the village of komgha was going through lively times. every day nearly, levies, on their way to the front, would be passing through, and as it was the last settlement on the border, rations and other necessaries would be in demand, which was good for trade. more over, every room and corner in the place was occupied, not to mention waggons and tents on the common land; for something of a scare was prevalent. the gcalekas beyond the border had been defeated, certainly—or rather had been chased out of their own country—but there was restlessness among the gaika and ndhlambe tribes within the border, and these were both numerous and powerful, with a fine war-like reputation in the past. so many homesteads had been abandoned temporarily, and their owners had either gone into laager, or into the settlement, or, at any rate, had sent their wives and families thither. a goodly proportion, on the other hand, ridiculed the scare, and remained on their farms.
and they seemed justified in doing so. already more than one of the burgher forces had withdrawn from the transkei en route for home. the country was quiet again, it was reported; luckily the disturbance had been kept beyond the border, or the inter-colonial tribes would have been up in a blaze. but there were always some uncomfortable objectors who liked to point out that the paramount chief had not been captured, that the rising was only scotched, not killed, and that then we should see.
the village was the virtual headquarters of the f.a.m. police—and in the artillery barracks crowning an eminence, no less than in the two troops occupying a permanent camp just outside, a chronic state of readiness and activity prevailed. a scheme of defence too had been formed in case of attack—an event of the highest improbability, for even if the rising were to spread, the kafirs would refrain from attacking a strongly defended place, and reserve their energies for the destruction of outlying farms and the ambush and massacre of small bodies of travelling whites.
dick selmes was growing rather impatient. if he could bear no further part in the war—and the doctor had again seriously warned him not to take his wound too lightly—he saw no reason why he should not seek out hazel brandon. his feelings had undergone no diminution, no deadening by reason of change and excitement and peril. the girl’s image was bright and clear in his mind, and the recollection of her engaging ways and sweet and sunny disposition was undimmed. he was not likely to find another like her in one lifetime.
he had been lunching with the commandant and some of the police officers. the former’s hospitable and unpretentious bungalow was always open house—a hospitality that our friend dick was fond of availing himself of, for after the time he had spent with the police, and the hard knocks he had shared with them, he felt as one of themselves; and but for that other attraction would have been in no hurry to bid farewell to a lot of such thundering good fellows, as he defined them on every occasion. yet now, as he strolled along the wide dusty road, he felt hipped.
“why, if it isn’t mr selmes!”
dick, who was in a brown study, started at the voice—a feminine voice—then stared. he saw before him the mother of the small boy he had jumped into the sea to save—at some risk to his own life; and he had forgotten her very existence, and the cordial hopes she had expressed that he would one day see his way to paying them a visit. now she was standing there with a smile and an outstretched hand, the same small boy hanging on to her by the other.
“how do you do, mrs waybridge,” said dick, heartily. “why, here’s jacky. well, young ’un, and how’s yourself?”
“and jacky wouldn’t have been here but for you,” rejoined the other, with feeling. “and—”
dick interrupted.
“now, mrs waybridge, i think we agreed that that subject was to be treated as—er—a somewhat stale one,” he said deprecatorily.
“i’m sure i never agreed to anything of the sort,” she laughed. “but who would have thought of finding you here in komgha. why—what’s the matter with your arm?” becoming alive to the fact that it was in a sling. “you haven’t been in the war, have you?”
“haven’t i? had a most ripping time of it too. by jingo, if it hadn’t been for this confounded scratch, i’d have been in it still. but blunt turned so solemn over it and ordered me out.”
“who?”
“blunt, the f.a.m.p. surgeon.”
“and so you’ve come back wounded. but it’s not serious?”
“no, indeed. it’s a mere scratch. but, what brings you here, mrs waybridge, it’s my turn to ask?”
“why, we live close here; our farm is out towards the kabousie, only a few miles, and you’ve got to come and stay with us—now—to-day. where are you staying here?”
“nominally at pagel’s, but it’s abominably crowded. practically i subsist at the commandant’s, or chambers’, or at some other good chap’s in the police. but i’m not stopping on much longer.”
“no, you’re not, for you’re going back with me this afternoon.”
dick, in his heart of hearts, thought this rather a bore, and began to wonder what excuse he could make. it interfered with his plans. the other, reading his thoughts, smiled to herself. she had reason to know what he did not, that there was not the smallest chance of her invite being declined.
“where is mr greenoak now?” she went on, not giving him time to utter the excuse he was trying to invent.
“nobody knows, beyond that he’s bound on some mysterious mission, its object being to prevent the harmful unnecessary gaika from taking the warpath.”
“then i hope he’ll succeed. we have far too many of them as next-door neighbours. well, we’ll get back to pagel’s and have tea, and then it’ll be time to inspan. you haven’t got much luggage to pack up, i suppose?”
dick was amused at the way in which she was taking possession of him as a matter of course. personally she was a tallish, fair-haired woman of about five and thirty, rather good-looking, and with a pleasing voice. it would be great fun to accept that invitation, if only that harley greenoak would come back to find his bird flown. the said greenoak had come to the conclusion that his charge could not get into much mischief in a crowded township, and with an arm in a sling, wherefore he had left him for a few days with an easy mind.
even as dick had said, the hotel—whither all this time they had been wending—was crowded. the stoep and the bar department were full of men and tobacco smoke, and battles were being fought over again, and the war brought to a sudden and satisfactory termination—according to more than one orator, who might or might not have taken any part in it. in the stuffy little dining-room they managed to find a quiet corner.
“how do you do, mr selmes?”
a red-hot needle dropped down the back of dick’s neck might have produced a precisely similar effect to that evolved by this simple and exceedingly conventional query. he started violently in his chair, knocked both knees hard against the table, causing every article of crockery thereon to dance and rattle, and other people using it to scowl or laugh, according to mood. then, as he extricated himself, he wondered if he were drunk or dreaming, for he stood holding the hand of—and looking down into the exquisitely winning face of hazel brandon.
the said face was demureness itself, but the sparkle of repressed mirth in the witching eyes told its own tale. then, conscious that the gaze of the room was on him—on them—dick pulled himself together.
“you here?” he gasped, as he gave her his chair—in the incoherence of mind born of the circumstances, overlooking the fact that another vacant one next to it, and which he now took, had been turned down as a sign of “engaged.” “er—do you know mrs waybridge?”
“yes, we know each other,” answered the latter for her. “you know”—to hazel—“i’ve been trying to persuade mr selmes to come out and stay with us, now this afternoon, but he, for his part, has been trying to find some excuse. don’t deny it, mr selmes”—with a laugh.
dick felt cornered. hazel at komgha! there was no end to the surprises in this land of surprises. likely he was going somewhere else just as he had discovered her presence here! what times they would contrive to have!
“well—er—mrs waybridge, i thought it might be more convenient—er—a little later on,” he began lamely. “when my damaged limb is quite all right,” he added, as if a bright idea had struck him.
“well, it’s our loss, i suppose, mr selmes,” she answered. “but mind you come as soon as you can.”
dick promised—even enthusiastically. then he turned to hazel.
“where are you staying here? are your people with you?”
“no. but i’m not staying here at all. i’m only in for the day. i’m staying with mrs waybridge,” she answered in an even, matter-of-fact tone.
heavens, what was this? dick felt as if he had kicked himself out of paradise, locked the door behind him and thrown away the key with his own hand. how could he so much as have guessed that he had been doing all he knew to forego another stay under the same roof with hazel? he stared at his plate—silently, blankly.
“well, it’s about time we thought of inspanning,” said mrs waybridge. “now, mr selmes. it isn’t too late to change your mind. what do you say?”
dick’s face cleared. here was a broad path out. he was unaware, too, of the pressures of the foot under the table exchanged by the two ladies as the richness of the joke unfolded itself. he only knew, with inexpressible relief, that the situation was saved.
“then i think i will change it,” he answered, striving to quell the eagerness in his tone. “besides, it’ll be such a joke on good old greenoak when he gets back, to find i’ve flown.”
“where is mr greenoak now?” asked hazel. “isn’t he here?”
“no. he’s away on some secret service.”
“something to help other people, i suppose,” rejoined the girl. “he lives for that.”
there was just a little dimming of dick selmes’ golden vista. was hazel going to recommence booming greenoak? she had never seemed to tire of that at haakdoornfontein. then he felt thoroughly ashamed of himself.
“i should think he did live for that,” declared dick, heartily. “he saved my life twice since we crossed the kei. do you know, i was twice captured by the kafirs, and the rum part of it was, it came off before the actual war began; but they’d have done for me all the same, as sure as i sit here—and that in a precious unpleasant manner—if it hadn’t been for greenoak. but it’s something of a yarn, and must keep till there’s time to tell it. shall i go and see after your inspanning, mrs waybridge?”
“no. go and see after your own kit, that’ll save time. only, don’t make it bigger than you can help, because the cart isn’t a cobb and co. coach.”
“will a flannel shirt and a cartridge shell be overweight?” said dick, slily.
