty besets Sam’s path. He cannot quite make up his mind which of the brown Venuses he shall propose for. Mnavnma is decidedly the best-looking, and he has a sneaking partiality for her; but, then, she is flighty, whereas Ngcesile is a good worker, steadier and rather better-tempered. So poor Sam is in a cleft stick.
On the afternoon of the day which witnesses this gathering of so many of our old friends at Seringa Vale, a girl is sitting at the window of a pretty house in one of the leafy suburbs of Cape Town. A beautiful girl of four-and-twenty, with exquisitely-chiselled features, and a great mass of golden hair in a shining halo above her face; but there is a hard look in the deep blue eyes, and the full, laughing lips are set and grave as she sits absently gazing out upon the broad surface of the bay, upon whose waters, curled into ripples by the afternoon breeze, the white sails of a few sailing-boats are skimming to and fro. She rouses herself from her reverie, and her glance falls upon something she holds in her hand. It is a newspaper, two months old; and it needs not the pencil mark against one of the notices in the marriage column to attract her eye, for she has gazed upon it many times already. Then she rises, and unlocking a desk takes out something. Only a few faded blossoms, originally distributed over half-a-dozen rank and sorry-looking stalks, but long since fallen off. Yet how tenderly, almost reverently, she handles them! There is something else—a sketch in a few bold pencil strokes, roughly executed on the inside of an envelope. It represents a large full-grown ostrich standing in menacing contemplation of the draughtsman, who, sitting under a bush, has included himself in the sketch as a foreground. Beyond the truculent biped, are the indistinct faces of several persons looking over a wall, and underneath the whole is pencilled the legend: “Cornered—or Brute Force versus Intellect.” For a few moments the girl stands gazing upon these relics, and the hard look in her eyes gives place to a softened and wistful expression that is unutterably sad as she murmurs something to herself, and a tear falls upon the faded and withered blossoms; then, as with an effort, she walks to the fireplace, and, crumpling up the newspaper, places the flowers and the pencil drawing upon it, strikes a match, and watches the whole consume to ashes. That done, she returns to the window and gazes out for a few minutes upon the blue bay and the distant mountains. Footsteps on the gravel beneath, and a ring at the front door, recall her to herself with a start. She tarns from the window, looks in the glass for a moment, and then Ethel Brathwaite goes downstairs to say the word which shall render Gerald Hanbury, Major in H.M.’s 999th Foot, quartered at Blazerabad, India—but now on leave at the Cape—the “happiest dog on earth”—as he thinks.