diff options
Diffstat (limited to 'old/65998-0.txt')
| -rw-r--r-- | old/65998-0.txt | 15738 |
1 files changed, 0 insertions, 15738 deletions
diff --git a/old/65998-0.txt b/old/65998-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 38aad63..0000000 --- a/old/65998-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,15738 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg eBook of The Witch’s Head, by H. Rider Haggard - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and -most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions -whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms -of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at -www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you -will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before -using this eBook. - -Title: The Witch’s Head - -Author: H. Rider Haggard - -Illustrator: Charles Kerr - -Release Date: August 5, 2021 [eBook #65998] -[Most recently updated: October 16, 2021] - -Language: English - -Character set encoding: UTF-8 - -Produced by: Larry Dunn - -*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE WITCH’S HEAD *** - -[Illustration] - - - - -The Witch’s Head - -by H. Rider Haggard - - -AUTHOR OF - -“DAWN,” “MR. MEESON’S WILL,” “ALLAN’S -WIFE,” “KING SOLOMON’S MINES,” “SHE,” -“JESS,” ETC. ETC. - - -WITH SIXTEEN FULL-PAGE ILLUSTRATIONS BY CHARLES KERR, -REPRODUCED BY BOUSSOD, VALADON ET CIE, OF PARIS - -TWENTY-SIXTH THOUSAND - -LONDON -SPENCER BLACKETT -MILTON HOUSE, 35 ST. BRIDE STREET, LUDGATE CIRCUS -[_All rights reserved_] - - -Contents - - BOOK I. - CHAPTER I. ERNEST’S APPEARANCE - CHAPTER II. REGINALD CARDUS, ESQ., MISANTHROPE - CHAPTER III. OLD DUM’S NESS - CHAPTER IV. BOYS TOGETHER - CHAPTER V. EVA’S PROMISE - CHAPTER VI. JEREMY FALLS IN LOVE - CHAPTER VII. ERNEST IS INDISCREET - CHAPTER VIII. A GARDEN IDYL - CHAPTER IX. EVA FINDS SOMETHING - CHAPTER X. WHAT EVA FOUND - CHAPTER XI. DEEP WATERS - CHAPTER XII. DEEPER YET - CHAPTER XIII. MR. CARDUS UNFOLDS HIS PLANS - CHAPTER XIV. GOOD-BYE - CHAPTER XV. ERNEST GETS INTO TROUBLE - CHAPTER XVI. MADAME’S WORK - - BOOK II. - CHAPTER I. MY POOR EVA - CHAPTER II. THE LOCUM TENENS - CHAPTER III. EVA TAKES A DISTRICT - CHAPTER IV. JEREMY’S IDEA OF A SHAKING - CHAPTER V. FLORENCE ON MARRIAGE - CHAPTER VI. MR. PLOWDEN GOES A-WOOING - CHAPTER VII. OVER THE WATER - CHAPTER VIII. A HOMERIC COMBAT - CHAPTER IX. ERNEST’S LOVE-LETTER - CHAPTER X. A WAY OF ESCAPE - CHAPTER XI. FOUND WANTING - CHAPTER XII. ERNEST RUNS AWAY - CHAPTER XIII. MR. PLOWDEN ASSERTS HIS RIGHTS - CHAPTER XIV. THE VIRGIN MARTYR - CHAPTER XV. HANS’S CITY OF REST - CHAPTER XVI. ERNEST ACCEPTS A COMMISSION - CHAPTER XVII. HANS PROPHESIES EVIL - CHAPTER XVIII. MR. ALSTON’S VIEWS - CHAPTER XIX. ISANDHLWANA - CHAPTER XX. THE END OF ALSTON’S HORSE - - BOOK III. - CHAPTER I. THE CLIFFS OF OLD ENGLAND - CHAPTER II. ERNEST’S EVIL DESTINY - CHAPTER III. INTROSPECTIVE - CHAPTER IV. AFTER MANY DAYS - CHAPTER V. HOME AGAIN - CHAPTER VI. HOW IT ALL CAME ABOUT - CHAPTER VII. MAZOOKU’S FAREWELL - CHAPTER VIII. R. CARDUS ACCOMPLISHES HIS REVENGE - CHAPTER IX. MAD ATTERLEIGH’S LAST RIDE - CHAPTER X. DOROTHY’S TRIUMPH - - - - -“Swell out, sad harmonies, -From the slow cadence of the gathering years; -For Life is bitter-sweet, yet bounds the flood -Of human fears. -A death-crowned queen, from her hid throne she scatters -Smiles and tears - -Until Time turn aside, -And we slip past him towards the wide increase -Of all things beautiful, then finding there -Our rest and peace; -The mournful strain is ended. Sorrow and song -Together cease.” - -A. M. BARBER. - - - - -ILLUSTRATIONS - - THE WITCH’S HEAD - HE CLENCHED HIS FISTS AND SHOOK THEM TOWARDS THE DOOR - “_BY GEORGE!_” - “O, RADIANT-WINGED HOUR!” - HUGH KERSHAW FLUNG UP HIS ARMS, WILDLY - A SHAPELY KAFIR GIRL - THE RESULT WAS STARTLING - THIS WAS INDEED A DAVID - HE SLOWLY LIFTED THE PISTOL TOWARDS HIS HEAD - MR. PLOWDEN LEFT THE HOUSE, WHITE WITH FURY - ERNEST DID A BRAVE THING - THE LAST CHARGE OF ALSTON’S HORSE - HE FOUND HIM LYING ON THE GROUND, WHITE AND STILL - AFTER MANY DAYS - MAZOOKU’S FAREWELL - MAD ATTERLEIGH’S LAST RIDE - - - - -[Illustration: The Witch’s Head] - - - - -THE WITCH’S HEAD - - - - -BOOK I. - - - - -CHAPTER I. -ERNEST’S APPEARANCE - - -“Come here, boy, let me look at you.” - -Ernest advanced a step or two and looked his uncle in the face. He was -a noble-looking lad of about thirteen, with large dark eyes, black hair -that curled over his head, and the unmistakable air of breeding that -marks Englishmen of good race. - -His uncle let his wandering glance stray round him, but, wandering as -it was, it seemed to take him in from top to toe. Presently he spoke -again: - -“I like you, boy.” - -Ernest said nothing. - -“Let me see—your second name is Beyton. I am glad they called you -Beyton; it was your grandmother’s maiden name, and a good old name too. -Ernest Beyton Kershaw. By the way, have you ever seen anything of your -other uncle, Sir Hugh Kershaw?” - -The boy’s cheek flushed. - -“No, I have not; and I never wish to,” he answered. - -“Why not?” - -“Because when my mother wrote to him before she died”—and here the -lad’s voice choked—“just after the bank broke and she lost all her -money, he wrote back and said that because his brother—I mean my -father—had made a low marriage, that was no reason why he should -support his child and widow; but he sent her five pounds to go on with. -She sent it back.” - -“That was like your mother, she always had a high spirit. He must be a -cur, and he does not speak the truth. Your mother comes of a better -stock than the Kershaws. The Carduses are one of the oldest families in -the Eastern counties. Why, boy, our family lived down in the Fens by -Lynn there for centuries, until your grandfather, poor weak man, got -involved in his great lawsuit and ruined us all. There, there, it has -gone into the law, but it is coming back, it is coming back fast. This -Sir Hugh has only one son, by the way. Do you know that if anything -happened to him you would be next in the entail?—at any rate you would -get the baronetcy.” - -“I don’t want his baronetcy,” said Ernest, sulkily; “I will have -nothing of his.” - -“A title, boy, is an incorporeal hereditament, for which the holder is -indebted to nobody. It does not descend to him, it vests in him. But -tell me, how long was this before your mother died—that he sent the -five pounds, I mean?” - -“About three months.” - -Mr. Cardus hesitated a little before he spoke again, tapping his white -fingers nervously on the table. - -“I hope my sister was not in want, Ernest?” he said, jerkily. - -“For a fortnight before she died we had scarcely enough to eat,” was -the blunt reply. - -Mr. Cardus turned himself to the window, and for a minute the light of -the dull December day shone and glistened upon his brow and head, which -was perfectly bald. Then before he spoke he drew himself back into the -shadow, perhaps to hide something like a tear that shone in his soft -black eyes. - -“And why did she not appeal to me? I could have helped her.” - -“She said that when you quarrelled with her about her marrying my -father, you told her never to write or speak to you again, and that she -never would.” - -“Then why did you not do it, boy? You knew how things were.” - -“Because we had begged once, and I would not beg again.” - -“Ah,” muttered Mr. Cardus, “the old spirit cropping up. Poor Rose, -nearly starving, and dying too, and I with so much which I do not want! -O, boy, boy, when you are a man never set up an idol, for it frightens -good spirits away. Nothing else can live in its temple; it is a place -where all other things are forgotten—duty, and the claims of blood, and -sometimes those of honour too. Look now, I have my idol, and it has -made me forget my sister and your mother. Had she not written at last -when she was dying, I should have forgotten you too.” - -The boy looked up puzzled. - -“An idol!” - -“Yes,” went on his uncle in his dreamy way—“an idol. Many people have -them; they keep them in the cupboard with their family skeleton; -sometimes the two are identical. And they call them by many names, too; -frequently it is a woman’s name; sometimes that of a passion; sometimes -that of a vice, but a virtue’s—not often.” - -“And what is the name of yours, uncle?” asked the wondering boy. - -“Mine? O, never mind!” - -At this moment a swing-door in the side of the room was opened, and a -tall bony woman with beady eyes came through. - -“Mr. de Talor to see you, sir, in the office.” - -Mr. Cardus whistled softly. - -“Ah,” he said, “tell him I am coming. By the way, Grice, this young -gentleman has come to live here; his room is ready, is it not?” - -“Yes, sir; Miss Dorothy has been seeing to it.” - -“Good; where is Miss Dorothy?” - -“She has walked into Kesterwick, sir.” - -“O, and Master Jeremy?” - -“He is about, sir; I saw him pass with a ferret a while back.” - -“Tell Sampson or the groom to find him and send him to Master Ernest -here. That will do, thank you. Now, Ernest, I must go. I hope that you -will be pretty happy here, my boy, when your trouble has worn off a -bit. You will have Jeremy for a companion; he is a lout, and an -unpleasant lout, it is true, but I suppose that he is better than -nobody. And then there is Dorothy”—and his voice softened as he -muttered her name—“but she is a girl.” - -“Who are Dorothy and Jeremy?” broke in his nephew; “are they your -children?” - -Mr. Cardus started perceptibly, and his thick white eyebrows contracted -over his dark eyes till they almost met. - -“Children!” he said, sharply; “I have no children. They are my wards. -Their name is Jones;” and he left the room. - -“Well, he _is_ a rum sort,” reflected Ernest to himself, “and I don’t -think I ever saw such a shiny head before. I wonder if he oils it? But, -at any rate, he is kind to me. Perhaps it would have been better if -mother had written to him before. She might have gone on living, then.” - -Rubbing his hand across his face to clear away the water gathering in -his eyes at the thought of his dead mother, Ernest made his way to the -wide fireplace at the top end of the room, peeped into the ancient -inglenooks on each side, and at the old Dutch tiles with which it was -lined, and then, lifting his coat after a grown-up fashion, proceeded -to warm himself and inspect his surroundings. It was a curious room in -which he stood, and its leading feature was old oak panelling. All down -its considerable length the walls were oak-clad to the low ceiling, -which was supported by enormous beams of the same material; the -shutters of the narrow windows which looked out on the sea were oak, -and so were the doors and table, and even the mantelshelf. The general -idea given by the display of so much timber was certainly one of -solidity, but it could scarcely be called cheerful—not even the -numerous suits of armour and shining weapons which were placed about -upon the walls could make it cheerful. It was a remarkable room, but -its effect upon the observer was undoubtedly depressing. - -Just as Ernest was beginning to realise this fact, things were made -more lively by the sudden appearance through the swing-door of a large -savage-looking bull-terrier, which began to steer for the fireplace, -where it was evidently accustomed to lie. On seeing Ernest it stopped -and sniffed. - -“Hullo, good dog!” said Ernest. - -The dog growled and showed its teeth. - -Ernest put out his leg towards it as a caution to it to keep off. It -acknowledged the compliment by sending its teeth through his trousers. -Then the lad, growing wroth, and being not free from fear, seized the -poker and hit the dog over the head so shrewdly that the blood streamed -from the blow, and the brute, losing his grip, turned and fled howling. - -While Ernest was yet warm with the glow of victory, the door once more -swung open, violently this time, and through it there came a boy of -about his own age, a dirty deep-chested boy, with uncut hair, and a -slow heavy face in which were set great gray eyes, just now ablaze with -indignation. On seeing Ernest he pulled up much as the dog had done, -and regarded him angrily. - -“Did you hit my dog?” he asked. - -“I hit a dog,” replied Ernest politely, “but—” - -“I don’t want your ‘buts.’ Can you fight?” - -Ernest inquired whether this question was put with a view of gaining -general information or for any particular purpose. - -“Can you fight?” was the only rejoinder. - -Slightly nettled, Ernest replied that under certain circumstances he -could fight like a tom-cat. - -“Then look out; I’m going to make your head as you have made my dog’s.” - -Ernest, in the polite language of youth, opined that there would be -hair and toe-nails flying first. - -To this sally, Jeremy Jones, for it was he, replied only by springing -at him, his hair streaming behind like a Red Indian’s, and, smiting him -severely in the left eye, caused him to measure his length upon the -floor. Arising quickly, Ernest returned the compliment with interest; -but this time they both went down together, pummelling each other -heartily. With whom the victory would ultimately have remained could -scarcely be doubtful, for Jeremy, who even at that age gave promise of -the enormous physical strength which afterwards made him such a noted -character, must have crushed his antagonist in the end. But while his -strength still endured Ernest was fighting with such ungovernable fury, -and such a complete disregard of personal consequences, that he was for -a while, at any rate, getting the best of it. And luckily for him, -while matters were yet in the balanced scales of Fate, an interruption -occurred. For at that moment there rose before the blurred sight of the -struggling boys a vision of a small woman—at least she looked like a -woman—with an indignant little face and an uplifted forefinger. - -“O, you wicked boys! what will Reginald say, I should like to know? O, -you bad Jeremy! I am ashamed to have such a brother. Get up!” - -“My eye!” said Jeremy thickly, for his lip was cut; “it’s Dolly!” - - - - -CHAPTER II. -REGINALD CARDUS, ESQ., MISANTHROPE - - -When Mr. Cardus left the sitting-room where he had been talking to -Ernest, he passed down a passage in the rambling old house which led -him into a courtyard. On the farther side of the yard, which was walled -in, stood a neat red-brick building one story high, consisting of two -rooms and a passage. On to this building were attached a series of low -green-houses, and against the wall at the farther end of these houses -was a lean-to in which stood the boiler that supplied the pipes with -hot water. The little red-brick building was Mr. Cardus’s office, for -he was a lawyer by profession; the long tail of glass behind it were -his orchid-houses, for orchid-growing was his sole amusement. The _tout -ensemble_, office and orchid-houses, seemed curiously out of place in -the gray and ancient courtyard where they stood, looking as they did on -to the old one-storied house, scarred by the passage of centuries of -tempestuous weather. Some such idea seemed to strike Mr. Cardus as he -closed the door behind him, preparatory to crossing the courtyard. - -“Queer contrast,” he muttered to himself; “very queer. Something like -that between Reginald Cardus, Esquire, Misanthrope, of Dum’s Ness, and -Mr. Reginald Cardus, Solicitor, Chairman of the Stokesly Board of -Guardians, Bailiff of Kesterwick, etc. And yet in both cases they are -part of the same establishment. Case of old and new style!” - -Mr. Cardus did not make his way straight to the office. He struck off -to the right, and entered the long line of glass-houses, walking up -from house to house, till he reached the partition where the temperate -sort were placed to bloom, and which was connected with his office by a -glass door. Through this last he walked softly, with a cat-like step, -till he reached the door, where he paused to observe a large coarse -man, who was standing at the far end of the room, looking out intently -on the courtyard. - -“Ah, my friend,” he said to himself, “so the shoe is beginning to -pinch. Well, it is time.” Then he pushed the door softly open, passed -into the room with the same cat-like step, closed it, and, seating -himself at his writing-table, took up a pen. Apparently the -coarse-looking man at the window was too much absorbed in his own -thoughts to hear him, for he still stood staring into space. - -“Well, Mr. de Talor,” said the lawyer presently, in his soft, jerky -voice, “I am at your service.” - -The person addressed started violently, and turned sharply round. “Good -’eavens, Cardus, how did you get in?” - -“Through the door, of course; do you suppose I came down the chimney?” - -“It’s very strange, Cardus, but I never ’eard you come. You’ve given me -quite a start.” - -Mr. Cardus laughed, a hard, little laugh. “You were too much occupied -with your own thoughts, Mr. de Talor. I fear that they are not pleasant -ones. Can I help you?” - -“How do you know that my thoughts are not pleasant, Cardus? I never -said so.” - -“If we lawyers waited for our clients to tell us all their thoughts, -Mr. de Talor, it would often take us a long time to reach the truth. We -have to read their faces, or even their backs sometimes. You have no -idea of how much expression a back is capable, if you make such things -your study; yours, for instance, looks very uncomfortable to-day: -nothing gone wrong, I hope?” - -“No, Cardus, no,” answered Mr. de Talor, dropping the subject of backs, -which was, he felt, beyond him; “that is, nothing much, merely a -question of business, on which I have come to ask your advice as a -shrewd man.” - -“My best advice is at your service, Mr. de Talor: what is it?” - -“Well, Cardus, it’s this.” And Mr. de Talor seated his portly frame in -an easy-chair, and turned his broad, vulgar face towards the lawyer. -“It’s about the railway-grease business—” - -“Which you own up in Manchester?” - -“Yes, that’s it.” - -“Well, then, it ought to be a satisfactory subject to talk of. It pays -hand over fist, does it not?” - -“No, Cardus, that is just the point: it did pay, it don’t now.” - -“How’s that?” - -“Well, you see, when my father took out the patent, and started the -business, his ’ouse was the only ’ouse in the market, and he made a -pot, and, I don’t mind telling you, I’ve made a pot too; but now, what -do you think?—there’s a beggarly firm called Rastrick & Codley that -took out a new patent last year, and is underselling us with a better -stuff at a cheaper price than we can turn it out at.” - -“Well!” - -“Well, we’ve lowered our price to theirs, but we are doing business at -a loss. We hoped to burst them, but they don’t burst: there’s somebody -backing them, confound them, for Rastrick & Codley ain’t worth a -sixpence; but who it is the Lord only knows. I don’t believe they know -themselves.” - -“That is unfortunate, but what about it?” - -“Just this, Cardus. I want to ask your advice about selling out. Our -credit is still good, and we could sell up for a large pile—not so -large as we could have done, but still large—and I don’t know whether -to sell or hold.” - -Mr. Cardus looked thoughtful. “It is a difficult point, Mr. de Talor, -but for myself I am always against caving in. The other firm may smash -after all, and then you would be sorry. If you were to sell now you -would probably make their fortunes, which I suppose you don’t want to -do.” - -“No, indeed.” - -“Then you are a very wealthy man; you are not dependent on this grease -business. Even if things were to go wrong, you have all your landed -property here at Ceswick’s Ness to fall back on. I should hold, if I -were you, even if it was at a loss for a time, and trust to the fortune -of war.” - -Mr. de Talor gave a sigh of relief. “That’s my view, too, Cardus. You -are a shrewd man, and I am glad you jump with me. Damn Rastrick & -Codley, say I!” - -“O yes, damn them by all means,” answered the lawyer, with a smile, as -he rose to show his client to the door. - -On the farther side of the passage was another door, with a glass top -to it, which gave on to a room furnished after the ordinary fashion of -a clerk’s office. Opposite this door Mr. de Talor stopped to look at a -man who was within, sitting at a table writing. The man was old, of -large size, very powerfully built, and dressed with extreme neatness in -hunting costume—boots, breeches, spurs, and all. Over his large head -grew tufts of coarse gray hair, which hung down in dishevelled locks -about his face, giving him a wild appearance, that was added to by a -curious distortion of the mouth. His left arm, too, hung almost -helpless by his side. - -Mr. Cardus laughed as he followed his visitor’s gaze. “A curious sort -of clerk, eh?” he said. “Mad, dumb, and half-paralysed—not many lawyers -could show such another.” - -Mr. de Talor glanced at the object of their observation uneasily. - -“If he’s so mad, how can he do clerk’s work?” he asked. - -“O, he’s only mad in a way; he copies beautifully.” - -“He has quite lost his memory, I suppose?” said De Talor, with another -uneasy glance. - -“Yes,” answered Mr. Cardus, with a smile, “he has. Perhaps it is as -well. He remembers nothing now but his delusions.” - -Mr. de Talor looked relieved. “He has been with you many years now, -hasn’t he, Cardus?” - -“Yes, a great many.” - -“Why did you bring him ’ere at all?” - -“Did I never tell you the story? Then if you care to step back into my -office I will. It is not a long one. You remember when our friend”—he -nodded towards the office—“kept the hounds, and they used to call him -‘hard-riding Atterleigh’?” - -“Yes, I remember, and ruined himself over them, like a fool.” - -“And of course you remember Mary Atterleigh, his daughter, whom we were -all in love with when we were young?” - -Mr. de Talor’s broad cheek took a deeper shade of crimson as he nodded -assent. - -“Then,” went on Mr. Cardus, in a voice meant to be indifferent, but -which now and again gave traces of emotion, “you will also remember -that I was the fortunate man, and, with her father’s consent, was -engaged to be married to Mary Atterleigh so soon as I could show him -that my income reached a certain sum.” Here Mr. Cardus paused a moment, -and then continued, “But I had to go to America about the great Norwich -bank case, and it was a long job, and travelling was slow then. When I -got back, Mary was—married to a man called Jones, a friend of yours, -Mr. de Talor. He was staying at your house, Ceswick’s Ness, when he met -her. But perhaps you are better acquainted with that part of the story -than I am.” - -Mr. de Talor was looking very uneasy again now. - -“No, I know nothing about it. Jones fell in love with her like the -rest, and the next I heard of it was that they were to be married. It -was rather rough on you, eh, Cardus? but, Lord, you shouldn’t have been -fool enough to trust her.” - -Mr. Cardus smiled, a bitter smile. “Yes, it was a little ‘rough,’ but -that has nothing to do with my story. The marriage did not turn out -well; a curious fatality pursued all who had had any hand in it. Mary -had two children; and then did the best thing she could do—died of -shame and sorrow. Jones, who was rich, went fraudulently bankrupt, and -ended by committing suicide. Hard-riding Atterleigh flourished for a -while, and then lost his money in horses and a ship-building -speculation, and got a paralytic stroke that took away all his speech -and most of his reason. Then I brought him here to save him from the -madhouse.” - -“That was kind of you, Cardus.” - -“O no, he is worth his keep, and besides, he is poor Mary’s father. He -is under the fixed impression that I am the devil; but that does not -matter.” - -“You’ve got her children too, eh?” - -“Yes, I have adopted them. The girl reminds me of her mother, though -she will never have her mother’s looks. The boy is like old Atterleigh. -I do not care about the boy. But, thank God, they are neither of them -like their father.” - -“So you knew Jones?” said De Talor, sharply. - -“Yes, I met him after his marriage. Oddly enough, I was with him a few -minutes before he destroyed himself. There, Mr. de Talor, I will not -detain you any longer. I thought that you could perhaps tell me -something of the details of Mary’s marriage. The story has a -fascination for me, its results upon my own life have been so -far-reaching. I am sure that I am not at the bottom of it yet. Mary -wrote to me when she was dying, and hinted at something that I cannot -understand. There was somebody behind who arranged the matter, who -assisted Jones’s suit. Well, well, I shall find it all out in time, and -whoever it is will no doubt pay the price of his wickedness, like the -others. Providence has strange ways, Mr. de Talor, but in the end it is -a terrible avenger. What! are you going? Queer talk for a lawyer’s -office, isn’t it?” - -Here Mr. de Talor rose, looking pale, and, merely nodding to Mr. -Cardus, left the room. - -The lawyer watched him till the door had closed, and then suddenly his -whole face changed. The white eyebrows drew close together, the -delicate features worked, and in the soft eyes there shone a look of -hate. He clenched his fists, and shook them towards the door. - -[Illustration: “He clenched his fists and shook them towards the -door.”] - -“You liar, you hound!” he said aloud. “God grant that I may live long -enough to do to you as I have done to them! One a suicide, and one a -paralytic madman; you—you shall be a beggar, if it takes me twenty -years to make you so. Yes, that will hit you hardest. O Mary! Mary! -dead and dishonoured through you, you scoundrel! O my darling, shall I -ever find you again?” - -And this strange man dropped his head upon the desk before him, and -groaned. - - - - -CHAPTER III. -OLD DUM’S NESS - - -When Mr. Cardus came half an hour or so later to take his place at the -dinner-table—for in those days they dined in the middle of the day at -Dum’s Ness—he was not in a good mood. The pool into which the records -of our individual existence are ever gathering, and which we call our -past, will not often bear much stirring, even when its waters are not -bitter. Certainly Mr. Cardus’s would not. And yet that morning he had -stirred it violently enough. - -In the long, oak-panelled room, used indifferently as a sitting and -dining room, Mr. Cardus found “hard-riding Atterleigh” and his -grand-daughter, little Dorothy Jones. The old man was already seated at -table, and Dorothy was busying herself cutting bread, looking as -composed and grown-up as though she had been four-and-twenty instead of -fourteen. She was a strange child, with her assured air and woman’s -ways and dress, her curious thoughtful face, and her large blue eyes -that shone steadily as the light of a lamp. But just now the little -face was more anxious than usual. - -“Reginald,” she began, as soon as he was in the room (for by Mr. -Cardus’s wish she always called him by his Christian name), “I am sorry -to tell you that there has been a sad disturbance.” - -“What is it?” he asked, with a frown; “Jeremy again?” Mr. Cardus could -be very stern where Jeremy was concerned. - -“Yes, I am afraid it is. The two boys—” but it was unnecessary for her -to carry her explanations further, for at that moment the swing-door -opened, and through it appeared the young gentlemen in question, driven -in like sheep by the beady-eyed Grice. Ernest was leading, attempting -the impossible feat of looking jaunty with a lump of raw beefsteak tied -over one eye, and presenting a general appearance that suggested the -idea of the colours of the rainbow in a state of decomposition. - -Behind him shuffled Jeremy, his matted locks still wet from being -pumped on. But his wounds were either unsuited to the dreadful remedy -of raw beefsteak, or he had adopted in preference an heroic one of his -own, of which grease plentifully sprinkled with flour formed the basis. - -For a moment there was silence, then Mr. Cardus, with awful politeness, -asked Jeremy what was the meaning of this. - -“We’ve been fighting,” answered the boy, sulkily.” He hit—” - -“Thank you, Jeremy, I don’t want the particulars, but I will take this -opportunity to tell you before your sister and my nephew what I think -of you. You are a boor and a lout, and, what is more, you are a -coward.” - -At this unjust taunt the lad coloured to his eyes. - -“Yes, you may colour, but let me tell you that it is cowardly to pick a -quarrel with a boy the moment he sets foot inside my doors—” - -“I say, uncle,” broke in Ernest, who was unable to see anything -cowardly about fighting, an amusement to which he was rather partial -himself, and who thought that his late antagonist was getting more than -his due, “I began it, you know.” - -It was not true, except in the sense that he had begun it by striking -the dog; nor did this statement produce any great effect on Mr. Cardus, -who was evidently seriously angry with Jeremy on more points than this. -But at least it was one of those well-meant fibs at which the recording -angel should not be offended. - -“I do not care who began it,” went on Mr. Cardus, angrily, “nor is it -about this only that I am angry. You are a discredit to me, Jeremy, and -a discredit to your sister. You are dirty, you are idle; your ways are -not those of a gentleman. I sent you to school—you ran away. I give you -good clothes—you will not wear them. I tell you, boy, that I will not -stand it any longer. Now listen. I am going to make arrangements with -Mr. Halford, the clergyman at Kesterwick, to undertake Ernest’s -education. You shall go with him; and if I see no improvement in your -ways in the course of the next few months, I shall wash my hands of -you. Do you understand me now?” - -The boy Jeremy had, during this oration, been standing in the middle of -the room, first on one leg, then on the other. At its conclusion he -brought the leg that was at the moment in the air down to the ground, -and stood firm. - -“Well,” went on Mr. Cardus, “what have you to say?” - -“I have to say,” blurted out Jeremy, “that I don’t want your education. -You care nothing about me,” he went on, his gray eyes flashing and his -heavy face lighting up; “nobody cares about me except my dog Nails. -Yes, you make a dog of me myself; you throw things to me as I throw -Nails a bone. I don’t want your education, and I won’t have it. I don’t -want the fine clothes you buy for me, and I won’t wear them. I don’t -want to be a burden on you either. Let me go away and be a fisher-lad -and earn my bread. If it hadn’t been for her,” pointing to his sister, -who was sitting aghast at his outburst, “and for Nails, I’d have gone -long ago, I can tell you. At any rate, I should not be a dog then. I -should be earning my living, and have no one to thank for it. Let me -go, I say, where I sha’n’t be mocked at if I do my fair day’s work. I’m -strong enough; let me go. There! I’ve spoken my mind now;” and the lad -broke out into a storm of tears, and, turning, tramped out of the room. - -As he went, all Mr. Cardus’s wrath seemed to leave him. - -“I did not think he had so much spirit in him,” he said aloud. “Well, -let us have our dinner.” - -At dinner the conversation flagged, the scene that preceded it having -presumably left a painful impression; and Ernest, who was an observant -youth, fell to watching little Dorothy doing the honours of the table: -cutting up her crazed old grandfather’s food for him, seeing that -everybody had what they wanted, and generally making herself -unobtrusively useful. In due course the meal came to an end, and Mr. -Cardus and old Atterleigh went back to the office, leaving Dorothy -alone with Ernest. Presently the former began to talk. - -“I hope that your eye is not painful,” she said. “Jeremy hits very -hard.” - -“O no, it’s all right. I’m used to it. When I was at school in London I -often used to fight. I’m sorry for him, though—your brother, I mean.” - -“Jeremy! O yes, he is always in trouble, and now I suppose that it will -be worse than ever. I do all I can to keep things smooth, but it is no -good. If he won’t go to Mr. Halford’s, I am sure I don’t know what will -happen;” and the little lady sighed deeply. - -“O, I daresay that he will go. Let’s go and look for him, and try and -persuade him.” - -“We might try,” she said, doubtfully. “Stop a minute, and I will put on -my hat, and then if you will take that nasty thing off your eye, we -might walk on to Kesterwick. I want to take a book, out of which I have -been teaching myself French, back to the cottage where old Miss Ceswick -lives, you know.” - -“All right,” said Ernest. - -Presently Dorothy returned, and they went out by the back way to a -little room near the coach-house, where Jeremy stuffed birds and kept -his collection of eggs and butterflies; but he was not there. On -inquiring of Sampson, the old Scotch gardener who looked after Mr. -Cardus’s orchid-houses, she discovered that Jeremy had gone out to -shoot snipe, having borrowed Sampson’s gun for that purpose. - -“That is just like Jeremy,” she sighed. “He is always going out -shooting instead of attending to things.” - -“Can he hit birds flying, then?” asked Ernest. - -“Hit them!” she answered, with a touch of pride; “I don’t think he ever -misses them. I wish he could do other things as well.” - -Jeremy at once went up at least fifty per cent. in Ernest’s estimation. - -On their way back to the house they peeped in through the office -window, and Ernest saw “hard-riding Atterleigh” at his work, copying -deeds. - -“He’s your grandfather, isn’t he?” - -“Yes.” - -“Does he know you?” - -“In a sort of a way; but he is quite mad. He thinks that Reginald is -the devil, whom he must serve for a certain number of years. He has got -a stick with numbers of notches on it, and he cuts out a notch every -month. It is all very sad. I think it is a very sad world;” and she -sighed again. - -“Why does he wear hunting-clothes?” asked Ernest. - -“Because he always used to ride a good deal. He loves a horse now. -Sometimes you will see him get up from his writing-table, and the tears -come into his eyes if anybody comes into the yard on horseback. Once he -came out and tried to get on to a horse and ride off, but they stopped -him.” - -“Why don’t they let him ride?” - -“O, he would soon kill himself. Old Jack Tares, who lives at -Kesterwick, and gets his living by rats and ferrets, used to be whip to -grandfather’s hounds when he had them, and says that he always was a -little mad about riding. One moonlight night he and grandfather went -out to hunt a stag that had strayed here out of some park. They put the -stag out of a little grove at a place called Claffton, five miles away, -and he took them round by Starton and Ashleigh, and then came down the -flats to the sea, about a mile and a half below here, just this side of -the quicksand. The moon was so bright that it was almost like day, and -for the last mile the stag was in view not more than a hundred yards in -front of the hounds, and the pace was racing. When he came to the beach -he went right through the waves out to the sea, and the hounds after -him, and grandfather after them. They caught him a hundred yards out -and killed him, and then grandfather turned his horse’s head and swam -back with the hounds.” - -“My eye!” was Ernest’s comment on this story. “And what did Jack Tares -do?” - -“O, he stopped on the beach and said his prayers; he thought that they -would all be drowned.” - -Then they passed through the old house, which was built on a little -ness or headland that jutted beyond the level of the shore-line, and -across which the wind swept and raved all the winter long, driving the -great waves in cease-less thunder against the sandy cliffs. It was a -desolate spot that the gray and massive house, of which the roof was -secured by huge blocks of rock, looked out upon, nude of vegetation, -save for rank, rush-like grass and plants of sea-holly. In front was -the great ocean, rushing in continually upon the sandy bulwarks, and -with but few ships to break its loneliness. To the left, as far as the -eye could reach ran a line of cliff, out of which the waves had taken -huge mouthfuls, till it was as full of gaps as an old crone’s jaw. -Behind this stretched mile upon mile of desolate-looking land, covered -for the most part with ling and heath, and cut up with dikes, whence -the water was pumped by means of windmills, that gave a Dutch -appearance to the landscape. - -“Look,” said Dorothy, pointing to a small white house about a mile and -a half away up the shore-line, “that is the lock-house where the great -sluice-gates are, and beyond that is the dreadful quicksand in which a -whole army was once swallowed up, like the Egyptians in the Red Sea.” - -“My word!” said Ernest, much interested; “and, I say, did my uncle -build this house?” - -“You silly boy! why, it has been built for hundreds of years. Somebody -of the name of Dum built it, and that is why it is called Dum’s Ness; -at least I suppose so. There is an old chart that Reginald has, which -was made in the time of Henry VII., and it is marked as Dum’s Ness -there, so Dum must have lived before then. Look,” she went on, as, -turning to the right, they rounded the old house and reached the road -which ran along the top of the cliff, “there are the ruins of -Titheburgh Abbey;” and she pointed to the remains of an enormous church -with a still perfect tower, that stood within a few hundred yards of -them, almost upon the edge of the cliff. - -“Why don’t they build it up again?” asked Ernest. - -Dorothy shook her head. “Because in a few years the sea will swallow -it. Nearly all the graveyard has gone already. It is the same with -Kesterwick, where we are going. Kesterwick was a great town once. The -kings of East Anglia made it their capital, and a bishop lived there. -And after that it was a great port, with thousands upon thousands of -inhabitants. But the sea came on and on and choked up the harbour, and -washed away the cliffs, and they could not keep it out, and now -Kesterwick is nothing but a little village with one fine old church -left. The real Kesterwick lies there, under the sea. If you walk along -the beach after a great gale, you will find hundreds of bricks and -tiles washed from the houses that are going to pieces down in the deep -water. Just fancy, on one Sunday afternoon, in the reign of Queen -Elizabeth, three of the parish churches were washed over the cliff into -the sea!” - -And so she went on, telling the listening Ernest tale after tale of the -old town, than which Babylon had not fallen more completely, till they -came to a pretty little modern house bowered up in trees—that is, in -summer, for there were no leaves upon them now—with which Ernest was -destined to become very well acquainted in after years. - -Dorothy left her companion at the gate while she went in to leave her -book, remarking that she would be ashamed to introduce a boy with so -black an eye. Presently she came back again, saying that Miss Ceswick -was out. - -“Who is Miss Ceswick?” asked Ernest, who at this period of his -existence had a burning thirst for information of every sort. - -“She is a very beautiful old lady,” was Dorothy’s answer. “Her family -lived for many years at a place called Ceswick’s Ness; but her brother -lost all his money gambling, and the place was sold, and Mr. de Talor, -that horrid fat man whom you saw drive away this morning, bought it.” - -“Does she live alone?” - -“Yes; but she has some nieces, the daughters of her brother who is -dead, and whose mother is very ill; and if she dies one of them is -coming to live with her. She is just my age, so I hope she will come.” - -After this there was silence for a while. - -“Ernest,” said the little woman presently, “you look kind, so I will -ask you. I want you to help me about Jeremy.” - -Ernest, feeling much puffed up at the compliment implied, expressed his -willingness to do anything he could. - -“You see, Ernest,” she went on, fixing her sweet blue eyes on his face, -“Jeremy is a great trouble to me. He will go his own way. And he does -not like Reginald, and Reginald does not like him. If Reginald comes in -at one door, Jeremy goes out at the other. And besides he always flies -in Reginald’s face. And, you see, it is not right of Jeremy, because -after all Reginald is very kind to us, and there is no reason he should -be, except that I believe he was fond of our mother; and if it was not -for Reginald, whom I love very much, though he is curious sometimes, I -don’t know what would become of grandfather or us. And so, you see, I -think that Jeremy ought to behave better to him, and I want to ask you -to bear with his rough ways, and try and be friends with him and get -him to behave better. It is not much for him to do in return for all -your uncle’s kindness. You see, I can do a little something, because I -look after the housekeeping; but he does nothing. And first I want you -to get him to make no more trouble about going to Mr. Halford’s.” - -“All right, I’ll try; but, I say, how do you learn? you seem to know an -awful lot.” - -“O, I teach myself in the evenings. Reginald wanted to get me a -governess, but I would not. How should I ever get Grice and the -servants to obey me if they saw that I had to do what a strange woman -told me? It would not do at all.” - -Just then they were passing the ruins of Titheburgh Abbey. It was -almost dark, for the winter’s evening was closing in rapidly, when -suddenly Dorothy gave a little shriek, for from behind a ruined wall -there rose up an armed mysterious figure with something white behind -it. Next second she saw that it was Jeremy, who had returned from -shooting, and was apparently waiting for them. - -“O Jeremy, how you frightened me! What is it?” - -“I want to speak to _him,_” was the laconic reply. - -Ernest stood still, wondering what was coming. - -“Look here! You told a lie to try to save me from catching it this -morning. You said that you began it. You didn’t. I began it. I’d have -told him too,” and he jerked his thumb in the direction of Dum’s Ness, -“only my mouth was so full of words I could not get it out. But I want -to say I thank you, and here, take the dog. He’s a nasty tempered -devil, but he’ll grow very fond of you if you are kind to him;” and -seizing the astonished Nails by the collar, he thrust him towards -Ernest. - -For a moment there was a struggle in Ernest’s mind, for he greatly -longed to possess a bull-terrier dog; but his gentleman-like feeling -prevailed. “I don’t want the dog, and I didn’t do anything in -particular.” - -“Yes, you did, though,” replied Jeremy, greatly relieved that Ernest -did not accept his dog, which he loved, “or at least you did more than -anybody ever did before; but I tell you what, I’ll do as much for you -one day. I’ll do anything you like.” - -“Will you, though?” answered Ernest, who was a sharp youth, and -opportunely remembered Dorothy’s request. - -“Yes, I will.” - -“Well, then, come to this fellow Halford with me; I don’t want to go -alone.” - -Jeremy slowly rubbed his face with the back of an exceedingly dirty -hand. This was more than he had bargained for, but his word was his -word. - -“All right,” he answered, “I’ll come.” And then whistling to his dog, -he vanished into the shadows. And thus began a friendship between these -two that endured all their lives. - - - - -CHAPTER IV. -BOYS TOGETHER - - -Jeremy kept his word. On the appointed day he appeared ready, as he -expressed it, to “tackle that bloke Halford.” What is more, he appeared -with his hair cut, a decent suit of clothes on, and, wonder of wonders, -his hands properly washed, for all of which he was rewarded by finding -that the “tackling” was not such a fearful business as he had -anticipated. It was, moreover, of an intermittent nature, for the lads -found plenty of time to indulge in every sort of manly exercise -together. In winter they would roam all over the wide marsh-lands in -search of snipe and wild ducks, which Ernest missed and Jeremy brought -down with unerring aim, and in summer they would swim, or fish, and -bird-nest to their hearts’ content. In this way they contrived to -combine the absorption of a little learning with that of a really -extended knowledge of animal life and a large quantity of health and -spirits. - -They were happy years, those, for both the lads, and to Jeremy, when he -compared them to his life as it had been before Ernest came, they -seemed perfectly heavenly. For whether it was that he had improved in -his manners since then, or that Ernest stood as a buffer between him -and Mr. Cardus, it certainly happened that he came into collision with -him far less often. Indeed, it seemed to Jeremy that the old gentleman -(it was the fashion to call Mr. Cardus old, though he was in reality -only middle-aged) was more tolerant of him than formerly, though he -knew that he would never be a favourite. As for Ernest, everybody loved -the boy, and then, as afterwards, he was a great favourite with women, -who would one and all do anything he asked. It was a wonder that he did -not get spoiled by it all; but he did not. It was not possible to know -Ernest Kershaw at any period of his life without taking a fancy to him, -he was so eminently and unaffectedly a gentleman, and so completely -free from any sort of swagger. Always ready to do a kindness, and never -forgetting one done, generous with his possessions to such an extent -that he seemed to have a vague idea that they were the common property -of his friends and himself, possessing that greatest of gifts, a -sympathetic mind, and true as steel, no wonder that he was always -popular both with men and women. - -Ernest grew into a handsome lad, too, as soon as he began to get his -height, with a shapely form, a beautiful pair of eyes, and an -indescribable appearance of manliness and spirit. But the greatest -charm of his face was always its quick intelligence and unvarying -kindliness. - -As for Jeremy, he did not change much; he simply expanded, and, to tell -the truth, expanded very largely. Year by year his form assumed more -and more enormous proportions, and his strength grew more and more -abnormal. As for his mind, it did not grow with the same rapidity, and -was loth to admit a new idea; but once it was admitted, it never came -out again. - -And he had a ruling passion, too, this dull giant, and that was his -intense affection and admiration for Ernest. It was an affection that -grew with his growth till it became a part of himself, increasing with -the increasing years, till at last it was nearly pathetic in its -entirety. It was but rarely that he parted from Ernest, except, indeed, -on those occasions when Ernest chose to go abroad to pursue his study -of foreign languages, of which he was rather fond. Then, and then only, -Jeremy would strike. He disliked parting with Ernest much, but he -objected—being intensely insular—to cohabit with foreigners yet more, -so on these occasions, and these only, for a while they separated. - -So the years wore on till, when they were eighteen, Mr. Cardus, after -his sudden fashion, announced his intention of sending them both to -Cambridge. Ernest always remembered it, for it was on that very day -that he first made the acquaintance of Florence Ceswick. He had just -issued from his uncle’s presence, and was seeking Dolly, to communicate -the intelligence to her, when he suddenly blundered in upon old Miss -Ceswick, and with her a young lady. This young lady, to whom Miss -Ceswick introduced him as her niece, at once attracted his attention. -On being introduced the girl, who was about his own age, touched his -outstretched palm with her slender fingers, throwing on him at the same -moment so sharp a look from her brown eyes that he afterwards declared -to Jeremy that it seemed to go right through him. She was a -remarkable-looking girl. The hair, which curled profusely over a -shapely head, was, like the eyes, brown; the complexion olive, the -features were small, and the lips full, curving over a beautiful set of -teeth. In person she was rather short, but squarely built, and at her -early age her figure was perfectly formed. Indeed, she might to all -appearance have been much older than she was. There was little of the -typical girl about her. While he was still observing her, his uncle -came into the room, and was duly introduced by the old lady to her -niece, who had, she said, come to share her loneliness. - -“And how do you like Kesterwick, Miss Florence?” asked Mr. Cardus, with -his usual courtly smile. - -“It is much what I expected—a little duller, perhaps,” she answered -composedly. - -“Ah, perhaps you have been accustomed to a gayer spot.” - -“Yes, till my mother died we lived at Brighton; there is plenty of life -there. Not that we could mix in it, we were too poor; but at any rate -we could watch it.” - -“Do you like life, Miss Florence?” - -“Yes, we only live such a short time. I should like,” she went on, -throwing her head back, and half-closing her eyes, “to see as much as I -can, and to exhaust every emotion.” - -“Perhaps, Miss Florence, you would find some of them rather -unpleasant,” answered Mr. Cardus, with a smile. - -“Possibly, but it is better to travel through a bad country than to -grow in a good one.” - -Mr. Cardus smiled again: the girl interested him rather. - -“Do you know, Miss Ceswick,” he said, changing the subject, and -addressing the stately old lady, who was sitting smoothing her laces, -and looking rather aghast at her niece’s utterances, “that this young -gentleman is going to college, and Jeremy, too?” - -“Indeed,” said Miss Ceswick; “I hope that you will do great things -there, Ernest.” - -While Ernest was disclaiming any intentions of the sort, Miss Florence -cut in again, raising her eyes from a deep contemplation of that young -gentleman’s long shanks, which were writhing under her keen glance, and -twisting themselves serpent-wise round the legs of the chair. - -“I did not know,” she said, “that they took _boys_ at college.” - -Then they took their leave, and Ernest stigmatised her to Dorothy as a -“beast.” - -But she was at least attractive in her own peculiar fashion, and during -the next year or two he got pretty intimate with her. - -And so Ernest and Jeremy went up to Cambridge, but did not set the -place on fire, nor were the voices of tutors loud in their praise. -Jeremy, it is true, rowed one year in the ’Varsity Race, and performed -prodigies of strength, and so covered himself with a sort of glory, -which, personally, being of a modest mind, he did not particularly -appreciate. Ernest did not even do that. But somehow, by hook or by -crook, at the termination of their collegiate career, they took some -sort of degree, and then departed from the shores of the Cam, on which -they had spent many a jovial day—Jeremy to return to Kesterwick, and -Ernest to pay several visits to college friends in town and elsewhere. - -And so ended the first little round of their days. - - - - -CHAPTER V -EVA’S PROMISE. - - -When, on leaving Cambridge, Jeremy got back to Dum’s Ness, Mr. Cardus -received him with his usual semi-contemptuous coldness, a mental -attitude that often nearly drove the young fellow wild with -mortification. Not that Mr. Cardus really felt any contempt for him -now—he had lost all that years ago, when the boy had been so anxious to -go and “earn his bread;” but he could never forgive him for being the -son of his father, or conquer his inherent dislike to him. On the other -hand, he certainly did not allow this to interfere with his treatment -of the lad; if anything, indeed, it made him more careful. What he -spent upon Ernest, the same sum he spent on Jeremy, pound for pound; -but there was this difference about it—the money he spent on Ernest he -gave from love, and that on Jeremy from a sense of duty. - -Now, Jeremy knew all this well enough, and it made him very anxious to -earn his own living, and become independent of Mr. Cardus. But it was -one thing to be anxious to earn your own living, and quite another to -do it, as many a poor wretch knows to his cost, and when Jeremy set his -slow brain to consider how he should go about the task it quite failed -to supply him with any feasible idea. And yet he did not want much; -Jeremy was not of an ambitious temperament. If he could earn enough to -keep a cottage over his head, and find himself in food and clothes, and -powder and shot, he would be perfectly content. Indeed, there were to -be only two _sine qua nons_ in his ideal occupation: it must admit of a -considerable amount of outdoor exercise, and be of such a nature as -would permit him to see plenty of Ernest. Without more or less of -Ernest’s company, life would not, he considered, be worth living. - -For a week or more after his arrival home these perplexing reflections -simmered incessantly inside Jeremy’s head, till at length, feeling that -they were getting too much for him, he determined to consult his -sister, which, as she had three times his brains, he would have done -well to think of before. - -Dolly fixed her steady blue eyes upon him and listened to his tale in -silence. - -“And so you see, Doll”—he always called her Doll—he ended up, “I’m in a -regular fix. I don’t know what I’m fit for, unless it’s to row a boat, -or let myself out to bad shots to kill their game for them. You see I -must stick on to Ernest; I don’t feel somehow as though I could get -along without him; if it wasn’t for that I’d emigrate. I should be just -the chap to cut down big trees in Vancouver’s Island or brand -bullocks,”’ he added meditatively. - -“You are a great goose, Jeremy,” was his sister’s comment. - -He looked up, not as in any way disputing her statement, but merely for -further information. - -“You are a great goose, I say. What do you suppose that I have been -doing all these three years and more that you have been rowing boats -and wasting time up at college? _I_ have been thinking, Jeremy.” - -“Yes, and so have I, but there is no good in thinking.” - -“No, not if you stop there; but I’ve been acting too. I’ve spoken to -Reginald, and made a plan, and he has accepted my plan.” - -“You always were clever, Doll; you’ve got all the brains and I’ve got -all the size;” and he surveyed as much as he could see of himself -ruefully. - -“You don’t ask what I have arranged,” she said, sharply, for in -alluding to her want of stature Jeremy had touched a sore point. - -“I am waiting for you to tell me.” - -“Well, you are to be articled to Reginald.” - -“O Lord!” groaned Jeremy, “I don’t like that at all.” - -“Be quiet till I have told you. You are to be articled to Reginald, and -he is to pay you an allowance of a hundred a year while you are -articled, so that if you don’t like it you needn’t live here.” - -“But I don’t like the business, Doll; I hate it; it is a beastly -business; it’s a devil’s business.” - -“I should like to know what right you have to talk like that, Mr. -Knowall! Let me tell you that many better men than you are content to -earn their living by lawyer’s work. I suppose that a man can be honest -as a lawyer as well as in any other trade.” - -Jeremy shook his head doubtfully. “It’s blood-sucking,” he said -energetically. - -“Then you must suck blood,” she answered, with decision. “Look here, -Jeremy, don’t be pig-headed and upset all my plans. If you fall out -with Reginald over this, he won’t do anything else for you. He doesn’t -like you, you know, and would be only too glad to pick a quarrel with -you if he could do it with a clear conscience, and then where would you -be, I should like to know?” - -Jeremy was unable to form an opinion as to where he would be, so she -went on: - -“You must take to it for the present, at any rate. And then there is -another thing to think of. Ernest is to go to the bar, and unless you -become a lawyer, if anything happened to Reginald, there will be nobody -to give him a start, and I’m told that is everything at the bar.” - -This last Jeremy admitted to be a weighty argument. - -“It is a precious rum sort of lawyer I shall make,” he said, sadly, -“about as good as grandfather yonder, I’m thinking. By the way, how has -he been getting on?” - -“O, just as usual—write, write, write all day. He thinks that he is -working out his time. He has got a new stick now, on which he has -nicked all the months and years that have to run before he has -done—little nicks for the months and big ones for the years. There are -eight or ten big ones left now. Every month he cuts out a nick. It is -very dreadful. You know he thinks that Reginald is the devil, and he -hates him, too. The other day, when he had no writing to do in the -office, I found him drawing pictures of him with horns and a tail, such -awful pictures, and I think Reginald always looks like that to him. And -then sometimes he wants to go out riding, especially at night. Only -last week they found him putting a bridle on to the gray mare—the one -that Reginald sometimes rides, you know. When did you say that Ernest -was coming back?” she said, after a pause. - -“Why, Doll, I told you—next Monday week.” - -Her face fell a little. “O, I thought you said Saturday.” - -“Why do you want to know?” - -“O, only about getting his room ready.” - -“Why, it is ready; I looked in yesterday.” - -“Nonsense! you know nothing about it,” she answered, colouring. “Come, -I wish you would go out; I want to count the linen, and you are in the -way.” - -Thus adjured, Jeremy removed his large form from the table on which he -had been sitting, and whistling to Nails, now a very ancient and -preternaturally wise dog, set off for a walk. He had mooned along some -little way, with his hands in his pockets and his eyes on the ground, -reflecting on the unpleasant fate in store for him as an articled -clerk, continually under the glance of Mr. Cardus’s roving eye, when -suddenly he became aware that two ladies were standing on the edge of -the cliff within a dozen yards of him. He would have turned and fled, -for Jeremy had a marked dislike to ladies’ society, and a strong -opinion, which, however, he never expressed, that women were the root -of all evil; but, thinking that he had been seen, he feared that -retreat would appear rude. In one of the young ladies, for they were -young, he recognised Miss Florence Ceswick, who to all appearance had -not changed in the least since, some years ago, she came with her aunt -to call on Dorothy. There was the same brown hair, curling as profusely -as ever, the same keen brown eyes and ripe lips, the same small -features and resolute expression of face. Her square figure had indeed -developed a little. In her tight-fitting dress it looked almost -handsome, and somehow its very squareness, that most women would have -considered a defect, contributed to the air of power and unchanging -purpose that would have made Florence Ceswick remarkable among a -hundred handsomer women. - -“How do you do?” said Florence, in her sharp manner. “You looked as -though you were walking in your sleep.” - -Before Jeremy could find a reply to this remark, the other young lady, -who had been looking intently over the edge of the cliff, turned round -and struck him dumb. In his limited experience he had never seen such a -beautiful woman before. - -She was a head and shoulders taller than her sister, so tall indeed -that only her own natural grace could save her from looking awkward. -Like her sister she was a brunette, only of a much more pronounced -type. Her waving hair was black, and so were her beautiful eyes and the -long lashes that curled over them. The complexion was a clear olive, -the lips were like coral, and the teeth small and regular. Every -advantage that Nature can lavish on a woman she had endowed her with in -abundance, including radiant health and spirits. To these charms must -be added that sweet and kindly look which sometimes finds a home on the -faces of good women, a soft voice, a quick intelligence, and an utter -absence of conceit or self-consciousness, and the reader will get some -idea of what Eva Ceswick was like in the first flush of her beauty. - -“Let me introduce my sister Eva, Mr. Jones.” - -But Mr. Jones was for the moment paralysed; he could not even take off -his hat. - -“Well,” said Florence, presently, “she is not Medusa; there is no need -for you to turn into stone.” - -This woke him up—indeed, Florence had an ugly trick of waking people up -occasionally—and he took off his hat, which was as usual a dirty one, -and muttered something inaudible. As for Eva, she blushed, and with -ready wit said that Mr. Jones was no doubt astonished at the filthy -state of her dress (as a matter of fact, Jeremy could not have sworn -that she had one on at all, much less to its condition). “The fact is,” -she went on, “I have been lying flat on the grass and looking over the -edge of the cliff.” - -“What at?” - -“Why, the bones.” - -The spot on which they were standing was part of the ancient graveyard -of Titheburgh Abbey, and as the sea encroached year by year, multitudes -of the bones of the long dead inhabitants of Kesterwick were washed out -of their quiet graves and strewed upon the beach and unequal surfaces -of the cliff. - -“Look,” she said, kneeling down, an example that he followed. About six -feet below them, which was the depth at which the corpses had -originally been laid, could be seen fragments of lead and rotting wood -projecting from the surface of the cliff, and, what was a more ghastly -sight, eight inches or more of the leg-bones of a man, off which the -feet had been washed away. On a ledge in the sandy cliff, about -twenty-five feet from the top and sixty or so from the bottom, there -lay quite a collection of human remains of all sorts and sizes, -conspicuous among them being the bones which had composed the feet that -belonged to the projecting shanks. - -“Isn’t it dreadful?” said Eva, gazing down with a species of -fascination; “just fancy coming to that! Look at that little baby’s -skull just by the big one. Perhaps that is the mother’s. And oh, what -is that buried in the sand?” - -As much of the object to which she pointed at was visible looked like -an old cannon-ball, but Jeremy soon came to a different conclusion. - -“It is a bit of a lead coffin,” he said. - -“Oh, I should like to get down there and find out what is in it. Can’t -you get down?” - -Jeremy shook his head. “I’ve done it as a boy,” he said, “when I was -very light; but it is no good my trying now: the sand would give with -me, and I should go to the bottom.” - -He was willing to do most things to oblige this lovely creature, but -Jeremy was above all things practical, and did not see the use of -breaking his neck for nothing. - -“Well,” she said, “you certainly are rather heavy.” - -“Fifteen stone,” he said, mournfully. - -“But I am not ten; I think I could get down.” - -“You’d better not try without a rope.” - -Just then their conversation was interrupted by Florence’s clear voice: - -“When you two people have quite finished staring at those disgusting -bones, perhaps, Eva, you will come home to lunch. If you only knew how -silly you look, sprawling there like two Turks going to be bastinadoed, -perhaps you would get up.” - -This was too much for Eva; she got up at once, and Jeremy followed -suit. - -“Why could you not let us examine our bones in peace, Florence?” said -her sister, jokingly. - -“Because you are really too idiotic. You see, Mr. Jones, anything that -is old and fusty, and has to do with old fogies who are dead and gone -centuries ago, has the greatest charms for my sister. She would like to -go home and make stories about those bones: whose they were, and what -they did, and all the rest of it. She calls it imagination; I call it -fudge.” - -Eva flushed up, but said nothing; evidently she was not accustomed to -answer her elder sister, and presently they parted to go their separate -ways. - -“What a great oaf that Jeremy is!” said Florence to her sister on their -homeward way. - -“I did not think him an oaf at all,” she replied, warmly; “I thought -him very nice.” - -Florence shrugged her square shoulders. “Well, of course, if you like a -giant with as much brain as an owl, there is nothing more to be said. -You should see Ernest; he is nice, if you like.” - -“You seem very fond of Ernest.” - -“Yes, I am,” was the reply; “and I hope that when he comes you won’t -poach on my manor.” - -“You need not be afraid,” answered Eva, smiling; “I promise to leave -your Ernest alone.” - -“Then that is a bargain,” said Florence, sharply. “Mind that you keep -to your word.” - - - - -CHAPTER VI. -JEREMY FALLS IN LOVE - - -Jeremy, for the first time for some years, had no appetite for his -dinner that day, a phenomenon that filled Dorothy with alarm. - -“My dear Jeremy,” she said afterwards, “what can be the matter with -you? you had only one helping of beef and no pudding!” - -“Nothing at all,” he replied sulkily; and the subject dropped. - -“Doll,” said Jeremy presently, “do you know Miss Eva Ceswick?” - -“Yes, I have seen her twice.” - -“What do you think of her, Doll?” - -“What do you think of her?” replied that cautious young person. - -“I think she is beautiful as—as an angel.” - -“Quite poetical, I declare! What next? Have you seen her?” - -“Of course, else how should I know she was beautiful?” - -“Ah, no wonder you had only once of beef!” - -Jeremy coloured. - -“I am going to call there this afternoon; would you like to come?” went -on his sister. - -“Yes, I’ll come.” - -“Better and better; it will be the first call I ever remember your -having paid.” - -“You don’t think she will mind, Doll?” - -“Why should she mind? Most people don’t mind being called on, even if -they have a pretty face.” - -“Pretty face! She is pretty all over.” - -“Well, then, a pretty all over. I start at three; don’t be late.” - -Thereupon Jeremy went off to beautify himself for the occasion, and his -sister gazed at his departing form with the puzzled expression that had -distinguished her as a child. - -“He’s going to fall in love with her,” she said to herself, “and no -wonder; any man would: she is ‘pretty all over,’ as he said, and what -more does a man look at? I wish that _she_ would fall in love with him -_before Ernest comes home;_” and she sighed. - -At a quarter to three Jeremy reappeared, looking particularly huge in a -black coat and his Sunday trousers. When they reached the cottage where -Miss Ceswick lived with her nieces, they were destined to meet with a -disappointment, for neither of the young ladies was at home. Miss -Ceswick, however, was there, and received them very cordially. - -“I suppose that you have come to see my newly imported niece,” she -said; “in fact, I am sure that you have, Mr. Jeremy, because you never -came to call upon me in your life. Ah, it is wonderful how young men -will change their habits to please a pair of bright eyes!” - -Jeremy blushed painfully at this sally, but Dorothy came to his rescue. - -“Has Miss Eva come to live with you for good?” she asked. - -“Yes, I think so. You see, my dear, between you and me, her aunt in -London, with whom she was living, has got a family of daughters, who -have recently come out. Eva has been kept back as long as possible, but -now that she is twenty it was impossible to keep her back any more. But -then, on the other hand, it was felt—at least I think that it was -felt—that to continue to bring Eva out with her cousins would be to -quite ruin their chance of settling in life, because when _she_ was in -the room, no man could be got to look at _them_. And so, you see, Eva -has been sent down here as a penalty for being so handsome.” - -“Most of us would be glad to undergo heavier penalties than that if we -could only be guilty of the crime,” said Dorothy, a little sadly. - -“Ah, my dear, I daresay you think so,” answered the old lady. “Every -young woman longs to be beautiful and get the admiration of men, but -are they any the happier for it? I doubt it. Very often that admiration -brings endless troubles in its train, and perhaps in the end wrecks the -happiness of the woman herself and of others who are mixed up with her. -I was once a beautiful woman, my dear—I am old enough to say it now—and -I can tell you that I believe that Providence cannot do a more unkind -thing to a woman than to give her striking beauty, unless it gives with -it great strength of mind. A weak-minded beauty is the most unfortunate -of her sex. Her very attractions, which are sure to draw the secret -enmity of other women on to her, are a source of difficulty to herself, -because they bring her lovers with whom she cannot deal. Sometimes the -end of such a woman is sad enough. I have seen it happen several times, -my dear.” - -Often in after-life, and in circumstances that had not then arisen, did -Dorothy think of old Miss Ceswick’s words, and acknowledge their truth; -but at this time they did not convince her. - -“I would give anything to be like your niece,” she said bluntly, “and -so would any other girl. Ask Florence, for instance.” - -“Ah, my dear, you think so now. Wait till another twenty years have -passed over your heads, and then if you are both alive see which of you -is the happiest. As for Florence, of course she would wish to be like -Eva; of course it is painful for her to have to go about with a girl -beside whom she looks like a little dowdy. I daresay that she would -have been as glad if Eva had stopped in London as her cousins were that -she left it. Dear, dear! I hope they won’t quarrel. Florence’s temper -is dreadful when she quarrels.” - -This was a remark that Dorothy could not gainsay. She knew very well -what Florence’s temper was like. - -“But, Mr. Jeremy,” went on the old lady, “all this must be stupid talk -for you to listen to; tell me, have you been rowing any more races -lately?” - -“No,” said Jeremy, “I strained a muscle in my arm in the ’Varsity Race, -and it is not quite well yet.” - -“And where is my dear Ernest?” Like most women, of whatever age they -might be, Miss Ceswick adored Ernest. - -“He is coming back on Monday week.” - -“O, then he will be in time for the Smythes’ lawn tennis party. I hear -that they are going to give a dance after it. Do you dance, Mr. -Jeremy?” - -Jeremy had to confess that he did not; indeed, as a matter of fact, no -earthly power had ever been able to drag him inside a ballroom in his -life. - -“That is a pity; there are so few young men in these parts. Florence -counted them up the other day, and the proportion is one unmarried man, -between the ages of twenty and forty-five, to every nine women between -eighteen and thirty.” - -“Then only one girl in every nine can get married,” put in Dorothy, -whose mind had a trick of following things to their conclusions. - -“And what becomes of the other eight?” asked Jeremy. - -“I suppose that they all grow into old maids like myself,” answered -Miss Ceswick. - -Dorothy, again following the matter to its conclusion, reflected that -in fifteen years or so there would, at the present rate of progression, -be at least twenty-five old maids within a radius of three miles round -Kesterwick. And, much oppressed by this thought, she rose to take her -leave. - -“I know who won’t be left without a husband, unless men are greater -stupids than I take them for—eh, Jeremy?” said the kindly old lady, -giving Dorothy a kiss. - -“If you mean me,” answered Dorothy bluntly, with a slightly heightened -colour, “I am not so vain as to think that anybody would care for an -undersized creature whose only accomplishment is housekeeping; and I am -sure it is not for anybody that I should care either.” - -“Ah, my dear, there are still a few men of sense in the world, who -would rather get a _good_ woman as companion than a pretty face. -Good-bye, my dear.” - -Though Jeremy was on this occasion disappointed of seeing Eva, on the -following morning he was so fortunate as to meet her and her sister -walking on the beach. But when he got into her gracious presence he -found somehow that he had very little to say; and the walk would, to -tell the truth, have been rather dull, if it had not occasionally been -enlivened by flashes of Florence’s caustic wit. - -On the next day, however, he returned to the charge with several -hundredweight of the roots of a certain flower which Eva had expressed -a desire to possess. And so it went on till at last his shyness wore -off a little, and they grew very good friends. - -Of course all this did not escape Florence’s sharp eyes, and one day, -just after Jeremy had paid her sister a lumbering compliment and -departed, she summarised her observations thus: - -“That moon-calf is falling in love with you, Eva.” - -“Nonsense, Florence! and why should you call him a moon-calf? It is not -nice to talk of people so.” - -“Well, if you can find a better definition, I am willing to adopt it.” - -“I think that he is an honest gentleman-like boy; and even if he were -falling in love with me, I do not think there would be anything to be -ashamed of—there!” - -“Dear me, what a fuss we are in! Do you know, I shall soon begin to -think that you are falling in love with the ‘honest gentleman-like -boy’—yes, that is a better title than moon-calf, though not so -nervous.” - -Here Eva marched off in a huff. - -“Well, Jeremy, and how are you getting on with the beautiful Eva?” -asked Dorothy that same day. - -“I say, Doll,” replied Jeremy, whose general appearance was that of a -man plunged into the depths of misery, “don’t laugh at a fellow; if you -only knew what I feel—inside, you know—you wouldn’t——” - -“What! are you not well? have some brandy?” suggested his sister, in -genuine alarm. - -“Don’t be an idiot, Doll; it isn’t my stomach, it’s here;” and he -knocked his right lung, under the impression that he was indicating the -position of his heart. - -“And what do you feel, Jeremy?” - -“Feel!” he answered with a groan; “what don’t I feel? When I am away -from her I feel a sort of sinking, just like one does when one has to -go without one’s dinner, only it’s always there. When she looks at me I -go hot and cold all over, and when she smiles it’s just as though one -had killed a couple of woodcocks right and left.” - -“Good gracious, Jeremy!” interposed his sister, who was beginning to -think he had gone off his head; “and what happens if she doesn’t -smile?” - -“Ah, then,” he replied, sadly, “it’s as though one had missed them -both.” - -Though his similes were peculiar, it was clear to his sister that the -feeling he meant to convey was genuine enough. - -“Are you really fond of this girl, Jeremy dear?” she said gently. - -“Well, Doll, you know, I suppose I am.” - -“Then why don’t you ask her to marry you?” - -“To marry _me!_ Why, I am not fit to clean her shoes.” - -“An honest gentleman is fit for any woman, Jeremy.” - -“And I haven’t got anything to support her on even if she said yes, -which she wouldn’t.” - -“You may get that in time. Remember, Jeremy, she is a very lovely -woman, and soon she is sure to find other lovers.” - -Jeremy groaned. - -“But if once you had secured her affection, and she is a good woman, as -I think she is, that would not matter, though you might not be able to -marry for some years.” - -“Then what am I to do?” - -“I should tell her that you loved her, and ask her, if she could care -for you—to wait for you awhile.” - -Jeremy whistled meditatively. - -“I’ll ask Ernest about it when he comes back on Monday.” - -“If I were you I should act for myself in that matter,” she said -quickly. - -“No good being in a hurry; I haven’t known her a fortnight—I’ll ask -Ernest.” - -“Then you will regret it,” Dorothy answered, almost passionately, and -rising, left the room. - -“Now, what did she mean by that?” reflected her brother aloud; “she -always is so deuced queer when Ernest is concerned.” But his inner -consciousness returned no satisfactory answer, so with a sigh the -lovelorn Jeremy took up his hat and walked. - -On Sunday, that was the day following his talk with Dorothy, he saw Eva -again in church, where she looked, he thought, more like an angel than -ever, and was quite as inaccessible. In the churchyard he did, it is -true, manage to get a word or two with her, but nothing more, for the -sermon had been long, and Florence was hungry, and hurried her sister -home to lunch. - -And then, at last, came Monday, the long-expected day of Ernest’s -arrival. - - - - -CHAPTER VII. -ERNEST IS INDISCREET - - -Kesterwick is a primitive place, and has no railway station nearer than -Raffham, four miles off. Ernest was expected by the midday train, and -Dorothy and her brother went to meet him. - -When they reached the station the train was just in sight, and Dorothy -got down to await its arrival. Presently it snorted up -composedly—trains do not hurry themselves on the single lines in the -Eastern counties—and in due course deposited Ernest and his -portmanteau. - -“Hullo, Doll! so you have come to meet me. How are you, old girl?” and -he embraced her on the platform. - -“You shouldn’t, Ernest: I am too big to be kissed like a little girl, -and in public too.” - -“Big—h’m! Miss five feet nothing, and as for the public, I don’t see -any.” The train had gone on, and the solitary porter had vanished with -the portmanteau. - -“Well, there is no need for you to laugh at me for being small; it is -not everybody who can be a May-pole, like you, or as broad as he is -long, like Jeremy.” - -An unearthly view halloo from this last-named personage, who had caught -sight of Ernest through the door of the booking-office, put a stop to -further controversy, and presently all three were driving back, each -talking at the top of his or her voice. - -At the door of Dum’s Ness they found Mr. Cardus apparently gazing -abstractedly at the ocean, but in reality waiting to greet Ernest, to -whom of late years he had grown greatly attached, though his reserve -seldom allowed him to show it. - -“Hullo, uncle, how are you? You look pretty fresh,” sang out that young -gentleman before the cart had fairly come to a standstill. - -“Very well, thank you, Ernest. I need not ask how you are. I am glad to -see you back. You have come at a lucky moment, too, for the ‘Batemania -Wallisii’ is in flower, and the ‘Grammatophyllum speciosum’ too. The -last is splendid.” - -“Ah,” said Ernest, deeply interested, for he had much of his uncle’s -love for orchids, “let’s go and see them.” - -“Better have some dinner first; you must be hungry. The orchids will -keep, but the dinner won’t.” - -It was curious to see what a ray of light this lad brought with him -into that rather gloomy household. Everybody began to laugh as soon as -he was inside the doors. Even Grice of the beady eyes laughed when he -feigned to be thunder-struck at the newly developed beauty of her -person, and mad old Atterleigh’s contorted features lit up with -something like a smile of recognition when Ernest seized his hand and -worked it like a pump-handle, roaring out his congratulations on the -jollity of his looks. He was a bonny lad, the sight of whom was good -for sore eyes. - -After dinner he went with his uncle, and spent half an hour in going -round the orchid-houses with him and Sampson the gardener. The latter -was not behind the rest of the household in his appreciation of -“Meester” Ernest. “’Twasn’t many lads,” he would say, “that knew an -‘Odontoglossum’ from a ‘Sobralia,’” but Ernest did, and, what was more, -knew whether it was well grown or not. Sampson appreciated a man who -could discriminate orchids, and set his preference for Ernest down to -that cause. The dour-visaged old Scotchman did not like to own that -what really charmed him was the lad’s open-handed, openhearted manner, -to say nothing of his ready sympathy and honest eyes. - -While they were still engaged in admiring the lovely bloom of the -Grammatophyllum, Mr. Cardus saw Mr. de Talor come into his office, -which, it may be remembered, was connected with the orchid -blooming-house by a glass door. Ernest was much interested in observing -the curious change that this man’s appearance produced in his uncle. As -a peaceful cat, dozing on a warm stone in summer, becomes suddenly -changed into a thing of bristling wickedness and fury by the vision of -the most inoffensive dog, so did the placid, bald-headed old gentleman, -glowing with innocent pleasure at his horticultural masterpiece, -commence to glow with very different emotions at the sight of the -pompous De Talor. The ruling passion of his life asserted its sway in a -moment, and his whole face changed; the upper lip began to quiver, the -roving eyes glittered with a dangerous light; and then a mask seemed to -gather over the features, which grew hard and almost inscrutable. It -was an interesting transformation. - -Although they could see De Talor, he could not see them; so for a -minute they enjoyed an undisturbed period of observation. - -The visitor walked round the room, and, casting a look of contempt at -the flowers in the blooming-house, stopped at Mr. Cardus’s desk, and -glanced at the papers lying on it. Finding apparently nothing to -interest him he retired to the window, and, putting his thumbs in the -arm-holes of his waistcoat, amused himself by staring out of it. There -was something so intensely vulgar and insolent in his appearance as he -stood thus, that Ernest could not help laughing. - -“Ah!” said Mr. Cardus, with a look of suppressed malignity, half to -himself and half to Ernest, “I have really got a hold of you at last, -and you may look out, my friend.” Then he went in, and as he left the -blooming-house Ernest heard him greet his visitor in that suave manner, -with just a touch of deference in it, that he knew so well how to -assume, and De Talor’s reply of “’Ow do, Cardus? ’ow’s the business -getting on?” - -Outside the glass-houses Ernest found Jeremy waiting for him. It had -for years been an understood thing that the latter was not to enter -them. There was no particular reason why he should not; it was merely -one of those signs of Mr. Cardus’s disfavour that caused Jeremy’s pride -such bitter injury. - -“What are you going to do, old fellow?” he asked of Ernest. - -“Well, I want to go down and see Florence Ceswick, but I suppose you -won’t care to come.” - -“O yes, I’ll come.” - -“The deuce you will! well, I never! I say, Doll,” he sang out to that -young lady as she appeared upon the scene, “what has happened to -Jeremy—he’s coming out calling?” - -“I fancy he’s got an attraction,” said Miss Dorothy. - -“I say, old fellow, you haven’t been cutting me out with Florence, have -you?” - -“I am sure it would be no great loss if he had,” put in Dorothy, with -an impatient little stamp of the foot. - -“You be quiet, Doll. I’m very fond of Florence, she’s so clever, and -nice-looking, too.” - -“If being clever means being able to say spiteful things, and having a -temper like—like a fiend, she is certainly clever enough; and as for -her looks, they are a matter of taste—not that it is for _me_ to talk -about good looks.” - -“O, how humble we are, Doll! dust on our head and sackcloth on our -back, and how our blue eyes flash!” - -“Be quiet, Ernest, or I shall get angry.” - -“O no, don’t do that; leave that to people with a temper ‘like—like a -fiend,’ you know. There, there, don’t get cross, Dolly; let’s kiss and -be friends.” - -“I won’t kiss you, and I won’t be friends, and you may walk by -yourselves;” and before anybody could stop her she was gone. - -Ernest whistled softly, reflecting that Dorothy was not good at -standing chaff. Then, after waiting awhile, he and Jeremy started to -pay their call. - -But they were destined to be unfortunate. Eva, whom Ernest had never -seen, and of whom he had heard nothing beyond that she was -“good-looking”—for Jeremy, notwithstanding his expressed intention of -consulting him, could not make up his mind to broach the subject—was in -bed with a bad headache, and Florence had gone out to spend the -afternoon with a friend. The old lady was at home, however, and -received them both warmly, more especially her favourite Ernest, whom -she kissed affectionately. - -“I am lucky,” she said, “in having two nieces, or I should never see -anything of young gentlemen like you.” - -“I think,” said Ernest, audaciously, “that old ladies are much -pleasanter to talk to than young ones.” - -“Indeed, Master Ernest! then why did you look so blank when I told you -that my young ladies were not visible?” - -“Because I regretted,” replied that young gentleman, who was not often -at a loss, “having lost an opportunity of confirming my views.” - -“I will put the question again when they are present to take their own -part,” was the answer. - -When their call was over, Ernest and Jeremy separated, Jeremy to return -home, and Ernest to go and see his old master, Mr. Halford, with whom -he stopped to tea. It was past seven on one of the most beautiful -evenings in July when he set out on his homeward path. There were two -ways of reaching Dum’s Ness, either by the road that ran along the -cliff, or by walking on the shingle of the beach. He chose the latter, -and had reached the spot where Titheburgh Abbey frowned at its enemy, -the advancing sea, when he suddenly became aware of a young lady -wearing a shady hat and swinging a walking-stick, in whom he recognised -Florence Ceswick. - -“How do you do, Ernest?” she said, coolly, but with a slight flush upon -her olive skin, which betrayed that she was not quite so cool as she -looked; “what are you dreaming about? I have seen you coming for the -last two hundred yards, but you never saw me.” - -“I was dreaming of you, of course, Florence.” - -“O, indeed!” she answered dryly; “I thought perhaps that Eva had got -over her headache—her headaches do go in the most wonderful way—and -that you had seen her, and were dreaming of _her._” - -“And why should I dream of her, even if I had seen her?” - -“For the reason that men do dream of women—because she is handsome.” - -“Is she better-looking than you, then, Florence?” - -“Better-looking, indeed! I am not good-looking.” - -“Nonsense, Florence! you are very good-looking.” - -She stopped, for he had turned and was walking with her, and laid her -hand lightly on his arm. - -“Do you really think so?” she said, gazing full into his dark eyes. “I -am glad you think so.” - -They were quite alone in the summer twilight; there was not a single -soul to be seen on the beach, or on the cliffs above it. Her touch and -the earnestness of her manner thrilled him; the beauty and the quiet of -the evening, the sweet freshness of the air, the murmur of the falling -waves, the fading purples in the sky, all these things thrilled him -too. Her face looked very handsome in its own stern way, as she gazed -at him so earnestly; and, remember, he was only twenty-one. He bent his -dark head towards her very slowly, to give her an opportunity of -escaping if she wished; but she made no sign, and in another moment he -had kissed her trembling lips. - -It was a foolish act, for he was not in love with Florence, and he had -scarcely done it before his better sense told him that it was foolish. -But it was done, and who can recall a kiss? - -He saw the olive face grow pale, and for a moment she raised her arm as -though to fling it about his neck, but next second she started back -from him. - -“Did you mean that,” she said wildly, “or are you playing with me?” - -Ernest looked alarmed, as well he might; the young lady’s aspect at the -moment was not reassuring. - -“Mean it?” he said, “O yes, I meant it.” - -“I mean, Ernest,” and again she laid her hand upon his arm and looked -into his eyes, “did you mean that you loved me, as—for now I am not -ashamed to tell you—I love you?” - -Ernest felt that this was getting awful. To kiss a young woman was one -thing—he had done that before—but such an outburst as this was more -than he had bargained for. Gratifying as it was to him to learn that he -possessed Florence’s affection, he would at that moment have given -something to be without it. He hesitated a little. - -“How serious you are!” he said at last. - -“Yes,” she answered, “I am. I have been serious for some time. Probably -you know enough of me to be aware that I am not a woman to be played -with. I hope that you are serious too; if you are not, it may be the -worse for us both;” and she flung his arm from her as though it had -stung her. - -Ernest turned cold all over, and realised that the position was -positively gruesome. What to say or do he did not know; so he stood -silent, and, as it happened, silence served his turn better than -speech. - -“There, Ernest, I have startled you. It is—it is because I love you. -When you kissed me just now, everything that is beautiful in the world -seemed to pass before my eyes, and for a moment I heard such music as -they play in heaven. You don’t understand me yet, Ernest—I am fierce, I -know—but sometimes I think that my heart is deep as the sea, and I can -love with ten times the strength of the shallow women round me; and as -I can love, so I can hate.” - -This was not reassuring intelligence to Ernest. - -“You are a strange girl,” he said feebly. - -“Yes,” she answered, with a smile. “I know I am strange; but while I am -with you I feel so good, and when you are away all my life is a void, -in which bitter thoughts flit about like bats. But there, good-night. I -shall see you at the Smythes’ dance to-morrow, shall I not? You will -dance with me, will you not? And you must not dance with Eva, -remember—at least not too much—or I shall get jealous, and that will be -bad for us both. And now goodnight, my dear, good-night;” and again she -put up her face to be kissed. - -He kissed it—he had no alternative—and she left him swiftly. He watched -her retreating form till it vanished in the shadows, and then he sat -down upon a stone, wiped his forehead, and _whistled._ Well might he -whistle! - - - - -CHAPTER VIII. -A GARDEN IDYL - - -Ernest did not sleep well that night: the scene of the evening haunted -his dreams, and he awoke with a sense of oppression that impartially -follows on the heels of misfortune, folly, and lobster-salad. Nor did -the broad light of the summer day disperse his sorrows; indeed, it only -served to define them more clearly. Ernest was a very inexperienced -youth, but, inexperienced as he was, he could not but recognise that he -had let himself in for an awkward business. He was not in the smallest -degree in love with Florence Ceswick; indeed, his predominant feeling -towards her was one of fear. She was, as he had said, so terribly in -earnest. In short, though she was barely a year older than himself, she -was a woman possessed of a strength of purpose and a rigidity of will -that few of her sex ever attain to at any period of their lives. This -he had guessed long ago; but what he had not guessed was that all the -tide of her life set so strongly towards himself. That unlucky kiss, as -it were, had shot the bolt of the sluice-gates, and now he was in a -fair way to be overwhelmed by the rush of the waters. What course of -action he had best take with her now it was beyond his powers to -decide. He thought of taking Dorothy into his confidence and asking her -advice, but instinctively he shrank from doing so. Then he thought of -Jeremy, only, however, to reject the idea. What would Jeremy know of -such things? He little guessed that Jeremy was swelling with a secret -of his own, of which he was too shy to deliver himself. It seemed to -Ernest, the more he considered the matter, that there was only one safe -course for him to follow, and that was to run away. It would be -ignominious, it is true, but at any rate Florence could not run after -him. He had made arrangements to meet a friend, and go for a tour with -him in France towards the end of the month of August, or about five -weeks from the present date. These arrangements he now determined to -modify: he would go for his tour at once. - -Partially comforted by these reflections, he dressed himself that -evening for the dance at the Smythes’, where he was to meet Florence, -who, however, he gratefully reflected, could not expect him to kiss her -there. The dance was to follow a lawn-tennis party, to which Dorothy, -accompanied by Jeremy, had already gone, Ernest having, for reasons -best known to himself, declined to go to the lawn-tennis, preferring to -follow them to the dance. - -When he entered the ballroom at the Smythes’, the first quadrille was -in progress. Making his way up the room, Ernest soon came upon Florence -Ceswick, who was sitting with Dorothy, while in the background loomed -Jeremy’s gigantic form. Both the girls appeared to be waiting for him, -for on his approach Florence, by a movement of her dress, and an almost -imperceptible motion of her hand, at once made room for him on the -bench beside her, and invited him to sit down. He did so. - -“You are late,” she said; “why did you not come to the lawn-tennis?” - -“I thought that our party was sufficiently represented,” he answered, -lamely, nodding towards Jeremy and his sister. “Why are you not -dancing?” - -“Because nobody asked me,” she said, sharply; “and besides, I was -waiting for you.” - -“Jeremy,” said Ernest, “here is Florence says that you didn’t ask her -to dance.” - -“Don’t talk humbug, Ernest; you know I don’t dance.” - -“No, indeed,” put in Dorothy, “it is easy to see that; I never saw -anybody look so miserable as you do.” - -“Or so big,” said Florence, consolingly. - -Jeremy shrank back into his corner and tried to look smaller. His -sister was right, a dance was untold misery to him. The quadrille had -ceased by now, and presently the band struck up a waltz, which Ernest -danced with Florence. They both waltzed well, and Ernest kept going as -much as possible, perhaps in order to give no opportunity for -conversation. At any rate no allusion was made to the events of the -previous evening. - -“Where are your aunt and sister, Florence?” he asked, as he led her -back to her seat. - -“They are coming presently,” she answered, shortly. - -The next dance was a galop, and this he danced with Dorothy, whose slim -figure looked, in the white muslin dress she wore, more like that of a -child than a grown woman. But child or woman, her general appearance -was singularly pleasing and attractive. Ernest thought that he had -never seen the quaint, puckered little face, with the two steady blue -eyes in it, look so attractive. Not that it was pretty—it was not, but -it was a face with a great deal of thought in it, and moreover it was a -face through which the goodness of its owner seemed to shine like the -light through a lamp. - -“You look so nice to-night, Doll,” said Ernest. - -She flushed with pleasure, and answered simply, “I am glad you think -so.” - -“Yes, I do think so; you are really pretty.” - -“Nonsense, Ernest! Can’t you find some other butt to practise your -compliments on? What is the good of wasting them on me? I am going to -sit down.” - -“Really, Doll, I don’t know what has come to you lately, you have grown -so cross.” - -She sighed as she answered, gently: - -“No more do I, Ernest. I did not mean to speak crossly, but you should -not make fun of me. Ah, here come Miss Ceswick and Eva.” - -They had rejoined Florence and Jeremy. The two ladies were seated, -while Ernest and Jeremy were standing, the former in front of them, the -latter against the wall behind, for they were gathered at the topmost -end of the long room. At Dorothy’s announcement both the lads bent -forward to look down the room, and both the women fixed their eyes on -Ernest’s face anxiously, expectantly, something as a criminal fixes his -eyes on the foreman of a jury who is about to pronounce words that will -one way or another affect all his life. - -“I don’t see them,” said Ernest carelessly. “O, here they come. _By -George!_” - -[Illustration: “_By George!_”] - -Whatever these two women were looking for in his face, they had found -it, and, to all appearance, it pleased them very little. Dorothy turned -pale, and leaned back with a faint smile of resignation; she had -expected it, that smile seemed to say; but the blood flamed like a -danger-flag into Florence’s haughty features—there was no resignation -there. And meanwhile Ernest was staring down the room, quite unaware of -the little comedy that was going on around him; so was Jeremy, and so -was every other man who was there to stare. - -And this was what they were staring at. Up the centre of the long room -walked, or rather swept, Miss Ceswick, for even at her advanced age she -moved like a queen, and at any other time her appearance would in -itself have been sufficient to excite remark. But people were not -looking at Miss Ceswick, but rather at the radiant creature who -accompanied her, and whose stature dwarfed her, tall as she was. Eva -Ceswick—for it was she—was dressed in white _soie de Chine,_ in the -bosom of which was fixed a single rose. The dress was cut low, and her -splendid neck and arms were entirely without ornament. In the masses of -dark hair, which was coiled like a coronet round her head, there -glistened a diamond star. Simple as was her costume, there was a -grandeur about it that struck the whole room; but in truth it sprang -from the almost perfect beauty of the woman who wore it. Any dress -would have looked beautiful upon that noble form, that towered so high, -and yet seemed to float up the room with the grace of a swan and sway -like a willow in the wind. But her loveliness did not end there. From -those dark eyes there shone a light that few men could look upon and -forget, and yet there was nothing bold about it. It was like the light -of a star. - -On she came, her lips half-parted, seemingly unconscious of the -admiration she was attracting, eclipsing all other women as she passed, -and making their beauty, that before had seemed bright enough, look -poor and mean beside her own. It took but a few seconds, ten perhaps, -for her to walk up the room, and yet to Ernest it seemed long before -her eyes met his own, and something passed from them into his heart -that remained there all his life. - -His gaze made her blush a little, it was so unmistakable. She guessed -who he was, and passed him with a little inclination of her head. - -“Well, here we are at last,” she said, addressing her sister in her -pure musical voice. “What do you think? something went wrong with the -wheel of the fly, and we had to stop to get it mended!” - -“Indeed!” answered Florence; “I thought that perhaps you came late in -order to make a more effective entry.” - -“Florence,” said her aunt, reprovingly, “you should not say such -things.” - -Florence did not answer, but put her lace handkerchief to her lip. She -had bitten it till the blood ran. - -By this time Ernest had recovered himself. He saw several young fellows -bearing down upon them, and knew what they were after. - -“Miss Ceswick,” he said, “will you introduce me?” - -No sooner said than done, and at that moment the band began to play a -waltz. In five seconds more Eva was floating down the room upon his -arm, and the advancing young gentlemen were left lamenting, and, if the -truth must be told, anathematising “that puppy Kershaw” beneath their -breath. - -There was a spirit in her feet; she danced divinely. Lightly leaning on -his arm, they swept round the room, the incarnation of youthful -strength and beauty, and, as they passed, even sour old Lady Asteigh -lowered her ancient nose an inch or more, and deigned to ask who that -handsome young man dancing with the “tall girl” was. Presently they -halted, and Ernest observed a more than usually intrepid man coming -towards them, with the design, no doubt, of obtaining an introduction -and the promise of dances. But again he was equal to the occasion. - -“Have you a card?” he asked. - -“O, yes.” - -“Will you allow me to put my name down for another dance? I think that -our steps suit.” - -“Yes, we get on nicely. Here it is.” - -Ernest took it. The young man had arrived now, and was hovering round -and glowering. Ernest nodded to him cheerfully, and “put his name” very -much down—indeed, for no less than three dances and an extra. - -Eva opened her eyes a little, but she said nothing; their steps suited -so very well. - -“May I ask you, Kershaw—” began his would-be rival. - -“O, certainly,” answered Ernest benignly, “I will be with you -presently;” and they floated off again on the rising wave of the music. - -When the dance ended, they stopped just by the spot where Miss Ceswick -was sitting. Florence and Dorothy were both dancing, but Jeremy, who -did not dance, was standing by her, looking as sulky as a bear with a -sore head. Eva stretched out her hand to him with a smile. - -“I hope that you are going to dance with me, Mr. Jones,” she said. - -“I don’t dance,” he answered, curtly, and walked away. - -She gazed after him wonderingly; his manner was decidedly rude. - -“I do not think that Mr. Jones is in a good temper,” she said to -Ernest, with a smile. - -“O, he is a queer fellow; going out always makes him cross,” he -answered carelessly. - -Then the gathering phalanx of would-be partners marched in and took -possession, and Ernest had to retire. - -The ball was drawing to its close. The dancing-room, notwithstanding -its open windows, was intensely hot, and many of the dancers were -strolling in the gardens, among them Ernest and Eva. They had just -danced their third waltz, in which they had discovered that their steps -suited better than ever. - -Florence, Dorothy, and her brother were also walking all three -together. It is curious how people in misfortune cling to one another. -They walked in silence; they had nothing to say. Presently they caught -sight of two tall figures standing by a bush, on which was fixed a -dying Chinese lantern. It is sometimes unfortunate to be tall, it -betrays one’s identity; there was no mistaking the two figures, though -it was so dark. Instinctively the three halted. And just then the -expiring Chinese lantern did an unkind thing: it caught fire, and threw -a lurid light upon a very pretty little scene. Ernest was bending -forward towards Eva with all his soul in his expressive eyes, and -begging for something. She was blushing sweetly, and looking down at -the rose in her bosom; one hand, too, was raised, as though to unfasten -it. The light for a moment was so strong that Dorothy afterwards -remembered noticing how long Eva’s curling black eyelashes looked -against her cheek. In another second it had flared out, and the -darkness hid the sequel; but it may here be stated that when Eva -reappeared in the ballroom she had lost her rose. - -Charming and idyllic as this _tableau très vivant_ of youth and beauty, -obeying the primary law of nature, and making love to one another in a -Garden of Eden illumined with Chinese lanterns, undoubtedly was, it did -not seem to please any of the three spectators. - -Jeremy actually forgot the presence of ladies, and went so far as to -swear aloud. Nor did they reprove him; probably it gave their feelings -some vicarious relief. - -“I think that we had better be going home; it is late,” said Dorothy, -after a pause. “Jeremy, will you go and order the carriage?” - -Jeremy went. - -Florence said nothing, but she took her fan in both her hands and bent -it slowly, so that the ivory sticks snapped one by one with a -succession of sharp reports. Then she threw it down, and set her heel -upon it, and ground it into the path. There was something inexpressibly -cruel about the way in which she crushed the pretty toy; the action -seemed to be the appropriate and unconscious outcome of some mental -process, and it is an odd proof of the excitement under which they were -both labouring, that at the time the gentle-minded Dorothy saw nothing -strange about it. At that moment the two girls were nearer each other -than they had ever been before, or would ever be again; the common -stroke of a misfortune for a moment welded their opposite natures into -one. At that moment, too, they knew that they both loved the same man; -before, they had guessed it, and had not liked each other the better -for it, but now that was forgotten. - -“I think, Florence,” said Dorothy, with a little tremor in her voice, -“that we are ‘out of the running,’ as Jeremy says. Your sister is too -beautiful for any woman to stand against her. He has fallen in love -with her.” - -“Yes,” said Florence, with a bitter laugh and a flash of her brown -eyes; “his highness has thrown a handkerchief to a new favourite, and -she has lost no time in picking it up. We always used to call her ‘the -sultana;’” and she laughed again. - -“Perhaps,” suggested Dorothy, “she only means to flirt with him a -little; I hoped that Jeremy——” - -“Jeremy! what chance has Jeremy against him? Ernest would make more way -with a woman in two hours than Jeremy would in two years. We all love -to be taken by storm, my dear. Do not deceive yourself. Flirt with him! -she will love him wildly in a week. Who could help loving him?” she -added, with a thrill of her rich voice. - -Dorothy said nothing: she knew that it was true, and they walked a few -steps in silence. - -“Dorothy, do you know what generally happens to favourites and -sultanas?” - -“No.” - -“They come to a bad end; the other ladies of the harem murder them, you -know.” - -“What _do_ you mean?” - -“Don’t be frightened; I don’t mean that we should murder my dear -sister. What I do mean is, that I think we might manage to depose her. -Will you help me if I find a plan?” - -Dorothy’s better self had had time to assert itself by now; the -influence of the blow was over, and their natures were wide apart -again. - -“No, certainly not,” she answered. “Ernest has a right to choose for -himself, and if your sister gets the better of us, it is the fortune of -war, that is all—though certainly the fight is not quite fair,” she -added, as she thought of Eva’s radiant loveliness. - -Florence glanced at her contemptuously. - -“You have no spirit,” she said. - -“What do you mean to do?” - -“Mean to do!” she answered, swinging round and facing her; “I mean to -have my revenge.” - -“O Florence, it is wicked to talk so! whom are you going to be revenged -on—Ernest? It is not his fault if —if you are fond of him.” - -“Yes, it is his fault; but whether it is his fault or not, he shall -suffer. Remember what I say, for it will come true; he shall suffer. -Why should I bear it all alone? But he shall not suffer so much as she. -I told her that I was fond of him, and she promised to leave him -alone—do you hear that?—and yet she is taking him away from me to -gratify her vanity—she, who can have anybody she likes.” - -“Hush, Florence! Don’t give way to your temper so, or you will be -overheard. Besides, I daresay that we are making a great deal out of -nothing; after all, she only gave him a rose.” - -“I don’t care if we are overheard, and it is not nothing. I guessed -that it would be so, I knew that it would be so, and I know what is -coming now. Mark my words, within a month Ernest and my sweet sister -will be sitting about on the cliff with their arms around each other’s -necks. I have only to shut my eyes, and I can see it. O, here is -Jeremy! Is the carriage there, Jeremy? That’s right. Come on, Dorothy, -let us go and say good-night and be off. You will drop me at the -cottage, won’t you?” - -Half an hour later the fly that had brought Miss Ceswick and Eva came -round, and with it Ernest’s dog-cart. But as Miss Ceswick was rather -anxious about the injured wheel, Ernest, as in duty bound, offered to -see them safe home, and, ordering the cart to follow, got into the fly -without waiting for an answer. - -Of course Miss Ceswick went to sleep, but it is not probable that -either Ernest or Eva followed her example. Perhaps they were too tired -to talk; perhaps they were beginning to find out what a delightful -companionship is to be found in silence; perhaps his gentle pressure of -the little white-gloved hand, that lay unresisting in his own, was more -eloquent than any speech. - -Don’t be shocked, my reader; you or I would have done the same, and -thought ourselves very lucky fellows! - -At any rate, that drive was over all too soon. - -Florence opened the door for them; she had told the servant to go to -bed. - -When Eva reached the door of her room she turned round to say -good-night to her sister; but the latter, instead of contenting herself -with a nod, as was her custom, came and kissed her on the face. - -“I congratulate you on your dress and on your conquest,” and again she -kissed her and was gone. - -“It is not like Florence to be so kind,” reflected her younger sister. -“I can’t remember when she kissed me last.” - -Eva did not know that as there are some kisses that declare peace, and -set the seal on love, there are others that announce war, and proclaim -the hour of vengeance or treachery. Judas kissed his Master when he -betrayed Him. - - - - -CHAPTER IX. -EVA FINDS SOMETHING - - -When Ernest woke on the morning after the ball it was ten o’clock, and -he had a severe headache. This—the headache—was his first impression, -but presently his eye fell upon a withering red rose that lay upon the -dressing-table, and he smiled. Then followed reflections, those -confounded reflections that always dog the heels of everything pleasant -in life, and he ceased to smile. - -In the end he yawned and got up. When he reached the sitting-room, -which looked cool and pleasant in contrast to the hot July sunshine -that beat upon the little patch of bare turf in front of the house, and -the glittering sea beyond, he found that the others had done their -breakfast. Jeremy had gone out, but his sister was there, looking a -little pale, no doubt from the late hours of the previous night. - -“Good-morning, Doll!” - -“Good-morning, Ernest,” she answered, rather coldly. “I have been -keeping your tea as warm as I can, but I’m afraid it is getting cold.” - -“You are a good Samaritan, Doll. I’ve got such a head! perhaps the tea -will make it better.” - -She smiled as she gave it to him; had she spoken what was in her mind, -she would have answered that she had “such a heart.” - -He drank the tea, and apparently felt better for it, for presently he -asked her, in comparatively cheerful tones, how she liked the dance. - -“O, very well, thank you, Ernest: how did you like it?” - -“O, awfully! I say, Doll!” - -“Yes, Ernest.” - -“Isn’t she lovely?” - -“Who, Ernest?” - -“Who! why, Eva Ceswick, of course.” - -“Yes, Ernest, she is very lovely.” - -There was something about her tone that was not encouraging; at any -rate he did not pursue the subject. - -“Where is Jeremy?” he asked next. - -“He has gone out.” - -Presently, Ernest, having finished his second cup of tea, went out too, -and came across Jeremy mooning about the yard. - -“Hullo, my hearty! and how are you after your dissipations?” - -“All right, thank you,” answered Jeremy, sulkily. - -Ernest glanced up quickly. The voice was the voice of Jeremy, but the -tones were not his tones. - -“What is up, old chap?” he said, slipping his arm through his friend’s. - -“Nothing.” - -“O yes, there is, though. What is it? Out with it? I am a splendid -father confessor.” - -Jeremy freed his arm, and remained sulkier than ever. Ernest looked -hurt, and the look softened the other. - -“Well, of course, if you won’t tell me, there is nothing more to be -said;” and he prepared to move off. - -“As though you didn’t know!” - -“Upon my honour I don’t.” - -“Then if you’ll come in here, I will tell you;” and Jeremy opened the -door of the little outhouse, where he stuffed his birds and kept his -gun and collection of eggs and butterflies, and motioned Ernest -majestically in. - -He entered and seated himself upon the stuffing-table, gazing -abstractedly at a bittern that Jeremy had shot about the time that this -story opened, and which was now very moth-eaten, and waved one -melancholy leg in the air in a way meant to be imposing, but only -succeeded in being grotesque. - -“Well, what is it?” he interrogated of the glassy eye of the decaying -bittern. - -Jeremy turned his broad back upon Ernest—he felt that he could speak -better on such a subject with his back turned—and, addressing empty -space before him, said: - -“I think it was precious unkind of you.” - -“What was precious unkind?” - -“To go and cut me out of the only girl——” - -“I ever loved?” suggested Ernest, for he was hesitating. - -“I ever loved!” chimed in Jeremy; the phrase expressed his sentiments -exactly. - -“Well, old chap, if you would come to the point a little more, and tell -me who the deuce you are talking about——” - -“Why, who should I be talking about? there is only one girl——” - -“You ever loved?” - -“I ever loved!” - -“Well, in the name of the Holy Roman Empire, _who_ is she?” - -“Why, Eva Ceswick.” - -Ernest whistled. - -“I say, old chap,” he said, after a pause, “why didn’t you tell me? I -didn’t even know that you knew her. Are you engaged to her, then?” - -“Engaged! no.” - -“Well, then, have you an understanding with her?” - -“No, of course not.” - -“Look here, old fellow, if you would just slew round a bit and tell me -how the matter stands, we might get on a little.” - -“It doesn’t stand at all, but—I worship the ground she treads on; -there!” - -“Ah!” said Ernest, “that’s awkward, for so do I—at least I think I do.” - -Jeremy groaned, and Ernest groaned too, by way of company. - -“Look here, old chap,” said the latter, “what is to be done? You should -have told me, but you didn’t, you see. If you had, I would have kept -clear. Fact is, she bowled me over altogether, bowled me clean.” - -“So she did me.” - -“I’ll tell you what, Jeremy, I’ll go away and leave you to make the -running. Not that I see that there is much good in either of us making -the running, for we have nothing to marry on, and no more has she.” - -“And we are only twenty-one. We can’t marry at twenty-one,” put in -Jeremy, “or we should have a large family by the time we’re thirty. -Fellows who marry at twenty-one always do.” - -“She’s twenty-one; she told me so.” - -“She told me too,” said Jeremy, determined to show that Ernest was not -the only person favoured with this exciting fact. - -“Well, shall I clear? we can’t jaw about it for ever.” - -“No,” said Jeremy, slowly, and in a way that showed that it cost him an -effort to say it, “that would not be fair; besides, I expect that the -mischief is done; everybody gets fond of you, old fellow, men or women. -No, you sha’n’t go, and we won’t get to loggerheads over it either. -I’ll tell you what we will do—we will toss up.” - -This struck Ernest as a brilliant suggestion. - -“Right you are,” he said, at once producing a shilling; “singles or -threes?” - -“Singles, of course; it’s sooner over.” - -Ernest poised the coin on his thumb. - -“You call. But, I say, what are we tossing for? We can’t draw lots for -the girl like the fellows in Homer. We haven’t captured her yet.” - -This was obviously a point that required consideration. Jeremy -scratched his head. - -“How will this do?” he said. “The winner to have a month to make the -running in, the loser not to interfere. If she won’t have anything to -say to him after a month, then the loser to have his fling. If she -will, loser to keep clear.” - -“That will do. Stand clear; up you go.” - -The shilling spun in the air. - -“Tails!” howled Jeremy. - -It lit on the beak of the astonished bittern and bounded off on to the -floor, finally rolling under a box full of choice specimens of the -petrified bones of antediluvian animals that had been washed out of the -cliffs. The box was lugged out of the way with difficulty, and the -shilling disclosed. - -“Heads it is!” said Ernest exultingly. - -“I expected as much; just my luck. Well, shake hands, Ernest. We won’t -quarrel about the girl, please God.” - -They shook hands heartily enough and parted; but from that time for -many a long day there was an invisible something between them that had -not been there before. Strong indeed must be the friendship of which -the bonds do not slacken when the shadow of a woman’s love falls upon -it. - -That afternoon Dorothy said that she wanted to go into Kesterwick to -make some purchases, and Ernest offered to accompany her. They walked -in silence as far as Titheburgh Abbey; indeed, they both suffered from -a curious constraint that seemed effectually to check their usual -brother-and-sister-like relations. Ernest was just beginning to feel -the silence awkward when Dorothy stopped. - -“What was that?” she said. “I thought I heard somebody cry out.” - -They listened, and presently both heard a woman’s voice calling for -help. The sound seemed to come from the cliff on their left. They -stepped to the edge and looked over. As may be remembered, some twenty -feet from the top of the cliff, and fifty or more from the bottom, -there was at this spot a sandy ledge, on which were deposited many of -the remains washed out of the churchyard by the sea. Now, this -particular spot was almost inaccessible without ladders, because, -although it was easy enough to get down to its level, the cliff bulged -out on either side of it, and gave for the space of some yards little -or no hold for the hands or feet of the climber. - -The first thing that caught Ernest’s eyes when he looked over was a -lady’s foot and ankle, which appeared to be resting on a tiny piece of -rock that projected from the surface of the cliff; the next was the -imploring face of Eva Ceswick, who was sprawling in a most undignified -position on the bulge of sandstone, with nothing more between her and -eternity than that very unsatisfactory and insufficient knob of rock. -It was evident that she could move neither one way or the other without -being precipitated to the bottom of the cliff, to which she was -apparently clinging by suction like a fly. - -“Great God!” exclaimed Ernest. “Hold on, I will come to you.” - -“I _can’t_ hold much longer.” - -It was one thing to say that he would come, and another to do it. The -sand gave scarcely any foothold; how was he to get enough purchase to -pull Eva round the bulge? He looked at Dorothy in despair. Her quick -mind had taken in the situation at a glance. - -“You must get down there above her, Ernest, and lie flat, and stretch -out your hand to her.” - -“But there is nothing to hold to. When she puts her weight on to my -hand we shall both go together.” - -“No, I will hold your legs. Be quick, she is getting exhausted.” - -It took Ernest but two seconds to reach the spot that Dorothy had -pointed to, and to lay himself flat, or rather slanting, for his heels -were a great deal higher than his head. Fortunately, he discovered a -hard knob of sandstone, against which he could rest his left hand. -Meanwhile, Dorothy, seating herself as securely as she could above, -seized him by the ankles. Then Ernest stretched his hand downwards, -and, gripping Eva by the wrist, began to put out his strength. Had the -three found any time to indulge their sense of humour, they might have -found the appearance they presented intensely ludicrous; but they did -not, for the very good reason that for thirty seconds or so their lives -were not worth a farthing’s purchase. Ernest strained and strained, but -Eva was a large woman, although she danced so lightly, and the bulge -over which he had to pull her was almost perpendicular. Presently he -felt that Dorothy was beginning to slip above him. - -“She must make an effort, or we shall all go,” she said in a quiet -voice. - -“Drive your knees into the sand and throw yourself forward, it is your -only chance!” gasped Ernest to the exhausted woman beneath him. - -She realised the meaning of his words, and gave a desperate struggle. - -“Pull, Doll; for God’s sake, pull! she’s coming.” - -Then followed a second of despairing effort, and she was beside him on -the spot where he lay; another struggle, and the three sank exhausted -on the top of the cliff, rescued from a most imminent death. - -“By Jove!” ejaculated Ernest, “that was a near thing!” - -Dorothy nodded; she was too exhausted to speak. Eva smiled and fainted. - -He turned to her with a little cry and began to chafe her cold hands. - -“O, she’s dead, Doll!” he said. - -“No, she has fainted, give me your hat.” - -Before he could do so she had seized it, and was running as quickly as -her exhaustion would allow towards a spring that bubbled up a hundred -yards away, and which once had been the water supply of the old abbey. - -Ernest went on rubbing for a minute or more, but without producing the -slightest effect. He was in despair. The beautiful face beneath him -looked so wan and death-like; all the red had left her lips. In his -distress, and scarcely knowing what he did, he bent over them and -kissed them, once, twice, thrice. That mode of restoration is not -recommended in the medicine-chest “guide,” but in this instance it was -not without its effect. Presently a faint and tremulous glow diffused -itself over the pale cheek; in another moment it deepened to a most -unmistakable blush. (Was it a half-consciousness of Ernest’s new method -of treatment, or merely the returning blood, that produced the blush? -Let us not inquire.) Next Eva sighed, opened her eyes, and sat up. - -“O, you are not dead!” - -“No, I don’t think so, but I can’t quite remember. What was it? Ah, I -know;” and she shut her eyes, as though to keep out some horrid sight. -Presently she opened them again. “You have saved my life,” she said. -“If it had not been for you, I should have now been lying crushed at -the foot of that dreadful cliff. I am so grateful.”’ - -At that moment Dorothy came back with a little water in Ernest’s black -hat, for in her hurry she had spilled most of it. - -“Here, drink some of this,” she said. - -Eva tried to do so; but a billycock hat is not a very convenient -drinking-vessel till you get used to it, and she upset more than she -swallowed. But what she drank did her good. She put down the hat, and -they all three laughed a little; it was so funny drinking out of an old -hat. - -“Were you long down there before we came?” asked Dorothy. - -“No, not long; only about half a minute on that dreadful bulge.” - -“What on earth did you go there for?” said Ernest, putting his dripping -hat on to his head, for the sun was hot. - -“I wanted to see the bones. I am very active, and thought that I could -get up quite safely; but sand is so slippery. O, I forgot; look here;” -and she pointed to a thin cord that was tied to her wrist. - -“What is that?” - -“Why, it is tied to such an odd lead box that I found in the sand. Mr. -Jones said the other day that he thought it was a bit of an old coffin; -but it is not, it is a lead box with a rusty iron handle. I could not -move it much; but I had this bit of cord with me—I thought I might want -it getting down, you know—so I tied one end of it to the handle.” - -“Let us pull it up,” said Ernest, unfastening the cord from Eva’s -wrist, and beginning to tug. - -But the case was too heavy for him to lift alone; indeed, it proved as -much as they could all three manage to drag it to the top. However, up -it came at last. Ernest examined it carefully, and came to the -conclusion that it was very ancient. The massive iron handle at the top -of the oblong case was almost eaten through with rust, and the lead -itself was much corroded, although, from fragments that still clung to -it, it was evident that it had once been protected by an outer case of -oak. Evidently the case had been washed out of the churchyard where it -had lain for centuries. - -“This is quite exciting,” said Eva, who was now sufficiently interested -to forget all about her escape. “What can be in it?—treasure or papers, -I should think.” - -“I don’t know,” answered Ernest; “I should hardly think that they would -bury such things in a churchyard. Perhaps it is a small baby.” - -“Ernest,” broke in Dorothy, in an agitated way, “I don’t like that -thing. I can’t tell you why, but I am sure it is unlucky. I wish that -you would throw it back to where it came from, or into the sea. It is a -horrid thing, and we have nearly lost our lives over it already.” - -“Nonsense, Doll! whoever thought that you were so superstitious? Why, -perhaps it is full of money or jewels. Let’s take it home and open it.” - -“I am not superstitious, and you can take it home if you like. I will -not touch it; I tell you it is a horrid thing.” - -“All right, Doll, then you sha’n’t have a share of the spoil. Miss -Ceswick and I will divide it. Will you help me to carry it to the -house, Miss Ceswick?—that is, unless you are afraid of it, like Doll.” - -“O no,” she answered, “I am not afraid; I am dying of curiosity to see -what is inside.” - - - - -CHAPTER X. -WHAT EVA FOUND - - -“You are sure you are not too tired?” said Ernest, after a moment’s -consideration. - -“No, indeed, I have quite recovered,” she answered, with a blush. - -Ernest blushed too, from sympathy probably, and went to pick up a bough -that lay beneath a stunted oak-tree which grew in the ruins of the -abbey, on the spot where once the altar had stood. This he ran through -the iron handle, and, directing Eva to catch hold of one end, he took -the other himself, and they started for the house, Dorothy marching -solemnly in front. - -As it happened, Jeremy and Mr. Cardus were strolling along together -smoking, when suddenly they caught sight of the cavalcade advancing, -and hurried to meet it. - -“What is all this?” asked Mr. Cardus of Dorothy, who was now nearly -fifty yards ahead of the other two. - -“Well, Reginald, it is a long story. First we found Eva Ceswick -slipping down the cliff, and dragged her up just in time.” - -“My luck again!” thought Jeremy, groaning in spirit.” I might have sat -on the edge of that cliff for ten years, and never got a chance of -dragging her up.” - -“Then we pulled up that horrid box, which she found down in the sand, -and tied a cord to.” - -“Yes,” exclaimed Ernest, who was now arriving, “and, would you believe -it, Dorothy wanted us to throw it back again!” - -“I know I did; I said that it was unlucky, and it is unlucky.” - -“Nonsense, Dorothy! it is very interesting. I expect that it will be -found to contain deeds buried in the churchyard for safety and never -dug up again,” broke in Mr. Cardus, much interested. “Let me catch hold -of that stick, Miss Ceswick, and I daresay that Jeremy will go on and -get a hammer and a cold chisel, and we will soon solve the mystery.” - -“Oh, very well, Reginald; you will see,” said Dorothy. - -Mr. Cardus glanced at her. It was curious her taking such an idea. Then -they walked to the house. On reaching the sitting-room they found -Jeremy already there with his hammer and chisel. He was an admirable -amateur blacksmith; indeed, there were few manual trades of which he -did not know a little, and, placing the case on the table, he set about -the task of opening it in a most workmanlike manner. - -The lead, though it was in places eaten quite away, was still thick and -sound near the edges, and it took him a good quarter of an hour’s hard -chopping to remove what appeared to be the front of the case. -Excitement was at its height as it fell forward with a bang on the -table; but it was then found that what had been removed was merely a -portion of an outer case, there being beneath it an inner chest, also -of lead. - -“Well,” said Jeremy, “they fastened it up pretty well;” and then he set -to work again. - -This inner skin of lead was thinner and easier to cut than the first -had been, and he got through the job more quickly, though not nearly -quickly enough for the impatience of the bystanders. At last the front -fell out, and disclosed a small cabinet made of solid pieces of black -oak and having a hinged door, which was fastened by a tiny latch and -hasp of the common pattern, that is, probably, as old as doors are. -From this cabinet there came a strong odour of spices. - -The excitement was now intense, and seemed to be shared by everybody in -the house. Grice had come in through the swing-door and stationed -herself in the background, Sampson and the groom were peeping through -the window, and even old Atterleigh, attracted by the sound of the -hammering, had strolled aimlessly in. - -“What can it be?” said Eva, with a gasp. - -Slowly Jeremy extracted the cabinet from its leaden coverings and set -it on the table. - -“Shall I open it?” he said; and, suiting the action to the word, he -lifted the latch, and placing the chisel between the edge of the little -door and its frame, prised the cabinet open. - -The smell of spices became more pronounced than ever, and for a moment -the cloud of dust that came from them, as their fragments rolled out of -the cabinet on to the table, prevented the spectators, who, all but -Dorothy, were crowding up to the case, from seeing what it contained. -Presently, however, a large whitish bundle became visible. Jeremy put -in his hand, pulled it out, and laid it on the top of the box. It was -heavy. But when he had done this he did not seem inclined to go any -further in the matter. The bundle had, he considered, an uncanny look. - -At that moment an interruption took place, for Florence Ceswick entered -through the open door. She had come up to see Dorothy, and was -astonished to find such a gathering. - -“Why, what is it all about?” she asked. - -Somebody told her in as few words as possible, for everybody’s -attention was concentrated on the bundle, which nobody seemed inclined -to touch. - -“Well, why don’t you open it?” asked Florence. - -“I think that they are all afraid,” said Mr. Cardus, with a laugh. - -He was watching the various expressions on the faces with an amused -air. - -“Well, I am not afraid, at any rate,” said Florence. “Now, ladies and -gentlemen, the Gorgon’s head is about to be unveiled: look the other -way, or you will all be turned to stone.” - -“This is getting delightfully ghastly,” said Eva to Ernest. - -“I know that it will be something horrid,” added Dorothy. - -Meanwhile Florence had drawn out a heavy pin of ancient make, with -which the wrapping of the bundle was fastened, and begun to unwind a -long piece of discoloured linen. At the very first turn another shower -of spices fell out. As soon as these had been swept aside, Florence -proceeded slowly with her task, and as she removed fold after fold of -the linen, the bundle began to take shape and form, and the shape it -took was that of a human head! - -Eva saw it, and drew closer to Ernest; Jeremy saw it, and felt inclined -to bolt; Dorothy saw it, and knew that her presentiments as to the -disagreeable nature of the contents of that unlucky case were coming -true; Mr. Cardus saw it, and was more interested than ever. Only -Florence and Hard-riding Atterleigh saw nothing. Another turn or two of -the long winding-sheet, and it slipped suddenly away from whatever it -enclosed. - -There was a moment’s dead silence as the company regarded the object -thus left open to their gaze. Then one of the women gave a low cry of -fear, and, actuated by some common impulse, they all turned and broke -from the room in terror, and calling, “It is alive!” No, not all. -Florence turned pale, but she stood there by the object, the -winding-sheet in her hands; and old Atterleigh also remained staring at -it, either paralysed or fascinated. - -It, too, seemed to stare at him from its point of vantage on the oak -chest, in which it had rested for so many centuries. - -And this was what he saw there upon the box. Let the reader imagine the -face and head of a lovely woman of some thirty years of age, the latter -covered with rippling brown locks of great length, above which was set -a roughly fashioned coronet studded with uncut gems. Let him imagine -this face, all but the lips, which were coloured red, pale with the -bloodless pallor of death, and the flesh so firm and fresh-looking that -it might have been that of a corpse not a day old; so firm, indeed, -that the head and all its pendant weight of beautiful hair could stand -on the unshrunken base of the neck which, in some far-past age, cold -steel had made so smooth. Then let him imagine the crowning horror of -this weird sight. The eyes of a corpse are shut, but the eyes in this -head were wide open, and the long black lashes, as perfect now as on -the day of death, hung over what, when the light struck them, appeared -to be two balls of trembling fire, that glittered and rolled and fixed -themselves upon the face of the observer like living human eyes. It was -these awful eyes that carried such terror to the hearts of the -on-lookers when they cast their first glance around, and made them not -unnaturally cry out that the head was alive. - -It was not until he had made a very careful examination of these fiery -orbs that Mr. Cardus was afterwards able to discover what they were; -and as the reader may as well understand at once that this head had -nothing about it different from any other skilfully preserved head, he -shall be taken into confidence without delay. They were balls of -crystal fitted, probably by the aid of slender strings, into the eye -sockets with such infernal art that they shook and trembled to the -slightest sound, and even on occasion rolled about. The head itself, he -also discovered, had not been embalmed in the ordinary fashion, by -extracting the brain, and filling the cavity with spices or bitumen, -but had been preserved by means of the injection of silica, or some -kindred substance, into the brain, veins, and arteries, which, after -permeating all the flesh, had solidified and made it like marble. Some -brilliant pigment had been used to give the lips their natural colour, -and the hair had been preserved by means of the spices. But perhaps the -most dreadful thing about this relic of forgotten ages was the mocking -smile that the artist who “set it up” had managed to preserve upon the -face—a smile that just drew the lips up enough to show the white teeth -beneath, and gave the idea that its wearer had died in the full -enjoyment of some malicious jest or triumph. It was a terrible thing to -look on, that long-dead, beautiful face, with its abundant hair, its -crowning coronet, its moving crystal eyes, and its smile; and yet there -was something awfully fascinating about it: those who had seen it once -would always long to see it again. - -Mr. Cardus had fled with the rest, but as soon as he got outside the -swing-door his common sense reasserted itself, and he stopped. - -“Come, come,” he called to the others, “don’t be so silly; you are not -going to run away from a dead woman’s head, are you?” - -“You ran too,” said Dorothy, pulling up and gasping. - -“Yes, I know I did; those eyes startled me; but, of course, they are -glass. I am going back; it is a great curiosity.” - -“It is an accursed thing,” muttered Dorothy. - -Mr. Cardus turned and re-entered the room, and the others, comforting -themselves with the reflection that it was broad daylight, and drawn by -their devouring curiosity, followed him. That is, they all followed him -except Grice, who was ill for two days afterwards. As for Sampson and -the groom, who had seen the sight through the window, they ran for a -mile or more along the cliff before they stopped. - -When they got back into the room, they found old Atterleigh still -standing and staring at the crystal eyes, that seemed to be returning -his gaze with compound interest, while Florence was there with the long -linen wrapper in her hand, gazing down at the beautiful hair that -flowed from the head on to the oak box, from the box to the table, and -from the table nearly to the ground. It was, oddly enough, of the same -colour and texture as her own. She had taken off her hat when she began -to undo the wrappings, and they all noticed the fact. Nor did the -resemblance stop there. The sharp fine features of the mummied head -were very like Florence’s; so were the beautiful teeth and the fixed -hard smile. The dead face was more lovely, indeed, but otherwise the -woman of the Saxon era—for, to judge from the rude tiara on her brow, -it is probable that she was Saxon—and the living girl of the nineteenth -century might have been sisters, or mother and daughter. The -resemblance startled them all as they entered the room, but they said -nothing. - -They drew near, and gazed again without a word. Dorothy was the first -to break the silence. - -“I think she must have been a witch,” she said. “I hope that you will -have it thrown away, Reginald, for she will bring us bad luck. The -place where she was buried has been unlucky; it was a great abbey once, -now it is a deserted ruin. When we tried to get the case up, we were -all very nearly killed. She will bring us bad luck. I am sure of it. -Throw it away, Reginald, throw her into the sea. Look, she is just like -Florence there.” - -Florence had smiled at Dorothy’s words, and the resemblance became more -striking than ever. Eva shuddered as she noticed it. - -“Nonsense, Dorothy!” said Mr. Cardus, who was a bit of an antiquarian, -and had now forgotten his start in his collector’s zeal, “it is a -splendid find. But I forgot,” he added, in a tone of disappointment, -“it does not belong to me, it belongs to Miss Ceswick.” - -“O, I am sure you are welcome to it, so far as I am concerned,” said -Eva, hastily. “I would not have it near me on any account.” - -“O, very well. I am much obliged to you. I shall value the relic very -much.” - -Florence had meanwhile moved round the table, and was gazing earnestly -into the crystal eyes. - -“What are you doing, Florence?” asked Ernest, sharply, for the scene -was uncanny, and jarred upon him. - -“I?” she answered, with a little laugh; “I am seeking an inspiration. -That face looks wise, it may teach me something. Besides, it is so like -my own, I think she must be some far-distant ancestress.” - -“So she has noticed it too,” thought Ernest. - -“Put her back in the box, Jeremy,” said Mr. Cardus. “I must have an -air-tight case made.” - -“I can do that,” said Jeremy, “by lining the old one with lead, and -putting a glass front to it.” - -Jeremy set about putting the head away, touching it very gingerly. When -he got it back into the oak case, he dusted it, and placed it upon a -bracket that jutted from the oak panelling at the end of the room. - -“Well,” said Florence, “now that you have put your guardian angel on -her pedestal, I think that we must be going home. Will any of you walk -a little way with us?” - -Dorothy said that they would all come—that is, all except Mr. Cardus, -who had gone back to his office. Accordingly they started, and as they -did so, Florence intimated to Ernest that she wished to speak to him. -He was alarmed and disappointed, for he was afraid of Florence, and -wished to walk with Eva, and presumably his face betrayed what was in -his mind to her. - -“Do not be frightened,” she said, with a slight smile; “I am not going -to say anything disagreeable.” - -Of course he replied that he knew that she never could say anything -disagreeable at any time; at which she smiled again the same faint -smile, and they dropped behind. - -“Ernest,” she said presently, “I want to speak to you. You remember -what happened between us two evenings ago on this very beach;” for they -were walking home by the beach. - -“Yes, Florence, I remember,” answered Ernest. - -“Well, Ernest, the words I have to say are hard for a woman’s lips, but -I must say them. I made a mistake, Ernest, in telling you that I loved -you as I did, and in talking all the wild nonsense that I talked. I -don’t know what made me do it—some foolish impulse, no doubt. Women are -very curious, you know, Ernest, and I think that I am more curious than -most. I suppose I thought I loved you, Ernest—I know I thought it when -you kissed me; but last night, when I saw you at the Smythes’ dance, I -knew that it was all a mistake, and that I cared for you—no more than -you cared for me, Ernest. Do you understand me?” - -He did not understand her in the least, but he nodded his head, feeling -vaguely that things were turning out very well for him. - -“That is all right; and so here, in the same place where I said them, I -renounce them. We will forget all that foolish scene, Ernest. I made a -little mistake when I told you that my heart was as deep as the sea; I -find that it is shallow as a brook. But will you answer me one -question, Ernest, before we close this conversation?” - -“Yes, Florence, if I can.” - -“Well, when you—you kissed me the other night, you did not really mean -it, did you? I mean you only did so for a freak, or from the impulse of -the moment, not because you loved me? Don’t be afraid to tell me, -because if it was so, I shall not be angry; you see you have so much to -forgive me for. I am breaking faith, am I not?” And she looked him -straight in the face with her piercing eyes. - -Ernest’s glance fell under that searching gaze, and the lie that men -are apt to think it no shame to use where women are concerned rose to -his lips. But he could not get it out—he could not bring himself to say -that he did love her—so he compromised matters. - -“I think you were more in earnest than I was, Florence.” - -She laughed, a cold little laugh, that somehow made his flesh creep. - -“Thank you for being candid: it makes matters so much easier, does it -not? But, do you know, I suspected as much, when I was standing there -by that head to-day, just at the time that you took Eva’s hand.” - -Ernest started visibly. “Why, your back was turned!” he said. - -“Yes, but I saw what you did reflected in the crystal eyes. Well, do -you know, as I stood there, it seemed to me as though I could consider -the whole matter as dispassionately and with as clear a brain as though -I had been that dead woman. All of a sudden I grew wise. But there are -the others waiting for us.” - -“We shall part friends, I hope, Florence?” said Ernest anxiously. - -“O yes, Ernest, a woman always follows the career of her old admirer -with the deepest interest, and for about five seconds you were my -admirer—when you kissed me, you know. I shall watch all your life, and -my thoughts shall follow your footsteps like a shadow. Good-night, -Ernest, good-night;” and again she smiled that mocking smile which was -so like that on the features of the dead woman, and fixed her piercing -eyes upon his face. He bade her good-night, and made his way homewards -with the others, feeling an undefinable dread heavy on his heart. - - - - -CHAPTER XI. -DEEP WATERS - - -In due course Jeremy duly fitted up “the witch,” as the mysterious head -came to be called at Dum’s Ness in her air-tight cabinet, which he -lengthened till it looked like a clock-case, in order to allow the -beautiful hair to hang down at full length, retaining, however, the -original door and ancient latch and hasp. His next step was to fit the -plate-glass front, and exhaust the air as well as was feasible from the -interior of the case. Then he screwed on the outside door, and stood it -back on its bracket in the oak-paneled sitting-room, where, as has been -said, it looked for all the world like an eight-day clock-case. - -Just as he had finished the job, a visitor—it was Mr. de Talor—came in, -and remarked that he had made a precious ugly clock. Jeremy, who -disliked _the_ De Talor, as he called him, excessively, said that he -would not say so when he had seen the works, and at the same time -unhasped the oak door of the cabinet, and turned the full glare of the -dreadful crystal eyes on to his face. The results were startling. For a -moment De Talor stared and gasped; then all the rich hues faded from -his features, and he sank back in a sort of fit. Jeremy shut up the -door in a hurry, and his visitor soon recovered; but for years nothing -would induce him to enter that room again. - -As for Jeremy himself, at first he was dreadfully afraid of “the -witch,” but as time went on—for his job took him several days—he seemed -to lose his awe of her, and even to find a fearful joy in her society. -He spent whole hours, as he sat in his workshop in the yard, tinkering -at the airtight case, in weaving histories in which this beautiful -creature, whose head had been thus marvellously recovered, played the -leading part. It was so strange to look at her lovely scornful face, -and think that, long ages since, men had loved it, and kissed it, and -played with the waving hair. - -There it was, this relic of the dead, preserved by the consummate skill -of some old monk or chemist, so that it retained all its ancient beauty -long after the echoes of the tragedy, with which it must have been -connected, had died out of the world. For, as he wrought at his case, -Jeremy grew certain that it was the ghastly memento of some enormous -crime; indeed, by degrees, as he tacked and hammered at the lead -lining, he made up a history that was quite satisfactory to his mind, -appealing on doubtful points to the witch herself, who was on the table -near him, and ascertaining whether she meant “yes” or “no” by the -simple process of observing whether or not her eyes trembled when he -spoke. It was slow work getting the story together in this fashion, but -then the manufacture of the case was slow also, and it was not without -its charm, for he felt it an honour to be taken into the confidence of -so lovely a lady. - -But if the head had a fascination for Jeremy, it had a still greater -charm for his grandfather. The old man would continually slip out of -the office and cross the yard to the little room where Jeremy worked, -in order to stare at this wonderful relic. One night, indeed, when the -case was nearly finished, Jeremy remembered that he had not locked the -door of his workshop. He was already half undressed, but slipping on -his coat again, he went out by the back door and crossed the yard, -carrying the key with him. It was bright moonlight, and Jeremy, having -slippers on, walked without noise. When he reached the workshop, and -was about to lock the door, he thought he heard a sound in the room. -This startled him, and for a moment he meditated retreat, leaving the -head to look after itself. Those eyes were interesting in the daytime, -but he scarcely cared to face them alone at night. It was foolish, but -they did look so very much alive! After a moment’s hesitation, during -which the sound, whatever it was, again made itself audible, he -determined to compromise matters by going round to the other side of -the room and looking in at the little window. With a beating heart he -stole round, and quietly peeped in. The moonlight was shining bright -into the room, and struck full upon the long case he had manufactured. -He had left it _shut_, and the head inside it. Now it was open; he -could clearly see the white outlines of the trembling eyes. The sound, -too—a muttering sound—was still going on. Jeremy drew back, and wiped -the perspiration from his forehead, and for the second time thought of -flight. But his curiosity overcame him, and he looked again. This time -he discovered the cause of the muttering. Seated upon his -carpentering-bench was his grandfather, old Atterleigh, who appeared to -be staring with all his might at the head, and talking incoherently to -himself. This was the noise he had heard through the door. It was an -uncanny sight, and made Jeremy feel cold down the back. While he was -still contemplating it, and wondering what to do, old Atterleigh rose, -closed the case, and left the room. Jeremy slipped round, locked up the -door, and made his way back to bed much astonished. He did not, -however, say anything of what he had seen, only in future he was -careful never to leave the door of his workshop open. - -At last the case was finished, and, for an amateur, a very good job he -made of it. When it was done he placed it, as already narrated, back on -the bracket, and showed it to Mr. de Talor. - -But from the day when Eva Ceswick nearly fell to the bottom of the -cliff in the course of her antiquarian researches, things began to go -wrong at Dum’s Ness. Everybody felt it except Ernest, and he was -thinking too much of other things. Dorothy was very unhappy in those -days, and began to look thin and miserable, though she sturdily -alleged, when asked, that she never had been better in her life. Jeremy -himself was also unhappy, and for a good reason. He had caught the -fever that women like Eva Ceswick have it in their power to give to the -sons of men. His was a deep self-contained nature, very gentle and -tender, not admitting many things into its affections, but loving such -as were admitted with all the heart and soul and strength. And it was -in the deepest depths of this loyal nature that Eva Ceswick had printed -her image; before he knew it, before he had time to think, it was -photographed there upon his heart, and he felt that there it must stay -for good or evil; that plate could never be used again. - -She had been so kind to him; her eyes had grown so bright and friendly -when she saw him coming! He was sure that she liked him (which indeed -she did), and once he had ventured to press her little hand, and he had -thought that she returned the pressure, and had not slept all night in -consequence. - -But perhaps this was a mistake. And then, just as he was getting on so -nicely, came Ernest, and scattered his hopes like mists before the -morning sun. From the moment that those two met, he knew that it was -all up with his chance. And next, to make assurance doubly sure, -Providence itself, in the shape of a shilling, had declared against -him, and he was left lamenting. Well, it was all fair; but still it was -very hard, and for the first time in his life he felt inclined to be -angry with Ernest. Indeed, he was angry, and the fact made him more -unhappy than ever, because he knew that his anger was unjust, and -because his brotherly love condemned it. - -But for all that, the shadow between them grew darker. - -Mr. Cardus, too, had his troubles, connected, needless to say—for -nothing else ever really troubled him—with his monomania of revenge. -Mr. de Talor, of whose discomfiture he had at last made sure, had -unexpectedly slipped out of his power, nor could he at present see any -way in which to draw him back again. Consequently he was distressed. As -for Hard-riding Atterleigh, ever since he had found himself fixed by -“the witch’s” crystal eye, he had been madder than ever, and more -perfectly convinced that Mr. Cardus was the devil in person. Indeed, -Dorothy, who watched over the old man, the grandfather who never knew -her, thought that she observed a marked change in him. He worked away -at his writing as usual, but, it appeared to her, with more vigour, as -though it were a thing to encounter and get rid of. He would cut the -notches out of his stick calendar, too, more eagerly than heretofore, -and altogether it seemed as though his life had become dominated by -some new purpose. She called Mr. Cardus’s attention to this change; but -he laughed, and said that it was nothing, and would probably pass with -the moon. - -But if nobody else was happy, Ernest was—that is, except when he was -sunk in the depths of woe, which was, on an average, about three days a -week. On the occasion of these seizures, Dorothy, noting his miserable -aspect and entire want of appetite, felt much alarmed, and took an -occasion after supper to ask him what was the matter. Before many -minutes were over she had cause to regret it; for Ernest burst forth -with a history of his love and his wrongs that lasted for an hour. It -appeared that another young gentleman, one of those who danced with the -lovely Eva at the Smythes’ ball, had been making the most unmistakable -advances; he had called—three times; he had sent flowers—twice (Ernest -sent them every morning, beguiling Sampson into cutting the best -orchid-blooms for that purpose); he had been out walking—once. Dorothy -listened quietly, till he ceased of his own accord. Then she spoke. - -“So you really love her, Ernest?” - -“Love her! I”—but we will not enter into a description of this young -man’s raptures. When he had done, Dorothy did a curious thing. She rose -from her chair, and coming to where Ernest was sitting, bent over him, -and kissed him on the forehead, and as she did so he noticed vaguely -that she had great black rings round her eyes. - -“I hope that you will be happy, my dear brother. You will have a lovely -wife, and I think that she is as good as she is beautiful.” She spoke -quite quietly, but somehow her voice sounded like a sob. He kissed her -in acknowledgment, and she glided away. - -Ernest did not think much of the incident, however. Indeed, in five -minutes his thoughts were back with Eva, with whom he really was -seriously and earnestly in love. In sober truth, the antics that he -played were enough to make the angels weep to see a human being -possessing the normal weight of brain making such a donkey of himself. -For instance, he would promenade for hours at night in the -neighbourhood of the Cottage. Once he ventured into the garden to enjoy -the perfect bliss of staring at six panes of glass, got severely bitten -by the house-dog for his pains, and was finally chased for a mile or -more by both the dog and the policeman, who, having heard of the -mysterious figure that was to be seen mooning (in every sense of the -word) round the Cottage, had laid up to watch for him. Next day he had -the satisfaction of hearing from his adored’s own lips the story of the -attempted burglary, but as she told it there was a smile playing about -the corners of her mouth which almost seemed to indicate that she had -her suspicions as to who the burglar was. And then Ernest walked so -very lame, which, considering that the teeth of a brute called Towzer -had made a big hole in his calf, was not to be wondered at. - -After this he was obliged to give up his midnight sighing, but he took -it out in other ways. Once indeed, without warning, he flopped down on -to the floor and kissed Eva’s hand, and then, aghast at his own -boldness, fled from the room. - -At first all this amused Eva greatly. She was pleased at her conquest, -and took a malicious pleasure in leading Ernest on. When she knew that -he was coming she would make herself look as lovely as possible, and -put on all her charming little ways and graces in order to more -thoroughly enslave him. Somehow, whenever Ernest thought of her in -after years as she was at that period of her life, his memory would -call up a vision of her in a pretty little drawing-room at the Cottage, -leaning back in a low chair in such a way as to contrive to show off -her splendid figure to the best advantage, and also the tiny foot and -slender ankle that peeped from beneath her soft white dress. There she -sat, a little Skye-terrier called “Tails” on her lap, with which his -rival had presented her but a fortnight before, and—yes—actually -kissing the brute at intervals, her eyes shining all the time with -innocent coquetry. What would not Ernest have given to occupy for a -single minute the position of that unappreciative Skye-terrier! It was -agony to see so many kisses wasted on a dog, and Eva, seeing that he -thought so, kissed the animal more vigorously than ever. - -At last he could stand it no longer. “Put that dog down!” he said, -peremptorily. - -She obeyed him, and then, remembering that he had no right to dictate -to her what she should do, made an effort to pick it up again; but -“Tails,” who, be it added, was not used to being kissed in private -life, and thought the whole operation rather a bore, promptly bolted. - -“Why should I put the dog down?” she asked, with a quick look of -defiance. - -“Because I hate to see you kissing it; it is so effeminate.” - -He spoke in a masterful way; it was a touch of the curb, and there are -few things a proud woman hates so much as the first touch of the curb. - -“What right have you to dictate what I shall or shall not do?” she -asked, tapping her foot upon the floor. - -Ernest was very humble in those days, and he collapsed. - -“None at all. Don’t be angry, Eva” (it was the first time that he had -called her so; till now she had always been Miss Ceswick), “but the -fact was I could not bear to see you kissing that dog; I was jealous of -the brute.” - -Whereupon she blushed furiously and changed the subject. But after a -while Eva’s coquettishness began to be less and less marked. When they -met she no longer greeted him with a smile of mischief, but with -serious eyes that once or twice, he thought, bore traces of tears. At -the same time she threw him into despair by her coldness. Did he -venture a tender remark, she would pretend not to hear it—alas, that -the mounting blood should so obstinately proclaim that she did! Did he -touch her hand, it was cold and unresponsive. She was quieter too, and -her reserve frightened him. Once he tried to break it, and began some -passionate appeal, but she rose without answering and turned her face -to the window. He followed her, and saw that her dark eyes were full of -tears. This he felt was even more awful than her coldness, and, fearing -that he had offended her, he obeyed her whispered entreaty and went. -Poor boy! he was very young. Had he had a little more experience, he -might have found means to brush away her tears and his own doubts. It -is a melancholy thing that such opportunities should, as a rule, -present themselves before people are old enough to take advantage of -them. - -The secret of all this change of conduct was not far to seek. Eva had -played with edged tools till she cut her fingers to the bone. The -dark-eyed boy, who danced so well and had such a handsome, happy face, -had become very dear to her. She had begun by playing with him, and -now, alas! she loved him better than anybody in the world. That was the -sting of the thing; she had fallen in love with a _boy_ as young as -herself—a boy, too, who, so far as she was aware, had no particular -prospects in life. It was humiliating to her pride to think that she, -who in the few months that she had been “out” in London, before her -cousins rose up and cast her forth, had already found the satisfaction -of seeing one or two men of middle age and established position at her -feet, and the further satisfaction of requesting them to kneel there no -more, should in the upshot have to strike her colours to a boy of -twenty-one, even though he did stand six feet high, and had more wits -in his young head and more love in his young heart than all her -middle-aged admirers put together. - -Perhaps, though she was a woman grown, she was not herself quite old -enough to appreciate the great advantage it is to any girl to stamp her -image upon the heart of the man she loves while the wax is yet soft and -undefaced by the half worn-out marks of many shallow dies; perhaps she -did not know what a blessing it is to be able to really _love_ a man at -all, young, middle-aged, or old. Many women wait till they cannot love -without shame to make that discovery. Perhaps she forgot that Ernest’s -youth was a fault which would mend day by day, and he had abilities, -which, if she would consent to inspire them, might lead him to great -things. At any rate, two facts remained in her mind after much -thinking: she loved him with all her heart, and she was ashamed of it. - -But as yet she could not make up her mind to any fixed course. It would -have been easy to crush poor Ernest, to tell him that his pretensions -were ridiculous, to send him away, or to go away herself, and so to -make an end of a position that she felt was getting absurd, and which -we may be sure her elder sister Florence did nothing to make more -pleasant. But she could not do it; that was the long and short of the -matter. The idea of living without Ernest made her feel cold all over; -it seemed to her that the only hours that she really did live were the -hours which they spent together, and that when he went away he took her -heart with him. No, she could not make up her mind to that; the thought -was too cruel. Then there was the other alternative—to encourage him a -little and become engaged to him, to brave everything for his sake. But -as yet she could not make up her mind to that either. - -Eva Ceswick was very loving, very sweet, and very good, but she did not -possess a determined mind. - - - - -CHAPTER XII. -DEEPER YET - - -While Ernest was wooing and Eva doubting, Time, whose interest in -earthly affairs is that of the sickle in the growing crop, went on his -way as usual. - -The end of August came, as it has come so many thousand times since -this globe gave its first turn in space, as it will come for many -thousand times more, till at last, its appointed course run out, the -world darkens, quivers, and grows still; and, behold! Ernest was still -wooing, Eva still doubting. - -One evening—it was a very beautiful evening—this pair were walking -together on the sea-shore. Whether they met by appointment or by -accident does not matter; they did meet, and there they were, strolling -along together, as fully charged with intense feeling as a -thunder-cloud with electricity, and almost as quiet. The storm had not -yet burst. - -To listen to the talk of these two, they might have met for the first -time yesterday. It was chiefly about the weather. - -Presently, in the course of their wanderings, they came to a little -sailing-boat drawn up upon the beach—not far up, however, just out of -the reach of the waves. By this boat, in an attitude of intense -contemplation, there stood an ancient mariner. His hands were in his -pockets, his pipe was in his mouth, his eyes were fixed upon the deep. -Apparently he did not notice their approach till they were within two -yards of him. Then he turned, “dashed” himself, and asked the lady, -with a pull of his grizzled fore-lock, if she would not take a sail. - -Ernest looked surprised. - -“How’s the wind?” he asked. - -“Straight off shore, sir; will turn with the turn of the tide, sir, and -bring you back.” - -“Will you come for a bit of a sail, Eva?” - -“O no, thank you. I must be getting home; it is seven o’clock.” - -“There is no hurry for you to get home. Your aunt and Florence have -gone to tea with the Smythes.” - -“Indeed, I cannot come; I could not think of such a thing.” - -Her words were unequivocal, but the ancient mariner put a strange -interpretation upon them. First he hauled up the little sail, and then, -placing his brown hands against the stern of the boat, he rested his -weight upon them, and caused her to travel far enough into the waves to -float her bow. - -“Now, miss.” - -“I am not coming, indeed.” - -“_Now,_ miss.” - -“I will _not_ come, Ernest.” - -“Come,” said Ernest, quietly holding out his hand to help her in. - -She took it and got in. Ernest and the mariner gave a strong shove, and -as the light boat took the water the former leaped in, and at the same -second a puff of wind caught the sail, and took them ten yards out or -more. - -“Why, the sailor is left behind!” said Eva. - -Ernest gave a twist to the tiller to get the boat’s head straight off -shore, and then leisurely looked round. The mariner was standing as -they had found him, his hands in his pockets, his pipe in his mouth, -his eye fixed upon the deep. - -“He doesn’t seem to mind it,” he said, meditatively. - -“Yes, but I do; you must go back and fetch him.” - -Thus appealed to, Ernest went through some violent manoeuvres with the -tiller, without producing any marked effect on the course of the boat, -which by this time had got out of the shelter of the cliff, and was -bowling along merrily. - -“Wait till we get clear of the draught from the cliff, and I will bring -her round.” - -But when at last they were clear from the draught of the cliff, and he -slowly got her head round, lo and behold, the mariner had vanished! - -“How unfortunate!” said Ernest, getting her head towards the open sea -again; “he has probably gone to his tea.” - -Eva tried hard to get angry, but somehow she could not: she only -succeeded in laughing. - -“If I thought that you had done this on purpose, I would never come out -with you again.” - -Ernest looked horrified. “On purpose!” he said; and the subject -dropped. - -They were sitting side by side in the stern-sheets of the boat, and the -sun was just dipping all red-hot into the ocean. Under the lee of the -cliff there were cool shadows; before them was a path of glory that led -to a golden gate. The air was very sweet, and for those two all the -world was lovely; there was no sorrow on the earth, there were no -storms upon the sea. - -Eva took off her hat, and let the sweet breeze play upon her brow. Then -she leaned over the side, and, dipping her hand into the cool water, -watched the little track it made. - -“Eva.” - -“Yes, Ernest.” - -“Do you know I am going away?” - -The hand was withdrawn with a start. - -“Going away! when?” - -“The day after to-morrow; to Guernsey first, then to France.” - -“And when are you coming back again?” - -“I think that depends upon you, Eva.” - -The hand went back into the water. They were a mile or more from the -shore now. Ernest manipulated the sail and tiller so as to sail slowly -parallel with the coast-line. Then he spoke again. - -“Eva.” - -No answer. - -“Eva, for God’s sake look at me!” - -There was something in his voice that forced her to obey. She took her -hand out of the water and turned her eyes on to his face. It was pale, -and the lips were quivering. - -“I love you,” he said, in a low, choked voice. - -She grew angry. “Why did you bring me here? I will go home. This is -nonsense; you are nothing but a boy!” - -There are moments in life when the human face is capable of conveying a -more intense and vivid impression than any words, when it seems to -speak to the very soul in a language of its own. And so it was with -Ernest now: he made no answer to her reproaches, but, if that were -possible, his features grew paler yet, and his eyes, shining like -stars, fixed themselves upon her, and drew her to him. And what they -said she and he knew alone, nor could any words convey it, for the -tongue in which they talked is not spoken in this world. - -A moment still she wavered, fighting against the sweet mastery of his -will with all her woman’s strength, and then—O Heaven! it was done, and -his arms were round about her, her head upon his breast, and her voice -was lost in sobs and broken words of love. - -O, radiant-winged hour of more than mortal joy; the hearts which you -have touched will know when their time comes that they have not beat -quite in vain! - -[Illustration: “O, radiant-winged hour!”] - -And so they sat, those two, quite silent, for there seemed to be no -need for speech; words could not convey half they had to say, and, -indeed, to tell the honest truth, their lips were, for the most part, -otherwise employed. - -Meanwhile the sun went down, and the sweet moon arose over the quiet -sea, and turned their little ship to silver. Eva gently disengaged -herself from his arms, and half-rose to look at it; she had never -thought it half so beautiful before. Ernest looked at it too. It is a -way that lovers have. - -“Do you know the lines?” he said; “I think I can say them: - -‘With a swifter motion, -Out upon the ocean, -Heaven above and round us, and you along with me: -Heaven around and o’er us, -The Infinite before us, -Floating on for ever, upon the flowing sea.’” - - -“Go on,” she said, softly. - -“‘What time is it, dear, now? -We are in the year now -Of the New Creation, one million, two, or three; -But where are we now, love? -We are, as I trow, love, -In the Heaven of Heavens, upon the Crystal Sea.’” - - -“That is how I hope it may be with us, dear,” she said, taking his -hand, as the last words passed his lips. - -“Are you happy now?” he asked her. - -“Yes, Ernest, I am happy indeed. I do not think that I shall ever be so -happy again; certainly I never was so happy before. Do you know, dear, -I wish to tell you so, that you may see how mean I have been; I have -fought so hard against my love for you.” - -He looked pained. “Why?” he asked. - -“I will tell you quite truly, Ernest—because you are so young. I was -ashamed to fall in love with a boy, and yet you see, dear, you have -been too strong for me.” - -“Why, there is no difference in our ages!” - -“Ah, Ernest, but I am a woman, and ever so much older than you. We age -so much quicker, you know. I feel about old enough to be your mother,” -she said, with a pretty assumption of dignity. - -“And I feel quite old enough to be your lover,” he replied, -impertinently. - -“So it seems. But, Ernest, if three months ago anybody had told me that -I should be in love to-day with a boy of twenty-one, I would not have -believed them. Dear, I have given you all my heart; you will not betray -me, will you? You know very young men are apt to change their minds.” - -He flushed a little as he answered, feeling that it was tiresome to -have the unlucky fact that he was only twenty-one so persistently -thrust before him. - -“Then they are young men who have not had the honour of winning your -affections. A man who has once loved you could never forget you. -Indeed, it is more likely that you will forget me; you will have plenty -of temptation to do so.” - -She saw that she had vexed him. “Don’t be angry, dear; but you see the -position is a very difficult one, and, if I could not be quite sure of -you, it would be intolerable.” - -“My darling, you may be as sure of me as woman can be of man; but don’t -begin your doubts over again. They are settled now. Let us be quite -happy just this one evening. No doubt there are plenty coming when we -shall not be able to.” - -And so they kissed each other and sailed on—homeward, alas! for it was -getting late—and were perfectly happy. - -Presently they drew near the shore, and there, at the identical spot -where they had left him, stood the ancient mariner. His hands were in -his pockets, his pipe was in his mouth, his eyes were fixed upon the -deep. - -Ernest grounded the little boat skilfully enough, and, jumping over the -bow, he and the mariner pulled it up. Then Eva got out, and as she did -so she thought, in the moonlight, that she noticed something resembling -a twinkle in the latter’s ancient eye. She felt confused—there is -nothing so confusing as a guilty conscience—and, to cover her -confusion, plunged into conversation, while Ernest was finding some -money to pay for the boat. - -“Do you often let boats?” she asked. - -“No, miss, only to Mr. Ernest in a general way” (so that wicked Ernest -had set a trap to catch her). - -“O, then, I suppose you go out fishing?” - -“No, miss, only for rikkration, like.” - -“Then what do you do?”—she was getting curious on the point. - -“Times I does nothing; times I stands on the beach and sees things; -times I runs cheeses, miss.” - -“Run cheeses!” - -“Yes, miss, Dutch ones.” - -“He means that he brings cargoes of Dutch cheeses to Harwich.” - -“Oh!” said Eva. - -Ernest paid the man, and they turned to go. She had not gone many yards -when she felt a heavy hand laid upon her shoulder. Turning round in -astonishment, she perceived the mariner. - -“I say, miss,” he said, in a hoarse whisper. - -“Well, what?” - -“_Niver you eat the rind of a Dutch cheese!_ I says it as knows.” - -Eva did not forget his advice. - - - - -CHAPTER XIII. -MR. CARDUS UNFOLDS HIS PLANS - - -“Ernest,” said Mr. Cardus, on the morning following the events -described in the previous chapter, “I want to speak to you in my -office—and you too, Jeremy.” - -They both followed him into his room, wondering what was the matter. He -sat down and so did they, and then, as was his habit, letting his eyes -stray over every part of their persons except their faces, he began: - -“It is time that you two fellows took to doing something for -yourselves. You must not learn to be idle men—not that most young men -require much teaching in that way. What do you propose to do?” - -Jeremy and Ernest stared at one another rather blankly, but apparently -Mr. Cardus did not expect an answer. At any rate, he went on before -either of them could frame one. - -“You don’t seem to know, never gave the matter any consideration -probably; quite content to obey the Bible literally, and take no -thought for the morrow. Well, it is lucky that you have somebody to -think for you. Now I will tell you what I propose for you both. I want -you, Ernest, to go to the bar. It is a foolish profession for most -young men to take to, but it will not be so in your case, because, as -it happens, if you show yourself capable, I shall by degrees be able to -put a good deal of business in your hands—Chancery business, for I have -little to do with any other. I daresay that you will wonder where the -business is to come from. I don’t seem to do very much here, do I? with -a mad old hunting-man as a clerk, and Dorothy to copy my private -letters; but I do, for all that. I may as well tell you both, in -confidence, that this place is only the head-centre of my business. I -have another office in London, another at Ipswich, and another at -Norwich, though they all carry on business under different names; -besides which I have other agencies of a different nature. But all this -is neither here nor there. I have communicated with Aster, the rising -Chancery man, and he will have a vacancy in his chambers next term. Let -me see—term begins on November 2nd; I propose, Ernest, to write to-day -to enter you at Lincoln’s Inn. I shall make you an allowance of three -hundred a year, which you must clearly understand you must not exceed. -I think that is all I have to say about the matter.” - -“I am sure I am very much obliged to you, uncle—” began Ernest, -fervently, for since the previous evening he had clearly realised that -it was necessary for him to make a beginning of doing something. - -But his uncle cut him short. - -“All right, Ernest, we will understand all that. Now, Jeremy, for you. -I propose that you shall be articled to me, and if you work well and -prove useful, it is my intention in time to admit you to a share of the -business. In order that you may not feel entirely dependent, it is my -further intention to make you an allowance also, on the amount of which -I have not yet settled.” - -Jeremy groaned in spirit at the thought of becoming a lawyer, even with -a “share of the business,” but he remembered his conversation with -Dorothy, and thanked Mr. Cardus with the best grace that he could -muster. - -“All right, then; I will have the articles prepared at once, and you -can take to your stool in the office next week. I think that is all I -have to say.” - -Acting on this hint, the pair were departing, Jeremy in the deepest -state of depression, induced by the near prospect of that stool, when -Mr. Cardus called Ernest back. - -“I want to speak to you about something else,” he said thoughtfully. -“Shut the door.” - -Ernest turned cold down his back, and wondered if his uncle could have -heard anything about Eva. He had the full intention of speaking to him -about the matter, but it would be awkward to be boarded himself before -he had made up his mind what to say. He shut the door, and then walking -to the glass entrance to the orchid blooming-house, stood looking at -the flowers, and waiting for Mr. Cardus to begin. But he did not begin; -he seemed to be lost in thought. - -“Well, uncle,” he said at last. - -“It is a delicate business, Ernest, but I may as well get it over. I am -going to make a request of you, a request to which I beg you will give -me no immediate answer, for from its nature it will require the most -anxious and careful consideration. I want you to listen, and say -nothing. You can give me your answer when you come back from abroad. At -the same time, I must tell you that it is a matter which I trust you -will not disappoint me in; indeed, I do not think that you could be so -cruel as to do so. I must also tell you that if you do, you must -prepare to be a great loser, financially speaking.” - -“I have not the faintest idea what you are driving at, uncle,” said -Ernest, turning from the glass door to speak. - -“I know you have not. I will tell you. Listen; I will tell you a little -story. Many years ago a great misfortune overtook me, a misfortune so -great that it struck me as lightning sometimes does a tree—it left the -bark sound, but turned the heart to ashes. Never mind what the details -were, they were nothing out of the common; such things sometimes happen -to men and women. The blow was so severe that it almost turned my -brain, so from that day I gave myself to revenge. It sounds -melodramatic, but there was nothing of the sort about it. I had been -cruelly wronged, and I determined that those who had wronged me should -taste of their own medicine. With the exception of one man they have -done so. He has escaped me for a time, but he is doomed. To pass on. -The woman who caused the trouble—for wherever there is trouble there is -generally a woman who causes it—had children. Those children are -Dorothy and her brother. I adopted them. As time went on, I grew to -love the girl for her likeness to her mother. The boy I never loved; to -this hour I cannot like him, though he is a gentleman, which his father -never was. I can, however, honestly say that I have done my duty by -him. I have told you all this in order that you may understand the -request which I am going to make. I trust to you never to speak of it, -and if you can to forget it. And now for my request itself.” - -Ernest looked up wonderingly. - -“It is my most earnest desire that you should marry Dorothy.” - -His listener started violently, turned quite pale, and opened his lips -to speak. Mr. Cardus lifted his hand and went on: - -“Remember what I asked you. Pray say nothing; only listen. Of course I -cannot force you into this or any other marriage. I can only beg you to -give heed to my wishes, knowing that they will in every way prove to -your advantage. That girl has a heart of gold; and if you marry her you -shall inherit nearly all my fortune, which is now very large. I have -observed that you have lately been about a great deal with Eva Ceswick. -She is a handsome woman, and very likely has taken some hold upon your -fancy. I warn you that any entanglement in that direction would be most -disagreeable to me, and would to a great extent destroy your prospects, -so far as I am concerned.” - -Again Ernest was about to speak, and again his uncle stopped him. - -“I want no confidences, Ernest, and had much rather that no words -passed between us that we might afterwards regret. And now I understand -that you are going abroad with your friend Batty for a couple of -months. When you return you shall give me your answer about Dorothy. In -the meanwhile here is a cheque for your expenses: what is over you can -spend as you like. Perhaps you have some bills to pay.” - -He gave him a folded cheque, and then went on: - -“Now leave me, as I am busy.” - -Ernest walked out of the room in a perfect maze. In the yard he -mechanically unfolded the cheque. It was for a large sum—two hundred -and fifty pounds. He put it in his pocket, and began to reflect upon -his position, which was about as painful as a position can well be. -Truly he was on the horns of a dilemma; probably before he was much -older, one of them would have pierced him. For a moment he was about to -return to his uncle and tell him all the truth, but on reflection he -could not see what was to be gained by such a course. At any rate, it -seemed to him that he must first consult Eva, whom he had arranged to -meet on the beach at three o’clock; there was nobody else whom he could -consult, for he was shy of talking about Eva to Jeremy or Dolly. - -The rest of that morning went very ill for Ernest, but three o’clock -came at last, and found him at the trysting-place. - -About a mile on the farther side of Kesterwick, that is, two miles or -so from Titheburgh Abbey, the cliff jutted out into the sea in a way -that corresponded very curiously with the little promontory known as -Dum’s Ness, the reason of its resistance to the action of the waves -being that it was at this spot composed of an upcrop of rock of a more -durable nature than the sandstone and pebbles of the remainder of the -line of cliff. Just at the point of this promontory the waves had worn -a hollow in the rock that was locally dignified by the name of the -Cave. For two hours or more at high tide this hollow was under water, -and it was, therefore, impossible to pass the headland except by boat; -but during the rest of the day it formed a convenient grotto or -trysting-place, the more so as anybody sitting in it was quite -invisible either from the beach, the cliff above, or indeed, unless the -boat was quite close in shore, the sea in front. - -Here it was that Ernest had arranged to meet Eva, and on turning the -rocky corner of the cave he found her sitting on a mass of fallen rock -waiting for him. At the sight of her beautiful form he forgot all his -troubles, and when rising to greet him, blushing like the dawn, she -lifted her pure face for him to kiss, there was not a happier lad in -England. Then she made room for him beside her—the rock was just wide -enough for two—and he placed his arm round her waist, and for a minute -or two she laid her head upon his shoulder, and they were very happy. - -“You are early,” he said at last. - -“Yes; I wanted to get away from Florence and have a good think. You -have no idea how unpleasant she is; she seems to know everything. For -instance, she knew that we went out sailing together last evening, for -this morning at breakfast she said in the most cheerful way that she -hoped that I enjoyed my moonlight sail last night.” - -“The deuce she did! and what did you say?” - -“I said that I enjoyed it very much, and luckily my aunt did not take -any notice.” - -“Why did you not say at once that we were engaged? We _are_ engaged, -you know.” - -“Yes—that is, I suppose so.” - -“Suppose so! There is no supposition about it. At least, if we are not -engaged, what are we?” - -“Well, you see, Ernest, it sounds so absurd to say that one is engaged -to a boy! I love you, Ernest, love you dearly, but how can I say that I -am engaged to you?” - -Ernest rose in great wrath. “I tell you what it is, Eva, if I am not -good enough to acknowledge, I am not good enough to have anything to do -with. A boy, indeed! I am one-and-twenty; that is full age. Confound it -all! you are always talking about my being so young, just as though I -should not get old fast enough. Can’t you wait for me a year or two?” -he asked, with tears of mortification in his eyes. - -“O Ernest, Ernest, do be reasonable, there’s a dear; what is the good -of getting angry and making me wretched? Come and sit down here, dear, -and tell me, am _I_ not worth a little patience? There is not the -slightest possibility, so far as I can see, of our getting married at -present; so the question is, if it is of any use to trumpet out an -engagement that will only make us the object of a great deal of gossip, -and which, perhaps, your uncle would not like?” - -“O, by Jove!” he said, “that reminds me;” and sitting down beside her -again, he told her the story of the interview with his uncle. She -listened in silence. - -“This is all very bad,” she said, when he had finished. - -“Yes, it is bad enough; but what is to be done?” - -“There is nothing to be done at present.” - -“Shall I make a clean breast of it to him?” - -“No, no, not now; it will only make matters worse. We must wait, dear. -You must go abroad for a couple of months, as you had arranged, and -then when you come back we must see what can be arranged.” - -“But, my dearest, I cannot bear to leave you; it makes my heart ache to -think of it.” - -“Dear, I know that it is hard; but it must be done. You could not stop -here now very well without speaking about our—our engagement, and to do -that would only be to bring your uncle’s anger on you. No, you had -better go away, Ernest, and meanwhile I will try to get into Mr. -Cardus’s good graces, and, if I fail, then when you come back we must -agree upon some plan. Perhaps by that time you will take your uncle’s -view of the matter and want to marry Dorothy. She would make you a -better wife than I shall, Ernest, my dear.” - -“Eva, how can you say such things! it is not kind of you!” - -“O, why not? It is true. O yes, I know that I am better-looking, and -that is what you men always think of; but she has more brains, more -fixity of mind, and, perhaps, for all I know, more heart than I have, -though, for the matter of that, I feel as if I was all heart just now. -Really, Ernest, you had better transfer your allegiance. Give me up, -and forget me, dear; it will save you much trouble. I know that there -is trouble coming; it is in the air. Better marry Dorothy, and leave me -to fight my sorrow out alone. I will release you, Ernest;” and she -began to cry at the bare idea. - -“I shall wait to give you up until you have given me up,” said Ernest, -when he had found means to stop her tears; “and as for forgetting you, -I can never do that. Please, dear, don’t talk so any more; it pains -me.” - -“Very well, Ernest; then let us vow eternal fidelity instead; but, my -dear, I _know_ that I shall bring you trouble.” - -“It is the price that men have always paid for the smiles of women like -you,” he answered. “Trouble may come—so be it, let it come; at any -rate, I have the consciousness of your love. When I have lost that, -then, and then only, shall I think that I have bought you too dear.” - -In the course of his after life these words often came back to Ernest’s -mind. - - - - -CHAPTER XIV. -GOOD-BYE - - -There are some scenes, trivial enough perhaps in themselves, that yet -retain a peculiar power of standing out in sharp relief, as we cast our -mind’s eye down the long vista of our past. The group of events with -which these particular scenes were connected may have long ago vanished -from our mental sight, or faded into a dim and misty uniformity, and be -as difficult to distinguish one from the other as the trees of a forest -viewed from a height. But here and there an event, a sensation, or a -face will stand out as perfectly clear as if it had been that moment -experienced, felt, or seen. Perhaps it is only some scene of our -childhood, such as a fish darting beneath a rustic bridge, and the -ripple which its motion left upon the water. We have seen many larger -fish dart in many fine rivers since then, and have forgotten them; but -somehow that one little fish has kept awake in the storehouse of our -brain, where most things sleep, though none are really obliterated. - -It was in this clear and brilliant fashion that every little detail of -the scene was indelibly photographed on Ernest’s mind when, on the -morning following their meeting in the cave, he said good-bye to Eva -before he went abroad. It was a public good-bye, for, as it happened, -there was no opportunity for the lovers to meet alone. They were all -gathered in the little drawing-room at the Cottage: Miss Ceswick seated -on a straight-backed chair in the bow-window; Ernest on one side of the -round table, looking intensely uncomfortable; Eva on the other, a -scrapbook in her hand, which she studiously kept before her face; and -in the background, leaning carelessly over the back of a chair in such -a way that her own face could not be seen, though she could survey -everybody else’s, was Florence. Ernest, from where he sat, could just -make out the outline of her olive face, and the quick glance of her -brown eyes. - -And so they sat for a long time, but what was said he could not -remember; it was only the scene that imprinted itself upon his memory. - -And then at last the fatal moment came—he knew that it was time to go, -and said good-bye to Miss Ceswick, who made some remark about his good -fortune in going to France and Italy, and warned him to be careful not -to lose his heart to a foreign girl. Then he crossed the room and shook -hands with Florence, who smiled coolly in his face, and read him -through with her piercing eyes; and last of all came to Eva, who -dropped her album and a pocket-handkerchief in her confusion as she -rose to give him her hand. He stooped and picked them up—the album he -placed on the table, the little lace-edged handkerchief he crumpled up -in the palm of his left hand and kept; it was almost the only souvenir -he had of her. Then he took her hand, and for a moment looked into her -face. It wore a smile, but beneath it the features were wan and -troubled. It was so hard to go. - -“Well, Ernest,” said Miss Ceswick, “you two are taking leave of each -other as solemnly as though you were never going to meet again.” - -“Perhaps they never will,” said Florence, in her clear voice; and at -that moment Ernest felt as though he hated her. - -“You should not croak, Florence; it is unlucky,” said Miss Ceswick. - -Florence smiled. - -Then Ernest dropped the cold hand, and turning, left the room. Florence -followed him, and, snatching a hat from the pegs, passed into the -garden before him. When he was half-way down the garden-walk, he found -her ostensibly picking some carnations. - -“I want to speak to you for a minute, Ernest,” she said; “turn this way -with me;” and she led him past the bow-window, down a small -shrubbery-walk about twenty paces long. “I must offer you my -congratulations,” she went on. “I hope that you two will be happy. Such -a handsome pair ought to be happy, you know.” - -“Why, Florence, who told you?” - -“Told me! nobody told me. I have seen it all along. Let me see, you -first took a fancy to one another on the night of the Smythes’ dance, -when she gave you a rose, and the next day you saved her life quite in -the romantic and orthodox way. Well, and then events took their natural -course, till one evening you went out sailing together in a boat. Shall -I go on?” - -“I don’t think it is necessary, Florence, I am sure I don’t know how -you know all these things.” - -She had stopped, and was standing slowly picking a carnation to pieces -leaf by leaf. - -“Don’t you?” she answered, with a laugh. “Lovers are blind; but it does -not follow that other people are. I have been thinking, Ernest, that it -is very fortunate that I found out my little mistake before you -discovered yours. Supposing I really had cared for you, the position -would have been awkward now, would it not?” - -Ernest was forced to admit that it would. - -“But luckily, you see, I do not. I am only your true friend now, -Ernest; and it is as a friend that I wish to say a word to you about -Eva—a word of warning.” - -“Go on.” - -“You love Eva, and Eva loves you, Ernest; but remember this, she is -weak as water. She always was so from a child; those beautiful women -often are; Nature does not give them everything, you see.” - -“What do you mean?” - -“What I say, nothing more. She is very weak; and you must not be -surprised if she throws you over.” - -“Good heavens, Florence! Why, she loves me with all her heart!” - -“Yes; but women often think of other things besides their hearts. But -there, I don’t want to frighten you, only I would not pin all my faith -to Eva’s constancy, however dearly you may think she loves you. Don’t -look so distressed, Ernest; I did not wish to pain you. And remember -that if any difficulty should arise between Eva and you, you will -always have me on your side. You will always think of me as your true -friend, won’t you, Ernest?” and she held out her hand. - -He took it. - -“Indeed I will,” he said. - -They had turned now, and again reached the bow-window, one of the -divisions of which stood open. Florence touched his arm, and pointed -into the room. He looked in through the open window. Miss Ceswick had -gone, but Eva was still at her old place by the table. Her head was -down upon the table, resting on the album he had picked up, and he -could see from the motion of her shoulders that she was sobbing -bitterly. Presently she lifted her face—it was all stained with -tears—only, however, to drop it again. Ernest made a motion as though -he would enter the house, but Florence stopped him. - -“Best leave her alone,” she whispered; and then, when they were well -past the window, added aloud, “I am sorry that you saw her like that; -if you should never meet again, or be separated for a very long time, -it will leave a painful recollection in your mind. Well, good-bye. I -hope that you will enjoy yourself.” - -Ernest shook hands in silence—there was a lump in his throat that -prevented him from speaking—and then went on his way, feeling utterly -miserable. As for Florence, she put up her hand to shade her keen eyes -from the sun, and watched him till he turned the corner with a look of -intense love and longing, which slowly changed into one of bitter hate. -When he was out of sight she turned, and, making her way to her -bedroom, flung herself upon the bed, and, burying her face in the -pillow to stifle the sound of her sobbing, gave way to an outburst of -jealous rage that was almost awful in its intensity. - -Ernest had only just time to get back to Dum’s Ness, and go through the -form of eating some luncheon, before he was obliged to start to catch -his train. Dorothy had packed his things, and made all those little -preparations for his journey that women think of; so, after going to -the office to bid good-bye to his uncle, who shook him heartily by the -hand, and bade him not forget the subject of their conversation, he had -nothing to do but jump into the cart and start. In the sitting-room he -found Dorothy waiting for him, with his coat and gloves, also Jeremy, -who was going to drive to the station with him. He put on his coat in -silence; they were all quite silent; indeed, he might have been going -for a long sojourn in a deadly climate, instead of a two months’ -pleasure-tour, so depressed was everybody. - -“Good-bye, Doll dear,” he said, stooping to kiss her; but she shrank -away from him. In another minute he was gone. - -At the station a word or two about Eva passed between Jeremy and -himself. - -“Well, Ernest,” asked the former nervously, “have you pulled it off?” - -“With her?” - -“Of course; who else?” - -“Yes, I have. But, Jeremy—” - -“Well!” - -“I don’t want you to say anything about it to anybody at present.” - -“Very good.” - -“I say, old fellow,” Ernest went on, after a pause, “I hope you don’t -mind very much.” - -“If I said I did not mind, Ernest,” he answered, slowly turning his -honest eyes full on to his friend’s face, “I should be telling a lie. -But I do say this: as I could not win her myself, I am glad that you -have, because next to her I think I love you better than anybody in the -world. You always had the luck, and I wish you joy. There’s the train.” - -Ernest wrung his hand. - -“Thank you, old chap,” he said; “you are a downright good fellow, and a -good friend too. I know I have had the luck, but perhaps it is going to -turn. Good-bye.” - -Ernest’s plans were to sleep in London, and to leave on the following -morning, a Wednesday, for Guernsey. There he was to meet his friend on -Thursday, when they were to start upon their tour, first to Normandy, -and thence wherever their fancy led them. - -This programme he carried out to the letter—at least the first part of -it. On his way from Liverpool Street Station to the rooms where he had -always slept on the few occasions that he had been in London, his -hansom passed down Fleet Street, and got blocked opposite No. 19. His -eye caught the number, and he wondered what there was about it familiar -to him. Then he remembered that 19 Fleet Street was the address of -Messrs. Goslings & Sharpe, the bankers on whom his uncle had given him -the cheque for £250. Bethinking himself that he might as well cash it, -he stopped the cab and entered the bank. As he did so, the cashier was -just leaving his desk, for it was past closing hour; but he courteously -took Ernest’s cheque, and, though it was for a large sum, cashed it -without hesitation. Mr. Cardus’s name was evidently well known in the -establishment. Ernest proceeded on his journey with a crisp little -bundle of Bank of England notes in his breast-pocket, a circumstance -that, in certain events of which at that moment he little dreamed, -proved of the utmost service to him. - -It will not be necessary for us to follow him in his journey to St. -Peter’s Port, which very much resembled other people’s journeys. He -arrived there safely enough on Wednesday afternoon, and proceeded to -the best hotel, took a room, and inquired the hour of the _table -d’hôte_. - -In the course of the voyage from Southampton, Ernest had fallen into -conversation with a quiet, foreign-looking man, who spoke English with -a curious little accent. This gentleman—for there was no doubt about -his being a gentleman—was accompanied by a boy about nine years of age, -remarkable for his singularly prepossessing face and manners, whom -Ernest rightly judged to be his son. Mr. Alston—for such he discovered -his companion’s name to be—was a middle-aged man, not possessed of any -remarkable looks or advantages of person, nor in any way -brilliant-minded. But nobody could know Mr. Alston for long without -discovering that, his neutral tints notwithstanding, he was the -possessor of an almost striking individuality. From his open way of -talking, Ernest guessed that he was a colonial; for he had often -noticed at college that colonials are much less reserved than -Englishmen proper are bred up to be. He soon learned that Mr. Alston -was a Natal colonist, now, for the first time, paying a visit to the -old country. He had, until lately, held a high position in the Natal -Government service; but having unexpectedly come into a moderate -fortune through the death of an aged lady, a sister of his father in -England, he had resigned his position in the service; and after his -short visit “home,” as colonists always call the mother country, even -when they have never seen it, intended to start on a big game-shooting -expedition in the country between Secocoeni’s country and Delagoa Bay. - -All this Ernest learned before the boat reached the harbour at St. -Peter’s Port, and they separated. He was, however, pleased when, having -seen his luggage put into his room, he went into the little courtyard -of the hotel and found Mr. Alston standing there with his son, and -looking rather puzzled. - -“Hullo!” said Ernest, “I am glad that you have come to this hotel. Do -you want anything?” - -“Well, yes, I do. The fact of the matter is, I don’t understand a word -of French, and I want to find my way to a place that my boy and I have -come over here to see. If they talked Zulu or Sisutu, you see, I should -be equal to the occasion; but to me French is a barbarous tongue, and -the people about here all seem to talk nothing else. Here is the -address.” - -“I can talk French,” said Ernest, “and, if you like, I will go with -you. The _table d’hôte_ is not till seven, and it is not six yet.” - -“It is very kind of you.” - -“Not at all. I have no doubt that you would show me the way about -Zululand, if ever I wandered there.” - -“Ay, that I would, with pleasure;” and they started. - -It was with considerable difficulty that Ernest discovered the place -Mr. Alston was in search of. Finally, however, he found it. It was a -quaint out-of-the-way little street, very narrow and crooked, an odd -mixture of old private houses and shops, most of which seemed to deal -in soap and candles. At last they came to No. 36, a gray old house -standing in its own grounds. Mr. Alston scanned it eagerly. - -“That is the place,” he said; “she often told me of the coat-of-arms -over the doorway—a mullet impaled with three squirrels; there they are. -I wonder if it is still a school?” - -It turned out that it was still a school, and in due course they were -admitted, and allowed to wander round the ancient walled garden, with -every nook of which Mr. Alston seemed to be perfectly acquainted. - -“There is the tree under which she used to sit,” he said sadly to his -boy, pointing out an old yew-tree, under which there stood a rotting -bench. - -“Who?” asked Ernest, much interested. - -“My dead wife, that boy’s mother; she was educated here,” he said, with -a sigh. “There, I have seen it. Let us go.” - - - - -CHAPTER XV. -ERNEST GETS INTO TROUBLE - - -When Mr. Alston and Ernest reached the hotel, there was still a quarter -of an hour to elapse before the _table d’hôte_, so, after washing his -hands and putting on a black coat, Ernest went down into the -coffee-room. There was only one other person in it, a tall fair -Frenchwoman, apparently about thirty years of age. She was standing by -the empty fireplace, her arm upon the mantelpiece, and a lace -pocket-handkerchief in her hand; and Ernest’s first impression of her -was that she was handsome and much over-dressed. There was a newspaper -upon the mantelpiece, which he desired to get possession of. As he -advanced for this purpose, the lady dropped her handkerchief. Stooping -down, he picked it out of the grate and handed it to her. - -“_Mille remerciments, monsieur,_” she said, with a little curtsey. - -“_Du tout, madame._” - -“_Ah, monsieur parle français?_” - -“_Mais oui, madame._” - -And then they drifted into a conversation, in the course of which -Ernest learned that madame thought St. Peter’s Port very dull; that she -had been there three days with her friends, and was nearly dead _de -tristesse;_ that she was going, however, to the public dance at the -“Hall” that night. “Of course monsieur would be there;” and many other -things, for madame had a considerable command of language. - -In the middle of all this the door opened, and another lady of much the -same cut as madame entered, followed by two young men. The first of -these had a face of the commonplace English type, rather a -good-humoured face; but when he saw the second, Ernest started, it was -so like his own, as his would become if he were to spend half a dozen -years in drinking, dicing, late hours, and their concomitants. The man -to whom this face belonged was evidently a gentleman, but he looked an -ill-tempered one, and very puny and out of health; at least so thought -Ernest. - -“It is time for dinner, Camille,” said the gentleman to madame, at the -same time favouring Ernest with a most comprehensive scowl. - -Madame appeared not to understand, and made some remark to Ernest. - -“It is time for dinner, Camille,” said the gentleman again, in a savage -voice. This time she lifted her head and looked at him. - -“_Din-nare, dinnare!_ qu’est-que c’est que _din-nare?_” - -“_Table d’hôte,_” said the gentleman. - -“O, pardon;” and with a little bow and most fascinating smile to -Ernest, she took the gentleman’s extended arm and sailed away. - -“Why did you pretend not to understand me?” Ernest heard him ask, and -saw her shrug her shoulders in reply. The other gentleman followed with -his companion, and after him came Ernest. When he reached the -_salle-à-manger_ he found that the only chair vacant at the table was -one next to his friend of the _salon._ Indeed, had he thought of it, it -might have struck him that madame had contrived to keep that chair -vacant, for on his approach she gathered together the folds of her silk -dress, which had almost hidden it, and welcomed him with a little nod. - -Ernest took the chair, and forthwith madame entered into a most lively -conversation with him, a course of proceeding that appeared to be -extremely distasteful to the gentleman on her right, who pished and -pshawed and pushed away his plate in a manner that soon became quite -noticeable. But madame talked serenely on, quite careless of his -antics, till at last he whispered something to her that caused the -blood to mount to her fair cheek. - -“Mais tais-toi, donc,” Ernest heard her answer, and next moment—the -subsequent history of our hero demands that the truth should be told—it -was his turn to colour, for, alas! there was no doubt about it, he -distinctly felt madame’s little foot pressed upon his own. He took up -his wine and drank a little to hide his confusion; but whether he had -or had not the moral courage to withdraw from the situation, by placing -his toes under the more chilly but safe guardianship of the chair-legs, -history saith not; let us hope and presume that he had. But if this was -so or not he did not get on very well with his dinner, for the -situation was novel and not conducive to appetite. Presently Mr. -Alston, who was sitting opposite, addressed him across the table. - -“Are you going to the dance here to-night, Mr. Kershaw?” - -To Ernest’s surprise, the gentleman on the other side of madame -answered, with an astonished look: - -“Yes, I am going.” - -“I beg your pardon,” said Mr. Alston, “I was speaking to the gentleman -on your left.” - -“Oh, indeed! I thought you said Kershaw.” - -“Yes, I did; the gentleman’s name is Kershaw, I think.” - -“Yes,” put in Ernest, “my name is Kershaw.” - -“That is odd,” said the other gentleman, “so is mine. I did not know -that there were any other Kershaws.” - -“Nor did I,” answered Ernest, “except Sir Hugh Kershaw;” and his face -darkened as he pronounced the name. - -“I am Sir Hugh Kershaw’s son; my name is Hugh Kershaw,” was the reply. - -“Indeed! Then we are cousins, I suppose; for I am his nephew, the son -of his brother Ernest.” - -Hugh Kershaw the elder did not receive this intelligence with even the -moderate amount of enthusiasm that might have been expected; he simply -lifted his scanty eyebrows, and said, “Oh, I remember, my uncle left a -son;” then he turned and made some remark to the gentleman who sat next -him that made the latter laugh. - -Ernest felt the blood rise to his cheeks; there was something very -insolent about his cousin’s tone. - -Shortly afterwards the dinner came to an end, and madame, with another -fascinating smile, retired. As for Ernest, he smoked a pipe with Mr. -Alston, and about nine o’clock strolled over with him to the Hall, or -Assembly Rooms, a building largely composed of glass, where thrice a -week, during the season, the visitors at St. Peter’s Port adjourned to -dance, flirt, and make merry. - -One of the first sights that caught his eye was a fair creature in -evening-dress, and with conspicuously white shoulders, in whom he -recognised madame. She was sitting near the door, and appeared to be -watching it. Ernest bowed to her, and was about to pass on; but, -pursuing her former tactics, she dropped the bouquet she was carrying. -He stooped, picked it up, returned it, and again made as though he -would pass on, when she addressed him, just as the band struck up. - -“Ah, que c’est belle, la musique! Monsieur valse, n’est-ce pas?” - -In another minute they were floating down the room together. As they -passed along, Ernest saw his cousin standing in the corner, looking at -him with no amiable air. Madame saw his glance. - -“Ah,” she said, “Monsieur Hugh ne valse pas, il se grise; il a l’air -jaloux, n’est-ce pas?” - -Ernest danced three times with this fair enslaver, and with their last -waltz the ball came to an end. Just then his cousin came up, and they -all, including Mr. Alston, walked together along the steep streets, -which were now quite deserted, to the door of the hotel. Here Ernest -said good-night to madame, who extended her hand. He took it, and as he -did so he felt a note slipped into it, which, not being accustomed to -such transactions, he clumsily dropped. It was the ball programme, and -there was something written across it in pencil. Unfortunately, he was -not the only one who saw this; his cousin Hugh, who had evidently been -drinking, saw it too, and tried to pick up the programme, but Ernest -was too quick for him. - -“Give me that,” said his cousin, hoarsely. - -Ernest answered by putting it into his pocket. - -“What is written on that programme?” - -“I don’t know.” - -“What have you written on that programme, Camille?” - -“Mon Dieu, mais vous m’ennuyez!” was the answer. - -“I insist upon your giving me that!” with an oath. - -“Monsieur est _gentleman!_ Monsieur ne la rendra pas,” said madame, -with a meaning glance; and then turning, she entered the hotel. - -“I am not going to give it to you,” said Ernest. - -“You shall give it to me.” - -“Is this lady your wife?” asked Ernest. - -“That is my affair; give me that note.” - -“I shall not give it to you,” said Ernest, whose temper was rapidly -rising. “I don’t know what is on it, and I don’t wish to know; but -whatever it is, the lady gave it to me, and not to you. She is not your -wife, and you have no right to ask for it.” - -His cousin Hugh turned livid with fury. At the best of times he was an -evil-tempered man; and now, inflamed as he was by drink and jealousy, -he looked a perfect fiend. - -“Damn you!” he hissed, “you half-bred cur; I suppose that you get your -—— manners from your —— of a mother!” - -He did not get any further; for at this point Ernest knocked him into -the gutter, and then stood over him, very quiet and pale, and told him -that if ever he dared to let a disrespectful word about his mother pass -his lips again, he (Ernest) would half-kill him (Hugh). Then he let him -get up. - -Hugh Kershaw rose, and turning, whispered something to his friend, who -had sat next him at dinner, a man about thirty years of age, and with a -military air about him. His friend listened, and pulled his large -moustache thoughtfully. Then he addressed Ernest with the utmost -politeness: - -“I am Captain Justice, of the —— Hussars. Of course, Mr. Kershaw, you -are aware that you cannot indulge yourself in the luxury of knocking -people down without hearing more about it. Have you any friend with -you?” - -Ernest shook his head as he answered: “This,” indicating Mr. Alston, -who had been an attentive observer of everything that had passed, “is -the only gentleman I know in the town, and I cannot ask him to mix -himself up in my quarrels.” Ernest was beginning to understand that -this quarrel was a very serious business. - -“All right, my lad,” said Mr. Alston quietly, “I will stand by you.” - -“Really, I have no right——” began Ernest. - -“Nonsense! It is one of our colonial customs to stick by one another.” - -“Mr. Justice—” - -“Captain Justice,” put in that gentleman, with a bow. - -“Captain Justice, my name is Alston. I am very much at your service.” - -Captain Justice turned to Hugh Kershaw, whose clothes were dripping -from the water in the gutter, and after whispering with him for a -moment, said aloud, “If I were you, Kershaw, I should go and change -those clothes; you will catch cold.” And then, addressing Mr. Alston, -“I think the smoking-room is empty. Shall we go and have a chat?” - -Mr. Alston assented, and they went in together. Ernest followed; but -having lit his pipe, sat down in a far corner of the room. Presently -Mr. Alston called him. - -“Look here, Kershaw, this is a serious business, and as you are -principally concerned, I think that you had better give your own -answer. To be brief, your cousin, Mr. Hugh Kershaw, demands that you -should apologise in writing for having struck him.” - -“I am willing to do that if he will apologise for the terms he used in -connection with my mother.” - -“Ah!” said the gallant Captain, “the young gentleman is coming to -reason.” - -“He also demands that you should hand over the note you received from -the lady.” - -“That I certainly shall not do,” he answered; and drawing the card from -his pocket, he tore it into fragments, unread. - -Captain Justice bowed and left the room. In a few minutes he returned, -and, addressing Mr. Alston and Ernest, said: - -“Mr. Kershaw is not satisfied with what you offer to do. He declines to -apologise for any expression that he may have used with reference to -your mother, and he now wishes you to choose between signing an -apology, which I shall dictate, or meeting him to-morrow morning. You -must remember that we are in Guernsey, where you cannot insult a man on -the payment of forty shillings.” - -Of course, this view was an entirely incorrect one. Although Guernsey -has a political constitution of its own, many of its laws being based -upon the old Norman-French customs, and judicial proceedings being -carried on in French, &c., it is quite as criminal an act to fight a -duel there as in England, as Captain Justice himself afterwards found -out to his cost. But they none of them knew that. - -Ernest felt the blood run to his heart. He understood now what Captain -Justice meant. He answered simply: - -“I shall be very happy to meet my cousin in whatever place and way you -and Mr. Alston may agree upon;” and then he returned to his chair, and -gave himself up to the enjoyment of his pipe and an entirely new set of -sensations. - -Captain Justice gazed after him pityingly. “I am sorry for him,” he -said to Mr. Alston. “Kershaw is, I believe, a good shot with pistols. I -suppose you will choose pistols. It would be difficult to get swords in -such a hurry. He is a fine young fellow. Took it coolly, by George! -Well, I don’t think that he will trouble the world much longer.” - -“This is a silly business, and likely to land us all in a nasty mess. -Is there no way out of it?” - -“None that I know of, unless your young friend will eat dirt. He is a -nasty-tempered fellow, Kershaw, and wild about that woman, over whom he -has spent thousands. Nor is he likely to forgive being rolled in the -gutter. You had better get your man to give in, for if you don’t, -Kershaw will kill him.” - -“It is no good talking of it. I have lived a rough life, and know what -men are made of. He is not of that sort. Besides, your man is in the -wrong, not that boy. If anybody spoke of my mother like that, I would -shoot him.” - -“Very good, Mr. Alston. And now about the pistols; I have none.” - -“I have a pair of Smith & Wesson revolvers that I bought yesterday to -take out to Africa with me. They throw a very heavy bullet, Captain -Justice.” - -“Too heavy. If one of them is hit anywhere in the body——” He did not -finish the sentence. - -Mr. Alston nodded. “We must put them twenty paces apart, to give them a -chance of missing. And now about the place and the time?” - -“I know a place on the beach, about a mile and a half from here, that -will do very well. You go down that street till you strike the beach, -then turn to your right, and follow the line of the sea till you come -to a deserted hut or cottage. There we will meet you.” - -“At what time?” - -“Let me see; shall we say a quarter to five? It will be light enough -for us then.” - -“Very good. The Weymouth boat leaves at half-past six. I am going to -see about getting my things ready to go to meet it. I should advise you -to do the same, Captain Justice. We had better not return here after it -is over.” - -“No.” - -And then they parted. - -Luckily the manager of the hotel had not gone to bed; so the various -parties concerned were able to pay their bills, and make arrangements -about their luggage being sent to meet the early boat, without exciting -the slightest suspicion. Ernest wrote a note, and left it to be given -to his friend when he should arrive on the morrow, in which he stated -mysteriously that business had called him away. He could not help -smiling to himself sadly when he thought that his business might be of -a sort that it would take all eternity to settle. - -Then he went to his room and wrote two letters, one to Eva and one to -Dorothy. Mr. Alston was to post them if anything happened to him. The -first was of a passionate nature, and breathed hopes of reunion in -another place—ah, how fondly the poor human heart clings to that -idea!—the second collected and sensible enough. The letters finished, -following Mr. Alston’s advice, he undressed and took a bath; then he -said his prayers—the prayers his mother had taught him—put on a quiet -dark suit of clothes, and went and sat by the open window. - -The night was very still and fragrant with the sweet strong breath of -the sea. Not a sound came from the quaint old town beneath—all was at -peace. Ernest, sitting there, wondered whether he would live to see -another night, and, if not, what the nights were like in the land -whither he was journeying. And as he thought of it the gray damps that -hide that unrisen world from our gaze struck into his soul and made him -feel afraid. Not afraid of death, but afraid of the empty loneliness -beyond it—of the cold air of an infinite space in which nothing human -can live. Would his mother meet him there, he wondered, or would she -put him from her, coming with blood upon his hands. And then he thought -of Eva, and in his solitude a tear gathered in his dark eyes. It seemed -so hard to go to that other place without her. - - - - -CHAPTER XVI. -MADAME’S WORK - - -Presently the eastern sky began to be barred with rays of light, and -Ernest knew that the dawn was near. - -Rising with a sigh, he made his last preparations, inwardly determining -that, if he was to die, he would die in a way befitting an English -gentleman. There should be no sign of his fears on his face when he -looked at his adversary’s pistol. - -Presently there came a soft knock at the door, and Mr. Alston entered -with his shoes off. In his hand he held a case containing the two Smith -& Wessons. - -“We must be off presently,” he said. “I just heard Captain Justice go -down. Look here, Kershaw, do you understand anything about these?” and -he tapped the Smith & Wessons. - -“Yes; I have often practised with a pair of old duelling-pistols at -home. I used to be a very fair shot with them.” - -“That is lucky. Now take one of these revolvers; I want to give you a -lesson, and accustom you to handle it.” - -“No, I will not. It would not be fair on the other man. If I did, and -killed him, I should feel like a murderer.” - -“As you like; but I am going to tell you something, and give you a bit -of advice. These revolvers are hair-triggered; I had the scears filed. -When the word is given, bring the barrel of your pistol _down_ till you -get the sight well on to your antagonist somewhere about his chest, -then _press_ the trigger, do not pull it, remember that. If you do as I -tell you, he will never hear the report. Above all, do not lose your -nerve; and don’t be sentimental and fire in the air, or any such -nonsense, for that is a most futile proceeding, morally, and in every -other way. Mark my words, if you do not kill him, he will kill you. He -intends to kill you, and you are in the right. Now we must be going. -Your luggage is in the hall, is it not?” - -“All except this bag.” - -“Very good; bring it down with you. My boy will bring it to the boat -with my own. If you are not hit, you will do well to get out of this as -soon as possible. I mean to make for Southampton as straight as I can. -There is a vessel sailing for South Africa on Friday morning; I shall -embark in her. We will settle what you are to do afterwards.” - -“Yes,” said Ernest, with a smile, “there is no need to talk of that at -present.” - -Five minutes afterwards they met in the hall, and slipped quietly out -through the door that always stood open all night for the accommodation -of visitors addicted to late hours. Following the street that Captain -Justice had pointed out, they descended to the beach, and, turning to -the right, walked along it leisurely. The early morning air was very -sweet, and all nature smiled dimly upon them as they went, for the sun -was not yet up; but at that moment Ernest did not think much of the -beauty of the morning. It all seemed like a frightful dream. At last -they came to the deserted hut, looming large in the gray mist. By it -stood two figures. - -“They are there already,” said Mr. Alston. - -As they approached the two figures lifted their hats, a compliment -which they returned. Then Mr. Alston went to Captain Justice, and fell -into conversation with him, and together they paced off a certain -distance on the sand, marking its limits with their walking-sticks. -Ernest noticed that it was about the length of a short cricket-pitch. - -“Shall we place them?” he heard Captain Justice say. - -“Not just yet,” was the reply; “there is barely light enough.” - -“Now, gentlemen,” said Mr. Alston presently, “I have prepared in -duplicate a paper setting forth as fairly as I can the circumstances -under which this unhappy affair has come about. I propose to read it to -you, and to ask you all to sign it, as a protection to—to us all. I -have brought a pen and a pocket ink-pot with me for that purpose.” - -Nobody objected, so he read the paper. It was short, concise, and just, -and they all signed it as it stood. Ernest’s hand shook a good deal as -he did so. - -“Come, that won’t do,” said Mr. Alston, encouragingly, as he pocketed -one copy of the document after handing the other to Captain Justice. -“Shake yourself together, man!” - -But for all his brave words he looked the more nervous of the two. - -“I wish to say,” began Ernest, addressing himself to all the other -three, “that this quarrel is none of my seeking. I could not in honour -give up the note the lady wrote to me. But I feel that this is a -dreadful business; and if you,” addressing his cousin, “are ready to -apologise for what you said about my mother, I am ready to do the same -for attacking you.” - -Mr. Hugh Kershaw smiled bitterly, and, turning, said something to his -second. Ernest caught the words “white feather.” - -“Mr. Hugh Kershaw refuses to offer any apology; he expects one,” was -Captain Justice’s ready answer. - -“Then if any blood is shed, on his head be it!” said Mr. Alston -solemnly. “Come, let us get it over.” - -Each took his man and placed him by one of the sticks, and then handed -him a revolver. - -“Stand sideways, and remember what I told you,” whispered Mr. Alston. - -“Are you ready, gentlemen?” asked Captain Justice presently. - -There was no answer; but Ernest felt his heart stand still, and a mist -gathered before his eyes. At that moment he heard a lark rise into the -air near him and begin to sing. Unless he could get his sight back he -felt that he was lost. - -“_One!_” The mist cleared away from his eyes; he saw his adversary’s -pistol-barrel pointing steadily at him. - -“_Two!_” A ray broke from the rising sun, and caught a crystal pin Hugh -Kershaw incautiously wore. Instinctively Ernest remembered Mr. Alston’s -advice, and lowered the sight of his long barrel till it was dead on -the crystal pin. Curiously enough, it reminded him at the moment of the -eyes in the witch’s head at Dum’s Ness. His vital forces rose to the -emergency, and his arm grew as steady as a rock. Then came a pause that -seemed hours long. - -“_Three!_” There was a double report, and Ernest became aware of a -commotion in his hair. Hugh Kershaw flung up his arms wildly, sprang a -few inches off the ground, and fell backwards. Great God, it was over! - -[Illustration: “Hugh Kershaw flung up his arms, wildly.”] - -Ernest staggered a moment from the reaction, and then ran with the -others towards his cousin—nay, towards what had been his cousin. He was -lying on his back upon the sand, his wide-opened eyes staring up at the -blue sky, as though to trace the flight of the spirit, his arms -extended. The heavy revolver-ball had struck near the crystal pin, and -then passed upwards through the throat and out at the base of the head, -shattering the spinal column. - -“He is dead,” said Captain Justice, solemnly. - -Ernest wrung his hands. - -“I have killed him,” he said—“I have killed my own cousin!” - -“Young man,” said Mr. Alston, “do not stand there wringing your hands, -but thank Providence for your own escape. He was very near killing you, -let me tell you. Is your head cut?” - -Instinctively Ernest took off his hat, and as he did so some fragments -of his curly hair fell to the ground. There was a neat hole through the -felt, and a neat groove along his thick hair. His cousin had meant to -kill him; and he was a good shot—so good that he thought that he could -put a ball through Ernest’s head. But he forgot that a heavy American -revolver, with forty grains of powder behind the ball, is apt to throw -a trifle high. - -And then they all stood silent and looked at the body; and the lark, -that had been frightened by the noise, began to sing again. - -“This will not do,” said Mr. Alston presently. “We had better move the -body in there,” and he pointed to the deserted hut. “Captain Justice, -what do you intend to do?” - -“Give myself up to the authorities, I suppose,” was the gallant -Captain’s scared answer. - -“Very well. I don’t advise you to do that, but if you are determined -to, there is no need for you to be in a hurry about it. You must give -us time to get clear first.” - -They lifted the corpse, reverently bore it into the deserted hut, and -laid it on the floor. Ernest remained standing looking at the red stain -where it had been. Presently they came out again, and Mr. Alston kicked -some sand over the stain and hid it. - -“Now,” he said, “we had better make an addition to those documents, to -say how this came about.” - -They all went back to the hut, and the addition was made, standing -there by the body. When it came to Ernest’s turn to sign, he almost -wished that his signature was the one missing from the foot of that -ghastly post-scriptum. Mr. Alston guessed his thoughts. - -“The fortune of war,” he said, coolly. “Now, Captain Justice, we are -going to catch the early boat, and we hope that you will not give -yourself up before midday, if you can help it. The inquiry into the -affair will not then be held before to-morrow; and by eleven to-morrow -morning I hope to have seen the last of England for some years to -come.” - -The Captain was a good fellow at bottom, and had no wish to see others -dragged into trouble. - -“I shall certainly give myself up,” he said; “but I don’t see any -reason to hurry about it. I don’t think that they can do much to me -here. Poor Hugh! he can well afford to wait,” he added, with a sigh, -glancing down at the figure that lay so still, with a coat thrown over -the face. “I suppose that they will lock me up for six months—pleasant -prospect! But I say, Mr. Kershaw, you had better keep clear; it will be -more awkward for you. You see, he was your cousin, and by his death you -become, unless I am mistaken, next heir to the title.” - -“Yes, I suppose so,” said Ernest, vaguely. - -Here it may be stated that Captain Justice found himself sadly -mistaken. Instead of the six months he expected, he was arraigned for -murder, and finally sentenced to a term of penal servitude. He received -a pardon, however, after serving about a year of his time. - -“Come, we must be off,” said Mr. Alston, “or we shall be late for the -boat;” and, bowing to Captain Justice, he left the hut. - -Ernest followed his example, and, when he had gone a few yards, glanced -round at the hateful spot. There stood Captain Justice in the doorway -of the hut, looking much depressed, and there, a few yards to the left, -was the impress in the sand that marked where his cousin had fallen. He -never saw either the man or the place again. - -“Kershaw,” said Mr. Alston, “what do you propose doing?” - -“I don’t know.” - -“But you must think; remember you are in an awkward fix. You know by -English law duelling is murder; and now I come to think of it, I expect -that this place is subject to the English law in criminal matters, or -at least that the law is identical.” - -“I think I had better give myself up, like Captain Justice.” - -“Nonsense. You must hide away somewhere for a year or two till the row -blows over.” - -“Where am I to hide?” - -“Have you any money, or can you get any?” - -“Yes, I have nearly two hundred and fifty pounds on me now.” - -“My word, that is fortunate! Well, now, what I have to suggest is, that -you should assume a false name, and sail for South Africa with me. I am -going up-country on a shooting expedition, outside British territory, -so there will be little fear of your being caught and extradited. Then, -in a year or so, when the affair is forgotten, you can come back to -England. What do you say to that?” - -“I suppose I may as well go there as anywhere else. I shall be a marked -man all my life, anyhow. What does it matter where I go?” - -“Ah, you are down on your luck now; by-and-by you will cheer up again.” - -Just then they met a fisherman, who gazed at them, wondering what the -two gentlemen were doing out walking at that hour; but concluding that, -after the mad fashion of Englishmen, they had been to bathe, he passed -them with a civil “Bonjour.” Ernest coloured to the eyes under the -scrutiny; he was beginning to feel the dreadful burden of his secret. -Presently they reached the steamer, and found Mr. Alston’s little boy -Roger, who, though he was only nine years old, was as quick and -self-reliant as many English lads of fourteen, waiting for them by the -bridge. - -“O, here you are, father; you have been walking so long that I thought -you would miss the boat. I have brought the luggage down all right, and -this gentleman’s too.” - -“That’s right, my lad. Kershaw, do you go and take the tickets; I want -to get rid of this;” and he tapped the revolver-case, that was -concealed beneath his coat. - -Ernest did so, and presently met Mr. Alston on the boat. A few minutes -more and, to his intense relief, she cast off and stood out to sea. -There were not very many passengers on board, and those there were, -were too much taken up in making preparations to be sea-sick to take -any notice of Ernest. And yet he could not shake himself free from the -idea that everybody knew that he had just killed a man. His own -self-consciousness was so intense that he saw his guilt reflected on -the faces of all he met. He gazed around him in awe, expecting every -moment to be greeted as a murderer. Most people who have ever done -anything they should not are acquainted with this sensation. Overcome -with this idea, he took refuge in his berth, nor did he emerge -therefrom till the boat reached Weymouth. There both he and Mr. Alston -bought some rough clothes, and, to a great extent, succeeded in -disguising themselves; then made their way across country to -Southampton in the same trains, but in separate compartments. Reaching -Southampton without let or hindrance, they agreed to take passages in -the Union Company’s R.M.S. _Moor,_ sailing on the following morning. -Mr. Alston obtained a list of the passengers; fortunately, there was -nobody among them whom he knew. For greater security, however, they -took steerage passages, and booked themselves under assumed names. -Ernest took his second Christian name, and figured on the passenger -list as E. Beyton, while Mr. Alston and his boy assumed the name of -James. They took their passages at different times, and feigned to be -unknown to each other. These precautions they found to be doubly -necessary, inasmuch as at Southampton Mr. Alston managed to get hold of -a book on English criminal law, from which it appeared that the fact of -the duel having been fought at Guernsey did not in the least clear them -from the legal consequences of the act, as they had vaguely supposed -would be the case, on the insufficient authority of Captain Justice’s -statement. - -At last the vessel sailed, and it was with a sigh of relief that Ernest -saw his native shores fade from view. As they disappeared, a -fellow-passenger, valet to a gentleman going to the Cape for his -health, politely offered him a paper to read. It was the _Standard_ of -that day’s date. He took it and glanced at the foreign intelligence. -The first thing that caught his eye was the following paragraph, headed -“A Fatal Duel”: - -“The town of St. Peter’s in Guernsey has been thrown into a state of -consternation by the discovery of the body of an English gentleman, who -was this morning shot dead in a duel. Captain Justice, of the —— -Hussars, who was the unfortunate gentleman’s second, has surrendered -himself to the authorities. The other parties, who are at present -unknown, have absconded. It is said that they have been traced to -Weymouth; but there all trace of them has been lost. The cause of the -duel is unknown, and in the present state of excitement it is difficult -to obtain authentic information.” - -By the pilot who left the vessel Ernest despatched two letters, one to -Eva Ceswick, and the other—which contained a copy of the memoranda -drawn up before and after the duel, and attested by Mr. Alston—to his -uncle. To both he told the story of his misfortune, fully and fairly, -imploring the former not to forget him and to wait for happier times, -and asking the forgiveness of the latter for the trouble that he had -brought upon himself and all belonging to him. Should they wish to -write to him, he gave his address as Ernest Beyton, Post-office, -Maritzburg. - -The pilot-boat hoisted her brown sail with a huge white P. upon it and -vanished into the night; and Ernest, feeling that he was a ruined man, -and with the stain of blood upon his hands, crept to his bunk and wept -like a child. - -Yesterday he had been loved, prosperous, happy, with a bright career -before him. To-day he was a nameless outcast, departing into exile, and -his young life shadowed by a cloud in which he could see no break. - -Well might he weep; it was a hard lesson. - - - - -BOOK II. - - - - -CHAPTER I. -MY POOR EVA - - -Two days after the pilot-boat, flitting away from the vessel’s side -like some silent-flighted bird, had vanished into the night, Florence -Ceswick happened to be walking past the village post-office on her way -to pay a visit to Dorothy, when it struck her that the afternoon post -must be in, and that she might as well ask if there were any letters -for Dum’s Ness. There was no second delivery at Kesterwick, and she -knew that it was not always convenient to Mr. Cardus to send in. The -civil old postmaster gave her a little bundle of letters, remarking at -the same time that he thought that there was one for the Cottage. - -“Is it for me, Mr. Brown?” asked Florence. - -“No, miss; it is for Miss Eva.” - -“O, then I will leave it; I am going up to Dum’s Ness. No doubt Miss -Eva will call.” - -She knew that Eva watched the arrival of the posts very carefully. When -she got outside the office she glanced at the bundle of letters in her -hand, and noticed with a start that one of them, addressed to Mr. -Cardus, was in Ernest’s handwriting. It bore a Southampton post-mark. -What, she wondered, could he be doing at Southampton? He should have -been in Guernsey. - -She walked on briskly to Dum’s Ness, and on her arrival found Dorothy -sitting working in the sitting-room. After she had greeted her she -handed over the letters. - -“There is one from Ernest,” she said. - -“O, I am so glad!” answered Dorothy. “Who is it for?” - -“For Mr. Cardus. O, here he comes.” - -Mr. Cardus shook hands with her, and thanked her for bringing the -letters, which he turned over casually, after the fashion of a man -accustomed to receive large quantities of correspondence of an -uninteresting nature. Presently his manner quickened, and he opened -Ernest’s letter. Florence fixed her keen eyes upon him. He read the -letter; she read his face. - -Mr. Cardus was accustomed to conceal his emotions, but on this occasion -it was clear that they were too strong for him. Astonishment and grief -pursued each other across his features as he proceeded. Finally he put -the letter down and glanced at an enclosure. - -“What is it, Reginald, what is it?” asked Dorothy. - -“It is,” answered Mr. Cardus solemnly, “that Ernest is a murderer and a -fugitive.” - -Dorothy sank into a chair with a groan, and covered her face with her -hands. Florence turned ashy pale. - -“What do you mean?” she said. - -“Read the letter for yourself, and see. Stop, read it aloud, and the -enclosure too. I may have misunderstood.” - -Florence did so in a quiet voice. It was wonderful how her power came -out in contrast to the intense disturbance of the other two. The old -man of the world shook like a leaf, the young girl stood firm as a -rock. Yet, in all probability, her interest in Ernest was more intense -than his. - -When she had finished, Mr. Cardus spoke again. - -“You see,” he said, “I was right. He is a murderer and an outcast. And -I loved the boy, I loved him. Well, let him go.” - -“O Ernest, Ernest!” sobbed Dorothy. - -Florence glanced from one to the other with contempt. - -“What are you talking about?” she said at last. “What is there to make -all this fuss about? ‘Murderer,’ indeed! Then our grandfathers were -often murderers. What would you have had him do? Would you have had him -give up the woman’s letter to save himself? Would you have had him put -up with this other man’s insults about his mother? If he had, I would -never have spoken to him again. Stop that groaning, Dorothy. You should -be proud of him; he behaved as a gentleman should. If I had the right I -should be proud of him;” and her breast heaved and the proud lips -curled as she said it. - -Mr. Cardus listened attentively, and it was evident that her enthusiasm -moved him. - -“There is something in what Florence says,” he broke in. “I should not -have liked the boy to show the white feather. But it is an awful -business to kill one’s own first cousin, especially when one is next in -the entail. Old Kershaw will be furious at losing his only son, and -Ernest will never be able to come back to this country while he lives, -or he will set the law on him.” - -“It is dreadful!” said Dorothy; “just as he was beginning life, and -going into a profession, and now to have to go and wander in that -far-off country under a false name!” - -“O yes, it is sad enough,” said Mr. Cardus; “but what is done cannot be -undone. He is young, and will live it down, and if the worst comes to -the worst, must make himself a home out there. But it is hard upon me, -hard upon me;” and he went off to his office, muttering, “hard upon -me.” - -When Florence started upon her homeward way, the afternoon had set in -wet and chilly, and the sea was hidden in wreaths of gray mist. -Altogether the scene was depressing. On arrival at the Cottage she -found Eva standing, the picture of melancholy, by the window, and -staring out at the misty sea. - -“O Florence, I am glad that you have come home; I really began to feel -inclined to commit suicide.” - -“Indeed! and may I ask why?” - -“I don’t know; the rain is so depressing, I suppose.” - -“It does not depress me.” - -“No, nothing ever does; you live in the land of perpetual calm.” - -“I take exercise, and keep my liver in good order. Have you been out -this afternoon?” - -“No.” - -“Ah, I thought not. No wonder you feel depressed, staying indoors all -day. Why don’t you go for a walk?” - -“There is nowhere to go.” - -“Really, Eva, I don’t know what has come to you lately, why don’t you -go along the cliff, or stop—have you been to the post-office? I called -for the Dum’s Ness letters, and Mr. Brown said that there was one for -you.” - -Eva jumped up with remarkable animation, and passed out of the room -with her peculiar light tread. The mention of that word “letter” had -sufficed to change the aspect of things considerably. - -Florence watched her go with a dark little smile. - -“Ah,” she said aloud, as the door closed, “your feet will soon fall -heavily enough.” - -Presently Eva went out, and Florence, having thrown off her cloak, took -her sister’s place at the window and waited. It was seven minutes’ walk -to the post-office. She would be back in about a quarter of an hour. -Watch in hand, Florence waited patiently. Seventeen minutes had elapsed -when the garden-gate was opened, and Eva re-entered, her face quite -gray with pain, and furtively applying a handkerchief to her eyes. -Florence smiled again. - -“I thought so,” she said. - -From all of which it will be seen that Florence was a very remarkable -woman. She had scarcely exaggerated when she said that her heart was as -deep as the sea. The love that she bore Ernest was the strongest thing -in all her strong and vigorous life; when every other characteristic -and influence crumbled away and was forgotten, it would still remain -overmastering as ever. And when she discovered that her high love, the -greatest and best part of her, had been made a plaything of by a -thoughtless boy, who kissed girls on the same principle that a duck -takes to water, because it came natural to him, the love in its mortal -agonies gave birth to a hate destined to grow great as itself. But, -with all a woman’s injustice, it was not directed towards the same -object. On Ernest, indeed, she would wreak vengeance if she could, but -she still loved him as dearly as at first; the revenge would be a mere -episode in the history of her passion. But to her sister, the innocent -woman who, she chose to consider, had robbed her, she gave all that -bountiful hate. Herself the more powerful character of the two, she -determined upon the utter destruction of the weaker. Strong as Fate, -and unrelenting as Time, she dedicated her life to that end. -Everything, she said, comes to those who can wait. She forgot that the -Providence above us can wait the longest of us all. In the end it is -Providence that wins. - -Eva came in, and Florence heard her make her way up the stairs to her -room. Again she spoke to herself: - -“The poor fool will weep over him and renounce him. If she had the -courage she would follow him and comfort him in his trouble, and so tie -him to her for ever. Oh, that I had her chance! But the chances always -come to fools.” - -Then she went upstairs and listened outside Eva’s door. She was sobbing -audibly. Turning the handle, she walked casually in. - -“Well, Eva, did you—Why, my dear girl, _what_ is the matter with you?” - -Eva, who was lying sobbing on her bed, turned her head to the wall and -went on sobbing. - -“What _is_ the matter, Eva? If you only knew how absurd you look!” - -“No-no-thing!” - -“Nonsense! People do not make such scenes as this for nothing.” - -No answer. - -“Come, my dear, as your affectionate sister, I really must ask what has -happened to you.” - -The tone was commanding, and half unconsciously Eva obeyed it. -“Ernest!” she ejaculated. - -“Well, what about Ernest? He is nothing to you, is he?” - -“No—that is, yes. O, it is so dreadful! It was the letter;” and she -touched a sheet of closely written paper that lay on the bed beside -her. - -“Well, as you do not seem to be in a condition to explain yourself, -perhaps you had better let me read the letter.” “O no.” - -“Nonsense! Give it me; perhaps I may be able to help you;” and she took -the paper from her unresisting grasp, and, turning her face from the -light, read it deliberately through. - -It was very passionate in its terms, and rather incoherent; such a -letter, in short, as a lad almost wild with love and grief would write -under the circumstances. - -“So,” said Florence, as she coolly folded it up, “it appears that you -are engaged to him.” - -No answer, unless sobs can be said to constitute one. “And it seems -that you are engaged to a man who has just committed a frightful -murder, and run away from the consequences.” - -Eva sat up on the bed. - -“It was not a murder; it was a duel.” - -“Precisely, a duel about another woman; but the law calls it murder. If -he is caught he will be hanged.” - -“O Florence! how can you say such dreadful things?” - -“I only say what is true. Poor Eva, I do not wonder that you are -distressed.” - -“It is all so dreadful!” - -“You love him, I suppose?” - -“O yes, dearly.” - -“Then you must get over it; you must never think of him any more.” - -“Never think of him! I shall think of him all my life.” - -“That is as it may be. You must never have anything more to do with -him. He has blood upon his hands, blood shed for some bad woman.” - -“I cannot desert him, Florence, because he has got into trouble.” - -“Over another woman.” - -A peculiar expression of pain passed over Eva’s face. - -“How cruel you are, Florence! He is only a boy, and boys will go wrong -sometimes. Anybody can make a fool of a boy.” - -“And it seems that boys can make fools of some people who should know -better.” - -“O Florence, what is to be done? You have such a clear head; tell me -what I must do. I cannot give him up; I cannot indeed.” - -Florence seated herself on the bed beside her sister, and put an arm -round her neck and kissed her. Eva was much touched at her kindness. - -“My poor Eva,” she said, “I am so sorry for you! But tell me, when did -you get engaged to him—that evening you went out sailing together?” - -“Yes.” - -“He kissed you, I suppose, and all that?” - -“Yes. Oh, I was so happy!” - -“My poor Eva!” - -“I tell you I cannot give him up.” - -“Well, perhaps there will be no need for you to do so. But you must not -answer that letter.” - -“Why not?” - -“Because it will not do. Look at it which way you will, Ernest has just -killed his own cousin in a quarrel about another woman. It is necessary -that you should mark your disapproval of that in some way or other. Do -not answer his letter. If in time he can wash himself clear of the -reproach, and remains faithful to you, then it will be soon enough to -show that you still care for him.” - -“But if I leave him like that, he will fall into the hands of other -women, though he loves me all the time. I know him well; his is not a -nature that can stand alone.” - -“Well, let him.” - -“But, Florence, you forget I love him, too. I cannot bear to think of -it. O, I love him, I love him!” and she dropped her head upon her -sister’s shoulder and began to sob again. - -“My dear, it is just because you do love him so that you should prove -him; and besides, my dear, you have your own self-respect to think of. -Be guided by me, Eva; do not answer that letter; I am sure that you -will regret it if you do. Let matters stand for a few months, then we -can arrange a plan of action. Above all, do not let your engagement -transpire to anybody. There will be a dreadful scandal about this -business, and it will be most unpleasant for you, and, indeed, for us -all, to have our name mixed up in the matter. Hark! there is aunt -coming in. I will go and talk to her; you can stop here and recover -yourself a little. You will follow my advice, will you not, dearest?” - -“I suppose so,” answered Eva, with a heavy sigh, as she buried her face -in the pillow. - -Then Florence left her. - - - - -CHAPTER II. -THE LOCUM TENENS - - -And so it came to pass that Ernest’s letter remained unanswered. But -Mr. Cardus, Dorothy, and Jeremy all wrote. Mr. Cardus’s letter was very -kind and considerate. It expressed his deep grief at what had happened, -and told him of the excitement that the duel had caused, and of the -threatening letters which he had received from Sir Hugh Kershaw, who -was half-wild with grief and fury at the loss of his son. Finally, it -commended his wisdom in putting the seas between himself and the -avengers of blood, and told him that he should not want for money, as -his drafts would be honoured to the extent of a thousand a year, should -he require so much—Mr. Cardus was very open-handed where Ernest was -concerned; also if he required any particular sum of money for any -purpose, such as to buy land or start a business, he was to let him -know. - -Dorothy’s letter was like herself, sweet and gentle, and overflowing -with womanly sympathy. She bade him not to be down-hearted, but to hope -for a time when all this dreadful business would be forgotten, and he -would be able to return in peace to England. She bade him also, shyly -enough, to remember that there was only one Power that could really -wash away the stain of blood upon his hands. Every month she said she -would write him a letter, whether he answered it or not. This promise -she faithfully kept. - -Jeremy’s letter was characteristic. It is worth transcribing: - -“My DEAR OLD Fellow,—Your news has knocked us all into the middle of -next week. To think of your fighting a duel, and my not being there to -hold the sponge! And I will tell you what it is, old chap: some of -these people round here, like that old De Talor, call it murder, but -that is gammon, and don’t you trouble your head about it. It was he who -got up the row, not you, and he tried to shoot you into the bargain. I -am awfully glad that you kept your nerve and plugged him; it would have -been better if you could have nailed him through the right shoulder, -which would not have killed him; but at the best of times you were -never good enough with a pistol for that. Don’t you remember when we -used to shoot with the old pistols at the man I cut out on the cliff, -you were always just as likely to hit him on the head or in the stomach -as through the heart? It is a sad pity that you did not practise a -little more, but it is no use crying over spilt milk—and after all the -shot seems to have been a very creditable one. So you are going on a -shooting expedition up in Secocoeni’s country. That is what I call -glorious. To think of a rhinoceros makes my mouth water; I would give -one of my fingers to shoot one. Life here is simply wretched now that -you have gone—Mr. Cardus as glum as Titheburgh Abbey on a cloudy day, -and Doll always looking as though she had been crying, or were going to -cry. Old Grandfather Atterleigh is quite lively compared to those two. -As for the office, I hate it, everlastingly copying deeds which I don’t -in the slightest understand, and adding up figures in which I make -mistakes. Your respected uncle told me the other day, in his politest -way, that he considered I sailed as near being a complete fool as any -man he ever knew. I answered that I quite agreed with him. - -“I met that young fellow Smithers the other day, the one who gave Eva -Ceswick that little brute of a dog. He said something disagreeable -about wondering if they would hang you. I told him that I didn’t know -if they would or not, but unless he dropped his infernal sneer I was -very sure that I would break his neck. He concluded to move on. By the -way, I met Eva Ceswick herself yesterday. She looked pale, and asked if -we had heard anything of you. She said that she had got a letter from -you. Florence came up here, and spoke up well for you; she said that -she was proud of you, or would be if she had a right to. I never liked -her before, but now I think that she is a brick. Good-bye, old chap; I -never wrote such a long letter before. You don’t know how I miss you; -life don’t seem worth having. Yesterday was the First; I went out and -killed twenty brace to my own gun—fired forty-six cartridges. Not bad, -eh! And yet somehow I didn’t seem to care a twopenny curse about the -whole thing, though if you had been there you would have duffed them -awfully. I feel sure you would have set my teeth on edge with letting -them off—the birds, I mean. Mind you write to me often. Good-bye, old -fellow. God bless you! - -“Your affectionate friend, - - -“Jeremy Jones. - - -“P.S.—In shooting big game, a fellow told me that the top of the flank -raking forward is a very deadly shot, as it either breaks the back or -passes through the kidneys to the lungs or heart. I should have thought -that the shot was very apt to waste itself in the flesh of the flank. -Please try it, and take notes of the results.” - -About a fortnight after these letters, addressed Ernest Beyton, Esq., -Post Office, Maritzburg, Natal, had been despatched, Kesterwick and its -neighbourhood was thrown into a state of mild excitement by the -announcement that Mr. Halford, the clergyman, whose health had of late -been none of the best, purposed taking a year’s rest, and that the -Bishop had consented to the duties of his parish being carried on by a -locum tenens, named the Reverend James Plowden. Mr. Halford was much -liked and respected, and the intelligence was received with general -regret, which was, however, tempered with curiosity as to the -new-comer. Thus, when it became known that Mr. Plowden was to preach in -the parish church at the evening service on the third Sunday in -September, all Kesterwick was seized with profound religious fervour, -and went to hear him. - -The parish church at Kesterwick was unusually large and beautiful, -being a relic of an age when, whatever men’s lives may have been, they -spared neither their money nor their thought in rearing up fitting -habitations to the Deity, whom they regarded perhaps with more of -superstitious awe than true religious feeling. Standing as it did -somewhat back from the sea, it alone had escaped the shock of the -devouring waves, and remained till this day a monument of architectural -triumph. Its tall tower, pointing like a great finger up to heaven, -looked very solemn on that quiet September evening as the crowd of -church-goers passed beneath its shadow into the old doorway, through -which most of them had been carried to their christening, and would in -due time be carried to their burial. At least so thought Eva and -Dorothy, as they stood for a moment by the monument to “five unknown -sailors,” washed ashore after a great gale, and buried in a common -grave. How many suffering, erring human beings had stood upon the same -spot and thought the same thoughts! How many more now sleeping in the -womb of time would stand there and think them, when these two had -suffered and erred their full, and been long forgotten! - -They formed a strange contrast, those two sweet women, as they passed -together into the sacred stillness of the church—the one stately, dark, -and splendid, with an unrestful trouble in her eyes; the other almost -insignificant in figure, but pure and patient of face, and with steady -blue eyes which never wavered. Did they guess, those two, as they -walked thus together, how closely their destinies were linked? Did they -know that each at heart was striving for the same prize—a poor one -indeed, but still all the world to them? Perhaps they did, very -vaguely, and it was the pressure of their common trouble that drew them -closer together in those days. But if they did, they never spoke of it; -and as for little Dorothy, she never dreamed of winning. She was -content to be allowed to toil along in the painful race. - -When they reached the pew that the Ceswicks habitually occupied, they -found Miss Ceswick and Florence already there. Jeremy had refused to -come; he had a most unreasonable antipathy to parsons. Mr. Halford he -liked, but of this new man he would have none. The general curiosity to -see him was to Jeremy inexplicable, his opinion being that he should -soon see a great deal more of him than he liked. “Just like a pack of -girls running after a new doll,” he growled; “well, there is one thing, -you will soon be tired of hearing him squeak.” - -As the service went on, the aisles of the great church grew dim except -where the setting sun shot a crimson shaft through the west window, -which wandered from spot to spot and face to face, and made them -glorious. When it came to the hymn before the sermon, Eva could -scarcely see to read, and with the exception of the crimson pencil of -sunlight that came through the head of the Virgin Mary, and wavered -restlessly about, and the strong glow of the lights upon the pulpit, -the church was almost dark. - -When the new clergyman, Mr. Plowden, ascended the steps of the ancient -pulpit and gave out his text, Eva looked at him in common with the rest -of the congregation. Mr. Plowden was a large man of a somewhat -lumbering make. His head, too, was large, and covered with masses of -rather coarse-textured black hair. The forehead was prominent, and gave -signs of intellectual power; the eyebrows thick and strongly marked, -and in curious contrast to the cold light-gray eyes that played -unceasingly beneath them. All the lower part of the face, which, to -judge from the purple hue of the skin, Nature had intended should be -plentifully clothed with hair, was clean shaven, and revealed a large -jaw, square chin, and pair of thick lips. Altogether Mr. Plowden was -considered a fine man, and his face was generally spoken of as -“striking.” Perhaps the most curious thing about it, however, was a -species of varicose vein on the forehead, which was generally quite -unnoticeable, but whenever he was excited or nervous stood out above -the level of the skin in the form of a perfect cross. It was thus -visible when Eva looked at him, and it struck her as being an -unpleasant mark to have on one’s forehead. She turned her eyes away—the -man did not please her fastidious taste—and listened for his voice. -Presently it came; it was powerful and even musical, but coarse. - -“He is not a gentleman,” thought Eva to herself; and then dismissing -him and his sermon too from her mind, she leaned back against the -poppy-head at the end of the pew, half-closed her eyes, and let her -thoughts wander in the way that thoughts have the power to do in -church. Far across the sea they flew, to where a great vessel, -labouring in a heavy gale, was ploughing her sturdy way along—to where -a young man stood clinging to the iron stanchions, and gazed out into -the darkness with sorrow in his eyes. - -Wonderfully soft and tender grew her beautiful face as the vision -passed before her soul; the ripe lips quivered, and there was a world -of love in the half-opened eyes. And just then the wandering patch of -glory perceived her, settled on her like a butterfly upon a flower, and -for a while wandered no longer. - -Suddenly she became aware of a momentary pause in the even flow of the -clergyman’s eloquence, and waking from her reverie, glanced up at that -spot of light surrounding him, and as she did so it struck her that she -herself was illuminated with a more beautiful light—that he and she -alone were distinguishable out of all the people beneath that roof. - -The same thought had evidently struck Mr. Plowden, for he was gazing -intently at her. - -Instinctively she drew back into the shadow, and Mr. Plowden went on -with his sermon. But he had driven away poor Eva’s vision; there only -remained of it the sad reproachful look of those dark eyes. - -Outside the church Dorothy found Jeremy waiting to escort her home. -They all went together as far as the Cottage. When they got clear of -the crowd Florence spoke: - -“What a good-looking man Mr. Plowden is, and how well he preached!” - -“I did not like him much,” said Dorothy. - -“What do you think of him, Eva?” asked Florence. - -“I? Oh, I do not know. I do not think he is a gentleman.” - -“I am sure that he is not,” put in Jeremy. “I saw him by the -post-office this afternoon. He is a cad.” - -“Rather a sweeping remark that, is it not, Mr. Jones?” said Florence. - -“I don’t know if it is sweeping or not,” answered Jeremy, -sententiously, “but I am sure that it is true.” - -Then they said good-night, and went their separate ways. - - - - -CHAPTER III. -EVA TAKES A DISTRICT - - -The Reverend James Plowden was born of rich but honest parents in the -sugar-broking way. He was one of a large family, who were objects of -anxious thought to Mr. and Mrs. Plowden. These worthy people, aware of -the disadvantages under which they laboured in the matter of education, -determined that neither trouble nor money should be spared to make -their children “genteel.” And so it came to pass that the “mansion” -near Bloomsbury was overrun with the most expensive nurses, milliners, -governesses, and tutors, all straining every nerve to secure the -perfect gentility of the young Plowdens. The result was highly -ornamental, but scarcely equivalent to the vast expense incurred. The -Plowden youth of both sexes may be said to have been painted, and -varnished, and gilded into an admirable imitation of gentlefolks; but -if the lacquer-work would stand the buffetings of the world’s weather -was another question, and one which does not concern us, except in so -far as it has to do with a single member of the family. - -Master James Plowden came about half-way down the family list, but he -might just as well have stood at the head of it, for he ruled his -brothers and sisters—old and young—with a heavy rod. He was the strong -one of the family, strong both in mind and body, and he had a hand of -iron. - -For his misdeeds were his brothers thrashed, preferring to take those -ills they knew of from the hands of the thrasher rather than endure the -unimagined horrors brother James would make ready for them should they -venture to protest. - -Thus it was that he came to be considered _par excellence_ the good boy -of the family, and he was certainly the clever one, and bore every sort -of blushing honour thick upon him. - -It was to an occurrence in his boyhood that Mr. Plowden owed his -parents’ determination to send him into the Church. His future career -had always been a matter of much speculation to them, for they belonged -to that class of people who love to arrange their infants’ destinies -when the infants themselves are still in the cradle, and argue their -fitness for certain lines of life from remarks which they make at three -years old. - -Now, James’s mamma had a very favourite parrot with a red tail, and out -of this tail it was James’s delight to pull the feathers, having -discovered that so doing gave a parrot a lively twinge of pain. The -onus of the feather-pulling, if discovered, was shouldered on to a -chosen brother, who was promptly thrashed. - -But on one occasion things went wrong with Master James. The parrot was -climbing up the outside of his cage, presenting the remainder of his -tail to the hand of the spoiler in a way that was irresistibly -seductive. But, aware of the fact that his enemy was in the -neighbourhood, he kept a careful look-out from the corner of his eye, -and the moment that he saw James’s stealthy hand draw near his tail -made a sudden dart at it, and actually succeeded in making his powerful -beak meet through its forefinger. James shrieked with pain and fury, -and shaking the bird on to the floor, stunned it with a book. But he -was not satisfied with this revenge, for, as soon as he saw that it -could no longer bite, he seized it and twisted its neck. - -“There, you devil!” he said, throwing the creature into the cage. -“Hullo, something has burst in my forehead!” - -“O James, what have you done!” said his little brother Montague, well -knowing that he had a lively personal interest in James’s misdoings. - -“Nonsense! what have you done? Now remember, Montague, _you_ killed the -parrot.” - -Just then Mr. and Mrs. Plowden came in from a drive, and a very lively -scene ensued, into which we need not enter. Suffice it to say that, all -evidence to the contrary notwithstanding, James was acquitted on the -ground of general good character, and Montague, howling and protesting -his innocence, was led off to execution. Justly fearful lest something -further should transpire, James was hurriedly leaving the room, when -his mother called him back. “Why, what is that on your forehead?” -“Don’t know,” answered James; “something went snap there just now.” - -“Well, I never! Just look at the boy, John; he has got a cross upon his -forehead.” - -Mr. Plowden papa examined the phenomenon very carefully, and then, -solemnly removing his spectacles, remarked with much deliberation: - -“Elizabeth, that settles the point.” “What point, John?” - -“What point! Why, the point of the boy’s profession. It is, as you -remark, a cross upon his forehead. Good!—he shall go into the Church. -Now, I must decline to be argued with, Elizabeth. The matter is -settled.” - -And so in due course James Plowden, Esq., went to Cambridge, and became -the Reverend James Plowden. - -Shortly after the Reverend James had started in life as a curate—having -first succeeded in beguiling his parents into settling on himself a -portion just twice as large as that to which he was entitled—he found -it convenient to cut off his connection with a family he considered -vulgar, and a drag upon his professional success. But somehow, with all -his gifts—and undoubtedly he was by nature well-endowed, especially as -regards his mind, that was remarkable for a species of hard cleverness -and persuasive power—and with all the advantages which he derived from -being in receipt of an independent income, the Reverend James had not -hitherto proved a conspicuous success. He had held some important -curacies, and of late had acted as the locum tenens of several -gentlemen who, like Mr. Halford, through loss of health or other -reasons, had been called away from their livings for a length of time. - -But from all these places the Reverend James had departed without -regret, nor had there been any very universal lamentations over his -going. The fact of the matter was that the Reverend James was not a -popular man. He had ability in plenty, and money in plenty, and would -expend both without stint if he had an end to gain. He was more or less -of a good companion, too, in the ordinary sense of the word; that is, -he could make himself agreeable in a rough, exaggerated kind of way to -both men and women. Indeed, by the former he was often spoken of -carelessly as a “good fellow;” but women, or rather ladies, following -their finer instincts, disliked him intensely. He jarred upon them. - -Of course, it is impossible to lay down any fixed rule about men, but -there are two tokens by which they may be known. The first is by their -friends; the second by the degree of friendship and affection to which -they are admitted by women. The man to whom members of the other sex -attach themselves is in ninety-nine cases out of a hundred a good -fellow, and women’s instinct tells them so, or they would not love him. -It may be urged that women often love blackguards. To this the answer -is, that there must be a good deal of good mixed up with the -blackguardism. Show me the man whom two or three women of his own rank -love with all their honest hearts, and I will trust all I have into his -hands and not be a penny the poorer. - -But women did not love the Reverend James Plowden, although he had for -several years come to the conclusion that it was desirable that they -should, or rather that one of them should. In plain language he had for -some years past thought that he would improve his position by getting -married. He was a shrewd man, and he could not disguise from himself -the fact that so far he was not altogether a success. He had tried his -best, but, with all his considerable advantages, he had failed. There -was only one avenue to success which he had not tried, and that was -marriage. Marriage with a woman of high caste, quick intellect, and -beauty, might give him the tone that his social system so sadly needed. -He was a man in a good position, he had money, he had intelligence of a -robust if of a coarse order, he had fairly good looks, and he was only -thirty-five; why should he not marry blood, brains, and beauty, and -shine with a reflected splendour? - -Such were the thoughts which were simmering in the astute brain of the -Reverend James Plowden when he first set eyes upon Eva Ceswick in the -old church at Kesterwick. - -Within a week or so of his arrival, Mr. Plowden, in his character of -spiritual adviser to the motley Kesterwick flock, paid a ceremonious -call on the Miss Ceswicks. They were all at home. - -Miss Ceswick and Florence welcomed him graciously; Eva politely, but -with an air that said plainly that he interested her not at all. Yet it -was to Eva that he chiefly directed himself. He took this opportunity -to inform them all, especially Eva, that he felt the responsibilities -of his position as locum tenens to weigh heavily upon him. He appealed -to them all, especially Eva, to help him to bear his load. He was going -to institute a new system of district visiting. Would they all, -especially Eva, assist him? If they would, the good work was already -half done. There was so much for young ladies to do. He could assure -them, from his personal experience, that one visit from a young lady, -however useless she might be in a general way, which his instinct -assured him these particular young ladies before him were not, had more -influence with a distressed and godless family than six from -well-meaning but unsympathetic clergymen like himself. Might he rely on -their help? - -“I am afraid that I am too old for that sort of thing, Mr. Plowden,” -answered Miss Ceswick. “You must see what you can do with my nieces.” - -“I am sure that I shall be delighted to help,” said Florence, “if Eva -will bear me company. I always feel a shyness about intruding myself -into cottages unsupported.” - -“Your shyness is not surprising, Miss Ceswick. I suffered from it -myself for many years, but at last I have, I am thankful to say, got -the better of it. But I am sure that we shall not appeal to your sister -in vain.” - -“I shall be glad to help if you think that I can do any good,” put in -Eva, thus directly appealed to; “but I must tell you I have no great -faith in myself.” - -“Do the work. Miss Ceswick, and the faith will come; sow the seed and -the tree will spring up, and bear fruit too in due season.” - -There was no reply, so he continued: “Then I have your permission to -put you down for a district?” - -“O yes, Mr. Plowden,” answered Florence. “Will you take some more tea?” - -Mr. Plowden would take no more tea, but went on his way to finish the -day’s work he had mapped out for himself—for he worked hard and -according to a strict rule—reflecting that Eva Ceswick was the -loveliest woman he had ever seen. - -“I think that we must congratulate you on a conquest, Eva,” said Miss -Ceswick, cheerfully, as the front door closed. “Mr. Plowden never took -his eyes off you, and really, my dear, I do not wonder at it; you look -charming.” - -Eva flushed up angrily. - -“Nonsense, aunt!” she said, and left the room. - -“Really,” said Miss Ceswick, “I don’t know what has come to Eva lately, -she is so very strange.” - -“I expect that you have touched her on a sore point. I rather fancy -that she has taken a liking to Mr. Plowden,” said Florence, dryly. - -“O, indeed!” answered the old lady, nodding her head wisely. - -In due course a district was assigned to the two Miss Ceswicks, and for -her part Eva was glad of the occupation. It brought her a good deal -into contact with Mr. Plowden, which was not altogether pleasant to -her, for she cherished a vague dislike of the clergyman, and did not -admire his shifty eyes. But, as she got to know him better, she could -find nothing to justify her dislike. He was not, it is true, quite a -gentleman, but that was his misfortune. His manner to herself was -subdued and almost deferential; he never obtruded himself upon her -society, though somehow he was in it almost daily. Indeed, he even -succeeded in raising her to some enthusiasm about her work, a quality -in which poor Eva had of late been sadly lacking. She thought him a -very good clergyman, with his heart in his duty. But she disliked him -all the same. - -Eva never answered Ernest’s letter. Once she began an answer, but -bethought her of Florence’s sage advice, and changed her mind. “He will -write again,” she said to herself. She did not know Ernest; his was not -a nature to humble itself before a woman. Could she have seen her lover -hanging about the steps of the Maritzburg post-office when the English -mail was being delivered, in order to go back to the window when the -people had dispersed, and ask the tired clerk if he was “sure” that -there were no more letters for Ernest Beyton, and get severely snubbed -for his pains, perhaps her heart would have relented. And yet it was a -performance which poor Ernest went through once a week out there in -Natal. - -One mail-day Mr. Alston went with him. - -“Well, Ernest, has it come?” he asked, as he came down the steps, a -letter from Dorothy in his hand. - -“No, Alston, and never will. She has thrown me over.” - -Mr. Alston took his arm, and walked away with him across the -market-square. - -“Look here, my lad,” he said; “the woman who deserts a man in trouble, -or as soon as his back is turned, is worthless. It is a sharp lesson to -learn, but, as most men have cause to know, the world is full of sharp -lessons and worthless women. You know that she got your letter?” - -“Yes, she told my friend so.” - -“Then I tell you that your Eva, or whatever her name is, is more -worthless than most of them. She has been tried and found wanting. -Look,” he went on, pointing to a shapely Kafir girl passing with a pot -of native beer upon her head, “you had better take that Intombi to wife -than such a woman as this Eva. She at any rate would stand by you in -trouble, and if you fell would stop to be killed over your dead body. -Come, be a man, and have done with her.” - -[Illustration: “A shapely Kafir girl.”] - -“Ay, by Heaven I will!” answered Ernest. - -“That’s right; and now, look here, the waggons will be at Lydenburg in -a week. Let us take the post-cart tomorrow and go up. Then we can have -a month’s wilderbeeste and koodoo shooting until it is safe to go into -the fever country. Once you get among the big game, you won’t think any -more about that woman. Women are all very well in their way, but if it -comes to choosing between them and big game shooting, give me the big -game.” - - - - -CHAPTER IV. -JEREMY’S IDEA OF A SHAKING - - -Two months or so after Ernest’s flight there came a letter from him to -Mr. Cardus in answer to the one sent by his uncle. He thanked his uncle -warmly for his kindness, and more especially for not joining in the hue -and cry against him. As regarded money, he hoped to be able to make a -living for himself, but if he wanted any he would draw. The letter, -which was short, ended thus: - -“Thank Doll and Jeremy for their letters. I would answer them, but I am -too down on my luck to write much; writing stirs up so many painful -memories, and makes me think of all the dear folks at home more than is -good for me. The fact is, my dear uncle, what between one thing and -another, I never was so miserable in my life, and as for loneliness I -never knew what it meant before. Sometimes I wish that my cousin had -hit me instead of my hitting him, and that I was dead and buried, clean -out of the way. Alston, who was my second in that unhappy affair, and -with whom I am going up-country shooting, has been most kind to me, and -has introduced me to a good many people here. They are very -hospitable—everybody is hospitable in a colony; but somehow a hundred -new faces cannot make up for one old one, and I should think old -Atterleigh a cheerful companion beside the best of them. What is more, -I feel myself an impostor intruding myself on them under an assumed -name. Good-bye, my dear uncle. It would be difficult for me to explain -how grateful I am for your goodness to me. Love to dear Doll and -Jeremy. - -“Ever your affectionate nephew, E. K.” - - -All the party at Dum’s Ness were much touched by this letter, more -especially Dorothy, who could not bear to think of Ernest all alone out -there in that strange far-off land. Her tender little heart grew alive -with love and sorrow as she lay awake at night and thought of him -travelling over the great African plains. She got all the books that -were to be had about South Africa and read them, so that she might be -the better able to follow his life in her thoughts. One day when -Florence came to see her she read her part of Ernest’s letter, and when -she had finished was astonished to see a tear in her visitor’s keen -eyes. She liked Florence the better for that tear. Could she have seen -the conflict that was raging in the fierce heart of the woman before -her, she would have started from her as though she had been a poisonous -snake. The letter touched Florence—touched her to the quick. The tale -of Ernest’s loneliness almost overcame her resolution, for she alone -knew why he was so utterly lonely, and what it was that crushed him. -Had Ernest alone been concerned, it is probable that she would then and -there have thrown up her cruel game; but he was not alone concerned. -There was her sister who had robbed her of her lover—her sister whose -loveliness was a standing affront to her as her sweetness was a -standing reproach. She was sorry for Ernest, and would have been glad -to make him happier, but as that could only be done by foregoing her -revenge upon her sister, Ernest must continue to suffer. And after all -why should he not suffer? she argued. Did not she suffer? - -When Florence got home she told Eva about the letter from her lover, -but she said nothing of his evident distress. He was making friends, he -expected great pleasure from his shooting—altogether he was getting on -well. - -Eva listened, hardened her heart, and went out district visiting with -Mr. Plowden. - -Time went on, and no letters came from Ernest. One month, two months, -six months passed, and there was no intelligence of him. Dorothy grew -very anxious, and so did Mr. Cardus, but they did not speak of the -matter much, except to remark that the reason no doubt was that he was -away on his shooting excursion. - -Jeremy also, in his slow way, grew intensely preoccupied with the fact -that they never heard from Ernest now, and that life was consequently a -blank. He sat upon the stool in his uncle’s outer office and made -pretence to copy deeds and drafts, but in reality he occupied his time -in assiduously polishing his nails and thinking. As for the deeds and -drafts, he gave them to his grandfather to copy. “It kept the old -gentleman employed,” he would explain to Dorothy, “and from indulging -in bad thoughts about the devil.” - -But it was one night out duck-shooting that his great inspiration came. -It was a bitter night, a night on which no sane creature except Jeremy -would ever have dreamed of going to shoot ducks or anything else. The -marshes were partially frozen, and a fierce east wind was blowing -across them; but utterly regardless of the cold, there sat Jeremy under -the lee of a dike bank, listening for the sound of the ducks’ wings as -they passed to their feeding-grounds, and occasionally getting a shot -at them as they crossed the moon above him. There were not many ducks, -and the solitude and silence were inductive to contemplation. Ernest -did not write. Was he dead? Not probable, or they would have heard of -it. Where was he, then? Impossible to say, impossible to discover. Was -it impossible? “_Swish, swish, bang!_” and down came a mallard at his -feet. A quick shot, that! Yes, it was impossible; they had no means of -inquiry here. The inquiry, if any, must be made there, on the other -side of the water. But who was to make it? Ah! an idea struck him. Why -should not he, Jeremy, make that inquiry? Why should he not go to South -Africa and look for Ernest? A flight of duck passed over his head -unheeded. What did he care for duck? He had solved the problem which -had been troubling him all these months. He would go to South Africa -and look for Ernest. If Mr. Cardus would not give him the money, he -would work his way out. Anyhow he would go. He could bear the suspense -no longer. - -Jeremy rose in the new-found strength of his purpose, and gathering up -the slain—there were only three—whistled to his retriever, and made his -way back to Dum’s Ness. - -He found Mr. Cardus and Dorothy by the fire in the sitting-room. -Hard-riding Atterleigh was there too, in his place in the ingle-nook, a -riding-whip in his ink-stained hand, with which he was tapping his -top-boot. They turned as he entered, except his grandfather, who did -not hear him. - -“What sport have you had, Jeremy?” asked his sister, with a sad little -smile. Her face had grown very sad of late. - -“Three ducks,” he answered shortly, advancing his powerful form out of -the shadows into the firelight. “I came home just as they were -beginning to fly.” - -“You found it cold, I suppose?” said Mr. Cardus, absently. They had -been talking of Ernest, and he was still thinking of him. - -“No, I did not think of the cold. I came home because I had an idea.” - -Both his hearers looked up surprised. Ideas were not very common to -Jeremy, or if they were he kept them to himself. - -“Well, Jeremy?” said Dorothy, inquiringly. - -“Well, it is this. I cannot stand it about Ernest any longer, and I am -going to look for him. If you won’t give me the money,” he went on, -addressing Mr. Cardus almost fiercely, “I will work my way out. It is -no credit to me,” he added; “I lead a dog’s life while I don’t know -where he is.” - -Dorothy flushed a pale pink with pleasure. Rising, she went up to her -great strong brother, and standing on tip-toe, managed to kiss him on -the chin. - -“That is like you, Jeremy dear,” she said, softly. - -Mr. Cardus looked up too, and after his fashion let his eyes wander -round Jeremy before he spoke. - -“You shall have as much money as you like, Jeremy,” he said presently; -“and if you bring Ernest back safe, I will leave you twenty thousand -pounds;” and he struck his hand down upon his knee, an evidence of -excitement which it was unusual for him to display. - -“I don’t want your twenty thousand pounds—I want Ernest,” answered the -young man, gruffly. - -“No, I know you don’t, my lad; I know you don’t. But find him and keep -him safe, and you shall have it. Money is not to be sneezed at, let me -tell you. I say keep him, for I forgot you cannot bring him back till -this accursed business has blown over. When will you go?” - -“By the next mail, of course. They leave every Friday; I will not waste -a day. To-day is Saturday; I will sail next Friday.” - -“That is right: you shall go at once. I will give you a cheque for £500 -to-morrow, and mind, Jeremy, you are not to spare money. If he has gone -to the Zambesi, you must follow him. Never think of the money; I will -think of that.” - -Jeremy soon made his preparations. They consisted chiefly of rifles. He -was to leave Dum’s Ness early on the Thursday. On the Wednesday -afternoon it occurred to him that he might as well tell Eva Ceswick -that he was going in search of Ernest, and ask if she had any message. -Jeremy was the only person, or thought that he was the only person, in -the secret of Ernest’s affection for Eva. Ernest had asked him to keep -it secret, and he had kept it as secret as the dead, never breathing a -word of it, even to his sister. - -It was about five o’clock on a windy March afternoon when he set out -for the Cottage. On the edge of the hamlet of Kesterwick, some three -hundred yards from the cliff, stood two or three little hovels, turning -their naked faces to the full fury of the sea-blast. He was drawing -near to these when he came to a stile which gave passage over a sod -wall that ran to the edge of the cliff, marking the limits of the -village common. As he approached the stile the wind brought him the -sound of voices—a man’s and a woman’s—engaged apparently in angry -dispute on the farther side of the wall. Instead of getting over the -stile, he stepped to the right and looked over the wall, and saw the -new clergyman, Mr. Plowden, standing with his back towards him, and, -apparently very much against her will, holding Eva Ceswick by the hand. -Jeremy was too far off to overhear his words, but from his voice it was -clear that Plowden was talking in an excited, masterful tone. Just then -Eva turned her head a little, and he did hear what she said, her voice -being so much clearer: - -“No, Mr. Plowden, no! Let go my hand. Ah! why will you not take an -answer?” - -Just at that moment she succeeded in wrenching her imprisoned hand from -his strong grasp, and without waiting for any more words, set off -towards Kesterwick almost at a run. - -Jeremy was a man of slow mind, though when once his mind was made up, -it was of a singularly determined nature. At first he did not quite -take in the full significance of the scene, but when he did a great red -flush spread over his honest face, and the big gray eyes sparkled -dangerously. Presently Mr. Plowden turned and saw him. Jeremy noticed -that the “sign of the cross” was remarkably visible on his forehead, -and that his face wore an expression by no means pleasant to -behold—anything but Christian, in short. - -“Hullo!” he said to Jeremy; “what are you doing there?” - -Before answering, Jeremy put his hand on the top of the sod wall, and -vaulting over, walked straight up to the clergyman. - -“I was watching you,” he said, looking him straight in the eyes. - -“Indeed!—an honourable employment; eavesdropping I think it is -generally called.” - -Whatever had passed between Mr. Plowden and Eva Ceswick, it had clearly -not improved the former’s temper. - -“What do you mean?” - -“I mean what I say.” - -“Well, Mr. Plowden, I may as well tell you what _I_ mean; I am not good -at talking, but I know that I shall be able to make you understand. I -saw you just now assaulting Miss Ceswick.” - -“It is a lie!” - -“That is not a gentlemanlike word, Mr. Plowden, but as you are not a -gentleman I will overlook it.” Jeremy, after the dangerous fashion of -the Anglo-Saxon race, always got wonderfully cool as a row thickened. -“I repeat that I saw you holding her, notwithstanding her struggles to -get away.” - -“And what is that to you, confound you!” said Mr. Plowden, shaking with -fury, and raising a thick stick he held in his hand in a suggestive -manner. - -“Don’t lose your temper, and you shall hear. Miss Eva Ceswick is -engaged to my friend Ernest Kershaw, or something very like it, and, as -he is not here to look after his own interests, I must look after them -for him.” - -“Ah, yes,” answered Mr. Plowden, with a ghastly smile, “I have heard of -that. The murderer, yon mean?” - -“I recommend you, Mr. Plowden, in your own interest, “to be a little -more careful in your terms.” - -“And supposing that there has been something between your—your friend—” - -“Much better term, Mr. Plowden.” - -“And Miss Eva Ceswick, what, I should like to know, is there to prevent -her having changed her mind?” - -Jeremy laughed aloud, it must be admitted rather insolently, and in a -way calculated to irritate people of meeker mind than Mr. Plowden. - -“To any one, Mr. Plowden, who has the privilege of your acquaintance, -and who also knows Ernest Kershaw, your question would seem absurd. You -see, there are some people between whom there can be no comparison. It -is not possible that, after caring for Ernest, any woman could care for -you;” and Jeremy laughed again. - -Mr. Plowden’s thick lips turned quite pale, the veinous cross upon his -forehead throbbed until Jeremy thought that it would burst, and his -eyes shone with the concentrated light of hate. His vanity was his -weakest point. He controlled himself with an effort, however; though if -there had been any deadly weapon at hand it might have gone hard with -Jeremy. - -“Perhaps you will explain the meaning of your interference and your -insolence, and let me go on?” - -“Oh, with pleasure,” answered Jeremy, with refreshing cheerfulness. “It -is just this; if I catch you at any such tricks again, you shall suffer -for it. One can’t thrash a clergyman, and one can’t fight him, because -he won’t fight; but look here, one can _shake him,_ for that leaves no -marks; and if you go on with these games, so sure as my name is Jeremy -Jones, I will shake your teeth down your throat! Good-night!” and -Jeremy turned to go. - -It is not wise to turn one’s back upon an infuriated animal, and at -that moment Mr. Plowden was nothing more. Even as he turned, Jeremy -remembered this, and gave himself a slew to one side. It was fortunate -for him that he did so, for at that moment Mr. Plowden’s heavy -blackthorn stick, directed downwards with ail the strength of Mr. -Plowden’s powerful arm, passed within a few inches of his head, out of -which, had he not turned, it would have probably knocked the brains. As -it was, it struck the ground with such force that the jar sent it -flying out of its owner’s hands. - -“Ah, you would!” was Jeremy’s reflection as he sprang at his assailant. - -Now Mr. Plowden was a very powerful man, but he was no match for -Jeremy, who in after days came to be known as the strongest man in the -east of England, and so he was destined to find out. Once Jeremy got a -grip of him—for his respect for the Church prevented him from trying to -knock him down—he seemed to crumple up like a piece of paper in his -iron grasp. Jeremy could easily have thrown him, but he would not; he -had his own ends in view. So he just held the Reverend James tight -enough to prevent him from doing him any serious injury, and let him -struggle frantically till he thought he was sufficiently exhausted for -his purpose. Then Jeremy suddenly gave him a violent twist, got behind -him, and set to work with a will to fulfil his promise of a shaking. O, -what a shake that was! First of all he shook him backwards and forwards -for Ernest’s sake, then he alternated the motion and shook him from -side to side for his own sake, and finally he shook him every possible -way for the sake of Eva Ceswick. - -It was a wonderful sight to see the great burly clergyman, his hat off, -his white tie undone, and his coat-tails waving like streamers, -bounding and gambolling on the breezy cliffs, his head, legs, and arms -jerking in every possible direction, like those of a galvanised frog; -while behind him, his legs slightly apart to get a better grip of the -ground, and his teeth firmly clinched, Jeremy shook away with the -fixity of Fate. - -At last, getting exhausted, he stopped, and, holding Mr. Plowden still, -gave him a drop-kick—only one. But Jeremy’s leg was very strong, and he -always wore thick boots, and the result was startling. Mr. Plowden rose -some inches off the ground, and went on his face into a furze-bush. - -[Illustration: “The result was startling.”] - -“He will hardly like to show _that_ honourable wound,” reflected -Jeremy, as he wiped the perspiration from his brow with every sign of -satisfaction. - -Then he went and picked his fallen enemy out of the bush, where he had -nearly fainted, smoothed his clothes, tied the white tie as neatly as -he could, and put the wide hat on the dishevelled hair. Then he sat him -down on the furze to recover himself. - -“Good-night, Mr. Plowden, good-night. Next time you wish to hit a man -with a big stick, do not wait till his back is turned. Ah, I daresay -your head aches. I should advise you to go home and have a nice sleep.” - -And Jeremy departed on his way, filled with a fearful joy. - -When he reached the Cottage he found everything in a state of -confusion. Miss Ceswick, it appeared, had been suddenly taken very -seriously ill; indeed, it was feared that she had got a stroke of -apoplexy. He managed, however, to send up a message to Eva to say that -he wished to speak to her for a minute. Presently she came down, -crying. - -“O, my poor aunt is so dreadfully ill,” she said. “We think that she is -dying!” - -Jeremy offered some awkward condolences, and indeed was much -distressed. He liked old Miss Ceswick. - -“I am going to South Africa to-morrow. Miss Eva,” he said. - -She started violently, and blushed up to her hair. - -“Going to South Africa! What for?” - -“I am going to look for Ernest. We are afraid that something must have -happened to him.” - -“O, don’t say that!” she said. “Perhaps he has—amusements which prevent -his writing.” - -“I may as well tell you that I saw something of what passed between you -and Mr. Plowden.” - -Again Eva blushed. - -“Mr. Plowden was very rude,” she said. - -“So I thought; but I think that he is sorry for it now!” - -“What do you mean?” - -“I mean that I nearly shook his ugly head off for him.” - -“O, how could you?” Eva asked, severely; but there was no severity on -her face. - -Just then Florence’s voice was heard calling imperatively. - -“I must go,” said Eva. - -“Have you any message for Ernest, if I find him?” - -Eva hesitated. - -“I know all about it,” said Jeremy, considerately turning his head. - -“O no, I have no message—that is—O, tell him _that I love him dearly!_” -and she turned and fled upstairs. - - - - -CHAPTER V. -FLORENCE ON MARRIAGE - - -Miss Ceswick’s seizure turned out to be even worse than was -anticipated. Once she appeared to regain consciousness, and began to -mutter something; then she sank back into a torpor, out of which she -never woke again. - -It was fortunate that her condition was not such as to require the -services of the clergyman, because, for some time after the events -described in the last chapter, Mr. Plowden was not in any condition to -give them. Whether it was the shaking or the well-planted kick or the -shock to his system it is impossible to say, but in the upshot he was -constrained to keep his bed for several days. Indeed, the first service -that he took was on the occasion of the opening of the ancient Ceswick -vault to receive the remains of the recently deceased lady. The only -territorial possession which remained to the Ceswicks was their vault. -Indeed, as Florence afterwards remarked to her sister, there was a -certain irony in the reflection that of all their wide acres there -remained only the few square feet of soil which for centuries had -covered the bones of the race. - -When their aunt was dead and buried the two girls went back to the -Cottage, and were very desolate. They had both of them loved the old -lady in their separate ways, more especially Florence, both because she -possessed the deeper nature of the two and because she had lived the -longest with her. - -But the grief of youth at the departure of age is not inconsolable, and -after a month or so they had conquered the worst of their sorrow. Then -it was that the question what they were to do came prominently to the -fore. Such little property as their aunt had possessed was equally -divided between them, and the Cottage left to their joint use. This -gave them enough to live on in their quiet way, but it undoubtedly left -them in a very lonely and unprotected position. Such as it was, -however, they, or rather Florence—for she managed all the -business—decided to make the best of it. At Kesterwick, at any rate, -they were known, and it was, they felt, better to stay there than to -float away and become waifs and strays on the great sea of English -life. So they settled to stay. - -Florence had, moreover, her own reasons for staying. She had come to -the conclusion that it would be desirable that her sister Eva should -marry Mr. Plowden. Not that she liked Mr. Plowden—her lady’s instincts -rose up in rebellion against the man—but if Eva did not marry him, it -was probable that she would in the long-run marry Ernest, and Ernest, -Florence swore, she should not marry. To prevent such a marriage was -the main purpose of her life. Her jealousy and hatred of her sister had -become a part of herself; the gratification of her revenge was the evil -star by which she shaped her course. It may seem a terrible thing that -so young a woman could give the best energies of her life to such a -purpose, but it was none the less the truth. - -Hers was a wild strange nature, a nature capable of violent love and -violent hate; the same pendulum could swing with equal ease to each -extreme. Eva had robbed her of Her lover; she would rob Eva, and put -the prize out of her reach too. Little she recked of the wickedness of -her design; for where in the long record of human crime is there a -wickedness to surpass the deliberate separation, for no good reason, of -two people who love each other with all their hearts? Surely there is -none. She knew this, but she did not hesitate on that account. She was -not hypocritical. She made no excuses to herself. She knew well that on -every ground it was best that Eva should marry Ernest, and pursue her -natural destiny, happy in his love and in her own. But she would have -none of it. If once they should meet again, the game would pass out of -her hands; for the weakest woman grows strong of purpose when she has -her lover’s arm to lean on. Florence realised this, and determined that -they should never set eyes on each other until an impassable barrier, -in the shape of Mr. Plowden, had been raised between the two. Having -thus finally determined on the sacrifice, she set about whetting the -knife. - -One day, a month or so after Miss Ceswick was buried, Mr. Plowden -called at the Cottage on some of the endless details of which -district-visiting was the parent. He had hardly seen Eva since that -never-to-be-forgotten day, when he had learned what Jeremy’s ideas of a -shaking were, for the very good reason that she had carefully kept out -of his way. - -So it came to pass that when, looking out of the window on the -afternoon in question, she saw the crown of a clerical hat coming along -the road, Eva promptly gathered up her work and commenced a hasty -retreat to her bedroom. - -“Where are you going to, Eva?” asked her sister. - -“Upstairs—here he comes.” - -“‘He’! who is ‘he’?” - -“Mr. Plowden, of course.” - -“And why should you run away because Mr. Plowden is coming?” - -“I do not like Mr. Plowden.” - -“Really, Eva, you are too bad. You know what a friendless position we -are in just now, and you go and get up a dislike to one of the few men -we know. It is very selfish of you, and most unreasonable.” - -At that moment the front-door bell rang, and Eva fled. - -Mr. Plowden on entering looked round the room with a somewhat -disappointed air. - -“If you are looking for my sister,” said Florence, “she is not very -well.” - -“Indeed, I am afraid that her health is not good; she is so often -indisposed.” - -Florence smiled, and they dropped into the district-visiting. -Presently, however, Florence dropped out again. - -“By the way, Mr. Plowden, I want to tell you of something I heard the -other day, and which concerns you. Indeed, I think that it is only -right that I should do so. I heard that you were seen talking to my -sister, not very far from the Titheburgh Abbey cottages, and that -she—she ran away from you. Then Mr. Jones jumped over the wall, and -also began to talk with you. Presently he also turned, and, so said my -informant, you struck at him with a heavy stick, but missed him. -Thereupon a tussle ensued, and you got the worst of it.” - -“He irritated me beyond all endurance,” broke in Mr. Plowden, -excitedly. - -“O, then the story is true?” - -Mr. Plowden saw that he had made a fatal mistake; but it was too late -to deny it. - -“To a certain extent,” he said, sulkily. “That young ruffian told me -that I was not a gentleman.” - -“Really! Of course that was unpleasant. But how glad you must feel that -you missed him, especially as his back was turned! It would have looked -so bad for a clergyman to be had up for assault, or worse, wouldn’t -it?” - -Mr. Plowden turned pale, and bit his lip. He began to feel that he was -in the power of this quiet, dignified young woman, and the feeling was -not pleasant. - -“And it would not look very well if the story got round here, would it? -I mean even if it was not known that you hit at him with the stick when -he was not looking, because, you see, it would seem so absurd! The idea -of a clergyman more than six feet high being shaken like a naughty -child! I suppose that Mr. Jones is very strong.” - -Mr. Plowden winced beneath her mockery, and rising, seized his hat; but -she motioned him back to his chair. - -“Don’t go yet,” she said. “I wanted to tell you that you ought to be -much obliged to me for thinking of all this for you. I thought that it -would be painful to you to have the story all over the country-side, so -I nipped it in the bud.” - -Mr. Plowden groaned in spirit. If these were the results of a story -nipped in the bud, what would its uninjured bloom be like? - -“Who told you? “he asked, brusquely. “Jones went away.” - -“Yes. How glad you must be, by the way, that he is gone! But it was not -Mr. Jones, it was a person who oversaw the difference of opinion. No, -never mind who it was; I have found means to silence that person.” - -Little did Mr. Plowden guess that during the whole course of his -love-scene, and the subsequent affair with Jeremy, there had leaned -gracefully in an angle of the sod wall, not twenty yards away, a figure -uncommonly resembling that of an ancient mariner in an attitude of the -most intense and solemn contemplation; but so it was. - -“I am grateful to you, Miss Ceswick.” - -“Thank you, Mr. Plowden, it is refreshing to meet with true gratitude, -it is a scarce flower in this world; but really I don’t deserve any. -The observer who oversaw the painful scene between you and Mr. Jones -also oversaw a scene preceding it, that, so far as I can gather, seems -to have been hardly less painful in its way.” - -Mr. Plowden coloured, but said nothing. - -“Now you see, Mr. Plowden, I am left in a rather peculiar position as -regards my sister; she is younger than I am, and has always been -accustomed to look up to me, so, as you will easily understand, I feel -my responsibilities to weigh upon me. Consequently, I feel bound to ask -you what I am to understand from the report of my informant?” - -“Simply this, Miss Ceswick: I proposed to your sister, and she refused -me.” - -“Indeed! you were unfortunate that afternoon.” - -“Miss Ceswick,” went on Mr. Plowden, after a pause, “if I could find -means to induce your sister to change her verdict, would my suit have -your support?” - -Florence raised her piercing eyes from her work, and for a second fixed -them on the clergyman’s face. - -“That depends, Mr. Plowden.” - -“I am well off,” he went on, eagerly, “and I will tell you a secret. I -have bought the advowson of this living; I happened to hear that it was -going, and got it at a bargain. I don’t think that Halford’s life is -worth five years’ purchase.’” - -“Why do you want to marry Eva, Mr. Plowden,” asked Florence, ignoring -this piece of information; “you are not in love with her?” - -“In love! No, Miss Ceswick. I don’t think that sensible men fall in -love; they leave that to boys and women.” - -“O! Then why do you want to marry Eva? It will be best to tell me -frankly, Mr. Plowden.” - -He hesitated, and then came to the conclusion that, with a person of -Florence’s penetration, frankness was the best game. - -“Well, as you must know, your sister is an extraordinarily beautiful -woman.” - -“And would therefore form a desirable addition to your establishment?” - -“Precisely,” said Mr. Plowden. “Also,” he went on, “she is a -distinguished-looking woman, and quite the lady.” - -Florence shuddered at this phrase. - -“And would therefore give you social status, Mr. Plowden?” - -“Yes. She is also sprung from an ancient family.” - -Florence smiled, and looked at Mr. Plowden with an air that said more -plainly than any words, “Which you clearly are not.” - -“In short, I am anxious to get married, and I admire your sister Eva -more than anybody I ever saw.” - -“All of which are very satisfactory reasons, Mr. Plowden; all you have -to do is to convince my sister of the many advantages you have to offer -her, and—to win her affections.” - -“Ah, Miss Ceswick, that is just the point. She told me that her -affections were already irredeemably engaged, and that she had none to -give. If only I have the opportunity, however, I shall hope to be able -to distance my rival.” - -Florence looked at him scrutinisingly as she answered: - -“You do not know Ernest Kershaw, or you would not be so confident.” - -“Why am I not as good as this Ernest?” he asked; for Florence’s remark, -identical as it was with that of Jeremy, wounded his vanity intensely. - -“Well, Mr. Plowden, I do not want to be rude, but it is impossible for -me to conceive a woman’s affections being won away from Ernest Kershaw -by you. You are so very _different._” - -If Mr. Plowden wanted a straightforward answer, he had certainly got -it. For some moments he sat in sulky silence, and then he said: - -“I suppose, if that is the case, there is nothing to be done.” - -“I never said that. Women are frequently married whose affections are -very much engaged elsewhere. You know how they win their wives in -savage countries, Mr. Plowden: they catch them. Marriage by capture is -one of the oldest institutions in the world.” - -“Well!” - -“Well, the same institution still obtains in England, only we don’t -call it by that name. Do you suppose that no women are hunted down -nowadays? Ah, very many are; the would-be husband heads the pack, and -all the loving relatives swell its cry.” - -“You mean that your sister can be hunted down,” he said, bluntly. - -“I! I mean nothing, except that the persistent suitor on the spot often -has a better chance than the lover at a distance, however dear he may -be.” - -Then Mr. Plowden took his leave. Florence watched him walking down the -garden-path. - -“I am glad Jeremy shook you soundly,” she said, aloud. “Poor Eva!” - - - - -CHAPTER VI. -MR. PLOWDEN GOES A-WOOING - - -Mr. Plowden was not a suitor to let the grass grow under his feet. As -he once took the trouble to explain to Florence, he considered that -there was nothing like boldness in wooing, and he acted up to his -convictions. Possessing no more delicacy of feeling than a -bull-elephant, and as much consideration for the lady as the elephant -has for the lily it tramples underfoot, he, figuratively speaking, -charged at Eva every time he saw her. He laid wait for her round -corners, and asked her to marry him; he dropped in on her at odd hours, -and insisted upon her marrying him. It was quite useless for her to -say, “No, no, no,” or to appeal to his better feelings or compassion, -for he had none. He simply would not listen to her; but encouraged -thereto by the moral support which he received from Florence, he -crushed the poor girl with his amorous eloquence. - -It was a merry chase that Florence sat and watched with a dark smile on -her scornful lip. In vain did the poor white doe dash along at her best -speed; the great black hound was ever at her flank, and each time she -turned came bounding at her throat. This idea of a chase, and a hound, -and a doe took such a strong possession of Florence’s saturnine -imagination, that she actually made a drawing of it, for she was a -clever artist, and not without training, throwing, by a few strokes of -her pencil, a perfect likeness of Mr. Plowden into the fierce features -of the hound. The doe she drew with Eva’s dark eyes, and when she had -done them there was such agony in their tortured gaze that she could -not bear to look at them, and tore her picture up. - -One day Florence came in, and found her sister weeping. - -“Well, Eva, what is it now?” she asked, contemptuously. - -“Mr. Plowden,” sobbed Eva. - -“Oh, Mr. Plowden again! Well, my dear, if you will be so beautiful, and -encourage men, you must take the consequences.” - -“I never encouraged Mr. Plowden.” - -“Nonsense, Eva! you will not get me to believe that. If you did not -encourage him, he would not go on making love to you. Gentlemen are not -so fond of being snubbed.” - -“Mr. Plowden is not a gentleman,” exclaimed Eva. - -“What makes you say that?” - -“Because a gentleman would not persecute one as he does. He will not -take No for an answer, and to-day he kissed my hand. I tried to get it -away from him, but I could not. Oh, I hate him!” - -“I tell you what it is, Eva; I have no patience with you and your -fancies. Mr. Plowden is a very respectable man; he is a clergyman, and -well off, altogether quite the sort of man to marry. Ah, Ernest—I am -sick of Ernest! If he wanted to marry you, he should not go shooting -people, and then running off to South Africa. Don’t you be so silly as -to pin your faith to a boy like that. He was all very well to flirt -with while he was here; now he has made a fool of himself and gone, and -there is an end of him.” - -“But, Florence, I love Ernest. I think I love him more dearly every -day, and I detest Mr. Plowden.” - -“Very likely. I don’t ask you to love Mr. Plowden; I ask you to marry -him. What have love and marriage got to do with each other, I should -like to know? If people were always to marry the people they loved, -things would soon get into a pretty mess. Look here, Eva, as you know I -do not often obtrude myself or my own interests, but I think that I -have a right to be considered a little in this matter. You have now got -an opportunity of making a home for both of us. There is nothing -against Mr. Plowden. Why should you not marry him as well as anybody -else? Of course, if you choose to sacrifice your own ultimate happiness -and the comfort of us both to a silly whim, I cannot prevent you; you -are your own mistress. Only I beg you to disabuse your mind of the idea -that you could not be happy with Mr. Plowden, because you happen to -fancy yourself in love with Ernest. Why, in six months you will have -forgotten all about him.” - -“But I don’t want to forget about him.” - -“I daresay not. That is your abominable egotism again. But whether you -want to or not, you will. In a year or two, when you have your own -interests and your children.” - -“Florence, you may talk till midnight if you like; but, once and for -all, I will not marry Mr. Plowden;” and she swept out of the room in -her stately way. - -Florence laughed softly to herself as she said after her: - -“Oh yes, you will, Eva. I shall be pinning a bride’s veil on to that -proud head of yours before you are six months older, my dear.” - -Florence was quite right; it was only a question of time and cunningly -applied pressure. Eva yielded at last. - -But there is no need for us to follow the hateful story through its -various stages. If by chance any of the readers of this history are -curious about them, let them go and study from the life. Such cases -exist around them, and, so far as the victims are concerned, there is a -painful monotony in the development of their details and their -conclusion. - -And so it came to pass that one afternoon in the early summer, -Florence, coming in from walking, found Mr. Plowden and her sister -together in the little drawing-room. The latter was very pale, and -shrinking with scared eyes and trembling limbs up against the -mantelpiece, near which she was standing. The former, looking big and -vulgar, was standing over her and trying to take her hand. - -“Congratulate me, Miss Florence,” he said. “Eva has promised to be -mine.” - -“Has she?” said Florence, coldly. “How glad you must be that Mr. Jones -is out of the way!” - -It was not a kind speech, but the fact was there were few people in the -world for whom Florence had such a complete contempt, or whom she -regarded with such intense dislike, as she did Mr. Plowden. The mere -presence of the man irritated her beyond all bearing. He was an -instrument suited to her purposes, so she used him; but she could find -it in her heart to regret that the instrument was not more pleasant to -handle. - -Mr. Plowden turned pale at her taunt, and even in the midst of her fear -and misery Eva smiled, and thought to herself that it was lucky for her -hateful lover that somebody else was “out of the way.” - -Poor Eva! - -“Poor Eva!” you think to yourself, my reader. “There was nothing poor -about her. She was weak; she was wicked and contemptible.” - -O, pause awhile before you say so! Remember that circumstances were -against her; remember that the ideas of duty and of gain drilled into -her breast and the breasts of her ancestresses from generation to -generation, and fated as often as not to prove more of a bane than a -blessing, were against her; remember that her sister’s ever-present -influence overshadowed her, and that her suitor’s vulgar vitality -crushed her to the ground. - -“Yet with it all she was weak,” you say. Well, she _was_ weak, as weak -as you must expect women to be after centuries of custom have bred -weakness into their very nature. Why are women weak? Because men have -made them so. Because the law that was framed by men, and the public -opinion which it has been their privilege to direct, have from age to -age drilled into women the belief—in which, it must be admitted, they -for the most part readily acquiesce—that they are chattels, to be owned -and played with, existing for the male pleasure and passion. Because -men have systematically stunted their mental growth and denied them -their natural rights, and that equality which is theirs. Weak!—women -have become weak because weakness is the passport to the favour of our -sex. They have become foolish because education has been withheld from -them and ability discouraged; they have become frivolous because -frivolity has been declared to be the natural mission of woman. There -is no male simpleton who does not like to find a bigger simpleton than -he is to lord it over. Truly, the triumph of the stronger sex has been -complete, for it has even succeeded in enlisting its victims in its -service. The great instruments in the suppression of women, and in -their retention at their present level, are women themselves. And yet -let us be for a minute just. Which is the superior of the two—the woman -or the man? In strength we have the advantage, but in intellect she is -almost our equal, if only we will give her fair-play. And in purity, in -tenderness, in long-suffering, in fidelity, in all the Christian -virtues, which is the superior in these things? O man, whoever you are, -think of your mother and your sisters; think of her who nursed you in -sickness, of her who stood by you in trouble when all others would have -none of you, and then answer. Poor Eva! Yes, give her all your pity, -but, if you can, purge it of your contempt. It requires that a woman -should possess a mind of unusual robustness to stand out against -circumstances such as hemmed her in, and this she did not possess. -Nature, which had showered physical gifts upon her with such a lavish -hand, had not given her that most useful of all gifts, the power of -self-defence. She was made to yield; but this was her only fault, an -absolutely fatal one. For the rest she was pure as the mountain snow, -and with a heart of gold. Herself incapable of deceit, it never -occurred to her to imagine it in others. She never suspected that -Florence could have a motive in her advocacy of Mr. Plowden’s cause. On -the contrary, she was possessed to the full with that idea of duty and -self-sacrifice which in some women amounts almost to madness. The -notion so cleverly started by Florence, that she was bound to take this -opportunity of giving her sister a home and the permanent protection of -a brother-in-law, had taken a firm hold of her mind. As for the cruel -wrong and injustice which her marriage with Mr. Plowden would work to -Ernest, strange as it may seem, as is usual in such cases it never -occurred to her to consider the matter in that light. She knew what her -own sufferings were and always must be; she thought that she would -rather die than be false to Ernest; but somehow she never looked at the -other side of the picture, never considered the matter from Ernest’s -point of view. After the true womanly fashion she was prepared to throw -herself under her Juggernaut called Duty, and let her inner life, the -life of her heart, be crushed out of her; but she never thought of the -other life which was welded with her own, and which must be crushed -too. How curious it is that when women talk so much of their duties -they often think so little of the higher duty which they owe to the -unlucky man whose love they have won, and whom they cherish in their -misguided hearts! The only feasible explanation of the mystery—outside -of that of innate selfishness—is, that one of the ideas which has been -persistently drilled into the female breast is that men have not any -real feelings. It is vaguely supposed that they will “get over it.” -However this may be, when a woman decides to do violence to her natural -feelings, and because of pressure or profit contracts herself into an -unholy marriage, the lover whom she deserts is generally the last -person to be considered. Poor wretch! he will, no doubt, “get over it.” - -Fortunately, many do. - - - - -CHAPTER VII. -OVER THE WATER - - -Mr. Alston and Ernest carried out their plans as regarded sport. They -went up to Lydenburg and had a month’s wilderbeeste and blesbok -shooting within three days’ “trek” with an ox-waggon from that curious -little town. The style of life was quite new to Ernest, and he enjoyed -it much. They owned an ox-waggon and a span of sixteen “salted” oxen, -that is, oxen which will not die of lung-sickness, and in this -lumbering vehicle they travelled about wherever fancy or the presence -of buck took them. Mr. Alston and his boy Roger slept in the waggon, -and Ernest in a little tent which was pitched every night alongside, -and never did he sleep sounder. There was a freshness and freedom about -the life which charmed him. It is pleasant after the day’s shooting or -travelling to partake of a hearty meal, of which the _pièce de -résistance_ generally consists of a stew compounded indiscriminately of -wilderbeeste beef, bustard, partridges, snipe, rice, and compressed -vegetables—a dish, by the way, which is, if properly cooked, fit to set -before a king. And then comes the pipe, or rather a succession of -pipes, and the talk over the day’s sport, and the effect of that long -shot, and the hunting-yarn that it “reminds me” of. And after the yarn -the well-known square bottle is produced, and the tin pannikins, out of -which you have been drinking tea, are sent to the spring down in the -hollow to be washed by the Zulu “voorlooper,” who objects to going -because of the “spooks” (ghosts) which he is credibly informed inhabit -that hollow; and you indulge in your evening “tot,” and smoke more -pipes, and talk or ruminate as the fancy takes you. And then at last up -comes the splendid African moon like a radiant queen rising from a -throne of inky cloud, flooding the whole wide veldt with mysterious -light, and reveals the long lines of game slowly travelling to their -feeding-grounds along the ridges of the rolling plain. - -Well, “one more drop,” and then to bed, having come to the admirable -decision—so easy to make overnight, so hard to adhere to when the time -comes—to “trek from the yoke” at dawn. And then, having undressed -yourself outside the tent, all except the flannel shirt in which you -are going to sleep—for there is no room to do so inside—you stow your -clothes and boots away under your mackintosh sheet—for clothes wet -through with dew are unpleasant to wear before the sun is up—creep on -your hands and knees into your little tenement, and wriggle between the -blankets. - -For awhile, perhaps, you lie so, your pipe still between your lips, and -gazing up through the opening of the little tent at two bright -particular stars shining in the blue depths above, or watching the -waving of the tall tambouki-grass as the night-wind goes sighing -through it. And then, behold! the cold far stars draw near, grow warm -with life, and change to Eva’s eyes—if unluckily you have an Eva—and -the yellow tambouki-grass is her waving hair, and the sad whispering of -the wind her voice, which speaks and tells you that she has come from -far across the great seas to tell you that she loves you to lull you to -your rest. - -What was it that frighted her so soon? The rattling of chains and the -deep lowing of the oxen, rising to be ready for the dawn. It has not -come yet; but it is not far off. See, the gray light begins to gleam -upon the oxen’s horns, and far away, there in the east, the gray is -streaked with primrose. Away with dreams, and up to pull the shivering -Kafirs from their snug lair beneath the waggon, and to give the good -nags, which must gallop wilderbeeste all to-day, a double handful of -mealies before you start. - -_Ah neu-yak-trek!_ the great waggon strains and starts, and presently -the glorious sun comes up, and you eat a crust of bread as you sit on -the waggon-box, and wash it down with a mouthful of spirit, and feel -that it is a splendid thing to get up early. - -Then, about half past eight, comes the halt for breakfast, and the -welcome tub in the clear stream that you have been making for, and, -after breakfast, saddle up the nags, take your bearings by the kopje, -and off after that great herd of wilderbeeste. - -And so, my reader, day adds itself to day, and each day will find you -healthier, happier, and stronger than the last. No letters, no -newspapers, no duns, no women, and no babies. Think of the joy of it, -effete Caucasian, then go buy an ox-waggon and do likewise. - -After a month of this life, Mr. Alston came to the conclusion that -there would now be no danger in descending into the low country towards -Delagoa Bay in search of large game. Accordingly, having added to their -party another would-be Nimrod, a gentleman just arrived from England in -search of sport, they started. For the first month or so, things went -very well with them. They killed a good quantity of buffalo, koodoo, -eland, and water-buck, also two giraffes; but to Ernest’s great -disappointment did not come across any rhinoceros, and only got a shot -at one lion, which he missed, though there were plenty round them. But -soon the luck turned. First their horses died of the terrible scourge -of ail this part of South Africa, the horse-sickness. They had given -large prices for them, about seventy pounds each, as “salted” -animals—that is, animals that, having already had the sickness and -recovered from it, were supposed to be proof against its attacks. But -for all that they died one after another. This was only the beginning -of evils. The day after the last horse died, the companion who had -joined them at Lydenburg was taken ill of the fever. Mr. Jeffries—for -that was his name—was a very reserved English gentleman of good -fortune, something over thirty years of age. Like most people who came -into close relationship with Ernest, he had taken a considerable fancy -to him, and the two were, comparatively speaking, intimate. During the -first stages of his fever, Ernest nursed him like a brother, and was at -length rewarded by seeing him in a fair way to recovery. On one unlucky -day, however, Jeffries being so much better, Mr. Alston and Ernest went -out to try and shoot a buck, as they were short of meat, leaving the -camp in charge of the boy Roger. For a long while they could find no -game, but at last Ernest came across a fine bull-eland standing rubbing -himself against a mimosa thorn-tree. A shot from his express, planted -well behind the shoulder, brought the noble beast down quite dead, and -having laden the two Kafirs with them with the tongue, liver, and as -much of the best meat as they could carry, they started back for camp. - -Meanwhile one of the sudden and tremendous thunderstorms peculiar to -South Africa came swiftly up against the wind, heralding its arrival by -a blast of ice-cold air, and presently they were staggering along in -the teeth of a fearful tempest. The whole sky was lurid with lightning, -the hills echoed with the continuous roll of thunder, and the rain came -down in sheets. In the thick of it all, exhausted, bewildered, and wet -to the skin, they reached the camp. There a sad sight awaited them. In -front of the tent which served as a hospital for Jeffries was a large -ant-heap, and on this ant-heap, clad in nothing but a flannel shirt, -sat Jeffries himself. The rain was beating on his bare head and -emaciated face, and the ice-cold breeze was tossing his dripping hair. -One hand he kept raising to the sky to let the cold water fall upon it; -the other the boy Roger held, and by it vainly attempted to drag him -back to the tent. But Jeffries was a man of large build, and the little -lad might as well have tried to drag an ox. - -“Isn’t it glorious?” shouted the delirious man, as they came up. “I’ve -got cool at last!” - -“Yes, and you will soon be cold, poor fellow!” muttered Mr. Alston, as -they hurried up. - -They got him back into the tent, and in half an hour he was beyond all -hope. He did not rave much, but kept repeating a single word in every -possible tone, that word was: - -_Alice._ - -At dawn on the following morning he died with it on his lips. Ernest -often wondered afterwards who “Alice” could be. - -Next day they dug a deep grave under an ancient thorn-tree, and -reverently laid him to his rest. On his breast they piled great stones -to keep away the jackals, filling in the cracks with earth. - -Then they left him to his sleep. It is a sad task this, burying a -comrade in the lonely wilderness. - -As they were approaching the waggon again, little Roger sobbing -bitterly—for Mr. Jeffries had been very kind to him, and a first -experience of death is dreadful to the young—they met the Zulu -voorlooper, a lad called Jim, who had been out all day watching the -cattle as they grazed. He saluted Mr. Alston after the Zulu fashion, by -lifting the right arm and saying the word “Inkoos,” and then stood -still. - -“Well, what is it, boy? “asked Mr. Alston. “Have you lost the oxen?” - -“No, Inkoos, the oxen are safe at the yoke. It is this. When I was -sitting on the kopje yonder, watching that the oxen of the Inkoos -should not stray, an Intombi (young girl) from the kraal under the -mountain yonder came to me. She is the daughter of a Zulu mother who -fell into the hands of a Basutu dog, and my half-cousin.” - -“Well?” - -“Inkoos, I have met this girl before, I have met her when I have been -sent to buy ‘maas’ (buttermilk) at the kraal.” - -“Good!” - -“Inkoos, the girl came to bring heavy news, such as will press upon -your heart. Secocoeni, chief of the Bapedi, who lives over yonder under -the Blue Mountains, has declared war against the Boers.” - -“I hear.” - -“Sikukuni wants rifles for his men, such as the Boers use. He has heard -of the Inkosis hunting here. To-night he will send an Impi to kill the -Inkosis and take their guns.” - -“These are the words of the Intombi?” - -“Yes, Inkoos, these are her very words. She was sitting outside the -hut, grinding ‘imphi’ (Kafir corn) for beer, when she heard Secocoeni’s -messenger order her father to call the men together to kill us -to-night.” - -“I hear. At what time of the night was the killing to be?” - -“At the first break of the dawn, so that they may have light to take -the waggon away by.” - -“Good! we shall escape them. The moon will be up in an hour, and we can -trek away.” - -The lad’s face fell. - -“Alas!” he said, “it is impossible; there is a spy watching the camp -now. He is up there among the rocks; I saw him as I brought the oxen -home. If we move he will report it, and we shall be overtaken in an -hour.” - -Mr. Alston thought for a moment, and then made up his mind with the -rapidity that characterises men who spend their lives in dealing with -savage races. - -“Mazooku!” he called to a Zulu who was sitting smoking by the -camp-fire, a man whom Ernest had hired as his particular servant. The -man rose and came to him, and saluted. - -He was not a very tall man; but, standing there nude except for the -“moocha” round his centre, his proportions, especially those of the -chest and lower limbs, looked gigantic. He had been a soldier in one of -Cetywayo’s regiments, but having been so indiscreet as to break through -some of the Zulu marriage laws, had been forced to fly for refuge to -Natal, where he had become a groom, and picked up a peculiar language, -which he called English. Even among a people where all the men are -fearless he bore a reputation for bravery. Leaving him standing awhile, -Mr. Alston rapidly explained the state of the case to Ernest, and what -he proposed to do. Then turning, he addressed the Zulu: - -“Mazooku, the Inkoos here, your master, whom you black people have -named Mazimba, tells me that he thinks you a brave man.” - -The Zulu’s handsome face expanded into a smile that was positively -alarming in its extent. - -“He says that you told him that when you were Cetywayo’s man in the -Undi Regiment, you once killed four Basutos, who set upon you -together.” - -Mazooku lifted his right arm and saluted, by way of answer, and then -glanced slightly at the assegai-wounds on his chest. - -“Well, I tell your master that I do not believe you. It is a lie you -speak to him; you ran away from Cetywayo because you did not like to -fight and be killed as the king’s ox, as a brave man should.” - -The Zulu coloured up under his dusky skin, and again glanced at his -wounds. - -“Ow-w!” he said. - -“Bah! there is no need for you to look at those scratches; they were -left by women’s nails. You are nothing but a woman. Silence! who told -you to speak? If you are not a woman, show it. There is an armed Basutu -among those rocks. He watches us. Your master cannot eat and sleep in -peace when he is watched. Take that big stabbing assegai you are so -fond of showing, and kill him, or die a coward! He must make no sound, -remember.” - -Mazooku turned towards Ernest for confirmation of the order. A Zulu -always likes to take his orders straight from his own chief. Mr. Alston -noticed it, and added: - -“I am the Inkoosi’s mouth, and speak his words.” - -Mazooku saluted again, and turning, went to the waggon to fetch his -assegai. - -“Tread softly, or you will wake him; and he will run from so great a -man,” Mr. Alston called after him sarcastically. - -“I go among the rocks to seek ‘mouti’” (medicine), the Zulu answered -with a smile. - -“We are in a serious mess, my boy,” said Mr. Alston to Ernest, “and it -is a toss-up if we get out of it. I taunted that fellow so that there -may be no mistake about the spy. He must be killed, and Mazooku would -rather die himself than not kill him now.” - -“Would it not have been safer to send another man with him?” - -“Yes; but I was afraid that if the scout saw two men coming towards him -he would make off, however innocent they might look. Our horses are -dead, and if that fellow escapes we shall never get out of this place -alive. It would be folly to expect Basutos to distinguish between Boers -and Englishmen when their blood is up; and besides, Secocoeni has sent -orders that we are to be killed, and they would not dare to disobey. -Look, there goes Mr. Mazooku with an assegai as big as a fire-shovel.” - -The kopje, or stony hill, where the spy was hid, was about three -hundred yards from the little hollow in which the camp was formed, and -across the stretch of bushy plain between the two Mazooku was quietly -strolling, his assegai in one hand and two long sticks in the other. -Presently he vanished in the shadow, for the sun was rapidly setting, -and, after what seemed a long pause to Ernest, who was watching his -movements through a pair of field-glasses, reappeared walking along the -shoulder of the hill right against the sky-line, his eyes fixed upon -the ground as though he were searching among the crevices of the rocks -for the medical herbs which Zulus prize. - -All of a sudden Ernest saw the stalwart form straighten itself and -spring down into a dip, which hid it from sight, with the assegai in -its hand raised to the level of its head. Then came a pause, lasting -perhaps for twenty seconds. On the farther side of the dip was a large -flat rock, which was straight in a line with the fiery ball of the -setting sun. Suddenly a tall figure sprang up out of the hollow on to -this rock, followed by another figure, in whom Ernest recognised -Mazooku. For a moment the two men, looking from their position like -people afire, struggled together on the top of the flat stone, and -Ernest could clearly distinguish the quick flash of their spears as -they struck at each other; then they vanished together over the edge of -the stone. - -“By Jove!” said Ernest, who was trembling with excitement, “I wonder -how it has ended?” - -“We shall know presently,” answered Mr. Alston, coolly. “At any rate, -the die is cast one way or other, and we may as well make a bolt for -it. Now, you Zulus, down with those tents and get the oxen inspanned, -and look quick about it, if you don’t want a Basutu assegai to send you -to join the spirit of Chaka.” - -The voorlooper Jim had by this time communicated his alarming -intelligence to the driver and other Kafirs, and Mr. Alston’s -exhortation to look sharp was quite unnecessary. Ernest never saw camp -struck or oxen inspanned with such rapidity before. But before the -first tent was fairly down, they were all enormously relieved to see -Mazooku coming trotting cheerfully across the plain, droning a little -Zulu song as he ran. His appearance, however, was by no means cheerful, -for he was perfectly drenched with blood, some of it flowing from a -wound in his left shoulder, and the rest evidently, till recently, the -personal property of somebody else. Arrived in front of where Mr. -Alston and Ernest were standing, he raised his broad assegai, which was -still dripping blood, and saluted. - -“I hear,” said Mr. Alston. - -“I have done the Inkoosi Mazimba’s bidding. There were two of them; the -first I killed easily in the hollow, but the other, a very big man, -fought well for a Basutu. They are dead, and I threw them into a hole, -that their brothers might not find them easily.” - -“Good! go wash yourself and get your master’s things into the waggon. -Stop! let me sew up that cut. How came you to be so awkward as to get -touched by a Basutu?” - -“Inkoos, he was very quick with his spear, and he fought like a cat.” -Mr. Alston did not reply, but, taking a stout needle and some silk from -a little housewife he carried in his pocket, he quickly stitched up the -assegai-gash, which, fortunately, was not a deep one. Mazooku stood -without flinching till the job was finished, and then retired to wash -himself at the spring. - -The short twilight rapidly faded into darkness, or rather into what -would have been darkness, had it not been for the half-grown moon, -which was to serve to light them on their path. Then, a large fire -having been lit on the site of the camp to make it appear as though it -were still pitched there, the order was given to start. The oxen, -obedient to the voice of the driver, strained at the trek-tow, the -waggon creaked and jolted, and they began their long flight for life. -The order of march was as follows: Two hundred yards ahead of the -waggon walked a Kafir, with strict orders to keep his eyes very wide -open indeed, and report in the best way possible, under the -circumstances, if he detected any signs of an ambush. At the head of -the long line of cattle, leading the two front oxen by a “reim,” or -strip of buffalo-hide, was the Zulu boy Jim, to whose timely discovery -they owed their lives, and by the side of the waggon the driver, a Cape -Hottentot, plodded along in fear and trembling. On the waggon-box -itself, each with a Winchester repeating rifle on his knees, and -keeping a sharp lookout into the shadows, sat Mr. Alston and Ernest. In -the hinder part of the waggon, also armed with a rifle and keeping a -keen look-out, sat Mazooku. The other servants marched alongside, and -the boy Roger was asleep inside, on the “cartle,” or hide bed. - -And so they travelled on hour after hour. Now they bumped down terrific -hills strewn with boulders, which would have smashed anything less -solid than an African ox-waggon to splinters; now they crept along a -dark valley, that looked spiritual and solemn in the moonlight, -expecting to see Secocoeni’s Impi emerge from every clump of bush; and -now again they waded through mountain-streams. At last, about midnight, -they reached a plain dividing two stretches of mountainous country, and -here they halted for a while to give the oxen, which were fortunately -in good condition and fat after their long rest, a short -breathing-time. Then on again through the long, quiet night, on, still -on, till the dawn found them the other side of the wide plain at the -foot of the mountain-range. - -Here they rested for two hours, and let the oxen fill themselves with -the lush grass. They had travelled thirty miles since the yokes were -put upon their necks—not far according to our way of journeying, but -very far for cumbersome oxen over an almost impassable country. As soon -as the sun was well up they inspanned again, and hurried forwards, -bethinking them of the Basutu horde who would now be pressing on their -spoor; on with brief halts through all that day and the greater part of -the following night, till the cattle began to fall down in the -yokes—till at last they crossed the boundary and were in Transvaal -territory. - -When dawn broke, Mr. Alston took the glasses and examined the track -over which they had fled. There was nothing to be seen except a great -herd of hartebeest. - -“I think that we are safe now,” he said, at last, “and thank God for -it. Do you know what those Basutu devils would have done if they had -caught us?” - -“What?” - -“They would have skinned us, and made our hearts and livers into -‘mouti’ (medicine), and eaten them to give them the courage of the -white man.” - -“By Jove!” said Ernest. - - - - -CHAPTER VIII. -A HOMERIC COMBAT - - -When Mr. Alston and Ernest found themselves safe upon Transvaal soil, -they determined to give up the idea of following any more big game for -the present, and to content themselves with the comparatively humble -wilderbeeste, blesbok, springbok, and other small antelopes. The plan -they pursued was to slowly journey from one point of the country to -another, stopping wherever they found the buck particularly plentiful. -In this way they got excellent sport, and spent several months very -agreeably, with the further advantage that Ernest obtained considerable -knowledge of the country and its inhabitants, the Boers. - -It was a wild rough life that they led, but by no means a lowering one. -The continual contact with Nature in all her moods, and in her wildest -shapes, to a man of impressionable mind like Ernest, was an education -in itself. His mind absorbed something of the greatness round him, and -seemed to grow wider and deeper during those months of lonely travel. -The long struggle, too, with the hundred difficulties which arise in -waggon-journeys, and the quickness of decision necessary to avoid -danger or discomfort in such a mode of life, were of great service to -him in shaping his character. Nor was he left without suitable society, -for in his companion he found a friend for whose talents and -intelligence he had the highest respect. - -Mr. Alston was a very quiet individual; he never said a thing unless he -had first considered it in all its bearings; but when he did say it, it -was always well worth listening to. He was a man who had spent his life -in the closest observation of human nature in the rough. Now you, my -reader, may think that there is a considerable difference between human -nature “in the rough,” as exemplified by a Zulu warrior stalking out of -his kraal in a kaross and brandishing an assegai, and yourself, say, -strolling up the steps of your club in a frock coat, and twirling one -of Brigg’s umbrellas. But, as a matter of fact, the difference is of a -most superficial character, bearing the same proportion to the common -substance that the furniture polish does to the table. Scratch the -polish, and there you have best raw Zulu human nature. Indeed, to -anybody who has taken the trouble to study the question, it is simply -absurd to observe how powerless high civilisation has been to do -anything more than veneer that raw material, which remains identical in -each case. - -To return. The result of Mr. Alston’s observations had been to make him -an extremely shrewd companion, and an excellent judge of men and their -affairs. There were few subjects which he had not quietly considered -during all the years that he had been trading or shooting or serving -the Government in one capacity or another; and Ernest was astonished to -find, although he had only spent some four months of his life in -England, how intimate was his knowledge of the state of political -parties, of the great social questions of the day, and even of matters -connected with literature and art. It is not too much to say that it -was from Mr. Alston that Ernest imbibed principles on all these -subjects which he never deserted in after-life, and which subsequent -experience proved to be for the most part sound. - -And thus, between shooting and philosophical discussion, the time -passed on pleasantly enough, till at length they drew near to Pretoria, -the capital of the Transvaal, where they had decided to go and rest the -oxen for a month or two before making arrangements for a real big-game -excursion up towards Central Africa. They struck into the Pretoria road -just above a town called Heidelberg, about sixty miles from the former -place, and proceeded by easy stages towards their destination. - -As they went on, they generally found it convenient to out-span at -spots which it was evident had been used for the same purpose by some -waggon that was travelling one stage ahead of them. So frequently did -this happen, that during their first five or six out-spans they were -able on no less than three occasions to avail themselves of the dying -fires of their predecessors’ camp. This was a matter of lively interest -to Ernest, who always did cook; and a very good cook he became. One of -the great bothers of South African travelling is the fire question. -Indeed, how to make sufficient fire to boil a kettle when you have no -fuel to make it of is the great question of South African travel. A -ready-made fire is, therefore, peculiarly acceptable; and for the last -half-hour of the trek Ernest was always in a great state of expectation -as to whether the waggon before them had or had not been considerate -enough to leave theirs burning. - -Thus it came to pass that one morning, when they were about fifteen -miles from Pretoria, which they expected to reach the same evening, and -the waggon was slowly drawing up to the outspan-place, Ernest, -accompanied by Mazooku, who lounged about after him like a black -shadow, ran forward to see if their predecessors had or had not been -considerate. In this instance energy was rewarded, for the fire was -still burning. - -“Hoorah!” said Ernest. “Get the sticks, Mazooku, and go and fill the -kettle. By Jove! there’s a knife.” - -There was a knife, a many-bladed knife, with a buck horn handle and a -corkscrew in it, left by the dying fire. Ernest took it up and looked -at it; somehow it seemed familiar to him. He turned it round, examined -the silver plate upon it, and suddenly started. - -“What is the matter, Ernest?” said Mr. Alston, who had joined them. - -“Look there,” he answered; pointing to two initials cut on the knife. - -“Well, I see some fellow has left his knife; so much the better for the -finder.” - -“You have heard me speak of my friend Jeremy. That is his knife; I gave -it to him years ago. Look—J. J.” - -“Nonsense! it is some knife like it; I have seen hundreds of that -make.” - -“I believe that it is the same. He must be here.” - -Mr. Alston shrugged his shoulders. - -“Not probable,” he said. - -Ernest made no answer. He stood staring at the knife. - -“Have you written to your people lately, Ernest?” - -“No; the last letter I wrote was down there in Secocoeni’s country; you -remember I sent it by the Basutu who was going to Lydenburg, just -before Jeffries died.” - -“Like enough he never got to Lydenburg. He would not have dared to go -to Lydenburg after the war broke out. You should write.” - -“I mean to, from Pretoria; but somehow I have had no heart for -writing.” - -Nothing more was said about the matter, and Ernest put the knife into -his pocket. - -That evening they trekked down through the “Poort” that commands the -most charming of the South African towns, and, on the plain below, -Pretoria, bathed in the bright glow of the evening sunshine, smiled its -welcome to them. Mr. Alston, who knew the town, determined to trek -straight through it and outspan the waggon on the farther side, where -he thought there would be better grazing for the cattle. Accordingly, -they rumbled on past the gaol, past the pleasant white building which -afterwards became Government House, and which was at that moment -occupied by the English Special Commissioner and his staff, about whose -doings all sorts of rumours had reached them during their journey, and -on to the market-square. This area was at the moment crowded with Boer -waggons, whose owners had trekked in to celebrate their “nachtmaal” -(communion), of which it is their habit, in company with their wives -and children, to partake four times a year. The “Volksraad,” or local -Parliament, was also in special session to consider the proposals made -to it on behalf of the Imperial Government, so that the little town was -positively choked with visitors. The road down which they were passing -ran past the buildings used as Government offices, and between this and -the Dutch church a considerable crowd was gathered, which, to judge -from the shouts and volleys of oaths—Dutch and English—that proceeded -from it, was working itself up into a state of excitement. - -“Hold on,” shouted Ernest to the voorlooper; and then, turning to Mr. -Alston, “There is a jolly row going on there; let us go and see what it -is.” - -“All right, my boy; where the fighting is, there will the Englishmen be -gathered together;” and they climbed down off the waggon and made for -the crowd. - -The row was this. Among the Boers assembled for the “nachtmaal” -festival was a well-known giant of the name of Van Zyl. This man’s -strength was a matter of public notoriety all over the country, and -many were the feats which were told of him. Among others it was said -that he could bear the weight of the after-part of an African buck -waggon on his shoulders, with a load of three thousand pounds of corn -upon it, while the wheels were greased. He stood about six feet seven -high, weighed eighteen stone and a half, and had a double row of teeth. -On the evening in question this remarkable specimen of humanity was -sitting on his waggon-box with a pipe, of which the size was -proportionate to his own, clinched firmly between his double row of -teeth. About ten paces from him stood a young Englishman, also of large -size, though he looked quite small beside the giant, who was -contemplating the phenomenon on the waggon-box, and wondering how many -inches he measured round the chest. That young Englishman had just got -off a newly arrived waggon, and his name was Jeremy Jones. - -To these advances a cringing Hottentot boy of small size. The Hottentot -is evidently the servant or slave of the giant, and a man standing by -Jeremy, who understands Dutch, informs him that he is telling his -master that an ox has strayed. Slowly the giant rouses himself, and, -descending from the waggon-box, seizes the trembling Tottie with one -hand, and, taking a reim of buftalo-hide, lashes him to the -waggon-wheel. - -“Now,” remarked Jeremy’s acquaintance, “you will see how a Boer deals -with a nigger.” - -“You don’t mean to say that great brute is going to beat that poor -little devil?” - -Just then a small fat woman put her head out of a tent pitched by the -waggon, and inquired what the matter was. She was the giant’s wife. On -being informed of the straying of the ox, her wrath knew no bounds. - -“Slaat em! slaat de swartsel!” (Thrash him! thrash the black creature!) -she cried out in a shrill voice, running to the waggon, and with her -own fair hands drawing out a huge “sjambock,” that is, a strip of -prepared hippopotamus-hide, used to drive the after-oxen with, and -giving it to her spouse. “Cut the liver out of the black devil!” she -went on, “but mind you don’t hit his head, or he won’t be able to go to -work afterwards. Never mind about making the blood come! I have got -lots of salt to rub in.” - -Her harangue, and the sight of the Hottentot tied to the wheel, had by -this time attracted quite a crowd of Boers and Englishmen who were -idling about the market-square. - -“Softly, Vrouw, softly; I will thrash enough to satisfy even you, and -we all know that must be very hard where a black creature is in -question.” - -A roar of laughter from the Dutch people round greeted this sally of -wit, and the giant, taking the sjambock with a good-humoured smile—for, -like most giants, he was easy-tempered by nature—lifted it, whirled his -great arm, thick as the leg of an average man, round his head, and -brought the whip down on the back of the miserable Hottentot. The poor -wretch yelled with pain, and no wonder, for the greasy old shirt he -wore was divided clean in two, together with the skin beneath it, and -the blood was pouring from the gash. - -“Allamachter! dat is een lecker slaat” (Almighty! that was a nice one), -said the old woman; at which the crowd laughed again. - -But there was one man who did not laugh, and that man was Jeremy. On -the contrary, his clear eyes flashed and his brown cheek burned with -indignation. Nor did he stop at that. Stepping forward, he placed -himself between the giant and the howling Hottentot, and said to the -former, in the most nervous English: - -“You are a damned coward!” - -The Boer stared at him and smiled, and then, turning, asked what the -“English fellow” was saying. Somebody translated Jeremy’s remark, -whereupon the Boer, who was not a bad-natured fellow, smiled again, and -remarked that Jeremy must be madder than the majority of “accursed -Englishmen.” Then he turned to continue thrashing the Hottentot, but, -lo! the mad Englishman was still there. This put the Dutchman out. - -“Footsack, carl; ik is Van Zyl!” (Get out, fellow; I am Van Zyl!) This -was interpreted to Jeremy by the by-standers. - -“All right; and tell him that I am Jones, a name he may have heard -before,” was the reply. - -“What does this brain-sick fellow want?” shouted the giant. - -Jeremy explained that he wanted him to stop his brutality. “And what -will the little man do if I refuse?” “I shall try to make you,” was the -answer. This remark was received with a shout of laughter from the -crowd which had now collected, in which the giant joined very heartily -when it was interpreted to him. - -Giving Jeremy a shove to one side, he again lifted the great sjambock, -with the purpose of bringing it down on the Hottentot. Another second, -and Jeremy had snatched the whip from his hand, and sent it flying -fifty yards away. Then, realising that his antagonist was really in -earnest, the great Dutchman solemnly set himself to crush him. Doubling -a fist which was the size of a Welsh leg of mutton, he struck with all -his strength straight at the Englishman’s head. Had the blow caught -Jeremy, it would in all probability have killed him; but he was a -practised boxer, and, without moving his body, he swung his head to one -side. The Boer’s fist passed him harmlessly, and, striking the panel of -the waggon, went clean through it. Next instant several of the giant’s -double row of teeth were rolling loose in his mouth. Jeremy had -returned the stroke by a right-hander, into which he put all his power, -and which would have knocked any other man backwards. - -A great shout from the assembled Englishmen followed this blow, and a -counter-shout from the crowd of Dutchmen, who pointed triumphantly to -the hole in the stout yellow-wood panel made by their champion’s fist, -and asked who the madman was who dared to stand against him. - -The Boer turned and spat out some of his superfluous teeth, and at the -same instant a young Englishman came and caught hold of Jeremy by the -arm. - -“For Heaven’s sake, my dear fellow, be careful! That man will kill you; -he is the strongest man in the Transvaal. You are a fellow to be proud -of, though!” - -“He may try,” said Jeremy laconically, stripping off his coat and -waistcoat. “Will you hold these for me?” - -“Hold them?” answered the young fellow, who was a good sort; “ay, that -I will, and I would give half I have to see you lick him. Dodge him; -don’t let him strike you, or he will kill you. I saw him stun an ox -once with a blow of his fist.” - -Jeremy smiled. - -“Stop,” he said. “Ask that coward, if I best him, if he will let off -that miserable beggar?” and he pointed to the trembling Hottentot. - -The question was put, and the great man answered, “Yah, yah! I will -make you a present of him!” ironically, and then expressed his -intention of knocking Jeremy into small pieces in the course of the -next two minutes. - -Then they faced one another. The giant was a trifle over six feet seven -high; Jeremy was a trifle under six feet two and a half, and looked -short beside him. But one or two critical observers, looking at the -latter now that he was stripped for the encounter, shrewdly guessed -that the Dutchman would have his work cut out. Jeremy did not, it is -true, scale more than fourteen stone six, but his proportions were -perfect. The great deep chest, the brawny arms—not very large, but a -mass of muscle—the short strong neck, the quick eye, and massive leg, -all bespoke the strength of a young Hercules. It was evident, too, that -though he was so young, and not yet come to his full power, he was in -the most perfect training. The Boer, on the other hand, was enormous, -but his flesh was somewhat soft. Still, knowing his feats, the -Englishmen present sighed for their champion, feeling that he had no -chance. - -For a moment they stood facing each other; then Jeremy made a feint, -and, getting in, planted a heavy blow with his left hand on his -adversary’s chest. But he was to pay for it, for the next second the -Dutchman got in his right hand, and Jeremy was lifted clean off his -feet, and sent flying backwards among the crowd. - -The Boers cheered, the giant smiled, and the Englishmen looked sad. -They knew how it would be. - -But Jeremy picked himself up little the worse. The stroke had struck -the muscles of his chest, and had not hurt him greatly. As he advanced, -the gradually increasing crowd of Englishmen cheered him warmly, and he -swore in his heart that he would justify those cheers, or die for it. - -It was at this juncture that Ernest and Mr. Alston came up. - -“Good heavens!” exclaimed the former; “it is Jeremy.” - -Mr. Alston took in the situation at a glance. - -“Don’t let him see you; you will put him off,” he said. “Get behind -me.” - -Ernest obeyed, overwhelmed. Mr. Alston shook his head. He recognised -that Jeremy had a poor chance, but he did not say so to Ernest. - -Meanwhile Jeremy came up and faced the Dutchman. Encouraged by his late -success, presently his adversary struck a tremendous blow at him. -Jeremy dodged, and next instant succeeded in landing such a fearful -right and left full on the giant’s face that the latter went reeling -backwards. - -A yell of frantic excitement arose from the English portion of the -crowd. This was indeed a David. - -[Illustration: “This was indeed a David.”] - -The Dutchman soon recovered, however, and, rendered more cautious, in -his turn, kept out of Jeremy’s reach, trying to strike him down from a -distance. For a round or two no important blow was struck, till at last -a brilliant idea took possession of the young fellow who had charge of -Jeremy’s coat. - -“Hit him about the body,” he whispered; “he’s soft.” - -Jeremy took the advice, and next round succeeded in getting in two or -three blows straight from the shoulder, every one of which bruised the -Boer’s huge body sadly, and made him rather short of wind. - -Next round he repeated the same tactics, receiving himself a stroke on -the shoulder from Van Zyl’s right hand that for a moment rendered his -left arm helpless. Before another second was over, however, Jeremy had -his revenge, and the blood was pouring from his adversary’s lips. - -And now the popular excitement on both sides grew intense, for to the -interest attaching to the encounter was added that of national feeling, -which was then at a high state of tension. Englishmen, Dutchmen, and a -mob of Kafirs yelled and shouted, and each of the former two felt that -the honour of his people was on the issue. And yet it was an unequal -fight. - -“I believe that your friend will be a match for Van Zyl,” said Mr. -Alston, coolly, but the flash of his eye belied his coolness; “and I -tell you what, he’s a devilish fine fellow, too.” - -At that moment, however, an untoward thing happened. The giant struck -out his strongest, and Jeremy could not succeed in entirely warding off -the blow, though he broke its force. Crashing through his guard, it -struck him on the forehead, and for a moment he dropped senseless. His -second rushed up and dashed some water over him, and in another instant -he was on his legs again; but for the rest of that round he contented -himself with dodging his adversary’s attack, at which the Dutchmen -cheered, thinking that his iron strength was broken. - -But presently, when for the sixth time Jeremy came up with the same -quiet look of determination in his eyes, and, except that the gaping of -the nostrils and the twitching of the lip showed a certain measure of -distress, looking but little the worse, they turned with anxiety to -examine the condition of the giant. It was not very promising. He was -perspiring profusely, and his enormous chest rose and fell in jerks. -Wherever Jeremy’s strokes had fallen, also, a great blue bruise had -risen on his flesh. It was evident that his condition was the worse of -the two, but still the Boers had little doubt of the issue. It could -not be that the man could be worsted by an English lad, who, for a bet, -with one hand had once quelled the struggles of a wild ox, holding it -for the space of five minutes by the horn. So they called on him to -stop playing with the English boy, and crush him. - -Thus encouraged, the giant came on, striking out with fearful force, -but wildly, for he could not box. For thirty seconds or more Jeremy -contented himself with avoiding the blows; then, seeing an opportunity, -he planted a heavy one on his adversary’s chest. This staggered Van Zyl -and threw him off his guard, and, taking the offensive, Jeremy dodged -in right under the huge fists that beat the air above him, and hit -upwards with all his power. Thud, thud! The sound of the blows could be -heard fifty yards off. Nor were they without their effect. The giant -staggered, threw up his arms, and, amidst fearful shouts and groans, -fell like an ox struck with a pole-axe. But it was not over yet. In -another moment he was on his legs again, and, spitting out blood and -teeth, whirling his hands like the sails of a windmill, reeled straight -at Jeremy, a fearful and alarming spectacle. As he came, again Jeremy -hit him in the face, but it did not stop him, and in another second the -huge arms had closed round him and held him like a vice. - -“Not fair! no holding!” shouted the Englishmen; but the Boer held on. -Indeed, he did more. Putting all his vast strength into the effort, he -strained and tugged, meaning to lift Jeremy up and dash him on the -ground. But lo! amid frantic shouts from the crowd, Jeremy stood firm, -moving not an inch, whereupon the Boers called out, saying that he was -not a mortal, but a man possessed with a devil! Again the Dutchman -gripped him, and this time succeeded in lifting him a few inches from -the ground. - -“By George, he will throw him next time!” said Mr. Alston to Ernest, -who was shaking like a leaf with the excitement; “look!—he is turning -white; the grip is choking him.” - -And, indeed, Jeremy was in evil case; his senses were fast being -crushed out of him in that fearful embrace, and he vas thinking with -bitter sorrow that he must fail after all, for an Englishman does not -like to be beaten even when he has fought his best. Just then it was, -when things were beginning to swim around him, that a voice he loved, -and which he had been listening for these many months, rang in his -ears; whether it was fancy or whether he really heard it he knew not. - -“Remember ‘Marsh Joe,’ Jeremy, and _lift him._ Don’t be beat. For God’s -sake, lift him!” said the voice. - -Now there was a trick, which I will not tell you, but which a famous -Eastern Counties’ wrestler, known as Marsh Joe, had taught to Jeremy. -So well had he taught him, indeed, that at the age of seventeen Jeremy -had hoisted his teacher with his own trick. - -Just at the moment that Jeremy heard the voice, the giant shifted his -hold a little, preparatory to making a fresh effort, and thus enabled -his antagonist to fill his lungs with air. Ernest saw the broad white -chest heave with relief, for by this time most of the upper clothing of -the combatants had been wrenched away, and the darkening eye grow -bright again, and he knew that Jeremy had heard him, and that he would -conquer or die where he was. - -And then—lo, and behold! just as the Boer, feeling that at last he was -master of the situation, leisurely enough prepared himself for the -final struggle, suddenly the Englishman advanced his right leg a few -inches, and with the rapidity of lightning entirely shifted his grip. -Then he gathered himself for the effort. What secret reserve of -strength he drew on, who can say? But Ernest’s voice had excited it, -and it came at his call: and he did a thing that few living men could -have done, and the fame of which will go down in South Africa from -generation to generation. For the Englishman’s lithe arms had found -their hold; they tightened and gripped till they sunk in almost level -with the flesh of his mighty foe. Then slowly Jeremy began to gather -purchase, swaying backwards and forwards, and the Dutchman swayed with -him. - -“Make an end of him! make an end of him!” shouted the Boers. But -behold! their champion’s eyes are starting from his blackened face; his -head sinks lower and lower, his buttocks rise: he cannot stir. - -To and fro sways Jeremy, and now the giant’s feet are lifted from the -ground. And then one slow and mighty effort—oh, gallant Jeremy!—up, -still up above the gasping of the wonder-stricken crowd, up to his -shoulders, Heaven, over it! - -Crash! - -Van Zyl fell, to be carried away by six strong men a cripple for life. - - - - -CHAPTER IX. -ERNEST’S LOVE-LETTER - - -Cheer after cheer arose from the Englishmen around, and angry curses -from the Dutchmen, as Jeremy turned to look at the senseless carcass of -the giant. But, even as he turned, exhausted Nature gave out, and he -fell fainting into Ernest’s arms. - -Then did selected individuals of his fellow-countrymen come forward and -bear him reverently to a restaurant called the “European,” where the -proprietor—himself an old Eton fellow—met him, and washed and clothed -and restored him, and vowed with tears in his eyes that he, Jeremy, -should live at his expense for as long as he liked—ay, even if he chose -to drink nothing meaner than champagne all day long; for thus it is -that Englishmen greet one who ministers to that deepest rooted of all -their feelings—national pride. And then, when at length he had been -brought to, and refreshed with a tumblerful of dry Monopole, and -wonderingly shaken Ernest by the hand, the enthusiasm of the crowd -outside burst its bounds, and they poured into the restaurant, and, -seizing Jeremy and the chair whereon he sat, they bore him in triumph -round the market-square to the tune of “God save the Queen.” This was a -proceeding that would have ended in provoking a riot had not an -aide-de-camp from his Excellency the Special Commissioner, who sent a -message begging that they would desist, succeeded in persuading them to -return to the restaurant. And here they all dined, and forced Jeremy to -drink a great deal more dry Monopole than was good for him, with the -result that for the first and last time in his life he was persuaded -into making an after-dinner speech. As far as it was reported it ran -something like this: - -“Dear friends” (cheers) “and Englishmen” (renewed cheers)—pause—” all -making great fuss about nothing” (cheers, and shouts of “No, no!”). -“Fight the Dutchman again to-morrow—very big, but soft as putty—anybody -fight him” (frantic cheering). “Glad I wasn’t thrashed, as you all seem -so pleased. Don’t know why you are pleased; ’spose you didn’t like the -Dutchman. ’Fraid he hurt himself over my shoulder. Wonder what he did -it for? Sit down now. Dear friends, dear old Ernest—been looking for -you for long while;” and he turned his glassy eye on to Ernest, who -cheered frantically, under the impression that Jeremy had just said -something very much to the point. “Sit down now” (“No, no; go on”). -“Can’t go on—” quite pumped—very thirsty, too” (“Give him some more -champagne; open a fresh case”). “Wish Eva and Doll were here, don’t -you?” (loud cheers). “Gemman” (cheers)—“no, not gemman—friends” (louder -cheers)—“no, not gemman—friends—English brothers” (yet louder cheers), -“I give you a toast. Eva and Doll: you all know ’em and love ’em, or if -you don’t you would, you see, if you did, you know.” (Frantic outburst -of cheering, during which Jeremy tries to resume his seat, but -gracefully drops on to the floor, and begins singing “Auld lang syne” -under the table; whereupon the whole company rise, and with the -exception of Ernest and a jovial member of the Special Commissioner’s -staff, who get upon the table to lead the chorus, join hands and sing -that beautiful old song with all the solemnity of intoxication; after -which they drink more champagne, and jointly and severally swear -eternal friendship, especially Ernest and the member of his -Excellency’s staff, who shake hands and bless each other, till the -warmth of their emotions proves too much for them, and they weep in -chorus there upon the table.) - -For the rest, Ernest had some vague recollection of helping to drive -his newly found friend home in a wheelbarrow that would persist in -upsetting in every “sluit” or ditch, especially if it had running water -in it; and that was about all he did remember. - -In the morning he woke up, or rather first became conscious of pain in -his head, in a little double-bedded room attached to the hotel. On the -pillow of the bed opposite to him lay Jeremy’s battered face. - -For a while Ernest could make nothing of all this. Why was Jeremy -there? Where were they? Everything turned round and seemed -phantasmagorial; the only real, substantial thing was that awful pain -in the head. But presently things began to come back to him, and the -sight of Jeremy’s bruised face recalled the fight, and the fight -recalled the dinner, and the dinner brought back a vague recollection -of Jeremy’s speech and of something he had said about Eva. What could -it have been? Ah, Eva! Perhaps Jeremy knew something about her; perhaps -he had brought the letter that had been so long in coming. O, how his -heart went out towards her! But how came Jeremy there in bed before -him? how came he to be in South Africa at all? - -At that moment his reflections were interrupted by the entry of -Mazooku, bearing the coffee which it is the national habit in South -Africa to drink early in the morning. - -The martial-looking Zulu, who seemed curiously out of place carrying -cups of coffee, seeing that his master was awake, saluted him with the -customary “Koos,” lifting one of the cups of coffee to give emphasis to -the word, and nearly upsetting it in the effort. - -“Mazooku,” said Ernest, severely, “how did we get here?” - -The substance of the retainer’s explanation was as follows: When the -moon was getting low—vanishing, indeed, behind the “horned house” -yonder (the Dutch church with pinnacles on it), it occurred to him, -waiting on the verandah, that his master must be weary; and as most had -departed from the “dance” in the “tin house” (restaurant), evidently -made happy by the “twala” (drink), he entered into the tin house to -look for him, and found him overcome by sleep under the table, lying -next to the “Lion-who-threw-oxen-over-his-shoulder” (i.e., Jeremy), so -overcome by sleep, indeed, that it was quite impossible to conduct him -to the waggon. This being so, he (Mazooku) considered what was his duty -under the circumstances, and he came to the accurate conclusion that -the best thing to do was to put them into the white man’s bed, since he -knew that his master did not love the floor to lie on. Accordingly, -having discovered that this was a room of beds, he and another Zulu -entered, but were perplexed to find the beds already occupied by two -white men, who had lain down to rest with their clothes on. But, under -all these circumstances, he and the other Zulu, considering that their -first thought should be towards their own master, had taken the liberty -of lifting up the two white men, who were slumbering profoundly after -the “dance,” by the head and by the heels, and putting them out in the -sweet cool air of the night, leaving thus “made a place,” they then -conveyed first Ernest, and having removed his clothes, put him into one -bed, and next, in consideration of his undoubted greatness, they -ventured to take the “Lion-who, &c.,” himself, and put him in the -other. He was a very great man, the “Lion,” and his art of throwing -greater men over his shoulder could only be attributed to witchcraft. -He himself (Mazooku) had tried it on that morning with a Basutu, with -whom he had a slight difference of opinion, but the result had not been -all that could be desired, inasmuch as the Basutu had kicked him in the -stomach, and forced him to drop him. - -Ernest laughed as heartily as his headache would allow at this story, -and in doing so woke up Jeremy, who at once clapped his hands to his -head and looked round; whereupon Mazooku, having saluted the awakened -“Lion-who, &c.,” with much fervour, and spilled a considerable quantity -of hot coffee over him in doing so, took his departure abashed, and at -length the two friends were left alone. Thereupon, rising from their -respective pallets, they took a step in all the glory of their undress -uniform into the middle of the little room, and, after the manner of -Englishmen, shook hands and called each other “old fellow.” Then they -went back to bed and began to converse. - -“I say, old fellow, what on earth brought you out here?” - -“Well, you see, I came out to look you up. You did not write any -letters, and they began to get anxious about you at home, so I packed -up my duds and started. Your uncle stands unlimited tin, so I am -travelling like a prince in a waggon of my own. I heard of you down in -Maritzburg, and guessed that I had best make for Pretoria; and here I -am and there you are, and I am devilish glad to see you again, old -chap. By Jove, what a head I have! But, I say, why didn’t you write? -Doll half broke her heart about it, and so did your uncle, only he -would not say so.” - -“I did write. I wrote from Secocoeni’s country, but I suppose the -letter did not fetch,” answered Ernest, feeling very guilty. “The fact -is, old fellow, I had not the heart to write much; I have been so -confoundedly down on my luck ever since that duel business.” - -“Ah!” interposed Jeremy, “that shot was a credit to you. I didn’t think -you could have done it.” - -“A credit! I’ll tell you what, it is an awful thing to kill a man like -that. I often see his face as he fell, at night in my sleep.” - -“I was merely looking at it as a shot,” replied Jeremy, innocently, “I -don’t trouble myself with moral considerations, which are topsy-turvy -sort of things; and, considered as a shot at twenty paces and under -trying circumstances, it was a credit to you.” - -“And then, you see, Jeremy, there was another thing, you -know—about—about Eva. Well, I wrote to her, and she has never answered -my letter, unless,” with a gleam of hope, “you have brought an answer.” - -Jeremy shook his aching head. - -“Ah! no such luck. Well, it put me off, and that’s the fact. Since she -has chucked me up, I don’t care twopence about anything. I don’t say -but what she is right; I daresay that I am not worth sticking to. She -can do much better elsewhere;” and Ernest groaned, and thought that his -head was very bad indeed. “But there it is. I hadn’t the heart to write -any more letters, and I was too proud to write again to her. Confound -her! let her go! I am not going to grovel to any woman under heaven, -no, not even to her!” and he kicked the bedclothes viciously. - -“I haven’t learned much Zulu yet,” replied Jeremy, sententiously; “but -I know two words—‘hamba gachlé.’” - -“Well, what of them?” said Ernest, testily. - -“They mean, I am told, ‘take it easy,’ or ‘look before you leap,’ or -‘never jump to conclusions,’ or ‘don’t be in a confounded hurry’; “very -fine mottoes, I think.” - -“Of course they do; but what have they got to do with Eva?” - -“Well, just this: I said I had got no letter; I never said—” - -“What?” shouted Ernest. - -“Hamba gachlé,” replied Jeremy, the imperturbable, gazing at Ernest out -of his blackened eyes. “I never said that I had not got a message.” - -Ernest sprang clean out of the little truckle-bed, shaking with -excitement. “What is it, man?” - -“Just this. She told me to tell you that she ‘loved you dearly.’” - -Slowly Ernest sat down on the bed again, and, throwing a blanket over -his head and shoulders, remarked, in a tone befitting a sheeted ghost: - -“The devil she did! Why couldn’t you say so before?” - -Then he got up again and commenced walking, blanket and all, up and -down the little room with long strides, and knocking over the water-jug -in his excitement. - -“Hamba gachlé,” again remarked Jeremy, rising and picking up the -water-jug. “How are we going to get any more water? I’ll tell you all -about it.” - -And he did, including the story of Mr. Plowden’s shaking, at which -Ernest chuckled fiercely. - -“I wish I had been there to kick him,” he remarked, parenthetically. - -“I did that too; I kicked him hard,” put in Jeremy; at which Ernest -chuckled again. - -“I can’t make it all out,” said Ernest, at length, “but I will go home -at once.” - -“You can’t do that, old fellow. Your respected uncle, Sir Hugh, will -have you run in.” - -“Ah, I forgot! Well, I will write to her to-day.” - -“That’s better; and now let’s dress. My head is rather clearer. By -George, though, I am stiff! It is no joke fighting a giant.” - -But Ernest answered not a word. He was already, after his quick-brained -fashion, employed in concocting his letter to Eva. - -In the course of the morning he drafted it. It, or rather that part of -it with which we need concern ourselves, ran thus: - -“Such then, my dearest Eva, was the state of my mind towards you. I -thought—God forgive me for the treason!—that perhaps you were, as so -many women are, a fairweather lover, and that now that I am in trouble -you wished to slip the cable. If that was so, I felt that it was not -for me to remonstrate. I wrote to you, and I knew that the letter came -safely to your hands. You did not answer it, and I could only come to -one conclusion. Hence my own silence. And to be plain I do not at this -moment quite understand why you have never written. But Jeremy has -brought me your message, and with that I must be content; for no doubt -you have reasons which are satisfactory to yourself, and if that is so, -no doubt, too, they would be equally satisfactory to me if I only knew -them. You see, my dearest love, the fact is that I trust and believe in -you utterly and entirely. What is right and true, what is loyal and -sincere to me and to yourself—those are the things that you will do. -Jeremy tells me a rather amusing story about the new clergyman who has -come to Kesterwick, and who is, it appears, an aspirant for your hand. -Well, Eva, I am sufficiently conceited not to be jealous; although I am -in the unlucky position of an absent man, and worse still, an absent -man under a cloud, I do not believe that he will cut me out. But on the -day that you can put your hand upon your heart, and look me straight in -the eyes, and tell me, on your honour as a lady, that you love this or -any other man better than you do me, on that day I shall be ready to -resign you to him. But till that day comes—and there is something which -tells me that it is as impossible for it to come as for the -mountain-range I look on as I write to move towards the town and bury -it—I am free from jealousy, for I know that it is impossible that you -should be faithless to your love. - -“Oh, my sweet, the troth we plighted was not for days, or years, or -times—it was for ever. I believe that nothing can dissolve it, and that -Death himself will be powerless against it. I believe that with each -new and progressive existence it will re-arise as surely as the flowers -in spring, only, unlike them, more fragrant and beautiful than before. -Sometimes I think that it has already existed through countless ages. -Strange thoughts come into a man’s mind out there on the great veldt, -riding alone hour after hour, and day after day, through sunlight and -through moonlight, till the spirit of Nature broods upon him, and he -begins to learn the rudiments of truth. Some day I shall tell them all -to you. Not that _I_ have ever been quite alone, for I can say honestly -that you have always been at my side since I left you; there has been -no hour of the day or night when you have not been in my thoughts, and -I believe that, till death blots out my senses, no such hour will ever -come. - -“Day by day, too, my love has grown stronger even in its despair. Day -by day it has taken shape and form and colour, and become more and more -a living thing, more and more an entity, as distinct as soul and body, -and yet as inextricably blended and woven into the substance of each. -If ever a woman was beloved, you are that woman, Eva Ceswick; if ever a -man’s life, present and to come, lay in a woman’s hands, my life lies -in yours. It is a germ which you can cast away or destroy, or which you -can nourish till it bursts into bloom, and bears fruit beautiful beyond -imagining. You are my fate, my other part. With you my destiny is -intertwined, and you can mould it as you will. There is no height to -which I cannot rise by your side; there is no depth to which I may not -sink without you. - -“And now, what does all this lead up to? Will you make a sacrifice for -me, who am ready to give all my life to you—no, who have already given -it? That sacrifice is this: I want you to come out here and marry me; -for, as you know, circumstances prevent me from returning to you. If -you will come, I will meet you at the Cape, and marry you there. Ah, -surely you will come! As for money, I have plenty from home, and can -make as much more as we shall want here, so that need be no obstacle. -It is long to wait for your answer—three months—but I hope that the -faith that will, as the Bible tells us, enable people to move -mountains—and my faith in you is as great as that—will also enable me -to bear the suspense, and in the end prove its own reward.” - -Ernest read selected portions of this exalted composition to Mr. Alston -and Jeremy. Both listened in solemn silence, and at the conclusion -Jeremy scratched his head and remarked that it was deep enough to -“fetch” any girl, though for his part he did not quite understand it. -Mr. Alston relit his pipe, and for awhile said nothing; but to himself -he thought that it was a remarkable letter for so young a man to have -written, and revealed a curious turn of mind. One remark he did make, -however, and that was rather a rude one: - -“The girl won’t understand what you are driving at. Master Ernest; she -will think that you have gone off your head in these savage parts. All -you say may or may not be true—on that point I express no opinion; but -to write such things to a woman is to throw your pearls before swine. -You should ask her about her bonnets, my boy, and tell her what sort of -dresses she should bring out, and that the air is good for the -complexion. She would come then.” - -Here Ernest fired up. - -“You are beastly cynical, Alston, and you should not speak of Miss -Ceswick like that to me. Bonnets, indeed!” - -“All light, my lad—all right. Time will show. Ah, you boys! you go -building up your ideals of ivory and gold and fine linen, only to find -them one day turned into the commonest of clay, draped in the dirtiest -of rags. Well, well, it is the way of the world; but you take my -advice, Ernest: burn that letter, and go in for an Intombi. It is not -too late yet, and there is no mistake about the sort of clay a Kafir -girl is made of.” - -Here Ernest stamped out of the room in a passion. - -“Too cock-sure, wanted cooling down a little,” remarked Mr. Alston to -Jeremy; “should never be cock-sure where a woman is concerned; women -are fond of playing dirty tricks, and saying they could not help it. I -know them; for, though you mightn’t think it, I was once young myself. -Come on; let us go and find him, and go for a walk.” - -They found Ernest sitting on the box of the waggon, which was -outspanned together with Jeremy’s, just outside the town, and looking -rather sulky. - -“Come on, Ernest,” said Mr. Alston, apologetically; “I will throw no -more mud at your ideal. In the course of the last thirty years I have -seen so many fall to pieces of their own accord that I could not help -warning you. But perhaps they make them of better stuff in England than -we do in these parts.” - -Ernest descended and soon forgot his pique. It was but rarely that he -bore malice for more than half an hour. As they walked along one of the -by-streets they met the young fellow who had acted as second to Jeremy -in the big fight of the previous day. He informed them that he had just -been to inquire how the giant was. It appeared that he had received an -injury to the spine, the effect of Jeremy’s “lift,” from which there -was little hope of his recovery. He was not, however, in much pain. -This intelligence distressed Jeremy not a little. He had earnestly -desired to thrash the giant, but he had had no wish to injure him. With -his usual promptitude he announced his intention of going to see his -fallen enemy. - -“You are likely to meet with a warm reception if you do,” said Mr. -Alston. - -“I’ll risk it. I should like to tell him that I am sorry.” - -“Very good; come along—that is the house.” - -The injured man had been carried to the house of a relative just -outside the town, a white thatched building that had been built -five-and-thirty years before, when the site of Pretoria was a plain, -inhabited only by quaggas, eland, and vilderbeeste. In front of the -door was a grove of orange-trees, which smelled sweet and looked golden -with hanging fruit. - -The house itself was a small white building, with a double-swinging -door, like those used in stables in this country. The top half of the -door was open, and over the lower portion of it leaned a Boer, a -rough-looking customer, smoking a huge pipe. - -“‘Dagh, Oom’” (Good-day, uncle), said Mr. Alston, stretching out his -hand. - -The other looked at him suspiciously, and then held out a damp paw to -each in turn, at the same time opening the door. As Ernest passed the -threshold he noticed that the clay flooring was studded with -peach-stones well trodden into its substance to prevent wear and tear -from passing feet. The door opened into a fair-sized room with -whitewashed walls called the “sit-kam” or sitting-room, and furnished -with a settee, a table, and several chairs seated with “rimpi,” or -strips of hide. On the biggest of these chairs sat a woman of large -size, the mother of the family. She did not rise on their entry, but -without speaking held out a limp hand, which Mr. Alston and the others -shook, addressing her affectionately as “tanta,” or aunt. Then they -shook hands with six or seven girls and young men, the latter sitting -about in an aimless sort of way, the former clearing off the remains of -the family meal, which had consisted of huge bones of boiled fresh -beef. So fresh was it, indeed, that on the floor by the side of the -table lay the gory head and skin of a newly killed ox, from which the -beef had been cut. Ernest, noticing this, wondered at the superhuman -strength of stomach that could take its food under such circumstances. - -The preliminary ceremony of hand-shaking having been got through, Mr. -Alston, who spoke Dutch perfectly, explained the object of their visit. -The faces of the Dutchmen darkened as he did so, and the men scowled at -Jeremy with hatred not unmingled with terror. When he had done, the -oldest man said that he would ask his cousin if he would see them, -adding, however, that he was so ill that he did not think it likely. -Raising a curtain, which served as a door, he passed from the -sitting-room into the bedroom, or “slaap-kam.” Presently he returned, -and beckoned to the Englishmen to enter. They passed into a small -chamber about ten feet square, which was hermetically sealed from air, -after the fashion of these people in cases of any illness. On a large -bed that blocked up most of the room, and on which it was the usual -habit of the master of the house and his wife to sleep _in their -clothes,_ lay the fallen giant. So much as could be seen of his face -was a mass of hideous bruises, and one of his hands, which lay on the -bed, was in splints; the chief injury, however, was to his back, and -from this he could never expect to recover. By his side sat his little -wife, who had on the previous day urged the thrashing of the Hottentot. -She glared fiercely at Jeremy, but said nothing. On catching sight of -his victor, the giant turned his face to the wall, and asked what he -wanted. - -“I have come,” said Jeremy, Mr. Alston interpreting for him, “to say -that I am sorry that you are injured so much; that I wanted to beat -you, but had no idea that I should hurt you so. I know that the trick -of throwing a man as I threw you is very dangerous, and I only used it -as a last resource, and because you would have killed me if I had not.” - -The Boer muttered something in reply about its being very bitter to be -beaten by such a little man. - -It was evident to Ernest that the man’s pride was utterly broken. He -had believed himself the strongest man, white or black, in Africa, and -now an English lad had thrown him over his shoulder like a plaything. - -Jeremy next said that he hoped that he bore no malice, and would shake -hands. - -The giant hesitated a little, and then stretched out his uninjured -hand, which Jeremy took. - -“Englishman,” he said, “you are a wonderful man, and you will grow -stronger yet. You have made a baby of me for life, and turned my heart -to a baby’s too. Perhaps one day some man will do the same for you. -Till then you can never know what I feel. They will give you the -Hottentot outside. No, you must take him; you won him in fair fight. He -is a good driver, though he is so small. Now go.” - -The sight was a painful one, and they were not sorry to get away from -it. Outside they found one of the young Boers waiting with the -Hottentot boy, whom he insisted on handing over to Jeremy. - -Any scruples the latter had about accepting him were overcome by the -look of intense satisfaction on the features of the poor wretch himself -when he learnt that he was to be handed over. - -His name was “Aasvögel” (vulture), and he made Jeremy an excellent and -most faithful servant. - - - - -CHAPTER X. -A WAY OF ESCAPE - - -When Mr. Alston, Jeremy, and Ernest emerged from the back street in -which was the house they had visited into one of the principal -thoroughfares of Pretoria, they came upon a curious sight. In the -middle of the street stood, or rather danced, a wiry Zulu, dressed in -an old military greatcoat and the ordinary native “moocha,” or scanty -kilt, and having a red worsted comforter tied round one arm. He was -shouting out something at the top of his voice, and surrounded by a -crowd of other natives, who at intervals expressed their approval of -what he was saying in deep guttural exclamations. - -“What is that lunatic after?” asked Jeremy. - -Mr. Alston listened for a minute, and answered: - -“I know the man well. His name is Goza. He is the fleetest runner in -Natal, and can go as fast as a horse; indeed, there are few horses that -he cannot tire out. By profession he is a ‘praiser.’ He is now singing -the praises of the Special Commissioner—‘bongering’ they call it. This -is what he is saying: - -“‘Listen to the foot of the great elephant Somptseu (Sir T. Shepstone). -Feel how the earth shakes beneath the tread of the white t’Chaka,* -father of the Zulus, foremost among the great white people. Ou! he is -coming; ou! he is here. See how the faces of the “Amaboona” (the Boers) -turn pale before him. He will eat them up; he will swallow them, the -huge vulture, who sits still till the ox is dead, who fights the fight -of “sit down.” Oh! he is great, the lion; where he turns his eye the -people melt away, their hearts turn to fat. Where is there one like -Somptseu, the man who is not afraid of Death; who looks at Death and it -runs from him; who has the tongue of honey; who reigns like the first -star at night; who is beloved and honoured of the great white mother, -the Queen; who loves his children, the Amazulu, and shelters them under -his wide wing; who lifted Cetywayo out of the dirt, and can put him -back in the dirt again? Abase yourselves, you low people, doctor -yourself with medicine, lest his fierce eyes should burn you up. O, -hark! he comes, the father of kings, the Chaka; O! be still; O! be -silent; O! shake in your knees. He is here, the elephant, the lion, the -fierce one, the patient one, the strong one! See he deigns to talk to -little children; he teaches them wisdom; he gives light like the sun—he -is the sun—he is t’Somptseu.’“ - -At this juncture a quiet-looking, oldish gentleman, entirely unlike -either an elephant, a lion, or a vulture, of medium height, with gray -whiskers, a black coat, and a neat black tie fastened in a bow, came -round the corner, leading a little girl by the hand. As he came the -praiser lifted up his right hand, and in the most stentorian tones gave -the royal salute, “Bayte,” which was re-echoed by all the other -natives. - -The oldish gentleman, who was none other than the Special Commissioner -himself, turned upon his extoller with a look of intense annoyance, and -addressed him very sharply in Zulu. - -“Be still,” he said. “Why do you always annoy me with your noise? Be -still, I say, you loud-tongued dog, or I will send you back to Natal. -My head aches with your empty words.” - -* The Zulu Napoleon, great-uncle to the last King of Zululand, -Cetywayo. - - -“O, elephant! I am silent as the dead: Bayte. O Somptseu! I am quiet: -‘Bayte.’“ - -“Go! Begone!” - -With a final shout of Bayte the Zulu turned and fled down the street -with the swiftness of the wind, shouting praises as he went. - -“How do you do, sir?” said Mr. Alston, advancing. “I was just coming up -to call upon you.” - -“Ah, Alston, I am delighted to see you. I heard that you were gone on a -hunting trip. Given up work and taken to hunting, eh? Well, I should -like to do the same. If I could have found you when I came up here, I -should have been tempted to ask you to come with us.” - -At this point Mr. Alston introduced Ernest and Jeremy. The Special -Commissioner shook hands with them. - -“I have heard of you,” he said to Jeremy; “but I must ask you not to -fight any more giants here just at present; the tension between Boer -and Englishman is too great to allow of its being stretched any more. -Do you know, you nearly provoked an outbreak last night with your -fighting? I trust that you will not do it again.” - -He spoke rather severely, and Jeremy coloured. Presently, however, he -made amends by asking them all to dinner. - -On the following morning Ernest sent off his letter to Eva. He also -wrote to his uncle and to Dorothy, explaining his long silence as best -he could. The latter, too, he for the first time took into his -confidence about Eva. At a distance he no longer felt the same shyness -in speaking to her about another woman that had always overpowered him -when he was by her side. - -Now that he had been away from England for a year or so, many things -connected with his home life had grown rather faint amid the daily -change and activity of his new life. The rush of fresh impressions had -to a great extent overlaid the old ones, and Dorothy and Mr. Cardus and -all the old Kesterwick existence and surroundings seemed faint and far -away. They were indeed rapidly assuming that unreality which in time -the wanderer finds gather round his old associations. He feels that -they know him no more; very likely he imagines that they have forgotten -him, and so they become like the shades of the dead. It is almost a -shock to such an one to come back and find, after an absence of many -years, that though he has been living a rapid vigorous life, and -storing his time with many acts, good, bad, and indifferent; though he -thinks that he has changed so completely, and developed greatly in one -direction or another, yet the old spots, the old familiar surroundings, -and the old dear faces have changed hardly one whit. They have been -living their quiet English life, in which sensation, incident, and -excitement are things unfamiliar, and have varied not at all. - -Most people, as a matter of fact, change very little except in so far -as they are influenced by the cyclic variations of their life, the -passage from youth to maturity, and from maturity to age, and the -attendant modes of thought and action befitting each period. But even -then the change is superficial rather than real. What the child is, -that the middle-aged person and the old man will be also. The reason of -this appears to be sufficiently obvious: the unchanging personality -that grows not old, the animating spiritual “ego,” is there, and -practically identical at all periods of life. The body, the brain, and -the subtler intellect may all vary according to the circumstances, -mostly physical, of personal existence; but the effect that the passage -of a few years, more or less active or stormy, can produce upon a -principle so indestructible, so immeasurably ancient, and the inheritor -of so far-reaching a destiny as we believe the individual human soul to -be, surely must be small. - -Already Ernest began to find it something of a labour to indite -epistles to people in England, and yet he had the pen of a ready -writer. The links that bound them together were fast breaking loose. -Eva, and Eva alone, remained clear and real to the vision of his mind. -She was always with him; and to her, at any period of his life, he -never found difficulty in writing. For, in truth, their very natures -were interwoven, and the _rapport_ between them was not produced merely -by the pressure of external circumstances, or by the fact of continual -contact and mutual attraction arising from physical causes, such as the -natural leaning of youth to youth and beauty to beauty. - -These causes, according to Ernest’s creed, no doubt had to do with its -production, and perhaps were necessary to its mundane birth, as the -battery is necessary to the creation of the electric spark. Thus, had -Eva been old, instead of a young and lovely girl, the _rapport_ would -perhaps never have come into being here. In short, they formed the -cable along which the occult communication could pass, but there their -function ended. Having once established that communication, and -provided a means by which the fusion of spirit could be effected, youth -and beauty and the natural attraction of sex to sex had done their -part. The great dividing river that rolls so fast and wide between our -souls in their human shape had been safely passed, and the two -fortunate travellers had been allowed before their time to reap -advantages—the measureless advantage of real love, so rare on earth, -and at its best so stained by passion, which will only come to most of -us, and then perhaps imperfectly in a different world from this. - -Yes, the bridge might now be broken down; it had served its purpose. -Come age, or loss of physical attraction, or separation and icy -silence, or the change called death itself, and the souls thus subtly -blended can and will and do defy them. For the real life is not here; -here only is the blind beginning of things, maybe the premature -beginning. - -And so Ernest posted his letters, and then, partly to employ his -thoughts, and partly because it was his nature to throw himself into -whatever stream of life was flowing past him, he set himself to master -the state of political affairs in the country in which he found -himself. - -This need not be entered into here, further than to say that it was -such as might with advantage have employed wiser heads than his, and -indeed did employ them. Suffice it to say that he contrived to make -himself of considerable use to the English party, both before and after -the annexation of the Transvaal to the dominions of the Crown. Among -other things he went on several missions in conjunction with Mr. -Alston, with a view of ascertaining the real state of feeling among the -Boers. Also, together with Jeremy, he joined a volunteer corps which -was organised for the defence of Pretoria when it was still a matter of -doubt whether or not the contemplated annexation would or would not -result in an attack being made upon the town by the Boers. It was a -most exciting time, and once or twice Ernest and Jeremy had narrow -escapes of being murdered. - -However, nothing worthy of note happened to them, and at last the -long-expected annexation came off successfully, to the intense joy of -all the Englishmen in the country, and to the great relief of the vast -majority of the Boers. - -Now, together with the proclamation by which the Transvaal was annexed -to her Majesty’s dominions, was issued another that was to have a -considerable bearing upon Ernest’s fortunes. This was none other than a -promise of her Majesty’s gracious pardon to all such as had been -resident in the Transvaal for a period of six months previous to the -date of annexation, being former British subjects and offenders against -the English criminal law, who would register their name and offence -within a given time. The object of this proclamation was to give -immunity from prosecution to many individuals formerly deserters from -the English army, and other people who had in some way transgressed the -laws, but were now occupying respectable positions in their adopted -country. - -Mr. Alston read this proclamation attentively when it came out in a -special number of the _Gazette._ Then, after thinking for a while, he -handed it to Ernest. - -“You have read this amnesty proclamation?” he said. - -“Yes,” answered Ernest; “what of it?” - -“What of it? Ah, the stupidity of youth! Go down, go down on your -knees, young man, and render thanks to the Power that inspired Lord -Carnarvon with the idea of annexing the Transvaal. Can’t you very well -see that it takes your neck out of the halter? Off with you, and -register your name and offence with the secretary to Government, and -you will be clear for ever from any consequences that might ensue from -the slight indiscretion of having shot your own first cousin on British -soil.” - -“By Jove, Alston! you don’t mean that!” - -“Mean it? of course I do. The proclamation does not specify any -particular offence to which pardon is to be denied, and you have lived -more than six months on Transvaal territory. Off you go!” - -And Ernest went like an arrow. - - - - -CHAPTER XI. -FOUND WANTING - - -Ernest reached the Government office and registered his name, and in -due course received “her Majesty’s gracious pardon and indemnity from -and against all actions, proceedings, and prosecutions at law, having -arisen, arising, or to arise, by whomsoever undertaken, &c., conveyed -through his Excellency the Administrator of Our said territory of the -Transvaal.” - -When this precious document was in his pocket, Ernest thought that he -now for the first time fully realised what must be the feelings of a -slave unexpectedly manumitted. Had it not been for this fortunate -accident, the consequences of that fatal duel must have continually -overshadowed him. Had he returned to England, he would have been liable -at any period of his life to a prosecution for murder. Indeed, the arm -of the law is long, and he lived in continual apprehension of an -application for his extradition being made to the authorities of -whatever country he was in. But now all this was gone from him, and he -felt that he would not be afraid to have words with an -attorney-general, or shudder any more at the sight of a policeman. - -His first idea on getting his pardon was to return straightway to -England; but that silent Fate which directs men’s lives, driving them -whither they would not, and forcing their bare and bleeding feet to -stumble along the stony paths of its hidden purpose, came into his -mind, and made him see that it would be better to delay a while. In a -few weeks Eva’s answer would surely reach him. If he were to go now, it -was even possible that he might pass her in mid-ocean, for in his heart -he never doubted but that she would come. - -And indeed the very next mail there came a letter from Dorothy, written -in answer to that which he had posted on the same day that he had -written to Eva. It was only a short letter—the last post that could -catch the mail was just going out, and his welcome letter had only just -arrived; but she had twenty minutes, and she would send one line. She -told him how grateful they were to hear that he was well and safe, and -reproached him gently for not writing. Then she thanked him for making -her his confidante about Eva Ceswick. She had guessed it long before, -she said; and she thought they were both lucky in each other, and hoped -and prayed that when the time came they would be as completely happy as -it was possible for people to be. She had never spoken to Eva about -him; but she should no longer feel any diffidence in doing so now. She -should go and see her very soon, and plead his cause: not that it -wanted any pleading, however, she was sure of that. Eva looked sad now -that he was gone. There had been some talk a while back of Mr. Plowden, -the new clergyman; but she supposed that Eva had given him his quietus, -as she heard no more of it now; and so on, till “the postman is at the -door waiting for this letter.” - -Little did Ernest guess what it cost poor Dorothy to write her -congratulations and wishes of happiness. A man—the nobler animal, -remember—could hardly have done it; only the inferior woman would show -such unselfishness. - -This letter filled Ernest with a sure and certain hope. Eva, he clearly -saw, had not had time to write by that mail; by the next her answer -would come. It can be imagined that he waited for its advent with some -anxiety. - -Mr. Alston, Ernest, and Jeremy had taken a house in Pretoria, and for -the past month or two had been living in it very comfortably. It was a -pleasant one-storied house, with a verandah and a patch of -flower-garden in front of it, in which grew a large gardenia-bush -covered with hundreds of sweet-scented blooms, and many rose-trees, -that in the divine climate of Pretoria flourish like thistles in our -own. Beyond the flowers was a patch of vines, covered at this season of -the year with enormous bunches of grapes, extending down to the line of -waving willow-trees, interspersed with clumps of bamboo that grew along -the edge of the sluit and kept the house private from the road. On the -other side of the narrow path which led to the gate was a bed of -melons, now rapidly coming to perfection. This garden was Ernest’s -especial pride and occupation, and just then he was much troubled in -his mind about the melons, which were getting scorched by the bright -rays of the sun. To obviate this he had designed cunning frameworks of -little willow twigs, which he stuck over the melons and covered with -dry grass—“parasols” he called them. - -One morning—it was a particularly lovely morning—Ernest was standing -after breakfast on this path, smoking, and directing Mazooku as to the -erection of the “parasols” over his favourite melons. It was not a job -at all suited to the capacity of the great Zulu, whose assegai, stuck -in the ground behind him in the middle of a small bundle of -knob-sticks, seemed a tool ominously unlike those used by gardeners of -other lands. However, “needs must when the devil drives,” and there was -the brawny fellow on his knees, puffing and blowing, and trying to fix -the tuft of grass to Ernest’s satisfaction. - -“Mazooku, you lazy hound,” said the latter, at last, “if you don’t put -that tuft right in two shakes, by the heaven you will never reach, I’ll -break your head with your own kerrie!” - -“Ow, Inkoos,” replied the Zulu, sulkily, again trying to prop up the -tuft, and muttering to himself meanwhile. - -“Do you catch what that fellow of yours is saying?” asked Mr. Alston. -“He is saying that all Englishmen are mad, and that you are the maddest -of the mad. He considers that nobody who was not a lunatic would bother -his head with those ‘weeds that stink’ (flowers), or these fruits -which, even if you succeed in growing them—and surely the things are -bewitched, or they would grow without ‘hats’ (Ernest’s parasols)— must -lie very cold on the stomach.” - -At that moment the particular “hat” which Mazooku was trying to arrange -fell down again, whereupon the Zulu’s patience gave out, and, cursing -it for a witch in the most vigorous language, he emphasised his words -by bringing his fist straight down on the melon, smashing it to pieces. -Whereupon Ernest made for him, and he vanished swiftly. - -Mr. Alston stood by laughing at the scene, and awaited Ernest’s return. -Presently he came strolling back, not having caught Mazooku. Indeed, it -would not have greatly mattered if he had; for, as that swarthy -gentleman very well knew, great indeed must be the provocation that -could induce Ernest to touch a native. It was a thing to which he had -an almost unconquerable aversion, in the same way that he objected to -the word “nigger” as applied to a people who, whatever their faults may -be, are, as a rule, gentlemen in the truest sense of the word. - -As he came strolling down the path towards him, his face a little -flushed with the exertion, Mr. Alston thought to himself that Ernest -was growing into a very handsome fellow. The tall frame, narrow at the -waist and broad at the shoulders, the eloquent dark eyes, which so far -surpass the loveliest gray or blue, the silken hair, which curled over -his head like that on a Grecian statue, the curved lips, the quick -intelligence and kindly smile that lit the whole face—all these things -helped to make his appearance not so much handsome as charming, and to -women captivating to a dangerous extent. His dress, too—which consisted -of riding-breeches, boots and spurs, a white waistcoat and linen coat, -with a very broad soft felt hat looped up at one side, so as to throw -the face into alternate light and shadow—helped the general effect -considerably. Altogether Ernest was a pretty fellow in those days. - -Jeremy was lounging on an easy-chair in the verandah, in company with -the boy Roger Alston, and intensely interested in watching a furious -battle between two lines of ants, black and red, who had their homes -somewhere in the stonework. For a long while the issue of the battle -remained doubtful, victory inclining, if anything, to the side of the -thin red line, when suddenly, from the entrance to the nest of the -black ants, there emerged a battalion of giants—great fellows, at least -six times the size of the others—who fell upon the red ants and routed -them, taking many prisoners. Then followed the most curious spectacle, -namely, the deliberate execution of the captive red ants, by having -their heads bitten off by the great black soldiers. Jeremy and Roger -knew what was coming very well, for these battles were of frequent -occurrence, and the casualties among the red ants simply frightful. On -this occasion they determined to save the prisoners, which was effected -by dipping a match in some of the nicotine at the bottom of a pipe, and -placing it in front of the black giants. The ferocious insects would -thereupon abandon their captives, and, rushing at the strange intruder, -hang on like bulldogs till the poison did its work, and they dropped -off senseless, to recover presently and stagger off home, holding their -legs to their antennas and exhibiting every other symptom of frightful -headache. - -Jeremy was sitting on a chair, oiling the matches, and Roger, kneeling -on the pavement, was employed in beguiling the giants into biting them, -when suddenly they heard the sound of galloping horses and the rattle -of wheels. The lad, lowering his head still more, looked out towards -the market-square through a gap between the willow-stems. - -“Hurrah, Mr. Jones,” he said, “here comes the mail!” - -Next minute, amid loud blasts from the bugle, and enveloped in a cloud -of dust, the heavy cart, to the sides and seats of which the begrimed -and worn-out passengers were clinging like drowning men to straws, came -rattling along as fast as the six grays reserved for the last stage -could gallop, and vanished towards the post-office. - -“There’s the mail, Ernest,” hallooed Jeremy; “she will bring the -English letters.” - -Ernest nodded, turned a little pale, and nervously knocked out his -pipe. No wonder: that mail-cart carried his destiny, and he knew it. -Presently he walked across the square to the post-office. The letters -were not sorted, and he was the first person there. Very soon one of -his Excellency’s staff came riding down to get the Government House -bag. It was the same gentleman with whom he had sung “Auld lang syne” -so enthusiastically on the day of Jeremy’s encounter with the giant, -and had afterwards been carted home in the wheelbarrow. - -“Hullo, Kershaw, here we are, ‘primos inter omnes,’ ‘primos primi -primores,’ which is it? Come, Kershaw, you are the last from -school—which is it? I don’t believe, you know—ha! ha! ha! What are you -doing down here so soon? Does the ‘expectant swain await the postman’s -knock’? Why, my dear fellow, you look pale; you must be in love or -thirsty. So am I—the latter, not the former. Love, I do abjure thee. -‘Quis separabit,’ who will have a split? I think that the sun can’t be -far from the line. Shall we, my dear Kershaw, _shall_ we take an -observation? Ha! ha! ha!” - -“No, thank you, I never drink anything between meals.” - -“Ah! my boy, a bad habit; give it up before it is too late. Break it -off, my dear Kershaw, and always wet your whistle in the strictest -moderation, or you will die young. What says the poet?— - -‘_He who drinks strong beer, and goes to bed mellow, -Lives as he ought to live, lives as he ought to live, -Lives as he ought to live, and dies a jolly good fellow._’ - - -Byron, I think, is it not? Ha! ha! ha!” - -Just then some others came up, and, somewhat to Ernest’s relief, his -friend turned the light of his kindly countenance to shine elsewhere, -and left him to his thoughts. - -At last the little shutter of the post-office was thrown up, and Ernest -got his own letters, together with those belonging to Mr. Alston and -Jeremy. He turned into the shade of a neighbouring verandah, and -rapidly sorted the pile. There was no letter in Eva’s handwriting. But -there was one in that of her sister Florence. Ernest knew the writing -well; there was no mistaking its peculiar upright, powerful-looking -characters. This he opened hurriedly. Enclosed in the letter was a -note, which was in the writing he had expected to see. He rapidly -unfolded it, and, as he did so, a flash of fear passed through his -brain. - -“Why did she write in this way?” - -The note could not have been a long one, for in another minute it was -lying on the ground, and Ernest, pale-faced and with catching breath, -was clinging to the verandah post with both hands to save himself from -falling. In a few seconds he recovered, and, picking up the note, -walked quickly across the square towards his house. Halfway across he -was overtaken by his friend on the Staff cantering gaily along on a -particularly wooden-looking pony, from the sides of which his legs -projected widely, and waving in one hand the Colonial Office bag -addressed to the administrator of the Government. - -“Hullo, my abstemious friend!” he hallooed, as he pulled up the wooden -pony with a jerk that sent each of its stiff legs sprawling in a -different direction. “Was patience rewarded? Is Chloe over the water -kind? If not, take my advice, and don’t trouble your head about her. -_Quant on n’a pas ce qu’on aime,_ the wise man _aimes ce qu’il a._ -Kershaw, I have conceived a great affection for you, and I will let you -into a secret. Come with me this afternoon, and I will introduce you to -two charming specimens of indigenous beauty. Like roses they bloom upon -the veldt, and waste their sweetness on the desert air. ‘Mater pulchra, -puella pulcherrima,’ as Virgil says. I, as befits my years, will attach -myself to the mater, for you sweet youth shall be reserved the puella. -Ha! ha! ha! “And he brought the despatch-bag down with a sounding whack -between the ears of the wooden pony, with the result that he was nearly -sent flying into the sluit, being landed by a sudden plunge well on to -the animal’s crupper. - -“Woho, Bucephalus, woho! or your mealies shall be cut off.” - -Just then he for the first time caught sight of the face of his -companion, who was plodding along in silence by his side. - -“Hullo! what’s up, Kershaw?” he said, in an altered tone; “you don’t -look well. Nothing wrong, I hope?” - -“Nothing, nothing,” answered Ernest, quietly; “that is, I have got some -bad news, that is all. Nothing to speak of, nothing.” - -“My dear fellow, I am so sorry, and I have been troubling you with my -nonsense. Forgive me. There, you wish to be alone. Good-bye.” - -A few seconds later, Mr. Alston and Jeremy, from their point of vantage -on the verandah, saw Ernest coming with swift strides up the -garden-path. His face was drawn with pain, and there was a fleck of -blood upon his lip. He passed them without a word, and, entering the -house, slammed the door of his own room. Mr. Alston and Jeremy looked -at one another. - -“What’s up?” said the laconic Jeremy. - -Mr. Alston thought a while before he answered, as was his fashion. - -“Something gone wrong with ‘the ideal,’ I should say,” he said at -length; “that is the way of ideals.” - -“Shall we go and see?” said Jeremy, uneasily. - -“No, give him a minute or two to pull himself together. Lots of time -for consolation afterwards.” - -Meanwhile Ernest, having got into his room, sat down upon the bed, and -again read the note which was enclosed in Florence’s letter. Then he -folded it up and put it down, slowly and methodically. Next he opened -the other letter, which he had not yet looked at, and read that too. -After he had done it he threw himself face downwards on the pillow, and -thought a while. Presently he arose, and, going to the other side of -the room, took down a revolver case which hung to a nail, and drew out -a revolver, which was loaded. Returning, he again sat down upon the -bed, and cocked it. So he remained for a minute or two, and then slowly -lifted the pistol towards his head. At that moment he heard footsteps -approaching, and, with a quick movement, threw the weapon under the -bed. As he did so Mr. Alston and Jeremy entered. - -[Illustration: “He slowly lifted the pistol towards his head.”] - -“Any letters, Ernest?” asked the former. - -“Letters! O yes, I beg your pardon; here they are;” and he took a -packet from the pocket of his white coat, and handed them to him. - -Mr. Alston took them, looking all the while fixedly at Ernest, who -avoided his glance. - -“What is the matter, my boy?” he said kindly, at last; “nothing wrong, -I hope?” - -Ernest looked at him blankly. - -“What is it, old chap?” said Jeremy, seating himself on the bed beside -him, and laying his hand on his arm. - -Then Ernest broke out into a paroxysm of grief painful to behold. -Fortunately for all concerned, it was brief. Had it lasted much longer, -something must have given way. Suddenly his mood changed, and he grew -hard and bitter. - -“Nothing, my dear fellows, nothing,” he said; “that is, only the sequel -to a pretty little idyl. You may remember a letter I wrote—to a -woman—some months back. There, you both of you know the story. Now you -shall hear the answer, or, to be more correct, the answers. - -“That—woman has a sister. Both she and her sister have written to me. -My—her sister’s letter is the longest. We will take it first. I think -that we may skip the first page, there is nothing particular in it, and -I do not wish to—waste your time. Now listen: - -“‘By the way, I have a piece of news for you which will interest you, -and which you will, I am sure, be glad to hear; for, of course, you -will have by this time got over any little _tendresse_ you may have had -in that direction. Eva’ (that is the woman to whom I wrote, and to whom -I thought I was engaged) ‘is going to be married to a Mr. Plowden, a -gentleman who has been acting as _locum tenens_ for Mr. Halford.’” Here -Jeremy sprang up, and swore a great oath. Ernest motioned him down, and -went on: “‘I say I am certain that you will be glad to hear this, -because the match is in every respect a satisfactory one, and will, I -am sure, bring dear Eva happiness. Mr. Plowden is well off, and, of -course, a clergyman—two great guarantees for the success of their -matrimonial venture. Eva tells me that she had a letter from you last -mail’ (the letter I read you, gentlemen), ‘and asks me to thank you -for it. If she can find time, she will send you a line shortly; but, as -you will understand, she has her hands very full just at present. The -wedding is to take place at Kesterwick Church on the 17th of May’ (that -is to-morrow, gentlemen), ‘and, if this letter reaches you in time, I -am sure you will think of us all on that day. It will be very quiet -owing to our dear aunt’s death being still so comparatively recent. -Indeed, the engagement has, in obedience to Mr. Plowden’s wishes—for he -is very retiring—been kept quite secret, and you are absolutely the -first person to whom it has been announced. I hope that you will feel -duly flattered, sir. We are very busy about the trousseau, and just now -the burning question is, of what colour the dress in which Eva is to go -away in after the wedding shall be. Eva and I are all for gray. Mr. -Plowden is for olive-green, and, as is natural under the circumstances, -I expect that he will carry the day. They are together in the -drawing-room settling it now. You always admired Eva (rather warmly -once; do you remember how cut up you both were when you went away? Alas -for the fickleness of human nature!); you should see her now. Her -happiness makes her look lovely—but I hear her calling me. No doubt -they have settled the momentous question. Good-bye. I am not clever at -writing, but I hope that my news will make up for my want of -skill.—Always yours, - -“‘Florence Ceswick.’ - - -Now for the enclosure,” said Ernest: - -“‘Dear Ernest,—I got your letter. Florence will tell you what there is -to tell. I am going to be married. Think what you will of me; I cannot -help myself. Believe me, this has cost me great suffering; but my duty -seems clear. I hope that you will forget me, Ernest, as henceforth it -will be my duty to forget you. Good-bye, my dear Ernest; O, good-bye!’” - ‘E.’” - - - - -“Humph!” murmured Mr. Alston beneath his breath. “As I thought—clay, -and damned bad clay, too!” - -Slowly Ernest tore the letter into small fragments, threw them down, -and stamped upon them with his foot as though they were a living thing. - -“I wish that I had shaken the life out of that devil of a parson!” -groaned Jeremy, who was in his way as much affected by the news as his -friend. - -“Curse you!” said Ernest, turning on him fiercely; “why didn’t you stop -where you were and look after her, instead of coming humbugging after -me?” - -Jeremy only groaned humbly by way of answer. Mr. Alston, as was his way -when perplexed, filled his pipe and lit it. Ernest paced swiftly up and -down the little room, the white walls of which he had decorated with -pictures cut from illustrated papers, Christmas cards, and photographs. -Over the head of the bed was a photograph of Eva herself, which he had -framed in some beautiful native wood. He reached it down. - -“Look,” he said, “that is the lady herself. Handsome, isn’t she, and -pleasant to look on? Who would have thought that she was such a devil? -Tells me to forget her, and talks about ‘her duty’! Women love a little -joke!” - -He hurled the photograph on to the floor, and treated it as he had -treated the letter, grinding it to pieces with his heel. - -“They say,” he went on, “that a man’s curses are sometimes heard -wherever it is they arrange these pleasant surprises for us. Now, you -fellows bear witness to what I say, and watch that woman’s life. I -curse her before God and man! May she lay down her head in sorrow night -by night and year by year! May her——” - -“Stop, Ernest,” said Mr. Alston, with a shrug; “you might be taken at -your word, and you wouldn’t like that, you know. Besides, it is -cowardly to go on cursing at a woman.” - -Ernest paused, standing for a moment with his clenched fist still -raised above his head, his pale lips quivering with intense excitement, -and his dark eyes flashing and blazing like stars. - -“You are right,” he said, dropping his fist on to the table. “It is -with the man that I have to deal.” - -“What man?” - -“This Plowden. I fear that I shall disturb his honeymoon.” - -“What do you mean?” - -“I mean that I am going to kill him, or he is going to kill me; it does -not matter which.” - -“Why, what quarrel have you with the man? Of course he looked after -himself. You could not expect him to consider your interests, could -you?” - -“If he had cut me out fairly, I should not have a word to say. Every -man for himself in this pleasant world. But, mark my words, this parson -and Florence have forced Eva into this unholy business, and I will have -his life in payment. If you don’t believe me, ask Jeremy. He saw -something of the game before he left.” - -“Look here, Kershaw, the man’s a parson. He will take shelter behind -his cloth; he won’t fight. What shall you do then?” - -“I shall shoot him,” was the cool reply. - -“Ernest, you are mad; it won’t do. You shall not go, and that is all -about it. You shall not ruin yourself over this woman, who is not fit -to black an honest man’s shoes.” - -“Shall not! shall not! Alston, you use strong language. Who will -prevent me?” - -“I will prevent you,” he answered, sternly. “I am your superior -officer, and the corps you belong to is not disbanded. If you try to -leave this place you shall be arrested as a deserter. Now don’t be a -fool, lad; you have killed one man, and got out of the mess. If you -kill another you will not get out of it. Besides, what will the -satisfaction be? If you want revenge, be patient. It will come. I have -seen something of life; at least, I am old enough to be your father, -and I know that you think me a cynic because I laugh at your -‘high-falutin’ about women. How justly I warned you, you see now. But, -cynic or not, I believe in the God above us, and I believe, too, that -there is a rough justice in this world. It is in the world principally -that people expiate the sins of the world; and if this marriage is such -a wicked thing as you think, it will bring its own trouble with it, -without any help from you. Time will avenge you. Everything comes to -him who can wait.” - -Ernest’s eyes glittered coldly as he answered: “I cannot wait. I am a -ruined man already; all my life is laid waste. I wish to die, but I -wish to kill him before I die.” - -“So sure as my name is Alston you shall not go!” - -“So sure as my name is Kershaw I _will_ go!” - -For a moment the two men faced one another; it would have been hard to -say which looked the most determined. Then Mr. Alston turned and left -the room and the house. On the verandah he paused and considered for a -moment. - -“The boy means business,” he thought to himself. “He will try and bolt. -How can I stop him? Ah, I have it!” And he set off briskly towards -Government House, saying aloud as he went, “I love that lad too well to -let him destroy himself over a jilt.” - - - - -CHAPTER XII. -ERNEST RUNS AWAY - - -When Alston left the room, Ernest sat down on the bed again. - -“I am not going to be domineered over by Alston,” he said excitedly; -“he presumes upon his friendship.” - -Jeremy came and sat beside him, and took hold of his arm. - -“My dear fellow, don’t talk like that. You know he means kindly by you. -You are not yourself just yet. By-and-by you will see things in a -different light.” - -“Not myself, indeed! Would you be yourself, I wonder, if you knew that -the woman who had pinned all your soul to her bosom, as though it were -a ribbon, was going to marry another man to-morrow?” - -“Old fellow, you forget, though I can’t talk of it in as pretty words -as you can, I loved her too. I could bear to give her up to you, -especially as she didn’t care a brass farthing about me; but when I -think about this other fellow, with his cold gray eye and that mark on -his confounded forehead—ah, Ernest, it makes me sick!” - -And they sat on the bed together and groaned in chorus, looking, to -tell the truth, rather absurd. - -“I tell you what it is, Jeremy,” said Ernest, when he had finished -groaning at the vision of his successful rival as painted by Jeremy; -“you are a good fellow, and I am a selfish beast. Here have I been -kicking up all this devil’s delight, and you haven’t said a word. You -are a more decent chap than I am, Jeremy, by a long chalk. And I -daresay you are as fond of her as I am. No, I don’t think you can be -that, though.” - -“My dear fellow, there is no parallel between our cases. I never -expected to marry her. You did, and had every right to do so. Besides, -we are differently made. You feel things three times as much as I do.” - -Ernest laughed bitterly. - -“I don’t think that I shall ever feel anything again,” he said. “My -capacities for suffering will be pretty nearly used up. O, what a -sublime fool is the man who gives all his life and heart to one woman! -No man would have done it; but what could you expect of a couple of -boys like we were? That is why women like boys: it is so easy to take -them in—like puppies going to be drowned, in love and faith they lick -the hand that will destroy them. It must be amusing—to the destroyers. -By Jove, Alston was right about his ideals! Do you know, I am beginning -to see all these things in quite a different light. I used to believe -in women, Jeremy—actually I used to believe in them. I thought they -were better than we are,” and he laughed hysterically. “Well, we buy -our experience; I sha’n’t make the mistake again.” - -“Come, come, Ernest, don’t go on talking like that. You have got a blow -as bad as death, and the only thing to do is to meet it as you would -meet death—in silence. You will not go after that fellow, will you? It -will only make things worse, you see. You won’t have time to kill him -before he marries her, and it really would not be worth while getting -hanged about it when the mischief is done. There is literally nothing -to be done except grin and bear it. We won’t go back to England at all, -but right up to the Zambesi, and hunt elephants; and as things have -turned out, if you should get knocked on the head, why, you won’t so -much mind it, you know.” - -Ernest made no answer to this consolatory address, and Jeremy left him -alone, thinking that he had convinced him. But the Ernest of midday was -a very different man from the Ernest of the morning, directing the -erection of “parasols” over melons. The cruel news that the mail had -brought him, and which from force of association caused him for years -afterwards to hate the sight of a letter, had, figuratively speaking, -destroyed him. He could never recover from it, though he would -certainly survive it. Sharp indeed must be the grief which kills. But -all the bloom and beauty had gone from his life; the gentle faith which -he had placed in women was gone (for so narrowminded are we all, that -we cannot help judging a class by our salient experiences of -individuals), and, from that day forwards, for many years, he was -handed over to a long-drawn-out pain, which never quite ceased, though -it frequently culminated in paroxysms, and to which death itself would -have been almost preferable. - -But as yet he did not realise all these things; what he did realise was -an intense and savage thirst for revenge—so intense, indeed, that he -felt as though he must put himself in a way to gratify it, or his brain -would go. To-morrow, he thought, was to see the final act of his -betrayal. To-day was the eve of her marriage, and he as powerless to -avert it as a child. O, great God! And yet through it all he knew she -loved him. - -Ernest, like many other pleasant, kindly-tempered men, if once stung -into action by the sense of overpowering wrong, was extremely -dangerous. Ill indeed would it have fared with Mr. Plowden if he could -have come across him at that moment. And he honestly meant that it -should fare ill with that reverend gentleman. So much did he mean it, -that before he left his room he wrote his resignation of membership of -the volunteer corps to which he belonged, and took it up to the -Government office. Then, remembering that the Potchefstroom post-cart -left Pretoria at dawn on the following morning, he made his way to the -office, and ascertained that there were no passengers booked to leave -by it. But he did not take a place; he was too clever to do that. -Leaving the office, he went to the bank, and drew one hundred and fifty -pounds in gold. Then he went home again. Here he found a Kafir -messenger, dressed in the Government white uniform, waiting for him -with an official letter. - -The letter acknowledged receipt of his resignation, but “regretted -that, in the present unsettled state of affairs, his Excellency was, in -the interest of the public service, unable to dispense with his -services.” - -Ernest dismissed the messenger, and tore the letter across. If the -Government could not dispense with him, he would dispense with the -Government. His aim was to go to Potchefstroom, and thence to the -Diamond Fields. Once there, he could take the post-cart to Cape Town, -where he would meet the English mail steamer, and in one month from the -present date be once more in England. - -That evening he dined with Mr. Alston, Jeremy, and Roger as usual, and -no allusion was made to the events of the morning. About eleven o’clock -he went to bed, but not to sleep. The post-cart left at four. At three -he rose very quietly, and put a few things into a leather saddle-bag, -extracted his revolver from under the bed where he had thrown it when, -in the first burst of his agony, he had been interrupted in his -contemplated act of self destruction, and buckled it round his waist. -Then he slipped out through the window of his room, crept stealthily -down the garden-path, and struck out for the Potchefstroom road. But, -silently and secretly as he went, there went behind him one more silent -and secret than he—one to whose race, through long generations of -tracking foes and wild beasts, silence and secrecy had become an -instinct. It was the Hottentot boy, Aasvögel. - -The Hottentot followed him in the dim light, never more than fifty -paces behind him, sometimes not more than ten, and yet totally -invisible. Now he was behind a bush or a tuft of rank grass; now he was -running down a ditch; and now again creeping over the open on his belly -like a two-legged snake. As soon as Ernest got out of the town, and -began to loiter along the Potchefstroom road, the Hottentot halted, -uttering to himself a guttural expression of satisfaction. Then, -watching his opportunity, he turned and ran swiftly back to Pretoria. -In ten minutes he was at Ernest’s house. - -In front of the door were five horses, three with white riders, two -being held by Kafirs. On the verandah, as usual smoking, was Mr. -Alston, and with him Jeremy, the latter armed and spurred. - -The Hottentot made his report and vanished. - -Mr. Alston turned and addressed Jeremy in the tone of one giving an -order. - -“Now go,” he said at last, handing him a paper; and Jeremy went, and, -mounting one of the led horses, a powerful cream-coloured animal with a -snow-white mane and tail, galloped off into the twilight, followed by -the three white men. - -Meanwhile Ernest walked quietly along the road. Once he paused, -thinking that he heard the sound of galloping horses, half a mile or so -to the left. It passed, and he went on again. Presently the mist began -to lift, and the glorious sun came up; then came a rumble of wheels -running along the silent road, and the post-cart with six fresh horses -was upon him. He halted, and held up his hand to the native driver. The -man knew him, and stopped the team at once. - -“I am going with you to Potchefstroom, Apollo,” he said. - -“All right, sar; plenty of room inside, sar. No passenger this trip, -sar, and damn good job too.” - -Ernest got up, and off they went. He was safe now. There was no -telegraph to Potchefstroom, and nothing could catch the post-cart if it -had an hour’s start. - -A mile farther on there was a hill, up which the unlovely Apollo walked -his horses. At the top of the hill was a clump of mimosa-bush, out of -which, to the intense astonishment of both Ernest and Apollo, there -emerged four mounted men with a led horse. One of these men was Jeremy; -it was impossible to mistake his powerful form, sitting on his horse -with the grip of a centaur. - -They rode up to the post-cart in silence. Jeremy motioned to Apollo to -pull up. He obeyed, and one of the men dismounted and seized the -horse’s head. - -“Tricked, by Heaven!” said Ernest. - -“You must come back with me, Ernest,” said Jeremy quietly. “I have a -warrant for your arrest as a deserter, signed by the Governor.” - -“And if I refuse?” - -“Then my orders are to take you back.” - -Ernest drew his revolver. - -“This is a trick,” he said, “and I shall not go back.” - -“Then I must take you,” was the reply; and Jeremy coolly dismounted. - -Ernest’s eyes flashed dangerously, and he lifted the pistol. - -“O yes, you can shoot me if you like; but if you do, the others will -take you;” and he continued to walk towards him. - -Ernest cocked his revolver and pointed it. - -“At your peril!” he said. - -“So be it,” said Jeremy, and he walked up to the cart. - -Ernest dropped his weapon. - -“It is mean of you, Jeremy,” he said. “You know I can’t fire at you.” - -“Of course you can’t, old fellow. Come, skip out of that! you are -keeping the mail. I have a horse ready for you, a slow one; you won’t -be able to run away on him.” - -Ernest obeyed, feeling rather small, and in half an hour was back at -his own house. - -Mr. Alston was waiting for him. - -“Good-morning, Ernest,” he said, cheerfully. “Went out driving and come -back riding, eh?” Ernest looked at him, and his brown cheek flushed. - -“You have played me a dirty trick,” he said. - -“Look here, my boy,” answered Mr. Alston, sternly, “I am slow at making -a friend; but when once I take his hand I hold it till one of the two -grows cold. I should have been no true friend to you if I had let you -go on this fool’s errand, this wicked errand. Will you give me your -word that you will not attempt to escape, or must I put you under -arrest?” - -“I give you my word,” answered Ernest, humbled; “and I ask your -forgiveness.” - -Thus it was that, for the first time in his life, Ernest tried to run -away. - -That morning Jeremy, missing Ernest, went into his room to see what he -was doing. The room was shuttered to keep out the glare of the sun: but -when he got used to the light he discovered Ernest sitting at the -table, and staring straight before him with a wild look in his eyes. - -“Come in, old fellow, come in,” he called out, with bitter jocularity, -“and assist at this happy ceremony. Rather dark, isn’t it? but lovers -like the dark. Look!” he went on, pointing to his watch, which lay upon -the table before him, “by English time it is now about twenty minutes -past eleven. They are being married now, Jeremy, my boy, I can feel it. -By Heaven, I have only to shut my eyes and I can _see_ it!” - -“Come, come, Ernest,” said Jeremy, “don’t go on like that. You are not -yourself, man.” - -He laughed, and answered: - -“I am sure I wish I wasn’t, I tell you I can see it all. I can see -Kesterwick Church full of people, and before the altar, in her white -dress, is Eva; but her face is whiter than her dress, Jeremy, and her -eyes are very much afraid. And there is Florence, with her dark smile, -and your friend Mr. Plowden, too, with his cold eyes and the cross upon -his forehead. Oh, I assure you, I can see them all. It is a pretty -wedding, very. There, it is over now, and I think I will go away before -the kissing.” - -“O, hang it all, Ernest, wake up!” said Jeremy, shaking him by the -shoulder. “You will drive yourself mad if you give your imagination so -much rein.” - -“Wake up, my boy! I feel more inclined to sleep. Have some grog. Won’t -you? Well, I will.” - -He rose and went to the mantelpiece, on which stood a square bottle of -hollands and a tumbler. Rapidly filling the tumbler with raw spirit, he -drank it as fast as the contractions of his throat would allow. He -filled it again, and drank that too. Then he fell insensible upon the -bed. - -It was a strange scene, and in some ways a coarse one, but yet not -without a pathos of its own. - -“Ernest,” said Mr. Alston, three weeks later, “you are strong enough to -travel now; what do you say to six months or a year among the -elephants? The oxen are in first-rate condition, and we ought to get to -our ground in six or seven weeks.” - -Ernest, who was lying back in a low cane-chair, looking very thin and -pale, thought for a moment before he answered: - -“All right, I’m your man; only let’s get off soon. I am tired of this -place, and want something to think about.” - -“You have given up the idea of returning to England?” - -“Yes, quite.” - -“And what do you say, Jeremy?” - -“Where Ernest goes, there will I go also. Besides, to shoot an elephant -is the one ambition of my life.” - -“Good! then we will consider that settled. We shall want to pick up -another eight-bore; but I know of one a fellow wants to sell, a beauty, -by Riley. I will begin to make arrangements at once.” - - - - -CHAPTER XIII. -MR. PLOWDEN ASSERTS HIS RIGHTS - - -When last we saw Eva she had just become privately engaged to the -Reverend James Plowden. But the marriage was not to take place till the -following spring, and the following spring was a long way off. Vaguely -she hoped something might occur to prevent it, forgetting that, as a -rule, in real life it is only happy things which accidents occur to -prevent. Rare, indeed, is it that the Plowdens of this world are -prevented from marrying the Evas; Fate has sufficient to do in -thwarting the Ernests. And, meanwhile, her position was not altogether -unendurable, for she had made a bargain with her lover that the usual -amenities of courtship were to be dispensed with. There were to be no -embracings or other tender passages; she was not even to be forced to -call him James. “James!” how she detested the name! Thus did the -wretched girl try to put off the evil day, much as the ostrich is -supposed to hide her head in a bush and indulge in dreams of fancied -security. Mr. Plowden did not object; he was too wary a hunter to do -so. While his stately prey was there with her head in the thickest of -the bush he was sure of her. She would never wake from her foolish -dreams till the ripe moment came to deliver the fatal blow, and all -would be over. But if, on the contrary, he startled her now, she might -take flight more swiftly than he could follow, and leave him alone in -the desert. - -So when Eva made her little stipulations he acquiesced in them, after -only just so much hesitation as he thought would seem lover-like. -“Life, Eva,” he said, sententiously, “is a compromise. I yield to your -wishes.” But in his heart he thought that a time would come when she -would have to yield to his, and his cold eye gleamed. Eva saw the -gleam, and shuddered prophetically. - -The Reverend Mr. Plowden did not suffer much distress at the coldness -with which he was treated. He knew that his day would come, and was -content to wait for it like a wise man. He was not in love with Eva. A -nature like his is scarcely capable of any such feeling as that, for -instance, which Eva and Ernest bore to each other. True love, crowned -with immortality, veils his shining face from such men as Mr. Plowden. -He was fascinated by her beauty, that was all. But his cunning was of a -superior order, and he was quite content to wait. So he contrived to -extract a letter from Eva, in which she talked of “our engagement,” and -alluded to “our forthcoming marriage,” and waited. - -And thus the time went on all too quickly for Eva. She was quietly -miserable, but she was not acutely unhappy. That was yet to come, with -other evil things. Christmas came and went, the spring came too, and -with the daffodils and violets came Ernest’s letter. - -Eva was down the first one morning, and was engaged in making the tea -in the Cottage dining-room, when that modern minister to the decrees of -Fate, the postman, brought the letter. She recognised the writing in a -moment, and the tea-caddy fell with a crash on to the floor. Seizing -the sealed letter, she tore it open and read it swiftly. O, what a wave -of love surged up in her heart as she read! Pressing the senseless -paper to her lips, she kissed it again and again. - -“O Ernest!” she murmured; “O my love, my darling!” - -Just then Florence came down, looking cool and composed, and giving -that idea of quiet strength which is the natural attribute of some -women. - -Eva pushed the letter into her bosom. - -“What is the matter, Eva?” said Florence, quietly, noting her flushed -face, “and why have you upset the tea?” - -“Matter!” she answered, laughing happily—she had not laughed so for -months; “O, nothing—I have heard from Ernest, that is all.” - -“Indeed!” answered her sister, with a troubled smile on her dark face; -“and what has our runaway to say for himself?” - -“Say! O, he has a great deal to say, and I have something to say too. I -am going to marry him.” - -“Indeed! And Mr. Plowden?” - -Eva turned pale. - -“Mr. Plowden! I have done with Mr. Plowden.” - -“Indeed!” said Florence, again; “really this is quite romantic. But -please pick up that tea. Whoever you marry, let us have some breakfast -in the meanwhile. Excuse me for one moment, I have forgotten my -handkerchief.” - -Eva did as she was bid, and made the tea after a fashion. - -Meanwhile Florence went to her room and scribbled a note, enclosed it -in an envelope, and rang the bell. - -The servant answered. - -“Tell John to take this to Mr. Plowden’s lodgings at once; and if he -should be out, to follow him till he finds him, and deliver it.” - -“Yes, miss.” - -Ten minutes later Mr. Plowden got the following note: - -“Come here at once. Eva has heard from Ernest Kershaw, and announces -her intention of throwing you over and marrying him. Be prepared for a -struggle, but do not show that you have heard from me. You must find -means to hold your own. Burn this.” - -Mr. Plowden whistled as he laid the paper down. Going to his desk, he -unlocked it, and extracted the letter he had received from Eva, in -which she acknowledged her engagement to him, and then, seizing his -hat, walked swiftly towards the Cottage. - -Meanwhile Florence made her way downstairs again, saying to herself as -she went, “An unlucky chance. If I had seen the letter first, I would -have burned it. But we shall win yet. She has not the stamina to stand -out against that brute.” - -As soon as she reached the dining-room Eva began to say something more -about her letter, but her sister stopped her quickly. - -“Let me have my breakfast in peace, Eva. We will talk of the letter -afterwards. He does not interest me, your Ernest, and it takes away my -appetite to talk business at meals.” - -Eva ceased, and sat silent; breakfast had no charms for her that -morning. - -Presently there was a knock at the door, and Mr. Plowden entered with a -smile of forced gaiety on his face. - -“How do you do, Florence?” he said; “how do you do, dear Eva? You see I -have come to see you early this morning. I want a little refreshment to -enable me to get through my day’s duty. The early suitor has come to -pick up the worm of his affections,” and he laughed at his joke. - -Florence shuddered at the simile, and thought to herself that there was -a fair chance of the affectionate worm disagreeing with the early -suitor. - -Eva said nothing. She sat quite still and pale. - -“Why, what is the matter with you both? Have you seen a ghost?” - -“Not exactly; but I think that Eva has received a message from the -dead,” said Florence, with a nervous laugh. - -Eva rose. “I think, Mr. Plowden,” she said, “that I had better be frank -with you at once. I ask you to listen to me for a few moments.” - -“Am I not always at your service, dear Eva?” - -“I wish,” began Eva, and broke down—“I wish,” she went on again, “to -appeal to your generosity and to your feelings as a gentleman.” - -Florence smiled. - -Mr. Plowden bowed with mock humility and smiled too—a very ugly smile. - -“You are aware that, before I became engaged to you, I had had a -previous—affair.” - -“With the boy who committed a murder,” put in Mr. Plowden. - -“With a gentleman who had the misfortune to kill a man in a duel,” -explained Eva. - -“The Church and the law call it murder.” - -“Excuse me, Mr. Plowden, we are dealing neither with the Church nor the -law; we are dealing with the thing as it is called among gentlemen and -ladies.” - -“Go on,” said Mr. Plowden. - -“Well, misunderstandings, which I need not now enter into, arose with -reference to that affair, though, as I told you, I loved the man. -To-day I have heard from him, and his letter puts everything straight -in my mind, and I see how wrong and unjust has been my behaviour to -him, and I know that I love him more than ever.” - -“Curse the fellow’s impudence!” said the clergyman, furiously; “if he -were here, I would give him a bit of my mind!” - -Eva’s spirit rose, and she turned on him with flashing eyes, looking -like a queen in her imperial beauty. - -“If he were here, Mr. Plowden, you would not dare to look him in the -face. Men like you only take advantage of the absent.” - -The clergyman ground his teeth. He felt his furious temper rising and -did not dare to answer, though he was a bold man, in face of a woman. -He feared lest it should get beyond him; but beneath his breath he -muttered, “You shall pay for that, my lady!” - -“Under these circumstances,” went on Eva, “I appeal to you as a -gentleman to release me from an engagement into which, as you know, I -have been drawn more by force of circumstances than by my own wish. -Surely, it is not necessary for me to say any more.” - -Mr. Plowden rose and came and stood quite close to her, so that his -face was within a few inches of her eyes. - -“Eva,” he said, “I am not going to be trifled with like this. You have -promised to marry me, and I shall keep you to your promise. You laid -yourself out to win my affection, the affection of an honest man.” - -Again Florence smiled, and Eva made a faint motion of dissent. - -“Yes, but you did, you encouraged me. It is very well for you to deny -it now, when it suits your purpose, but you did, and you know it, and -your sister there knows it.” - -Florence bowed her head in assent. - -“And now you wish, in order to gratify an unlawful passion for a -shedder of blood—you wish to throw me over, to trample upon my holiest -feelings, and to rob me of the prize which I have won. No, Eva, I will -not release you.” - -“Surely, surely, Mr. Plowden,” said Eva, faintly, for she was a gentle -creature, and the man’s violence overwhelmed her, “you will not force -me into a marriage which I tell you is repugnant to me? I appeal to -your generosity to release me. You can never oblige me to marry you -when I tell you that I do not love you, and that my whole heart is -given to another man.” - -Mr. Plowden saw that his violence was doing its work, and determined to -follow it up. He raised his voice till it was almost a shout. - -“Yes,” he said, “I will; I will not submit to such wickedness. Love! -that will come. I am quite willing to take my chance of it. No, I tell -you fairly that I will not let you off; and if you try to avoid -fulfilling your engagement to me I will do more: I will proclaim you -all over the country as a jilt; I will bring an action for breach of -promise of marriage against you—perhaps you did not know that men can -do that as well as women—and cover your name with disgrace! Look, I -have your written promise of marriage;” and he produced her letter. - -Eva turned to her sister. - -“Florence,” she said, “cannot you say a word to help me? I am -overwhelmed.” - -“I wish I could, Eva dear,” answered her sister, kindly; “but how can -I? What Mr. Plowden says is just and right. You are engaged to him, and -are in honour bound to marry him. O Eva, do not bring trouble and -disgrace upon us all by your obstinacy! You owe something to your name -as well as to yourself, and something to me too. I am sure that Mr. -Plowden will be willing to forget all about this if you will undertake -never to allude to it again.” - -“O yes, certainly, Miss Florence. I am not revengeful; I only want my -rights.” - -Eva looked faintly from one to the other; her head sank, and great -black rings painted themselves beneath her eyes. The lily was broken at -last. - -“You are very cruel,” she said, slowly; “but I suppose it must be as -you wish. Pray God I may die first, that is all!” and she put her hands -to her head and stumbled from the room, leaving the two conspirators -facing each other. - -“Come, we got over that capitally,” said Mr. Plowden, rubbing his -hands. “There is nothing like taking the high hand with a woman. Ladies -must sometimes be taught that a gentleman has rights as well as -themselves.” - -Florence turned on him with bitter scorn. - -“_Gentlemen!_ Mr. Plowden, why is the word so often on your lips? -Surely, after the part you have just played, you do not presume to rank -yourself among _gentlemen?_ Listen! it suits my purposes that you -should marry Eva, and you shall marry her; but I will not stoop to play -the hypocrite with a man like you. You talk of yourself as a gentleman, -and do not scruple to force an innocent girl into a wicked marriage, -and to crush her spirit with your cunning cruelty. A _gentleman_ -forsooth!—a satyr, a devil in disguise!” - -“I am only asserting my rights,” he said, furiously; “and whatever I -have done, you have done more.” - -“Do not try your violence on me, Mr. Plowden; it will not do. I am not -made of the same stuff as your victim. Lower your voice, or leave the -house and do not enter it again.” - -Mr. Plowden’s heavy under-jaw fell a little; he was terribly afraid of -Florence. - -“Now,” she said, “listen! I do not choose that you should labour under -any mistake. I hold your hand in this business, though to have to do -with you in any way is in itself a defilement,” and she wiped her -delicate fingers on a pocket-handkerchief as she said the word, -“because I have an end of my own to gain. Not a vulgar end like yours, -but a revenge, which shall be almost divine or diabolical, call it -which you will, in its completeness. Perhaps it is a madness, perhaps -it is an inspiration, perhaps it is a fate. Whatever it is, it animates -me body and soul, and I will gratify it, though to do so I have to use -a tool like you. I wished to explain this to you. I wished, too, to -make it clear to you that I consider you contemptible. I have done -both, and I have now the pleasure to wish you good-morning.” - -Mr. Plowden left the house white with fury, and cursing in a manner -remarkable in a clergyman. - -[Illustration: “Mr. Plowden left the house, white with fury.”] - -“If she wasn’t so handsome, hang me if I would not throw the whole -thing up!” he said. - -Needless to say, he did nothing of the sort; he only kept out of -Florence’s way. - - - - -CHAPTER XIV. -THE VIRGIN MARTYR - - -Dorothy, in her note to Ernest that he received by the mail previous to -the one that brought the letters which at a single blow laid the hope -and promise of his life in the dust, it may be remembered, had stated -her intention of going to see Eva in order to plead Ernest’s cause; but -what with one thing and another, her visit was considerably delayed. -Twice she was on the point of going, and twice something occurred to -prevent her. The fact of the matter was, the errand was distasteful, -and she was in no hurry to execute it. She loved Ernest herself, and, -however deep that love might be trampled down, however fast it might be -chained in the dungeons of her secret thoughts, it was still there, a -living thing, an immortal thing. She could tread it down and chain it; -she could not kill it. Its shade would rise and walk in the upper -chambers of her heart, and wring its hands and cry to her, telling what -it suffered in those subterranean places, whispering how bitterly it -envied the bright and happy life which moved in the free air, and had -usurped the love it claimed. It was hard to have to ignore those -pleadings, to disregard those cries for pity, and to say that there was -no hope, that it must always be chained, till time ate away the chains. -It was harder still to have to be one of the actual ministers to the -suffering. Still, she meant to go. Her duty to Ernest was not to be -forsaken because it was a painful duty. - -On two or three occasions she met Eva, but got no opportunity of -speaking to her. Either her sister Florence was with her, or she was -obliged to return immediately. The truth was that, after the scene -described in the last chapter, Eva was subjected to the closest -espionage. At home, Florence watched her as a cat watches a mouse; -abroad, Mr. Plowden seemed to be constantly hovering on her flank, or, -if he was not there, then she became aware of the presence of the -ancient and contemplative mariner who traded in Dutch cheeses. Mr. -Plowden feared lest she should run away, and so cheat him of his prize; -Florence, lest she should confide in Dorothy, or possibly Mr. Cardus, -and, supported by them, find the courage to assert herself and defraud -her of her revenge. So they watched her every movement. - -At last Dorothy made up her mind to wait no longer for opportunities, -but to go and see Eva at her own home. She knew nothing of the Plowden -imbroglio; but it did strike her as curious that no one had said -anything about Ernest. He had written; it was scarcely likely the -letter had miscarried. How was it that Eva had not said anything on the -subject? Little did Dorothy guess that, even as these thoughts were -passing through her mind, a great vessel was steaming out of -Southampton docks, bearing those epistles of final renunciation which -Ernest, very little to his satisfaction, received in due course. - -Full of these reflections, Dorothy found herself one lovely spring -afternoon knocking at the door of the Cottage. Eva was at home, and she -was at once ushered into her presence. She was sitting on a low -chair—the same on which Ernest always pictured her with that confounded -Skye terrier she was so fond of kissing—an open book upon her knee, and -looking out at the little garden and the sea beyond. She looked pale -and thin, Dorothy thought. - -On her visitor’s entrance, Eva rose and kissed her. - -“I am so glad to see you,” she said; “I was feeling lonely.” - -“Lonely!” answered Dorothy, in her straightforward way; “why, I have -been trying to find you alone for the last fortnight, and have never -succeeded.” - -Eva coloured. “One may be lonely with ever so many people round one.” - -Then for a minute or so they talked about the weather; so persistently -did they discuss it, indeed, that the womanly instinct of each told her -that the other was fencing. - -After all, it was Eva who broke the ice first. - -“Have you heard from Ernest lately?” she said, nervously. - -“Yes; I got a note by last mall.” - -“Oh,” said Eva, clasping her hands involuntarily, “what did he say?” - -“Nothing much. But I got a letter by the mail before that, in which he -said a good deal. Among other things, he said he had written to you. -Did you get the letter?” - -Eva coloured to her eyes. “Yes,” she whispered. - -Dorothy rose, and seated herself again on a footstool by Eva’s feet, -and wondered at the trouble in her eyes. How could she be troubled when -she had heard from Ernest—“like that?” - -“What did you answer him, dear?” - -Eva covered her face with her hands. - -“Do not talk about it,” she said; “it is too dreadful to me!” - -“What can you mean? He tells me you are engaged to him.” - -“Yes—that is, no. I was half engaged. Now I am engaged to Mr. Plowden.” - -Dorothy gave a gasp of horrified astonishment. - -“Engaged to that man when you were engaged to Ernest! You must be -joking.” - -“O Dorothy, I am not joking; I wish to Heaven I were. I am engaged to -him. I am to marry him in less than a month. O, pity me, I am -wretched.” - -“You mean to tell me,” said Dorothy rising, “that you are engaged to -Mr. Plowden when you love Ernest?” - -“Yes, oh yes; I cannot help—” - -At that moment the door opened, and Florence entered, attended by Mr. -Plowden. - -Her keen eyes saw at once that something was wrong, and her -intelligence told her what it was. After her bold fashion, she -determined to take the bull by the horns. Unless something were done, -with Dorothy at her back, Eva might prove obdurate after all. - -Advancing, she shook Dorothy cordially by the hand. - -“I see from your face,” she said, “that you have just heard the good -news. Mr. Plowden is so shy that he would not consent to announce it -before; but here he is to receive your congratulations.” - -Mr. Plowden took the cue, and advanced effusively on Dorothy with -outstretched hand. “Yes, Miss Jones, I am sure you will congratulate -me; and I ought to be congratulated. I am the luckiest—” - -Here he broke off. It really was very awkward. His hand remained limply -hanging in the air before Dorothy, but not the slightest sign did that -dignified little lady show of taking it. On the contrary, she drew -herself up to her full height—which was not very tall—and fixing her -steady blue eyes on the clergyman’s shifty orbs, deliberately placed -her right hand behind her back. - -“I do not shake hands with people who play such tricks,” she said, -quietly. - -Mr. Plowden’s hand fell to his side, and he stepped back. He did not -expect such courage in anything so small. Florence, however, sailed in -to the rescue. - -“Really, Dorothy, we do not quite understand.” - -“O yes, I think you do, Florence, or if you do not, then I will -explain. Eva here was engaged to marry Ernest Kershaw. Eva here has -just with her own lips told me that she still loves Ernest, but that -she is obliged to marry—that man;” and she pointed with her little -forefinger at Mr. Plowden, who recoiled another step. “Is not that -true, Eva?” - -Eva bowed her head by way of answer. She still sat in the low chair, -with her hands over her face. - -“Really, Dorothy, I fail to see what right you have to interfere in -this matter,” said Florence. - -“I have the right of common justice, Florence—the right a friend has to -protect the absent. Are you not ashamed of such a wicked plot to wrong -an absent man? Is there no way” (addressing Mr. Plowden) “in which I -can appeal to your feelings, to induce you to free this wretched girl -you have entrapped?” - -“I only ask my own,” said Mr. Plowden, sulkily. - -“For shame! for shame! and you a minister of God’s Word! And you too, -Florence! Oh, now I can read your heart, and see the bad thoughts -looking from your eyes!” - -Florence for a moment was abashed, and turned her face aside. - -“And you, Eva—how can you become a party to such a shameful thing? You, -a good girl, to sell yourself away from dear Ernest to such a man as -that;” and again she pointed contemptuously at Mr. Plowden. - -“Oh, don’t, Dorothy, don’t; it is my duty. You don’t understand.” - -“Yes, Eva, I do understand. I understand that it is your duty to drown -yourself before you do such a thing, I am a woman as well as you, and -though I am not beautiful, I have a heart and a conscience, and I -understand only too well.” - -“You will be lost if you drown yourself—I mean it is very wicked,” said -Mr. Plowden to Eva, suddenly assuming his clerical character as most -likely to be effective. The suggestion alarmed him. He had bargained -for a live Eva. - -“Yes, Mr. Plowden,” went on Dorothy, “you are right: it would be -wicked, but not so wicked as to marry you. God gave us women our lives, -but He put a spirit in our hearts which tells us that we should rather -throw them away than suffer ourselves to be degraded. Oh, Eva, tell me -that you will not do this shameful thing. No, do not whisper to her, -Florence.” - -“Dorothy, Dorothy,” said Eva, rising and wringing her hands, “it is all -useless. Do not break my heart with your cruel words. I must marry him. -I have fallen into the power of people who do not know what mercy is.” - -“Thank you,” said Florence. - -Mr. Plowden scowled darkly. - -“Then I have done;” and Dorothy walked towards the door. Before she -reached it she paused and turned. “One word, and I will trouble you no -more. What do you all expect will come of this wicked marriage?” - -There was no answer. Then Dorothy went. - -But her efforts did not stop there. She made her way straight to Mr. -Cardus’s office. - -“O Reginald,” she said, “I have such dreadful news for you. There, let -me cry a little first, and I will tell you.” - -And she did, telling him the whole story from beginning to end. It was -entirely new to him, and he listened with some astonishment, and with a -feeling of something like indignation against Ernest. He had intended -that young gentleman to fall in love with Dorothy, and behold, he had -fallen in love with Eva. Alas for the perversity of youth! - -“Well,” he said, when she had done, “and what do you wish me to do? It -seems that you have to do with a heartless scheming woman, a clerical -cad, and a beautiful fool. One might deal with the schemer and the -fool, but no power on earth can soften the cad. At least, that is my -experience. Besides, I think the whole thing is much better left alone. -I should be very sorry to see Ernest married to a woman so worthless as -this Eva must be. She is handsome, it is true, and that is about all -she is, as far as I can see. Don’t distress yourself, my dear; he will -get over it, and after he has had his fling out there, and lived down -that duel business, he will come home, and if he is wise, I know where -he will look for consolation.” - -Dorothy tossed her head and coloured. - -“It is not a question of consolation,” she said; “it is a question of -Ernest’s happiness in life.” - -“Don’t alarm yourself, Dorothy; people’s happiness is not so easily -affected. He will forget all about her in a year.” - -“I think that men always talk of each other like that, Reginald,” said -Dorothy, resting her head upon her hands, and looking straight at the -old gentleman. “Each of you likes to think that he has a monopoly of -feeling, and that the rest of his kind are as shallow as a milk-pan. -And yet it was only last night that you were talking to me about my -mother. You told me, you remember, that life had been a worthless thing -to you since she was torn from you, which no success had been able to -render pleasant. You said more: you said that you hoped that the end -was not far off; that you had suffered enough and waited enough; and -that, though you had not seen her face for five-and-twenty years, you -loved her as wildly as you did the day when she first promised to -become your wife.” - -Mr. Cardus had risen, and was looking through the glass door at the -blooming orchids. Dorothy got up, and, following him, laid her hand -upon his shoulder. - -“Reginald,” she said, “think! Ernest is about to be robbed of his wife -under circumstances curiously like those by which you were robbed of -yours. Unless it is prevented, what you have suffered all your life -that he will suffer also. Remember you are of the same blood, and, -allowing for the difference between your ages, of very much the same -temperament too. Think how different life would have been to you if any -one had staved off your disaster, and then I am sure you will do all -you can to stave off his.” - -“Life would have been non-existent for you,” he answered, “for you -would never have been born.” - -“Ah, well,” she said, with a little sigh, “I am sure I should have got -on very well without. I could have spared myself.” - -Mr. Cardus was a keen man, and could see as far into the human heart as -most. - -“Girl,” he said, contracting his white eyebrows and suddenly turning -round upon her, “you love Ernest yourself. I have often suspected it; -now I am sure you do.” - -Dorothy flinched. - -“Yes,” she answered, “I do love him. What then?” - -“And yet you are advocating my interference to secure his marriage with -another woman, a worthless creature who does not know her own mind. You -cannot really care about him.” - -“Care about him!” and she turned her sweet blue eyes upwards. “I love -him with all my heart and soul and strength. I have always loved him; I -always shall love him. I love him so well that I can do my duty to him, -Reginald. It is my duty to strain every nerve to prevent this marriage. -I had rather that my heart should ache than Ernest’s. I implore of you -to help me.” - -“Dorothy, it has always been my dearest wish that you should marry -Ernest. I told him so just before that unhappy duel. I love you both. -All the fibres of my heart that are left alive have wound themselves -around you. Jeremy I could never care for. Indeed, I fear that I used -sometimes to treat the boy harshly. He reminds me so of his father. And -do you know, my dear, I sometimes think that on that point I am not -quite sane. But because you have asked me to do it, and because you -have quoted your dear mother—may peace be with her!—I will do what I -can. This girl Eva is of age, and I will write and offer her a home. -She need fear no persecution here.” - -“You are kind and good, Reginald, and I thank you.” - -“The letter shall go by to-night’s post. But run away now; I see my -friend De Talor coming to speak to me;” and the white eyebrows drew -near together in a way that it would have been unpleasant for the great -De Talor to behold. “That business is drawing towards its end.” - -“O Reginald,” answered Dorothy, shaking her forefinger at him in her -old childish way, “haven’t you given up those ideas yet? They are very -wrong.” - -“Never mind, Dorothy. I shall give them up soon, when I have squared -accounts with De Talor. A year or two more—a stern chase is a long -chase, you know—and the thing will be done, and then I shall become a -good Christian again.” - -The letter was written. It offered Eva a home and protection. - -In due course an answer, signed by Eva herself, came back. It thanked -him for his kindness, and regretted that circumstances and “her sense -of duty” prevented her from accepting the offer. - -Then Dorothy felt that she had done all that in her lay, and gave the -matter up. - - - - -It was about this time that Florence drew another picture. It -represented Eva as Andromeda gazing hopelessly in the dim light of a -ghastly dawn out across a glassy sea; and far away in the oily depths -there was a ripple, and beneath the ripple a form travelling towards -the chained maiden. The form had a human head and cold gray eyes, and -its features were those of Mr. Plowden. - -And so, day by day, Destiny, throned in space, shot her flaming shuttle -from darkness into darkness, and the time passed on, as the time must -pass, till the inevitable end of all things is attained. - -Eva existed and suffered, and that was all she did. She scarcely ate, -or drank, or slept. But still she lived; she was not brave enough to -die, and the chains were riveted too tight round her tender wrists to -let her flee away. Poor nineteenth-century Andromeda! No Perseus shall -come to save you. - -The sun rose and set in his appointed course, the flowers bloomed and -died, children were born, and the allotted portion of mankind passed -onwards to its rest; but no godlike Perseus came flying out of the -golden east. - -Once more the sun rose. The dragon heaved his head above the quiet -waters, and she was lost. By her own act, of her own folly and -weakness, she was undone. Behold her! the wedding is over. The echoes -of the loud mockery of the bells have scarcely died upon the noonday -air, and in her chamber, the chamber of her free and happy maiden-hood, -the virgin martyr stands alone. - -It is done. There lie the sickly scented flowers; there, too, the -bride’s white robe. It is done. Oh, that life were done too, that she -might once press her lips to his and die! - -The door opens, and Florence stands before her, pale, triumphant, -awe-inspiring. - -“I must congratulate you, my dear Eva. You really went through the -ceremony very well; only you looked like a statue.” - -“Florence, why do you come to mock me?” - -“Mock you, Eva, mock you! I come to wish you joy as Mr. Plowden’s wife. -I hope that you will be happy.” - -“Happy! I shall never be happy. I detest him!” - -“You detest him, and you marry him; there must be some mistake.” - -“There is no mistake. O Ernest, my darling!” - -Florence smiled. - -“If Ernest is your darling, why did you not marry Ernest?” - -“How could I marry him when you forced me into this?” - -“Forced you! A free woman of full age cannot be forced. You married Mr. -Plowden of your own will. You might have married Ernest Kershaw if you -chose—he is in many ways a more desirable match than Mr. Plowden—but -you did not choose.” - -“Florence, what do you mean? You always said it was impossible. Is this -all some cruel plot of yours?” - -“Impossible! there is nothing impossible to those who have courage. -Yes,” and she turned upon her sister fiercely, “it _was_ a plot, and -you shall know it, you poor weak fool! _I_ loved Ernest Kershaw, and -_you_ robbed me of him, although you promised to leave him alone; and -so I have revenged myself upon you. I despise you, I tell you; you are -quite contemptible, and yet he could prefer you to me. Well, he has got -his reward. You have deserted him when he was absent and in trouble, -and you have outraged his love and your own. You have fallen very low -indeed, Eva, and presently you will fall lower yet. I know you well. -You will sink, till at last you even lose the sense of your own -humiliation. Don’t you wonder what Ernest must think of you now? There -is Mr. Plowden calling you. Come, it is time for you to be going.” - -Eva listened aghast, and then sank against the wall, sobbing -despairingly. - - - - -CHAPTER XV. -HANS’S CITY OF REST - - -Mr. Alston, Ernest, and Jeremy had very good sport among the elephants, -killing in all nineteen bulls. It was during this expedition that an -incident occurred which in its effect endeared Ernest to Mr. Alston -more than ever. - -The boy Roger, who always went wherever Mr Alston went, was the object -of his father’s most tender solicitude. He believed in the boy as he -believed in little else in the world—for at heart Mr. Alston was a sad -cynic—and to a certain extent the boy justified his belief. He was -quick, intelligent, and plucky, much such a boy as you may pick up by -the dozen out of any English public school, except that his knowledge -of men and manners was more developed, as is usual among young -colonists. At the age of twelve Master Roger Alston knew many things -denied to most children of his age. On the subject of education Mr. -Alston had queer ideas. “The best education for a boy,” he would say, -“is to mix with grown-up gentlemen. If you send him to school, he -learns little except mischief; if you let him live with gentlemen, he -learns, at any rate, to be a gentleman.” - -But whatever Master Roger knew, he did not know much about elephants, -and on this point he was destined to gain some experience. - -One day—it was just after they had got into the elephant country—they -were all engaged in following the fresh spoor of a solitary bull. But -though an elephant is a big beast, it is hard work catching him up -because he never seems to get tired, and this was exactly what our -party of hunters found. They followed that energetic elephant for -hours, but they could not catch him, though the spoorers told them that -he was certainly not more than a mile or so ahead. At last the sun -began to get low, and their legs had already got weary; so they gave it -up for that day, determining to camp where they were. This being so, -after a rest, Ernest and the boy Roger started out of camp to see if -they could not shoot a buck or some birds for supper. Roger had a -repeating Winchester carbine, Ernest a double-barrelled shot-gun. -Hardly had they left the camp when Aasvögel, Jeremy’s Hottentot, came -running in, and reported that he had seen the elephant, an enormous -bull with a white spot upon his trunk, feeding in a clump of mimosa, -not a quarter of a mile away. Up jumped Mr. Alston and Jeremy, as fresh -as though they had not walked a mile, and, seizing their double-eight -elephant rifles, started off with Aasvögel. - -Meanwhile Ernest and Roger had been strolling towards this identical -clump of mimosa. As they neared it, the former saw some guinea-fowl run -into the shelter of the trees. - -“Capital!” he said. “Guinea-fowl are first-class eating. Now, Roger, -just you go into the bush and drive the flock over me. I’ll stand here, -and make believe they are pheasants.” - -The lad did as he was bid. But in order to get well behind the covey of -guinea-fowl, which are dreadful things to run, he made a little circuit -through the thickest part of the clump. As he did so his quick eye was -arrested by a most unusual performance on the part of one of the -flat-crowned mimosa-trees. Suddenly, and without the slightest apparent -reason, it rose into the air, and then, behold! where its crown had -been a moment before, appeared its roots. - -Such an “Alice in Wonderland” sort of performance on the part of a tree -could not but excite the curiosity of an intelligent youth. -Accordingly, Roger pushed forwards, and slipped round an intervening -tree. This was what he saw: In a little glade about ten paces from him, -flapping its ears, stood an enormous elephant with great white tusks, -looking as large as a house and as cool as a cucumber. Nobody, to look -at the brute, would have believed that he had given them a twenty -miles’ trot under a burning sun. He was now refreshing himself by -pulling up mimosa-trees as easily as though they were radishes, and -eating the sweet fibrous roots. - -Roger saw this, and his heart burned with ambition to kill that -elephant—the mighty great beast, about a hundred times as big as -himself, who could pull up a large tree and make his dinner off the -roots. Roger was a plucky boy, and, in his sportsmanlike zeal, he quite -forgot that a repeating carbine is not exactly the weapon one would -choose to shoot elephants with. Indeed, without giving the matter -another thought, he lifted the little rifle, aimed it at the great -beast’s head, and fired. He hit it somewhere, that was very clear, for -next moment the air resounded with the most terrific scream of fury -that it had ever been his lot to hear. That scream was too much for -him; he turned and fled swiftly. Elephants were evidently difficult -things to kill. - -Fortunately for Roger, the elephant could not for some seconds make out -where his tiny assailant was. Presently, however, he winded him, and -came crashing after him, screaming shrilly, with his trunk and tail -well up. On hearing the shot and the scream of the elephant, Ernest, -who was standing some way out in the open, in anticipation of a driving -shot at the guinea-fowl, had run towards the spot where Roger had -entered the bush; and, just as he got opposite to it, out he came, -scuttling along for his life, with the elephant not more than twenty -paces behind him. - -Then Ernest did a brave thing. - -[Illustration: “Ernest did a brave thing.”] - -“Make for the bush!” he yelled to the boy, who at once swerved to the -right. On thundered the elephant, straight towards Ernest. But with -Ernest it was evident he considered he had no quarrel, for presently he -tried to swing himself round after Roger. Then Ernest lifted his -shot-gun, and sent a charge of No. 4 into the brute’s face, stinging -him sadly. It was, humanly speaking, certain death which he courted, -but at the moment his main idea was to save the boy. Screaming afresh, -the elephant abandoned the pursuit of Roger, and made straight for -Ernest, who fired the other barrel of small-shot, in the vain hope of -blinding him. By now the boy had pulled up, being some forty yards off, -and seeing Ernest just about to be crumpled up, wildly fired the -repeating rifle in their direction. Some good angel must have guided -the little bullet; for, as it happened, it struck the elephant in the -region of the knee, and, forcing its way in, slightly injured a tendon, -and brought the great beast thundering to the ground. Ernest had only -just time to dodge to one side as the huge mass came to the earth; -indeed, as it was, he got a tap from the tip of the elephant’s trunk -which knocked him down, and, though he did not feel it at the time, -made him sore for days afterwards. In a moment, however, he was up -again, and away at his best speed, legging it as he had never legged it -before in his life; and so was the elephant. People have no idea at -what a pace an elephant can go when he is out of temper, until they put -it to the proof. Had it not been for the slight injury to the knee, and -the twenty yards’ start he got, Ernest would have been represented by -little pieces before he was ten seconds older. As it was, when, a -hundred and fifty yards farther on, elephant and Ernest broke upon the -astonished view of Mr. Alston and Jeremy, who were hurrying up to the -scene of action, they were almost one flesh; that is, the tip of the -elephant’s trunk was now up in the air, and now about six inches off -the seat of Ernest’s trousers, at which it snapped convulsively. - -Up went Jeremy’s heavy rifle, which luckily he had in his hand. - -“Behind the shoulder, half-way down the ear,” said Mr. Alston, -beckoning to a Kafir to bring his rifle, which he was carrying. The -probability of Jeremy’s stopping the beast at that distance—they were -quite sixty yards off—was infinitesimal. - -There was a second’s pause. The snapping tip touched the retreating -trousers, but did not get hold of them, and the contact sent a magnetic -thrill up Ernest’s back. - -“Boom—thud—crash!” and the elephant was down dead as a door-nail. -Jeremy had made no mistake: the bullet went straight through the great -brute’s heart, and broke the shoulder on the other side. He was one of -those men who not only rarely miss, but always seem to hit their game -in the right place. - -Ernest sank exhausted on the ground, and Mr. Alston and Jeremy rushed -up rejoicing. - -“Near go that, Ernest,” said the former. - -Ernest nodded in reply. He could not speak. - -“By Jove! where is Roger?” he went on, turning pale as he missed his -son for the first time. - -But at this moment that young gentleman hove in sight, and, recovering -from his fright when he saw that the great animal was stone-dead, -rushed up with yells of exultation, and, climbing on to the upper tusk, -began to point out where he had hit him. - -Meanwhile Mr. Alston had extracted the story of the adventure from -Ernest. - -“You young rascal,” he said to his son, “come off that tusk. Do you -know that if it had not been for Mr. Kershaw here, who courted almost -certain death to save you from the results of your own folly, you would -be as dead as that elephant and as flat as a biscuit? Come down, sir, -and offer up your thanks to Providence and Mr. Kershaw that you have a -sound square inch of skin left on your worthless young body!” - -Roger descended accordingly, considerably crestfallen. - -“Never you mind, Roger; that was a most rattling good shot of yours at -his knee,” said Ernest, who had now got his breath again. “You would -not do it again if you fired at elephants for a week.” - -And so the matter passed off; but afterwards Mr. Alston thanked Ernest -with tears in his eyes for saving his son’s life. - -This was the first elephant they killed, and also the largest. It -measured ten feet eleven inches at the shoulder, and the tusks weighed, -when dried out, about sixty pounds each. - -They remained in the elephant country for nearly four months, when the -approach of the unhealthy season forced them to leave it—not, however, -before they had killed a great quantity of large game of all sorts. It -was a most successful hunt, so successful, indeed, that the ivory they -brought down paid all the expenses of the trip, and left a handsome -surplus over. - -It was on the occasion of their return to Pretoria that Ernest made the -acquaintance of a curious character in a curious way. - -As soon as they reached the boundaries of the Transvaal, Ernest bought -a horse from a Boer, on which he used to ride after the herds of buck -which swarmed upon the high veldt. They had none with them, because in -the country where they had been shooting no horse would live. One day, -as they were travelling slowly along a little before midday, a couple -of bull-vilderbeeste galloped across the waggon-track about two hundred -yards in front of the oxen. The voorlooper stopped the oxen in order to -give Ernest, who was sitting on the waggon-box with a rifle by his -side, a steady shot. Ernest fired at the last of the two galloping -bulls. The line was good; but he did not make sufficient allowance for -the pace at which the bull was travelling, with the result that instead -of striking it forwards and killing it, the bullet shattered its flank, -and did not stop its career. - -“Dash it!” said Ernest, when he saw what he had done, “I can’t leave -the poor beast like that. Bring me my horse; I will go after him, and -finish him.” - -The horse, which was tied already saddled behind the waggon, was -quickly brought, and Ernest, mounting, told them not to keep the -waggons for him, as he would strike across country and meet them at the -outspan place, about a mile or so on. Then he started after his wounded -bull, which could be plainly discerned standing with one leg up on the -crest of a rise about a thousand yards away. But if ever a vilderbeeste -was possessed by a fixed determination not to be finished off, it was -that particular vilderbeeste. The pace at which a vilderbeeste can -travel on three legs when he is not too fat is perfectly astonishing, -and Ernest had traversed a couple of miles of great rolling plain -before he even got within fair galloping distance of him. He had a good -horse, however, and at last he got within fifty yards, and then away -they went at a merry pace, Ernest’s object being to ride alongside and -put a bullet through him. Their gallop lasted a good two miles or more. -On the level, Ernest gained on the vilderbeeste, but whenever they came -to a patch of ant-bear holes or a ridge of stones, the vilderbeeste had -the pull, and drew away again. At last they came to a dry pan or lake -about half a mile broad, crowded with hundreds of buck of all sorts, -which scampered away as they came tearing along. Here Ernest at length -drew up level with his quarry, and grasping the rifle with his right -hand, tried to get it so that he could put a bullet through the beast, -and drop him. But it was no easy matter, as any one who has ever tried -it will know, and, while he was still making up his mind, the -vilderbeeste slewed round, and came at him bravely. Had his horse been -unused to the work, he must have had his inside ripped out by the -crooked horns; but he was an old hunter, and equal to the occasion. To -turn was impossible, the speed was too great, but he managed to slew, -with the result that the charging animal brushed his head, instead of -landing himself in his belly. At the same moment Ernest stretched out -his rifle and pulled the trigger, and, as it chanced, put the bullet -right through the vilderbeeste and dropped him dead. - -Then he pulled up, and, dismounting, cut off some of the best of the -beef with his hunting-knife, stowed it away in a saddle-bag, and set -off on his horse, now pretty well fagged, to find the waggons. But to -find a waggon-track on the great veldt, unless you have in the first -instance taken the most careful bearings, is almost as difficult as it -would be to return from a distance to any given spot on the ocean -without a compass. There are no trees nor hills to guide the traveller; -nothing but a vast wilderness of land resembling a sea petrified in a -heavy swell. - -Ernest rode on for three or four miles, as he thought, retracing his -steps over the line of country he had traversed, and at last, to his -joy, struck the path. There were waggon-tracks on it; but he thought -they did not look quite fresh. However, he followed them _faute de -mieux_ for some five miles. Then he became convinced that they could -not have been made by his waggons. He had overshot the mark, and must -hark back. So he turned his weary horse’s head, and made his way along -the road to the spot where his spoor struck into it. The waggons must -be outspanned, waiting for him a little farther back. He went on, one -mile, two, three—no waggons. A little to the left of the road was an -eminence. He rode to it, and up and scanned the horizon. O joy! there -far away, five or six miles off, was the white cap of a waggon. He rode -to it straight across country. Once he got bogged in a vlei or swamp, -and had to throw himself off, and drag his horse out by the bridle. He -struggled on, and at last came to the dip in which he had seen the -waggon-tent. It was a great white stone perched on a mound of brown -ones. - -By this time he had utterly lost his reckoning. Just then, to make -matters worse, a thunder-shower came up with a bitter wind, and -drenched him to the skin. The rain passed, but the wind did not. It -blew like ice, and chilled his frame, enervated with the tropical heat -in which he had been living, through and through. He wandered on -aimlessly, till suddenly his tired horse put his foot in a hole and -fell heavily, throwing him on to his head and shoulder. For a few -minutes his senses left him; but he recovered, and, mounting his -worn-out horse, wandered on again. Luckily, he had broken no bones. Had -he done so, he would probably have perished miserably in that lonely -place. - -The sun was sinking now, and he was faint for want of food, for he had -eaten nothing that day but a biscuit. He had not even a pipe of tobacco -with him. Just as the sun vanished he hit a little path, or what might -once have been a path. He followed it till the pitchy darkness set in; -then he got off his horse and took off the saddle, which he put down on -the bare black veldt, for a fire had recently swept off the dry grass, -and wrapping the saddle-cloth round his feet, laid his aching head upon -the saddle. The reins he hitched round his arm, lest the horse should -stray away from him to look for food. The wind was bitterly cold, and -he was wet through; the hyenas came and howled round him. He cut off a -piece of the raw vilderbeeste-beef and chewed it, but it turned his -stomach and he spat it out. Then he shivered and sank into a torpor -from which there was a poor chance of his awakening. - -How long he lay so he did not know—it seemed a few minutes; it was -really an hour when suddenly he was awakened by feeling something -shaking him by the shoulder. - -“What is it?” he said wearily. - -“Wat is it? Ach Himmel! wat is it? dat is just wat I wants to know. Wat -do you here? You shall die so.” - -The voice was the voice of a German, and Ernest knew German well. - -“I have lost my way,” he said, in that language; “I cannot find the -waggons.” - -“Ah, you can speak the tongue of the Vaterland,” said his visitor, -still addressing him in English. “I will embrace you!” and he did so. - -Ernest sighed. It is a bore to be embraced in the dark by an unknown -male German when you feel that you are not far off dissolution. - -“You are hungered?” said the German. - -Ernest signified that he was. - -“And athirsted?” - -Again he signified assent. - -“And perhaps you have no ‘gui’ (tobacco)?” - -“No, none.” - -“Good! my little wife, my Wilhelmina, shall find you all these things.” - -“What the devil,” thought Ernest to himself, “can a German be doing -with his little wife in this place?” - -By this time the stars had come out, and gave some light. - -“Come, rouse yourself, and come and see my little wife. O, the pferd!” -(horse)—“we will tie him to my wife. Ah, she is beautiful, though her -leg shakes. O yes, you will love her.” - -“The deuce I shall!” ejaculated Ernest; and then, mindful of the good -things the lady in question was to provide him with, he added solemnly, -“Lead on, Macduff.” - -“Macduffer! my name is not so, my name is Hans; all ze great South -Africa know me very well, and all South Africa love my wife.” - -“Really!” said Ernest. - -Although he was so miserable, he began to feel that the situation was -interesting. A lady to whom his horse was to be tied, and whom all -South Africa was enamoured of, could hardly fail to be interesting. -Rising, he advanced a step or two with his friend, who he could now see -was a large burly man with white hair, apparently about sixty years of -age. Presently they came to something that in the dim light reminded -him of the hand-hearse in Kesterwick Church, only it had two wheels -instead of four, and no springs. - -“Behold my beautiful wife,” said the German. “Soon I will show you how -her leg shakes; it shakes, O, horrid!” - -“Is—is the lady inside?” asked Ernest. It occurred to him that his -friend might be carting about a corpse. - -“Inside! no, she is outside, she is all over;” and stepping back, the -German put his head on one side in a most comical fashion, and, -regarding the unofficial hearse with the deepest affection, said in a -low voice, “Ah, liebe vrouw, ah, Wilhelmina, is you tired, my dear? and -how is your poor leg?” and he caught hold of a groggy wheel and shook -it. - -Had Ernest been a little less wretched, and one degree further off -starvation, it is probable that he would have exploded with laughter, -for he had a keen sense of the ludicrous; but he had not got a laugh -left in him, and, besides, he was afraid of offending the German. So he -merely murmured, “Poor, poor leg!” sympathetically, and then alluded to -the question of eatables. - -“Ah, yes, of course. Let us see what Wilhelmina shall give us;” and he -trotted round to the back end of the cart, which, in keeping with its -hearse-like character, opened by means of two little folding-doors, and -pulled out, first, two blankets, one of which he gave to Ernest to put -round his shoulders; second, a large piece of biltong, or sun-dried -game-flesh, and some biscuits; and, third, a bottle of peach-brandy. On -these viands they fell to, and though they were not in themselves of an -appetising nature, Ernest never enjoyed anything more in his life. -Their meal did not take long, and after it his friend Hans produced -some excellent Boer tobacco, and over their pipes Ernest told him how -he had lost his way. Hans asked him what road he had been travelling -on. - -“The Rustenburg road.” - -“Then, my friend, you are not more than one thousand paces off it. My -wife and I we travel along him all day, till just now Wilhelmina she -think she would like to come up here, and so I come, and now you see -the reason why. She know you lie here and die in the cold, and she turn -up to save your life. Ah, the good woman!” - -Ernest was greatly relieved to hear that he was so near the road, as, -once upon it, he would have no difficulty in falling in with the -waggons. Clearly, during the latter part of his wanderings, he must -have unknowingly approached it. His mind, relieved upon this point, was -at liberty to satisfy his curiosity about his friend. He soon -discovered that he was a harmless lunatic, whose craze it was to wander -all over South Africa, dragging his hand-cart after him. He made for no -fixed point, nor had he any settled round. The beginning of the year -might find him near the Zambesi, and the end near Cape Town or anywhere -else. By the natives he was looked upon as inspired, and invariably -treated with respect, and he lived upon what was given to him, or what -he shot as he walked along. This mode of life he had pursued for years, -and though he had many adventures, he never came to harm. - -“You see, my friend,” said the simple man, in answer to Ernest’s -inquiries, “I make my wife down there in Scatterdorp, in the old -colony. The houses are a long way off each other there, and the church -it is in the middle. And the good volk there, they die very fast, and -did get tired of carrying each other to be buried, and so they come to -me and say, ‘Hans, you are a carpenter, you must make a beautiful black -cart to put us in when we die.’ And so I set to, and I work, and work, -and work at my cart till I gets quite—what you call him?—stoopid. And -then one night, just as my cart was finished, I dreams that she and I -are travelling along a wide straight road, like the road on the high -veldt, and I knows that she is my wife, and that we must travel always -together till we reach the City of Rest. And far, far away, above the -top of a high mountain like the Drakensberg, I see a great wide tree, -rooted on a cloud and covered all over with beautiful snow, that shined -in the sunlight like the diamonds at Kimberley. And I know that under -that tree is the gate of the real Rustenburg, the City of Rest, and my -wife and I, we must journey on, on, on till we find it.” - -“Where do you come from now?” asked Ernest. - -“From Utrecht, from out of the east, where the sun rises so red every -morning over Zululand, the land of bloodshed. O, the land will run with -blood there. I know it; Wilhelmina told me as we came along; but I -don’t know when. But you are tired. Good! you shall sleep with -Wilhelmina; I will sleep beneath her. No, you shall, or she will -be—what you call him?—offended.” - -Ernest crept into the cavity, and at once fell asleep, and dreamed that -he had been buried alive. Suddenly in the middle of the night there was -a most fearful jolt, caused by his horse, which was tied to the pole of -Wilhelmina, having pulled the prop aside and let the pole down with a -run. This Ernest mistook for the resurrection, and was extremely -relieved to find himself in error. At dawn he emerged, bade his friend -farewell, and gaining the road, rejoined the waggons in safety. - - - - -CHAPTER XVI. -ERNEST ACCEPTS A COMMISSION - - -A YOUNG man of that ardent, impetuous, intelligent mind which makes him -charming and a thing to love, as contrasted with the young man of the -sober, cautious, moneymaking mind (infinitely the most useful article), -which makes him a “comfort” to his relatives and a thing to respect, -avoid, and marry your daughter to, has two great safeguards standing -between him and the ruin which dogs the heels of the ardent, the -impetuous, and the intelligent. These are, his religion and his belief -in women. It is probable that he will start on his erratic career with -a full store of both. He has never questioned the former; the latter, -so far as his own class in life is concerned, are to him all sweet and -good, and perhaps there is one particular star who only shines for him, -and is the sweetest and best of them all. But one fine day the sweetest -and best of all throws him over, being a younger son, and marries his -eldest brother, or a paralytic cotton-spinner of enormous wealth and -uncertain temper, and then a sudden change comes over the spirit of the -ardent, intelligent, and impetuous one. Not being of a well-balanced -mind, he rushes to the other extreme, and believes in his sore heart -that all women would throw over such as he and marry eldest brothers or -superannuated cotton-spinners. He may be right or he may be wrong. The -materials for ascertaining the fact are wanting, for all women engaged -to impecunious young gentlemen do not get the chance. But, right or -wrong, the result upon the sufferer is the same—his faith in women is -shaken, if not destroyed. Nor does the mischief stop there; his -religion often follows his belief in the other sex, for in some -mysterious way the two things are interwoven. A young man of the nobler -class of mind in love is generally for the time being a religious man; -his affection lifts him more or less above the things of earth, and -floats him on its radiant wings a day’s journey nearer heaven. - -The same thing applies conversely. If a man’s religious belief is -emasculated, he becomes suspicious of the “sweetest and best;” he grows -cynical, and no longer puts faith in superlatives. From atheism there -is but a small step to misogyny, or rather to that disbelief in -humanity which embraces a profounder constituent disbelief in its -feminine section, and in turn, as already said, the misogynist walks -daily along the edge of atheism. Of course there is a way out of these -discouraging results. If the mind that suffers and falls through its -suffering be of the truly noble order, it may in time come to see that -this world is a world not of superlatives, but of the most arid -positives, with here and there a little comparative oasis to break the -monotony of its general outline. Its owner may learn that the fault lay -with him, for believing too much, for trusting too far, for setting up -as an idol a creature exactly like himself, only several degrees lower -beneath proof; and at last he may come to see that though “sweetests -and bests” are chimerical, there are women in the world who may fairly -be called “sweet and good.” Or, to return to the converse side of the -picture, it may occur to our young gentleman that although Providence -starts us in the world with a full inherited or indoctrinated belief in -a given religion, that is not what Providence understands by faith. -Faith, perfect faith, is only to be won by struggle, and in most -cultivated minds by the passage through the dim, mirage-clad land of -disbelief. The true believer is he who has trodden down disbelief, not -he who has run away from it. When we have descended from the height of -our childhood, when we have entertained Apollyon, and having considered -what he has to say, given him battle and routed him in the plain, then, -and not till then, can we say with guileless hearts, “Lord, I believe,” -and feel no need to add the sadly qualifying words, “help Thou mine -unbelief.” Now these are more or less principles of human nature. They -may not be universally true, probably nothing is—that is, as we define -and understand truth. But they apply to the majority of those cases -which fall strictly within their limits. Among others they applied -rather strikingly to Ernest Kershaw. Eva’s desertion struck his belief -in womanhood to the ground, and soon his religion lay in the dust -beside it. Of this his life for some years after that event gave -considerable evidence. He took to evil ways, he forgot his better self. -He raced horses, he devoted himself with great success to love-affairs -that he would have done better to leave alone. Sometimes, to his shame -be it said, he drank—for the excitement of drinking, not for the love -of it. In short, he gave himself and all his fund of energy up to any -and every excitement and dissipation he could command, and he managed -to command a good many. Travelling rapidly from place to place in South -Africa, he was well known and well liked in all. Now he was at -Kimberley, now at King William’s Town, now at Durban. In each of these -places he kept race-horses; in each there was some fair woman’s face -that grew the brighter for his coming. - -But Ernest’s face did not grow the brighter; on the contrary, his eyes -acquired a peculiar sadness which was almost pathetic in one so young. -He could not forget. For a few days or a few months he might stifle -thought, but it always re-arose. Eva, pale queen of women, was ever -there to haunt his sleep, and though in his waking hours he might curse -her memory, when night drew the veil from truth the words he murmured -were words of love eternal. - -He no longer prayed, he no longer reverenced woman, but he was not the -happier for having freed his soul from these burdens. He despised -himself. Occasionally he would take stock of his mental condition, and -at each such stocktaking he would notice that he had receded, not -progressed. He was growing coarse, his finer sense was being blunted; -he was no longer the same Ernest who had written that queer letter to -his betrothed before disaster overwhelmed him. Slowly and surely he was -sinking. He knew it, but he did not try to save himself. Why should he? -He had no object in life. But at times a great depression and weariness -of existence would take possession of him. It has been said that he -never prayed; that is not strictly true. Once or twice he did throw -himself upon his knees and pray with all his strength that he might -die. He did more: he persistently courted death, and, as is usual in -such cases, it persistently avoided him. About taking his own life he -had scruples, or perhaps he would have taken it. In those dark days he -hated life, and in his calmer and more reflective moments he loathed -the pleasures and excitements by means of which he strove to make it -palatable. His was a fine strung mind, and, in spite of himself, he -shuddered when it was set to play such coarse music. - -During those years Ernest seemed to bear a charmed existence. There was -a well-known thoroughbred horse in the Transvaal which had killed two -men in rapid succession. Ernest bought it and rode it, and it never -hurt him. Disturbances broke out in Secocoeni’s country, and one of the -chief strongholds was ordered to be stormed. Ernest rode down from -Pretoria with Jeremy to see the fun, and, reaching the fort the day -before the attack, got leave to join the storming party. Accordingly, -next day at dawn they attacked in the teeth of a furious fusillade, and -in time took the place, though with very heavy loss to themselves. -Jeremy’s hat was shot off with one bullet and his hand cut by another; -Ernest, as usual, came off scathless; the man next to him was killed, -but he was not touched. After that he insisted upon going -buftalo-shooting towards Delagoa Bay in the height of the fever-season, -having got rid of Jeremy by persuading him to go to New Scotland to see -about a tract of land they had bought. He started with a dozen bearers -and Mazooku. Six weeks later he, Mazooku, and three bearers -returned—all the rest were dead of fever. - -On another occasion, Alston, Jeremy, and himself were sent on a -political mission to a hostile chief, whose stronghold lay in the heart -of almost inaccessible mountains. The “indaba” (palaver) took all day, -and was purposely prolonged in order to enable the intelligent native -to set an ambush in the pass through which the white chiefs must go -back, with strict instructions to murder all three of them. When they -left the stronghold the moon was rising, and, as they neared the pass, -up she came behind the mountains in all her splendour, flooding the -wide valley behind them with her mysterious light, and throwing a pale, -sad lustre on every stone and tree. On they rode steadily through the -moonlight and the silence, little guessing how near death was to them. -The faint beauty of the scene sank deep into Ernest’s heart, and -presently, when they came to a spot where a track ran out loopwise from -the main pass, returning to it a couple of miles farther on, he half -insisted on their taking it, because it passed over yet higher ground, -and would give them a better view of the moon-bathed valley. Mr. Alston -grumbled at “his nonsense” and complied, and meanwhile a party of -murderers half a mile farther on played with their assegais, and -wondered why they did not hear the sound of the white men’s feet. But -the white men had already passed along the higher path three-quarters -of a mile to their right. Ernest’s love of moonlight effects had saved -them all from a certain and perhaps from a lingering death. - -It was shortly after this incident that Ernest and Jeremy were seated -together on the verandah of the same house at Pretoria where they had -been living before they went on the elephant hunt, and which they had -now purchased. Ernest had been in the garden, watering a cucumber-plant -he was trying to develop from a very sickly seedling. Even if he only -stopped a month in a place he would start a little garden; it was a -habit of his. Presently he came back to the verandah, where Jeremy was -as usual watching the battle of the red and black ants, which after -several years’ encounter was not yet finally decided. - -“Curse that cucumber-plant!” said Ernest, emphatically, “it won’t grow. -I tell you what it is, Jeremy, I am sick of this place; I vote we go -away.” - -“For goodness’ sake, Ernest, let us have a little rest; you do rattle -one about so in those confounded post-carts,” replied Jeremy, yawning. - -“I mean, go away from South Africa altogether.” - -“Oh,” said Jeremy, dragging his great frame into an upright position, -“the deuce you do! And where do you want to go to—England?” - -“England! no, I have had enough of England. South America, I think. But -perhaps you want to go home. It is not fair to keep dragging you all -over the world.” - -“My dear fellow, I like it, I assure you. I have no wish to return to -Mr. Cardus’s stool. For goodness’ sake don’t suggest such a thing; I -should be wretched.” - -“Yes, but you ought to be doing something with your life. It is all -very well for me, who am a poor devil of a waif and stray, to go on -with this sort of existence, but I don’t see why you should; you should -be making your way in the world.” - -“Wait a bit, my hearty!” said Jeremy, with his slow smile; “I am going -to read you a statement of our financial affairs which I drew up last -night. Considering that we have been doing nothing all this time except -enjoy ourselves, and that all our investments have been made out of -income, which no doubt your respected uncle fancies were dissipated, I -do not think that the total is so bad. And Jeremy read: - -“Landed property in Natal and the Transvaal, - estimated value . . . . . . £2500 -This house . . . . . . . . . 940 -Stocks—waggons, &c., say . . . . 300 -Race-horses . . . . . . . . . - ——– - - -I have left that blank.” - -“Put them at 800_l._,” said Ernest, after thinking. “You know I won -500_l._ with Lady Mary on the Cape Town Plate last week.” - -Jeremy went on: - -“Race-horses and winnings . . . . £1300 -Sundries—cash, balance,&c . . . . 180 - ——– - Total . . . . . . £5220 - - -Now of this we have actually saved and invested about twenty-five -hundred, the rest we have made or has accumulated. Now, I ask you, -where could we have done better than that, as things go? So don’t talk -to me about wasting my time.” - -“’Bravo, Jeremy! My uncle was right, after all: you ought to have been -a lawyer; you are first-class at figures. I congratulate you on your -management of the estates.” - -“My system is simple,” answered Jeremy. Whenever there is any money to -spare I buy something with it then you are not likely to spend it. -Then, when I have things enough—waggons, oxen, horses, what not,—I sell -them and buy some land; that can’t run away. If you only do that sort -of thing long enough, you will grow rich at last.” - -“Sweetly simple, certainly. Well, five thousand will go a Iong way -towards stocking a farm or something in South America or wherever we -make up our minds to go, and then I don’t think that we need draw on my -uncle any more. It is hardly fair to drain him so. Old Alston will come -with us, I think, and will put in another five thousand. He told me -some time ago that he was getting tired of South Africa with its Boers -and blacks, in his old age and had a fancy to make a start in some -other place. I will write to him to-night. What hotel is he staying at -in Maritzburg? the Royal, isn’t it? And then I vote we clear in the -spring.” - -“Right you are, my hearty!” - -“But I say, Jeremy, I really should advise you to think twice before -you come. A fine, upstanding young man like you should not waste his -sweetness on the desert air of Mexico, or any such place. You should go -home and be admired of the young women—they appreciate a great big chap -like you—and make a good marriage, and rear up a large family in a -virtuous, respectable, and Jones-like fashion. I am a sort of wandering -comet without the shine; but, I repeat, I see no reason why you should -play tail to a second-class comet.” - -“Married! get married! I! No, thank you, my boy. Look you, Ernest, in -the words of the prophet, ‘When a wise man openeth his eye, and seeth a -thing, verily he shutteth it not up again.’ Now, I opened my eye and -saw one or two things in the course of our joint little affair—Eva, you -know.” - -Ernest winced at the name. - -“I beg your pardon,” said Jeremy, noticing it; “I don’t want to allude -to painful subjects, but I must to make my meaning clear. I was very -hard hit, you know, over that lady, but I stopped in time, and, not -having any imagination to speak of, did not give it rein. What is the -consequence? I have got over it; sleep well at night, have a capital -appetite, and don’t think about her twice a week. But with you it is -different. Hard hit, too, large amount of imagination galloping about -loose, so to speak—rapturous joy, dreams of true love and perfect union -of souls, which no doubt would be well enough if the woman could put in -her whack of soul, which she can’t, not having it to spare, but in a -general way is gammon. Results, when the burst-up comes: want of sleep, -want of appetite, a desire to go buffalo-shooting in the fever-season, -and to be potted by Basutus from behind rocks. In short, a general -weariness and disgust of life—O yes, you needn’t deny it, I have -watched you—most unwholesome state of mind. Further results: -horse-racing, a disposition to stop away from church, and nip Cape -sherry; and, worst sign of all, a leaning to ladies’ society. Being a -reasoning creature I notice this, and draw my own deductions, which -amount to the conclusion that you are in a fair way to go to the deuce, -owing to trusting your life to a woman. And the moral of all this, -which I lay to heart for my own guidance, is, never speak to a woman if -you can avoid it, and when you can’t, let your speech be yea, yea, and -nay, nay, more especially ‘nay.’ Then you stand a good chance of -keeping your appetite and peace of mind, and of making your way in the -world. Marriage, indeed!—never talk to me of marriage again;” and -Jeremy shivered at the thought. - -Ernest laughed out loud at his lengthy disquisition. - -“And I’ll tell you what, old fellow,” he went on, drawing himself up to -his full height, and standing right over Ernest, so that the latter’s -six feet looked very insignificant beside him, “never you speak to me -about leaving you again, unless you want to put me clean out of temper, -because, look here, I don’t like it. We have lived together since we -were twelve, or thereabouts, and, so far as I am concerned, I mean to -go on living together to the end of the chapter, or till I see I am not -wanted. You can go to Mexico, or the North Pole, or Acapulco, or -wherever you like, but I shall go too, and so that is all about it.” - -“Thank you, old fellow,” said Ernest, simply; and at that moment their -conversation was interrupted by the arrival of a Kafir messenger with a -telegram addressed to Ernest. He opened it and read it. “Hullo,” he -said, “here is something better than Mexico; listen: - -“‘Alston, Pieter Maritzburg, to Kershaw, Pretoria. High Commissioner -has declared war against Cetywayo. Local cavalry urgently required for -service in Zululand. Have offered to raise a small corps of about -seventy mounted men. Offer has been accepted. Will you accept post of -second in command?—you would hold the Queen’s commission. If so, set -about picking suitable recruits. Terms ten shillings a day, all found. -Am coming up Pretoria by this post-cart. Ask Jones if he will accept -sergeant-major-ship.’ - -“Hurrah!” sang out Ernest, with flashing eyes. “Here is some real -service at last. Of course you will accept.” - -“Of course,” said Jeremy, quietly; “but don’t indulge in rejoicings -yet; this is going to be a big business, unless I am mistaken.” - - - - -CHAPTER XVII. -HANS PROPHESIES EVIL - - -Ernest and Jeremy did not let the grass grow under their feet. They -guessed that there would soon be a great deal of recruiting for various -corps, and so set to work at once to secure the best men. The stamp of -men they aimed at getting was the colonial-born Englishman, both -because such men have more self-respect, independence of character, and -“gumption,” than the ordinary drifting sediment from the fields and -seaports, and also because they were practically ready-made soldiers. -They could ride as well as they could walk, they were splendid -rifle-shots, and they had, too, from childhood, been trained in the art -of travelling without baggage, and very rapidly. Ernest did not find -much difficulty in the task. Mr. Alston was well known, and had seen a -great deal of service as a young man in the Basutu wars, and stories -were still told of his nerve and pluck. He was known, too, to be a wary -man, not rash or over-confident, but of a determined mind; and, what is -more, to possess a perfect knowledge of Zulu warfare and tactics. This -went a long way with intending recruits, for the first thing a would-be -colonial volunteer inquires into is the character of his officers. He -will not trust his life to men in whom he puts no reliance. He is -willing to lose it in the way of duty, but he has a great objection to -having it blundered away. Indeed, in many South African volunteer corps -it is a fundamental principle that the officers should be elected by -the men themselves. Once elected, however, they cannot be deposed -except by competent authority. - -Ernest, too, was by this time well known in the Transvaal, and -universally believed in. Mr. Alston could not have chosen a better -lieutenant. He was known to have pluck and dash, and to be ready-witted -in emergency; but it was not that only which made him acceptable to the -individuals whose continued existence would very possibly depend upon -his courage and discretion. Indeed, it would be difficult to say what -it was; but there are some men who are by nature born leaders of their -fellows, and who inspire confidence magnetically. Ernest had this great -gift. At first sight he was much like any other young man, rather -careless-looking than otherwise in appearance, and giving the observer -the impression that he was thinking of something else; but old hands at -native warfare, looking into his dark eyes, saw something there which -told them that this young fellow, boy as he was, comparatively -speaking, would not show himself wanting in the moment of emergency, -either in courage or discretion. Jeremy’s nomination, too, as -sergeant-major, a very important post in such a corps, was popular -enough. People had not forgotten his victory over the Boer giant, and -besides, a sergeant-major with such a physique would have been a credit -to any corps. - -All these things helped to make recruiting an easy task, and when -Alston and his son Roger, weary and bruised, stepped out of the Natal -post-cart four days later, it was to be met by Ernest and Jeremy with -the intelligence that his telegram had been received, the appointments -accepted, and thirty-five men provisionally enrolled subject to his -approval. - -“My word, young gentlemen,” he said, highly pleased, “you are -lieutenants worth having.” - -The next fortnight was a busy one for all concerned. The organisation -of a colonial volunteer corps is no joke, as anybody who has ever tried -it can testify. There were rough uniforms to be provided, arms to be -obtained, and a hundred and one other wants to be satisfied. Then came -some delay about the horses, which were to be served out by Government. -At last these were handed over, a good-looking lot, but apparently very -wild. Matters were at this point, when one day Ernest was seated in the -room he used as an office in his house, enrolling a new recruit -previous to his being sworn, interviewing a tradesman about flannel -shirts, making arrangements for a supply of forage, filling up the -endless forms which the imperial authorities required for transmission -to the War Office, and a hundred other matters. Suddenly his orderly -announced that two privates of the corps wished to see him. - -“What is it?” he asked of the orderly, testily; for he was nearly -worked to death. - -“A complaint, sir.” - -“Well, send them in.” - -The door opened, and a curious couple entered. One was a great, burly -sailor-man, who had been a quartermaster on board one of her Majesty’s -ships at Cape Town, got drunk, overstayed his leave, and deserted -rather than face the punishment; the other a quick, active little -fellow, with a face like a ferret. He was a Zululand trader, who had -ruined himself by drink, and a peculiarly valuable member of the corps -on account of his knowledge of the country in which they were going to -serve. Both the men saluted and stood at ease. - -“Well, my men, what is it?” asked Ernest, going on filling up his -forms. - -“Nothing, so far as I am concerned, sir,” said the little man. - -Ernest looked up sharply at the quondam tar. - -“Now, Adam, your complaint; I have no time to waste.” - -Adam hitched up his breeches and began: - -“You see, sir, I brought _he_ here by the scruff of the neck.” - -“That’s true, sir,” said the little man, rubbing that portion of his -body. - -“Because he and I, sir, as is messmates, sir, ’ad a difference of -opinion. It was his day, you see, sir, to cook for our mess, and -instead of putting on the pot, sir, he comes to me he does, and he says -‘Adam, you blooming father of a race of fools’—that’s what he says, -sir, a-comparing of me to the gent who lived in a garden—‘why don’t you -come and take the —— skins off the —— taters, instead of a-squatting of -yourself down on that there —— bed!’” - -“Slightly in error, sir,” broke in the little man, suavely; “our big -friend’s memory is not as substantial as his form. What I said was, ‘My -_dear_ Adam, as I see you have nothing to occupy your time, except sit -and play a jew’s-harp upon your _couch,_ would you be so kind as to -come and assist me to remove the outer integument of these potatoes?’” - -Ernest began to explode, but checked himself, and said sternly: - -“Don’t talk nonsense, Adam; tell me your complaint.” - -“Well, sir,” answered the big sailor, scratching his head, “if I must -give it a name, it is this—this here man, sir, be too _infarnal -sargustic_.” - -“Be off with you both,” said Ernest, sternly, “and don’t trouble me -with any such nonsense again, or I will put you both under arrest, and -stop your pay. Come, march!” and he pointed to the door. As he did so -he observed a Boer gallop swiftly past the house, and take the turn to -Government House. - -“What is up now?” he wondered. - -Half an hour afterwards another man passed the window, also at full -gallop, and also turned up towards Government House. Another half-hour -passed, and Mr. Alston came hurrying in. - -“Look here, Ernest,” he said, “here is a pretty business. Three men -have come in to report that Cetewayo has sent an Impi (army) round by -the back of Secocoeni’s country to burn Pretoria, and return to -Zululand across the High Veldt. They say that the Impi is now resting -in the Saltpan Bush, about twenty miles off, and will attack the town -to-night or to-morrow night. All these three, who have, by the way, had -no communication with each other, state that they have actually seen -the captains of the Impi, who came to tell them to bid the other -Dutchmen stand aside, as they are now fighting the Queen, and they -would not be hurt.” - -“It seems incredible,” said Ernest; “do you believe it?” - -“I don’t know. It is possible, and the evidence is strong. It is -possible; I have known the Zulus make longer marches than that. The -Governor has ordered me to gallop to the spot, and report if I can see -anything of this Impi.” - -“Am I to go too?” - -“No, you will remain in the corps. I take Roger with me—he is a light -weight—and two spare horses. If there should be an attack and I should -not be back, or if anything should happen, you will do your duty.” - -“Yes.” - -“Good-bye. I am off. You had better muster the men to be ready for an -emergency;” and he was gone. - -Ten minutes afterwards, down came an orderly from the officer -commanding, with a peremptory order to the effect that the officer -commanding Alston’s Horse was to mount and parade his men in readiness -for immediate service. - -“Here is a pretty go,” thought Ernest, “and the horses not served out -yet!” - -Just then Jeremy came in, saluted, and informed him that the men were -mustered. - -“Serve out the saddlery. Let every man shoulder his saddle. Tell -Mazooku to bring out the ‘Devil’ (Ernest’s favourite horse), and march -the men up to the Government stables. I will be with you presently.” - -Jeremy saluted again with much ceremony and vanished. He was the most -punctilious sergeant-major who ever breathed. - -Twenty minutes later, a long file of men, each with a carbine slung to -his back, and a saddle on his head, which, at a distance, gave them the -appearance of a string of gigantic mushrooms, were to be seen -proceeding towards the Government stables a mile away. - -Ernest, mounted on his great black stallion, and looking, in his -military uniform and the revolver slung across his shoulders, a typical -volunteer officer, was there before them. - -“Now, my men,” he said, as soon as they were paraded, “go in, and each -man choose the horse which he likes best, bridle him, and bring him out -and saddle him. Sharp!” - -The men broke their ranks and rushed to the stables, each anxious to -secure a better horse than his neighbours. Presently from the stables -there arose a sound of kicking, plunging, and “wo-hoing” impossible to -describe. - -“There will be a pretty scene soon, with these unbroken brutes,” -thought Ernest. - -He was not destined to be disappointed. The horses were dragged out, -most of them lying back upon their haunches, kicking, bucking, and -going through every other equine antic. - -“Saddle up!” shouted Ernest, as soon as they were all out. - -It was done with great difficulty. - -“Now mount.” - -Sixty men lifted their legs and swung themselves into the saddle, not -without sad misgivings. A few seconds passed, and at least twenty of -them were on the broad of their backs; one or two were being dragged by -the stirrup-leather; a few were clinging to their bucking and plunging -steeds; and the remainder of Alston’s Horse was scouring the plain in -every possible direction. Never was there such a scene. - -In time, however, most of the men got back again, and some sort of -order was restored. Several men were hurt, one or two badly. These were -sent to the hospital, and Ernest formed the rest into half-sections, to -be marched to the place of rendezvous. Just then, to make matters -better, down came the rain in sheets, soaking them to the skin, and -making confusion worse confounded. So they rode to the town, which was -by this time in an extraordinary state of panic. All business was -suspended; women were standing about on the verandahs, hugging their -babies and crying, or making preparations to go into laager; men were -hiding deeds and valuables, or hurrying to defence meetings on the -market-square, where the Government were serving out rifles and -ammunition to all able-bodied citizens; frightened mobs of Basutos and -Christian Kafirs were jabbering in the streets, and telling tales of -the completeness of Zulu slaughter, or else running from the city to -pass the night among the hills. Altogether the scene was most curious, -till dense darkness came down over it like an extinguisher, and put it -out. - -Ernest took his men to a building which the Government had placed at -their disposal, and had the horses stabled, but not unsaddled. -Presently orders came down to him to keep the corps under arms all -night; to send out four patrols, to be relieved at midnight, to watch -the approaches to the town; and at dawn to saddle up and reconnoitre -the neighbouring country. - -Ernest obeyed these orders as well as he could; that is, he sent the -patrols out, but so dense was the darkness that they never got back -again till the following morning, when they were collected, and, in one -instance, dug out of the various ditches, quarry-holes, &c., into which -they had fallen. - -About eleven o’clock Ernest was seated in a little room that opened out -of the main building where they were quartered, consulting with Jeremy -about matters connected with the corps, and wondering if Alston had -found a Zulu Impi, or if it was all gammon when suddenly they heard the -sharp challenge of the sentry outside: - -“Who goes there?” - -“Whoever it is had better answer sharp,” said Ernest; “I gave the -sentry orders to be quick with his rifle to-night.” - -Bang!—crash! followed by loud howls of “Wilhelmina, my wife! Ah, the -cruel man has killed my Wilhelmina!” - -“Heavens, it is that lunatic German! Here, orderly, run up to the -Defence Committee and the Government offices, and tell them that it is -nothing; they will think the Zulus are here. Tell two men to bring the -man in here, and to stop his howls.” - -Presently Ernest’s old friend of the High Veldt, looking very wild and -uncouth in the lamplight, with his long beard and matted hair, from -which the rain was dripping, was bundled rather unceremoniously into -the room. - -“Ah, there you are, dear sir; it is two—three years since we meet. I -look for you everywhere, and they tell me you are here, and I come on -quick all through the dark and the rain; and then before I know if I am -on my head or my heel, the cruel man he ups a rifle, and do shoot my -Wilhelmina, and make a great hole through her poor stomach. O sir, wat -shall I do?” and the great child began to shed tears; “you, too, will -weep: you, too, love my Wilhelmina, and sleep with her one -night—bo-hoo!” - -“For goodness’ sake, stop that nonsense! This is no time or place for -such fooling.” - -He spoke sharply, and the monomaniac pulled up, only giving vent to an -occasional sob. - -“Now, what is your business with me?” - -The German’s face changed from its expression of idiotic grief to one -of refined intelligence. He glanced towards Jeremy, who was exploding -in the corner. - -“You can speak before this gentleman, Hans,” said Ernest. - -“Sir, I am going to say a strange thing to you this night.” - -He was speaking quite quietly and composedly now, and might have been -mistaken for a sane man. - -“Sir, I hear that you go down to Zululand to help to fight the fierce -Zulus. When I hear it, I was far away, but something come into my head -to travel as quick as Wilhelmina can, and come and tell you not to go.” - -“What do you mean?” - -“How can I say what I do mean? This I know—many shall go down to -Zululand who rest in this house to-night, few shall come back.” - -“You mean that I shall be killed?” - -“I know not. There are things as bad as death, and yet not death.” - -He covered his eyes with his hand, and continued: - -“I cannot _see_ you dead, but do not go; I pray you do not go.” - -“My good Hans, what is the good of coming to me with such an old wives’ -tale? Even if it were true, and I knew that I must be killed twenty -times, I should go. I cannot run away from my duty.” - -“That is spoken as a brave man should,” answered his visitor, in his -native tongue. “I have done _my_ duty, and told you what Wilhelmina -said. Now go, and when the black men are leaping up at you like the -sea-waves round a rock, may the God of Rest guide your hand, and bring -you safe from the slaughter!” - -Ernest gazed at the old man’s pale face; it wore a curious rapt -expression, and the eyes were looking upwards. - -“Perhaps, old friend,” he said, addressing him in German, “I, as well -as you, have a City of Rest which I would reach, and care not if I pass -thither on an assegai.” - -“I know it,” replied Hans, in the same tongue; “but useless is it to -seek rest till God gives it. You have sought and passed through the -jaws of many deaths, but you have not found. If it be not God’s will, -you will not find it now. I know you too seek rest, my brother, and had -I known that you would find that only down there”—and he pointed -towards Zululand—“I had not come down to warn you, for blessed is rest, -and happy he who gains it. But no, it is not that; I am sure now that -you will not die; your evil, whatever it is, will fall from heaven.” - -“So be it,” said Ernest; “you are a strange man. I thought you a common -monomaniac, and now you speak like a prophet.” - -The old man smiled. - -“You are right; I am both. Mostly I am mad. I know it. But sometimes my -madness has its moments of inspiration, when the clouds lift from my -mind, and I see things none others can see, and hear voices to which -your ears are deaf. Such a moment is on me now; soon I shall be mad -again. But before the cloud settles I would speak to you. Why, I know -not, save that I loved you when first I saw your eyes open there upon -the cold veldt. Presently I must go, and we shall meet no more, for I -draw near to the snow-clad tree that marks the gate of the City of -Rest. I can look into your heart now and see the trouble in it, and the -sad, beautiful face that is printed on your mind. Ah, she is not happy; -she, too, must work out her rest. But the time is short, the cloud -settles, and I would tell you what is in my mind. Even though trouble, -great trouble, close you in, do not be cast down, for trouble is the -key of heaven. Be good; turn to the God you have neglected; struggle -against the snares of the senses. O, I can see now! For you and for all -you love there is joy and there is peace!” - -Suddenly he broke off; the look of inspiration faded from his face, -which grew stupid and wild-looking. - -“Ah, the cruel man; he made a great hole in the stomach of my -Wilhelmina!” - -Ernest had been bending forwards, listening with parted lips to the old -man’s talk. When he saw that the inspiration had left him, he raised -his head and said: - -“Gather yourself together, I beg you, for a moment. I wish to ask one -question. Shall I ever——” - -“How shall I stop de bleeding from the witals of my dear wife?—who will -plug up the hole in her?” - -Ernest gazed at the man. Was he putting all this on?—or was he really -mad? For the life of him he could not tell. - -Taking out a sovereign, he gave it to him. - -“There is money to doctor Wilhelmina with,” he said. “Would you like to -sleep here?—I can give you a blanket.” - -The old man took the money without hesitation, and thanked Ernest for -it, but said he must go on at once. - -“Where are you going to?” asked Jeremy, who had been watching him with -great curiosity, but had not understood that part of the conversation -which had been carried on in German. - -Hans turned upon him with a quick look of suspicion. - -“Rustenburg” (_Anglicè,_ the town of rest), he answered. - -“Indeed! the road is bad, and it is far to travel.” - -“Yes,” he replied, “the road is rough and long. Farewell!” And he was -gone. - -“Well, he is a curious old buster, and no mistake, with his cheerful -anticipations and his Wilhelmina,” reflected Jeremy, aloud. “Just fancy -starting for Rustenburg at this hour of the night, too! Why it is a -hundred miles off!” - -Ernest only smiled. He knew that it was no earthly Rustenburg that the -old man sought. - -Some while afterwards he heard that Hans had attained the rest which he -desired. Wilhelmina got fixed in a snowdrift in a pass of the -Drakensberg. He was unable to drag her out. - -So he crept underneath and fell asleep, and the snow came down and -covered them. - - - - -CHAPTER XVIII. -MR. ALSTON’S VIEWS - - -The Zulu attack on Pretoria ultimately turned out only to have existed -in the minds of two mad Kafirs, who dressed themselves up after the -fashion of chiefs, and personating two Zulu nobles of repute, who were -known to be in the command of regiments, rode from house to house, -telling the Dutch inhabitants that they had an Impi of thirty thousand -men lying in the bush, and bidding them stand aside while they -destroyed the Englishmen. Hence the scare. - -The next month was a busy one for Alston’s Horse. It was drill, drill, -drill, morning, noon, and night. But the results soon became apparent. -In three weeks from the day they got their horses, there was not a -smarter, quicker corps in South Africa, and Mr. Alston and Ernest were -highly complimented on the soldier-like appearance of the men, and the -rapidity and exactitude with which they executed all the ordinary -cavalry manoeuvres. - -They were to march from Pretoria on the 10th of January, and expected -to overtake Colonel Glynn’s column, with which was the General, about -the 18th, by which time Mr. Alston calculated the real advance upon -Zululand would begin. - -On the 8th, the good people of Pretoria gave the corps a farewell -banquet, for most of its members were Pretoria men; and colonists are -never behindhand when there is an excuse for conviviality and -good-fellowship. - -Of course, after the banquet, Mr.—or, as he was now called, -Captain—Alston’s health was drunk. But Alston was a man of few words, -and had a horror of speech-making. - -He contented himself with a few brief sentences of acknowledgment, and -sat down. Then somebody proposed the health of the other commissioned -and noncommissioned officers, and to this Ernest rose to respond, -making a very good speech in reply. He rapidly sketched the state of -political affairs, of which the Zulu war was the outcome, and, without -expressing any opinion on the justice or wisdom of that war, of which, -to speak the truth, he had grave doubts, he went on to show, in a few -well-chosen, weighty words, how vital were the interests involved in -its successful conclusion, now that it once had been undertaken. -Finally he concluded thus: - -“I am well aware, gentlemen, that with many of those who are your -guests here to-night, and my own comrades, this state of affairs and -the conviction of the extreme urgency of the occasion has been the -cause of their enlistment. It is impossible for me to look down these -tables, and see so many in our rough-and-ready uniform, whom I have -known in other walks of life, as farmers, storekeepers, Government -clerks, and what not, without realising most clearly the extreme -necessity that can have brought these peaceable citizens together on -such an errand as we are bent on. Certainly it is not the ten shillings -a day, or the mere excitement of savage warfare, that has done this” -(cries of ‘No, no!’);” because most of them can well afford to despise -the money, and many more have seen enough of native war, and know well -that few rewards and plenty of hard work fall to the lot of colonial -volunteers. Then what is it? I will venture a reply. It is that sense -of patriotism which is a part and parcel of the English mind” (cheers), -“and which from generation to generation has been the root of England’s -greatness, and, so long as the British blood remains untainted, will -from unborn generation to generation be the mainspring of the greatness -that is yet to be of those wider Englands, of which I hope this -continent will become not the least.” (Loud cheers.) - -“That, gentlemen and men of Alston’s Horse, is the bond which unites us -together; it is the sense of a common duty to perform, of a common -danger to combat, of a common patriotism to vindicate. And for that -reason, because of the patriotism and the duty, I feel sure that when -the end of this campaign comes, whatever that end may be, no one, be he -imperial officer, or newspaper correspondent, or Zulu foe, will be able -to say that Alston’s Horse shirked its work, or was mutinous, or proved -a broken reed, piercing the side of those who leaned on it.” (Cheers.) -“I feel sure, too, that, though there may be a record of brave deeds -such as become brave men, there will be none of a comrade deserted in -the time of need, or of a failure in the moment of emergency, however -terrible that emergency may be.” (Cheers.) “Ay, my brethren in arms,” -and here Ernest’s eyes flashed and his strong clear voice went ringing -down the great hall, “whom England has called, and who have not failed -to answer to the call, I repeat, however terrible may be that -emergency, even if it should involve the certainty of death—I speak -thus because I feel I am addressing brave men, who do not fear to die, -when death means duty, and life means dishonour—I know well that you -will rise to it, and, falling shoulder to shoulder, will pass as heroes -should on to the land of shades—on to that Valhalla of which no true -heart should fear to set foot upon the threshold.” - -Ernest sat down amid ringing cheers. Nor did these noble words, coming -as they did straight from the loyal heart of an English gentleman, fail -of their effect. On the contrary, when, a fortnight later, Alston’s -Horse formed that fatal ring on Isandhlwana’s bloody field, they -flashed through the brain of more than one despairing man, so that he -set his teeth and died the harder for them. - -“Bravo, my young Viking!” said Mr. Alston to Ernest, while the roof was -still echoing to the cheers evoked by his speech, “the old Bersekir -spirit is cropping up, eh?” He knew that Ernest’s mother’s family, like -so many of the old Eastern County stocks, were of Danish extraction. - -It was a great night for Ernest. - -Two days later Alston’s Horse, sixty-four strong, marched out of -Pretoria with a military band playing before. Alas! they never marched -back again. - -At the neck of the poort or pass the band and the crowd of ladies and -gentlemen who had accompanied them halted, and, having given them three -cheers, turned and left them. Ernest, too, turned and gazed at the -pretty town, with its white houses and rose-hedges red with bloom, -nestling on the plain beneath, and wondered if he would ever see it -again. He never did. - -The troop was then ordered to march at ease in half-sections, and -Ernest rode up to the side of Alston; on his other side was the boy -Roger, now about fourteen years of age, who acted as Alston’s -aide-de-camp, and was in high spirits at the prospect of the coming -campaign. Presently Alston sent his son back to the other end of the -line on some errand. - -Ernest watched him as he galloped off, and a thought struck him. - -“Alston,” he said, “do you think that it is wise to bring that boy into -this business?” - -His friend slewed himself round sharply in the saddle. - -“Why not?” he asked, in his deliberate way. - -“Well, you know there is a risk.” - -“And why should not the boy run risks as well as the rest of us? Look -here, Ernest, when I first met you there in Guernsey I was going to see -the place where my wife was brought up. Do you know how she died?” - -“I have heard she died a violent death; I do not know how.” - -“Then I will tell you, though it costs me something to speak of it. She -died by a Zulu assegai, a week after the boy was born. She saved his -life by hiding him under a heap of straw. Don’t ask me particulars; I -can’t bear to talk of it. Perhaps now you understand why I am -commanding a corps enrolled to serve against the Zulus. Perhaps, too, -you will understand why the lad is with me. We go to avenge my wife and -his mother, or to fall in the attempt. I have waited long for the -opportunity; it has come.” - -Ernest relapsed into silence, and presently fell back to his troop. - -On the 20th of January, Alston’s Horse, having moved down by easy -marches from Pretoria, camped at Rorke’s Drift, on the Bulialo River, -not far from a store and a thatched building used as a hospital, which -were destined to become historical. Here orders reached them to march -on the following day and join No. 3 column, with which was Lord -Chelmsford himself, and which was camped about nine miles from the -Bulialo River, at a spot called Isandhlwana, or the “Place of the -Little Hand.” Next day, the 21st of January, the corps moved on -accordingly, and following the waggon-track that runs past the -Inhlazatye Mountain, by midday came up to the camp, where about -twenty-five hundred men of all arms were assembled under the immediate -command of Colonel Glynn. Their camp, which was about eight hundred -yards square, was pitched facing a wide plain, with its back towards a -precipitous, slab-sided hill, of the curious formation sometimes to be -seen in South Africa. This was Isandhlwana. - -“Hullo!” said Alston, as, on reaching the summit of the neck over which -the waggon-road runs, they came in sight of the camp, “they are not -entrenched. By Jove,” he added, after scanning the camp carefully, -“they haven’t even got a waggon-laager!” and he whistled expressively. - -“What do you mean?” asked Ernest. - -Mr. Alston so rarely showed surprise that he knew there must be -something very wrong. - -“I mean, Ernest, that there is nothing to prevent this camp from being -destroyed, and every soul in it, by a couple of Zulu regiments, if they -choose to make a night attack. How are they to be kept out, I should -like to know, in the dark, when you can’t see to shoot them, unless -there is some barrier? These officers, fresh from home, don’t know what -a Zulu charge is, that is very clear. I only hope they won’t have -occasion to find out. Look there,” and he pointed to a waggon lumbering -along before them, on the top of which, among a lot of other -miscellaneous articles, lay a bundle of cricketing bats and wickets, -“they think that they are going on a picnic. What is the use, too, I -should like to know, of sending four feeble columns sprawling over -Zululand, to run the risk of being crushed in detail by a foe that can -move from point to point at the rate of fifty miles a day, and which -can at any moment slip past them and turn Natal into a howling -wilderness? There, it is no use grumbling; I only hope I may be wrong. -Get back to your troop, Ernest, and let us come into camp smartly. Form -fours—trot!” - -On arrival in the camp, Mr. Alston learned, on reporting himself to the -officer commanding, that two strong parties of mounted men under the -command of Major Dartnell were out on a reconnaissance towards the -Inhlazatye Mountain, in which direction the Zulus were supposed to be -in force. The orders he received were to rest his horses, as he might -be required to join the mounted force with Major Dartnell on the -morrow. - -That night, as Alston and Ernest stood together at the door of their -tent, smoking a pipe before turning in, they had some conversation. It -was a beautiful night, and the stars shone brightly. Ernest looked at -them, and thought on how many of man’s wars those stars had looked. - -“Star-gazing?” asked Mr. Alston. - -“I was contemplating our future homes,” said Ernest, laughing. - -“Ah, you believe that, do you? think you are immortal, and that sort of -thing?” - -“Yes; I believe that we shall live many lives, and that some of them -will be there,” and he pointed to the stars. “Don’t you?” - -“I don’t know. I think it rather presumptuous. Why should you suppose -that for you is reserved a bright destiny among the stars more than for -these?” and he put out his hand and clasped several of a swarm of -flying-ants which were passing at the time. Just think how small must -be the difference between these ants and us in the eyes of a Power who -can produce both. The same breath of life animates both. These have -their homes, their government, their colonies, their drones and -workers. They enslave and annex, lay up riches, and, to bring the -argument to an appropriate conclusion, make peace and war. What then is -the difference? We are bigger, walk on two legs, have a larger capacity -for suffering, and, we believe, a soul. Is it so great that we should -suppose that for us is reserved a heaven, or all the glorious worlds -which people space—for these, annihilation? Perhaps we are at the top -of the tree of development, and for them may be the future, for us the -annihilation. Who knows? There, fly away, and make the most of the -present, for nothing else is certain.” - -“You overlook religion entirely.” - -“Religion? Which religion? There are so many. Our Christian God, -Buddha, Mohammed, Brahma, all number their countless millions of -worshippers. Each promises a different thing, each commands the equally -intense belief of his worshippers, for with them all blind faith is a -condition precedent; and each appears to satisfy their spiritual -aspirations. Can all of these be true religions? Each holds the other -false and outside the pale; each tries to convert the other, and fails. -There are many lesser ones of which the same thing may be said.” - -“But the same spirit underlies them all.” - -“Perhaps. There is much that is noble in all religions, but there is -also much that is terrible. To the actual horrors and wearing anxieties -of physical existence, religion bids us add on the vaguer horrors of a -spiritual existence, which are to be absolutely endless. The average -Christian would be uncomfortable if you deprived him of his hell and -his personal devil. For myself, I decline to believe in such things. If -there is a hell, it is this world; this world is the place of expiation -for the sins of the world, and the only real devil is the devil of -man’s evil passions.” - -“It is possible to be religious and be a good man without believing in -hell,” said Ernest. - -“Yes, I think so, otherwise my chance is a poor one. Besides, I do not -deny the Almighty Power. I only deny the cruelty that is attributed to -Him. It may be that, from the accumulated mass of the wrong and -bloodshed and agony of this hard world, that Power is building up some -high purpose. Out of the bodies of millions of living creatures Nature -worked out her purpose and made the rocks, but the process must have -been unpleasant to the living creatures by whose humble means the great -strata were reared up. They lived, to die in billions, that tens of -thousands of years afterwards there might be a rock. It may be so with -us. Our tears and blood and agony may produce some solid end that now -we cannot guess; their volume, which cannot be wasted, for nothing is -wasted, may be building up one of the rocks of God’s far-off purpose. -But that we shall be tortured here for a time in order that we may be -indefinitely tortured there and he pointed to the stars, “that I will -never believe. Look at the mist rising from that hollow; so does the -reek of the world’s misery rise as an offering to the world’s gods. The -mist will cease to rise, and fall again in rain, and bring a blessing; -but the incense of human suffering rises night and day for so long as -the earth shall endure, nor does it fall again in dews of mercy. And -yet Christians, who declare that God is love, declare, too, that for -the vast majority of their fellow-creatures this process is to continue -from millennium to millennium.” - -“It depends on our life, they say.” - -“Look here, Ernest, a man can do no more than he can. When I got to the -age of discretion, which I put at eight-and-twenty—you have hardly -reached it yet, my boy, you are nothing but a babe—I made three -resolutions: always to try and do my duty, never to turn my back on a -poor man or a friend in trouble, and, if possible, not to make love to -my neighbour’s wife. Those resolutions I have often broken more or -less, either in the spirit or the letter, but in the main I have stuck -to them, and I can put my hand upon my heart to-night and say, ‘I have -done my best!’ And so I go my path, turning neither to the right nor to -the left, and when Fate finds me, I shall meet him, fearing nothing, -for I know he has wreaked his worst upon me, and can only at the utmost -bring me eternal sleep; and hoping nothing, because my experience here -has not been such as to justify the hope of any happiness for man, and -my vanity is not sufficiently strong to allow me to believe in the -intervention of a superior Power to save so miserable a creature from -the common lot of life. Good-night.” - -On the following day his fate found him. - - - - -CHAPTER XIX. -ISANDHLWANA - - -Midnight came, and the camp was sunk in sleep. Up to the sky, whither -it was decreed their spirits should pass before the dark closed in -again and hid their mangled corpses, floated the faint breath of some -fourteen hundred men. There they lay, sleeping the healthy sleep of -vigorous manhood, their brains busy with the fantastic madness of a -hundred dreams, and little recking of the inevitable morrow. There, in -his sleep, the white man saw his native village, with its tall, -wind-swayed elms, and the gray old church that for centuries had -watched the last slumber of his race; the Kafir, the sunny slope of -fair Natal, with the bright light dancing on his cattle’s horns, and -the green of the gardens, where, for his well-being, his wives and -children toiled. To some that night came dreams of high ambition, of -brave adventure, crowned with the perfect triumph we never reach; to -some, visions of beloved faces, long since passed away; to some, the -reflected light of a far-off home, and echoes of the happy laughter of -little children. And so their lamps wavered hither and thither in the -spiritual breath of sleep, flickering wildly, ere they went out for -ever. The night-wind swept in sad gusts across Isandhlwana’s plain, -tossing the green grass, which to-morrow would be red. It moaned -against Inhlazatye’s Mountain and died upon Upindo, fanning the dark -faces of a host of warriors who rested there upon their spears, -sharpened for the coming slaughter. And as it breathed upon them, they -turned, those brave soldiers of U’Cetywayo—“born to be killed,” as -their saying runs, at Cetywayo’s bidding—and, grasping their assegais, -raised themselves to listen. It was nothing, death was not yet; death -for the morrow, sleep for the night. - -A little after one o’clock on the morning of the 22nd of January, -Ernest was roused by the sound of a horse’s hoofs and the harsh -challenge of the sentries. “Despatch from Major Dartnell,” was the -answer, and the messenger passed on. Half an hour more and the reveille -was sounded, and the camp hummed in the darkness like a hive of bees -making ready for the dawn. - -Soon it was known that the General and Colonel Glynn were about to move -out to the support of Major Dartnell, who reported a large force of the -enemy in front of him, with six companies of the second battalion of -the 24th Regiment, four guns, and the mounted infantry. - -At dawn they left. - -At eight o’clock a report arrived from a picket, stationed about a mile -away on a hill to the north of the camp, that a body of Zulus was -approaching from the north-east. - -At nine o’clock the enemy showed over the crest of the hills for a few -minutes, and then disappeared. - -At ten o’clock Colonel Durnford arrived from Rorke’s Drift with a -rocket battery and two hundred and fifty mounted native soldiers, and -took over the command of the camp from Colonel Pulleine. As he came up -he stopped for a minute to speak to Alston, whom he knew, and Ernest -noticed him. He was a handsome, soldier-like man, with his arm in a -sling, a long, fair moustache, and restless, anxious expression of -face. - -At 10.30, Colonel Durnford’s force, divided into two portions, was, -with the rocket battery, pushed some miles forwards to ascertain the -enemy’s movements, and a company of the 24th was directed to take up a -position on the hill about a mile to the north of the camp. Meanwhile, -the enemy, which they afterwards heard consisted of the Undi Corps, the -Nokenke and Umcitu Regiments, and the Nkobamakosi and Imbonambi -Regiments, in all about twenty thousand men, were resting about two -miles from Isandhlwana, with no intention of attacking that day. They -had not yet been “moutied” (doctored), and the condition of the moon -was not propitious. - -Unfortunately, however, Colonel Durnford’s mounted Basutos, in pushing -forwards, came upon a portion of the Umcitu Regiment, and fired on it; -whereupon the Umcitu came into action, driving Durnford’s Horse before -them, and then engaged the company of the 24th, which had been -stationed on the hill to the north of the camp, and, after a stubborn -resistance, annihilating it. It was followed by the Nokenke, Imbonambi, -and Nkobamakosi Regiments, who executed a flanking movement, and -threatened the front of the camp. For awhile the Undi Corps, which -formed the chest of the army, held its ground. Then it marched off to -the right, and directed its course to the north of Isandhlwana -Mountain, with the object of turning the position. - -Meanwhile, the remaining companies of the 24th were advanced to various -positions in front of the camp, and engaged the enemy, for awhile -holding him in check; the two guns under Major Smith shelling the -Nokenke Regiment, which formed the Zulu left centre, with great effect. -The shells could be seen bursting amid the dense masses of Zulus, who -were coming on slowly and in perfect silence, making large gaps in -their ranks, which instantly closed up over the dead. - -At this point the advance of the Undi Regiment to the Zulu right and -the English left was reported; and Alston’s Horse were ordered to -proceed, and, if possible, to check it. Accordingly they left, and, -riding behind the company of the 24th on the hill, to the north of the -camp, which was now hotly engaged with the Umcitu, and Durnford’s -Basutos, who, fighting splendidly, were slowly being pushed back, made -for the north side of Isandhlwana. As soon as they got on to the high -ground they caught sight of the Undi, who, something over three -thousand strong, were running swiftly in a formation of companies, -about half a mile away to the northward. - -“By Heaven, they mean to turn the mountain, and seize the waggon-road!” -said Mr. Alston. “Gallop!” - -The troop dashed down the slope towards a pass in a stony ridge, which -would command the path of the Undi, as they did so breaking through and -killing two or three of a thin line of Zulus that formed the extreme -point of one of the horns or nippers, by means of which the enemy -intended to enclose the camp and crush it. - -After this, Alston’s Horse saw nothing more of the general fight; but -it may be as well to briefly relate what happened. The Zulus of the -various regiments pushed slowly on towards the camp, notwithstanding -their heavy losses. Their object was to give time to the horns or -nippers to close round it. Meanwhile, those in command realised too -late the extreme seriousness of the position, and began to concentrate -the various companies. Too late! The enemy saw that the nippers had -closed. He knew, too, that the Undi could not be far off the -waggon-road, the only way of retreat; and so, abandoning his silence -and his slow advance, he raised the Zulu war-shout, and charged in from -a distance of from six to eight hundred yards. - -Up to this time the English loss had been small, for the shooting of -the Zulus was vile. The enemy, on the contrary, had, especially during -the last half-hour before they charged, lost heavily. But now the -tables turned. First the Natal Contingent, seeing that they were -surrounded, bolted, and laid open the right and rear flank of the -troops. In poured the Zulus, so that most of the soldiers had not even -time to fix bayonets. In another minute, our men were being assegaied -right and left, and the retreat on the camp had become a fearful rout. -But even then there was nowhere to run to. The Undi Corps (which -afterwards passed on and attacked the post at Rorke’s Drift) already -held the waggon-road, and the only practical way of retreat was down a -gully to the south of the road. Into this the broken fragments of the -force plunged wildly, and after them and mixed up with them went their -Zulu foes, massacring every living thing they came across. - -So the camp was cleared. When, a couple of hours afterwards, Commandant -Lonsdale, of Lonsdale’s Horse, was sent back by General Chelmsford to -ascertain what the firing was about, he could see nothing wrong. The -tents were standing, the waggons were there; there were even soldiers -moving about. It did not occur to him that it was the soldiers’ coats -which were moving on the backs of Kafirs, and that the soldiers -themselves would never move again. So he rode quickly up to the -headquarter tents; out of which, to his surprise, there suddenly -stalked a huge naked Zulu, smeared all over with blood, and waving in -his hand a bloody assegai. - -Having seen enough, he then rode back again to tell the General that -his camp was taken. - -To God’s good providence and Cetywayo’s clemency, rather than to our -own wisdom, do we owe it that all the outlying homesteads in Natal were -not laid in ashes, and men, women, and children put to the assegai. - - - - -CHAPTER XX. -THE END OF ALSTON’S HORSE - - -Alston’s Horse soon reached the ridge, past which the Undi were -commencing to run, at a distance of about three hundred and fifty -yards, and the order was given to dismount and line it. This they did, -one man in every four keeping a few paces back to hold the horses of -his section. Then they opened fire; and next second came back the sound -of the thudding of the bullets on the shields and bodies of the Zulu -warriors. - -Ernest, seated up high on his great black horse “The Devil,” for the -officers did not dismount, could see how terrible was the effect of -that raking fire, delivered as it was, not by raw English boys, who -scarcely knew one end of a rifle from the other, but by men, all of -whom could shoot, and many of whom were crack shots. All along the line -of the Undi companies men threw up their arms and dropped dead, or -staggered out of the ranks wounded. But the main body never paused. -By-and-by they would come back and move the wounded, or kill them if -they were not likely to recover. - -Soon, as the range got longer, the fire began to be less deadly, and -Ernest could see that fewer men were dropping. - -“Ernest,” said Alston, galloping up to him, “I am going to charge them. -Look, they will soon cross the donga, and reach the slopes of the -mountain, and we sha’n’t be able to follow them on the broken ground.” - -“Isn’t it rather risky?” asked Ernest, somewhat dismayed at the idea of -launching their little clump of mounted men at the moving mass before -them. - -“Risky? yes, of course it is, but my orders were to delay the enemy as -much as possible, and the horses are fresh. But, my lad”—and he bent -towards him and spoke low—“it doesn’t much matter whether we are killed -charging or running away. I am sure that the camp must be taken; there -is no hope. Good-bye, Ernest; if I fall, fight the corps as long as -possible, and kill as many of those devils as you can; and if you -survive, remember to make off well to the left. The regiments will have -passed by then. God bless you, my boy! Now order the bugler to sound -the ‘cease fire,’ and let the men mount.” - -“Yes, sir.” - -They were the last words Alston ever spoke to him, and Ernest often -remembered, with affectionate admiration, that even at that moment he -thought more of his friend’s safety than he did of his own. As to their -tenor, Ernest had already suspected the truth, though, luckily, the -suspicion had not as yet impregnated the corps. Mazooku, too, who as -usual was with him, mounted on a Basutu pony, had just informed him -that, in his (Mazooku’s) opinion, they were all as good as ripped up -(alluding to the Zulu habit of cutting a dead enemy open), and adding a -consolatory remark to the effect that man can die but once, and “good -job too.” - -But, strangely enough, he did not feel afraid; indeed, he never felt -quieter in his life than he did in that hour of near death. A wild -expectancy thrilled his nerves and looked out of his eyes. “What would -it be like?” he wondered. And in another minute all such thoughts were -gone, for he was at the head of his troop, ready for the order. - -Alston, followed by the boy Roger, galloped swiftly round, seeing that -the formation was right, and then gave the word to unsheath the short -swords with which he had insisted upon the corps being armed. -Meanwhile, the Undi were drawing on to a flat plain, four hundred yards -or more broad, at the foot of the mountain, a very suitable spot for a -cavalry manoeuvre. - -“Now, men of Alston’s Horse, there is the enemy before you. Let me see -how you can go through them. _Charge!_” - -“_Charge!_” re-echoed Ernest. - -[Illustration: “The last Charge of Alston’s Horse.”] - -“_Charge!_” roared Sergeant-Major Jones, brandishing his sword. - -Down the slope they go, slowly at first; now they are on the plain, and -the pace quickens to a hand-gallop. Ernest feels his great horse gather -himself together and spring along beneath him; he hears the hum of -astonishment rising from the dense black mass before them as it halts -to receive the attack; he glances round, and sees the set faces and -determined look upon the features of his men, and his blood boils up -with a wild exhilaration, and for awhile he tastes the fierce joy of -war. - -Quicker still grows the pace; now he can see the white round the dark -eyeballs of the Zulus. - -“_Crash!_” They are among them, trampling them down, hewing them down, -thrusting, slashing, stabbing, and being stabbed. The air is alive with -assegais, and echoes with the savage Zulu war-cries and with the shouts -of the gallant troopers, fighting now as troopers have not often fought -before. Presently, as in a dream, Ernest sees a huge Zulu seize -Alston’s horse by the bridle, jerk it on to its haunches, and raise his -assegai. Then the boy Roger, who is by his father’s side, makes a point -with his sword, and runs the Zulu through. He falls, but next moment -the lad is attacked by more, is assegaied, and falls fighting bravely. -Then Alston pulls up, and, turning, shoots with his revolver at the men -who have killed his son. Two fall, another runs up, and with a shout -drives a great spear right through Alston, so that it stands out a -hand-breadth behind his back. On to the body of his son he, too, falls -and dies. Next second the Zulu’s head is cleft in twain down to the -chin. That was Jeremy’s stroke. - -All this time, they are travelling on, leaving a broad red line of dead -and dying in their track. Presently it was done; they had passed right -through the Impi. But out of sixty-four men they had lost their captain -and twenty troopers. As they emerged, Ernest noticed that his sword was -dripping blood, and his sword-hand stained red. Yet he could not at the -moment remember having killed anybody. - -But Alston was dead, and he was now in command of what remained of the -corps. They were in no condition to charge again, for many horses and -some men were wounded. So he led them round the rear of the Impi, -which, detaching a company of about three hundred men to deal with the -remnants of the troop, went on its way with lessened numbers, and -filled with admiration at the exhibition of a courage in no way -inferior to their own. - -This company, running swiftly, took possession of the ridge down which -the troop had charged, and by which alone it would be possible for -Ernest to retreat, and taking shelter behind stones, began to pour in -an inaccurate but galling fire on the little party of whites. Ernest -charged up through them, losing two more men and several horses in the -process; but what was his horror, on reaching the crest of the ridge, -to see about a thousand Zulus, drawn up, apparently in reserve, in the -neck of the pass leading to the plain beyond! To escape through them -would be almost impossible, for he was crippled with wounded and -dismounted men, and the pace of a force is the pace of the slowest. -Their position was desperate, and looking round at his men, he could -see that they thought so too. - -His resolution was soon taken. A few paces from where he had for a -moment halted the remainder of the corps was a little eminence, -something like an early Saxon tumulus. To this he rode, and, -dismounting, turned his horse loose, ordering his men to do the same. -So good was the discipline, and so great his control over them, that -there were no wild rushes to escape: they obeyed, reaching their -desperate case, and formed a ring round the rise. - -“Now, men of Alston’s Horse,” said Ernest, “we have done our best, let -us die our hardest.” - -The men set up a cheer, and next minute the Zulus, creeping up under -shelter of the rocks which were strewed around, attacked them with -fury. - -In five minutes, in spite of the withering fire which they poured in -upon the surrounding Zulus, six more of the little band were dead. Four -were shot, two were killed in a rush made by about a dozen men, who, -reckless of their own life, determined to break through the white man’s -ring. They perished in the attempt, but not before they had stabbed two -of Alston’s Horse. The remainder, but little more than thirty men, -retired a few paces farther up the little rise so as to contract their -circle, and kept up a ceaseless fire upon the enemy. The Zulus, thanks -to the accurate shooting of the white men, had by this time lost more -than fifty of their number, and, annoyed at being put to such loss by a -foe numerically so insignificant, they determined to end the matter -with a rush. Ernest saw their leader, a great almost naked fellow, with -a small shield and a necklace of lion’s claws, walking, utterly -regardless of the pitiless rifle fire, from group to group, and -exhorting them. Taking up a rifle which had just fallen from the hand -of a dead trooper—for up to the present Ernest had not joined in the -firing—he took a fine sight at about eighty yards at the Zulu chief’s -broad chest, and pulled. The shot was a good one; the great fellow -sprang into the air and dropped. Instantly another commander took his -place and the final advance began. - -But the Zulus had to come up-hill, with but little cover, and scores -were mown down by the scorching and continuous fire from the -breech-loaders. Twice, when within twenty yards, were they driven back, -twice did they come on again. Now they were but twelve paces or so -away, and a murderous fire was kept up upon them. For a moment they -wavered, then pushed forwards up the slope. - -“Close up!” shouted Ernest, “and use your swords and pistols.” - -His voice was heard above the din. Some of the men dropped the now -useless rifles, and the revolvers began to crack. - -Then the Zulus closed in upon the doomed band, with a shout of “Bulala -umlungo!” (Kill the white man!) - -Out rang the pistol-shots, and fire flew from the clash of swords and -assegais; and still the little band, momentarily growing fewer, fought -on with labouring breath. Never did hope-forsaken men make a more -gallant stand. Still they fought, and still they fell, one by one, and -as they fell were stabbed to death; but scarcely one of them was there -whose death-wound was in his back. - -At last the remaining Zulus drew back; they thought that it was done. - -But no; three men yet stood together upon the very summit of the mound, -holding six foes at bay. The Zulu captain laughed aloud when he saw it, -and gave a rapid order. Thereupon the remaining Zulus formed up, and -stabbing the wounded as they went, departed swiftly over the dead, -after the main body of the corps, which had now vanished round the -mountain. - -They left the six to finish the three. - -Three hundred had come to attack Alston’s Horse; not more than one -hundred departed from that attack. The overpowered white men had -rendered a good account of their foes. - -The three left alive on the summit of the little hill were, as Fate -would have it, Ernest, Jeremy, and the ex-sailor, who had complained of -the “sargustic” companion, who, it happened, had just died by his side. - -Their revolvers were empty; Ernest’s sword had broken off short in the -body of a Zulu; Jeremy still had his sword, and the sailor a clubbed -carbine. - -Presently one of the six Zulus dodged in under the carbine and ran the -sailor through. Glancing round, Ernest saw his face turn grey. The -honest fellow died as he had lived, swearing hard. - -“Ah, you —— black mate,” he sang out, “take that, and be damned to -you!” The clubbed rifle came down upon the Zulu’s skull and cracked it -to bits, and both fell dead together. - -Now there were five Zulus left, and only Ernest and Jeremy to meet -them. But stay; suddenly from under a corpse uprises another foe. No, -it is not a foe, it is Mazooku, who has been shamming dead, but -suddenly and most opportunely shows himself to be very much alive. -Advancing from behind, he stabs one of the attacking party, and kills -him. That leaves four. Then he engages another, and after a long -struggle kills him too, which leaves three. And still the two white men -stand back to back with flashing eyes and gasping breath, and hold -their own. Soaked with blood, desperate, and expecting death, they were -yet a gallant sight to see. Two of the remaining Zulus rush at the -giant Jeremy, one at Ernest. Ernest, having no effective weapon left, -dodges the assegai thrust, and then closes with his antagonist, and -they roll, over and over, down the hill together, struggling for the -assegai the Zulu holds. It snaps in two, but the blade and about eight -inches of the shaft remain with Ernest. He drives it through his -enemy’s throat, and he dies. Then he struggles up to see the closing -scene of the drama, but not in time to help in it. Mazooku has wounded -his man badly, and is following to kill him. And Jeremy? He has struck -at one of the Kafirs, with his sword. The blow is received on the edge -of the cowhide shield, and sinks half-way through it, so that the hide -holds the steel fast. With a sharp twist of the shield the weapon is -jerked out of his hand, and he is left defenceless, with nothing to -trust to except his native strength. Surely he is lost! But no—with a -sudden rush he seizes both Zulus by the throat, one in each hand, and, -strong men as they are, swings them wide apart. Then with a tremendous -effort he jerks their heads together with such awful force that they -fall senseless, and Mazooku comes up and spears them. - - - - -Thus was the fight ended. - -Ernest and Jeremy sank upon the bloody grass, gasping for breath. The -firing from the direction of the camp had now died away, and, after the -tumult, the shouts, and the shrieks of the dying, the silence seemed -deep. - -It was the silence of the dead. - -There they lay, white man and Zulu, side by side in the peaceable -sunlight and in a vague bewildered way Ernest noticed that the faces, -which a few minutes before looked so grim, were mostly smiling now. -They had passed through the ivory gates and reached the land of smiles. -How still they all were! A little black-and-white bird, such as fly -from ant-hill to ant-hill, came and settled upon the forehead of a -young fellow, scarcely more than a boy, and the only son of his mother, -who lay quiet across two Zulus. The bird knew why he was so still. -Ernest had liked the boy, and knew his mother, and began to wonder as -he lay panting on the grass what she would feel when she heard of her -son’s fate. But just then Mazooku’s voice broke the silence. He had -been standing staring at the body of one of the men he had killed, and -was now apostrophising it in Zulu. - -“Ah, my brother,” he said, “son of my own father, with whom I used to -play when I was little; I always told you that you were a perfect fool -with an assegai but little thought that I should ever have such an -opportunity of proving it to you. Well, it can’t be helped; duty is -duty, and family ties must give way to it. Sleep well, my brother; it -was painful to kill you—very!” - -Ernest lifted himself from the ground, and laughed the hysterical laugh -of shattered nerves, at this naive and thoroughly Zulu moralising. Just -then Jeremy rose and came to him. He was a fearful sight to see—his -hands, his face, his clothes, were all red; and he was bleeding from a -cut on the face, and another on the hand. - -“Come, Ernest,” he said, in a hollow voice, “we must clear out of -this.” - -“I suppose so,” said Ernest. - -On the plain at the foot of the hill several of the horses were quietly -cropping the grass, till such time as the superior animal, man, had -settled his differences. Among them was Ernest’s black stallion, “The -Devil,” which had been wounded, though slightly, on the flank. They -walked towards the horses, stopping on their way to arm themselves from -the weapons which lay about. As they passed the body of the man Ernest -had killed in his last struggle for life, he stopped and drew the -broken assegai from his throat. “A memento!” said he. The horses were -caught without difficulty, and “The Devil” and the two next best -animals selected. Then they mounted, and rode towards the top of the -ridge over which Ernest had seen the body of Zulus lying in reserve. -When they were near it Mazooku got down and crept to the crest on his -stomach. Presently, to their great relief, he signalled to them to -advance: the Zulus had moved on, and the valley was deserted. And so -the three passed over the neck, that an hour and a half before they had -crossed with sixty-one companions, who were now all dead. “I think we -have charmed lives,” said Jeremy, presently. “All gone except us two. -It can’t be chance.” - -“It is fate,” said Ernest, briefly. - -From the top of the neck they got a view of the camp, which now looked -quiet and peaceful, with its white tents and its Union Jack fluttering -as usual in the breeze. - -“They must be all dead too,” said Ernest; “which way shall we go?” - -Then it was that Mazooku’s knowledge of the country proved of the -utmost service to them. He had been brought up at a kraal in the -immediate neighbourhood, and knew every inch of the land. Avoiding the -camp altogether, he led them to the left of the battle-field, and after -two hours’ ride over rough country, brought them to a ford of the -Bulialo which he was acquainted with, some miles below where the few -survivors of the massacre struggled across the river, or were drowned -in attempting to do so. Following this route they never saw a single -Zulu, for these had all departed in the other direction, and were -spared the horrors of the stampede and of “Fugitives’ Drift.” - -At last they gained the farther side of the river, and were, -comparatively speaking, safe on Natal ground. - -They determined, after much anxious consultation, to make for the -little fort at Helpmakaar, and had ridden about a mile or so towards -it, when suddenly the Zulu’s quick ear caught the sound of distant -firing to their right. It was their enemy, the Undi Corps, attacking -Rorke’s Drift. Leaving Mazooku to hold the horses, Ernest and Jeremy -dismounted, and climbed a solitary koppie or hill which just there -cropped out from the surface of the plain. It was of an ironstone -formation, and on the summit lay a huge flat slab of almost pure ore. -On to this they climbed, and looked along the course of the river, but -could see nothing. Rorke’s Drift was hidden by a rise in the ground. - -All this time a dense thundercloud had been gathering in the direction -of Helpmakaar, and was now, as is common before sunset in the South -African summer season, travelling rapidly up against the wind, set in a -faint rainbow as in a frame. The sun, on the other hand, was sinking -towards the horizon, so that his golden beams, flying across a space of -blue sky, impinged upon the black bosom of the cloud, and were -reflected thence in sharp lights and broad shadows, flung like -celestial spears and shields across the plains of Zululand. -Isandhlwana’s Mountain was touched by one great ray which broke in -glory upon his savage crest, and crowned him that day as king of death, -but the battlefield over which he towered was draped in gloom. It was a -glorious scene. Above, the wild expanse of sky broken up by flaming -clouds, and tinted with hues such as might be reflected from the -jewelled walls of heaven. Behind, the angry storm, set in its -rainbow-frame like ebony in a ring of gold. In front, the rolling -plain, where the tall grasses waved, the broad Bulialo flashing through -it like a silver snake, the sun-kissed mountains, and the shadowed -slopes. - -It was a glorious scene. Nature in her most splendid mood flung all her -colour-streamers loose across the earth and sky, and waved them wildly -ere they vanished into night’s abyss. Life, in his most radiant -ecstasy, blazed up in varied glory before he sank, like a lover, to -sleep awhile in the arms of his eternal mistress—Death. - -Ernest gazed upon it, and it sank into his heart, which, set to -Nature’s tune, responded ever when her hands swept the chords of earth -or heaven. It lifted him above the world, and thrilled him with -indescribable emotion. His eyes wandered over the infinite space above, -searching for the presence of a God; then they fell upon Isandhlwana, -and marked the spot just where the shadows were deepest; where his -comrades lay, and gazed upon the splendid sky with eyes that could not -see; and at last his spirit gave way, and, weakened with emotion and -long toil and abstinence, he burst into a paroxysm of grief. - -“O Jeremy,” he sobbed, “they are all dead, all except you and I, and I -feel a coward that I should still live to weep over them. When it was -over, I should have let that Zulu kill me; but I was a coward, and I -fought for my life. Had I but held my hand for a second, I should have -gone with Alston and the others, Jeremy.” - -“Come, come, old fellow, you did your best, and fought the corps like a -brick. No man could have done more.” - -“Yes, Jeremy, but I should have died with them; it was my duty to die. -And I do not care about living, and they did. I have been an -unfortunate dog all my life. I shot my cousin, I lost Eva, and now I -have seen all my comrades killed, and I, who was their leader, alone -escaped, and perhaps I have not done with my misfortunes yet. What -next, I wonder? what next?” - -Ernest’s distress was so acute, that Jeremy, looking at him and seeing -that all he had gone through had been too much for him, tried to soothe -him, lest he should go into hysterics, by putting his arm round his -waist and giving him a good hug. - -“Look here, old chap,” he said; “it is no use bothering one’s head -about these things. We are just so many feathers blown about by the -wind, and must float where the wind blows us. Sometimes it is a good -wind, and sometimes a bad one; but on the whole it is bad, and we must -just make the best of it, and wait till it doesn’t think it worth while -to blow our particular feathers about any more, and then we shall come -to the ground, and not till then. And now we have been up here for more -than five minutes, and given the horses a bit of a rest. We must be -pushing on if we want to get to Helpmakaar before dark, and I only hope -we shall get there before the Zulus, that’s all. By Jove, here comes -the storm—come on!” And Jeremy jumped off the lump of iron-ore, and -began to descend the koppie. - -Ernest, who had been listening with his face in his hands, rose and -followed him in silence. As he did so, a breath of ice-cold air from -the storm-cloud, which was now right over-head, fanned his hot brow, -and when he had gone a few yards he turned to meet it, and to cast one -more look at the scene. - -It was the last earthly landscape he ever saw. For at that instant -there leaped from the cloud overhead a fierce stream of jagged light, -which struck the mass of iron-ore on which they had been seated, -shivered and fused it, and then ran down the side of the hill to the -plain. Together with the lightning there came an ear-splitting crack of -thunder. - -Jeremy, who was now nearly at the bottom of the little hill, staggered -at the shock. When he recovered, he looked up where Ernest had been -standing, and could not see him. He rushed up the hill again, calling -him in accents of frantic grief. There was no answer. Presently he -found him lying on the ground, white and still. - -[Illustration: “He found him lying on the ground, white and still.”] - - - - -BOOK III. - - - - -CHAPTER I. -THE CLIFFS OF OLD ENGLAND - - -It was an April evening; off the south coast of England. The sun had -just made up his mind to struggle out from behind a particularly black -shower-cloud, and give that part of the world a look before he bade it -good-night. - -“That is lucky,” said a little man, who was with difficulty hanging on -to the bulwark netting of the H.M.S. _Conway Castle;_ “now, Mr. Jones, -look if you can’t see them in the sunlight.” - -Mr. Jones accordingly looked through his glasses again. - -“Yes,” he said, “I can see them distinctly.” - -“See what?” asked another passenger, coming up. “The cliffs of Old -England,” answered the little man, joyously. - -“Oh, is that all?” said the other; “curse the cliffs of Old England!” - -“Nice remark that for a man who is going home to be married, eh?” said -the little man, turning to where his companion had stood. - -But Mr. Jones had shut up his glasses, and vanished aft. - -Presently he reached a deck-cabin, and entered without knocking. - -“England is in sight, old fellow,” he said, addressing somebody who lay -back smoking in a cane-chair. - -The person addressed made a movement as though to rise, then put up his -hand to a shade that covered his eyes. - -“I forgot,” he answered, with a smile; “it will have to be very much in -sight before I can see it. By the way, Jeremy,” he went on, nervously, -“I want to ask you something. These doctors tell such lies.” And he -removed the shade. “Now, look at my eyes, and tell me honestly, am I -disfigured? Are they shrunk, I mean, or have they got a squint, or -anything of that sort?” and Ernest turned up his dark orbs, which, -except that they had acquired that painful, expectant look peculiar to -the blind, were just as they always had been. - -Jeremy looked at them, first in one light, then in another. - -“Well!” said Ernest, impatiently. “I can feel that you are staring me -out of countenance.” - -“Hamba gachlé,” replied the imperturbable one. “I am di—di—diagnosing -the case. There, that will do. To all appearance, your optics are as -sound as mine. You get a girl to look at them, and see what she says.” - -“Ah, well; that is something to be thankful for.” - -Just then somebody knocked at the cabin-door. It was a steward. - -“You sent for me, Sir Ernest?” - -“O yes, I remember. Will you be so good as to find my servant? I want -him.” - -“Yes, Sir Ernest.” - -Ernest moved impatiently. - -“Confound that fellow, with his everlasting ‘Sir Ernest’!” - -“What, haven’t you got used to your handle yet?” - -“No, I haven’t, and I wish it were at Jericho, and that is a fact. It -is all your fault, Jeremy. If you had not told that confoundedly -garrulous little doctor, who went and had the information printed in -the _Natal Mercury,_ it would never have come out at all. I could have -dropped the title in England; but now all these people know that I am -Sir Ernest, and Sir Ernest I shall remain for the rest of my days.” - -“Well, most people would not think that such a dreadful misfortune.” - -“Yes, they would, if they had happened to shoot the real heir. By the -way, what did the lawyer say in his letter? As we are so near home, I -suppose I had better post myself up. You will find it in the -despatch-box. Read it, there’s a good fellow.” - -Jeremy opened the box, battered with many years of travel, and searched -about for the letter. It contained a curious collection of articles, -prominent among which was a handkerchief, which once belonged to Eva -Ceswick; a long tress of chestnut hair tied up with a blue ribbon; -ditto of golden, which had come—well, not from Eva’s locks; a whole -botanical collection of dead flowers, tender souvenirs of goodness -knows who, for, after awhile, these accumulated dried specimens are -difficult to identify; and many letters and other curiosities. - -At last Jeremy came to the desired document, written in a fair clerk’s -hand; and having shovelled back the locks of hair, &c., began to read -it aloud: - -_St. Ethelred’s Court, Poultry,_ - -_22nd January, 1879._ - -“Sir,—” - - -“You see,” broke in Ernest, “while we were fighting over there at -Isandhlwana, those beggars were writing to tell me that I was a -baronet. Case of the ‘bloody hand’ with a vengeance, eh?” - -“Sir” (began Jeremy again), “it is our duty to inform you of the death, -on the 16th of the present month, of our esteemed client, Sir Hugh -Kershaw, Bart., of Archdale Hall, Devonshire, and of the consequent -devolution of the baronetcy to yourself, as only son of the late Sir -Hugh’s only brother, Ernest Kershaw, Esq. - -“Into the question of the unhappy manner in which you came to be placed -in the immediate succession it does not become us to enter. We have -before us at this moment a copy of Her Majesty’s pardon, granted to you -under the Transvaal Amnesty Act, and forwarded to us by Reginald -Cardus, Esq., of Dum’s Ness, Suffolk, which we have neither the wish -nor the will to dispute. It is clear to us that, under this pardon, you -are totally free from any responsibility for the breach of the law -which you perpetrated some years since; and of this it is our duty to -advise you your title to succeed is also a clear one. - -“As was only to be expected under the circumstances, the late Sir Hugh -did not bear any feeling of goodwill towards you. Indeed, we do not -think that we shall be exaggerating if we say that the news of your -free pardon materially hastened his end. On the attainment of full age -by the late Hugh Kershaw, Esq., who fell by your hand, the entail of -the family estates was cut, and only the mansion-house of Archdale -Hall, the heirlooms, which are numerous and valuable, therein -contained, and the deer-park, consisting of one hundred and eighty-five -acres of land, were resettled. These consequently pass to you, and we -shall be glad to receive your instructions concerning them, should you -elect to honour us with your confidence. The estates pass, under the -will of the late Baronet, to a distant cousin of his late wife’s, James -Smith, Esq., 52 Camperdown Road, Upper Clapham. We now think that we -have put you in possession of all the facts connected with your -accession to the baronetcy, and, awaiting your instructions, have the -honour to remain, - -“Your obedient servants, - -(Signed) “Paisley & Paisley.” - - -“Ah, so much for that!” was Ernest’s comment. “What am I to do with -Archdale Hall, its heirlooms, and its deer-park of one hundred and -eighty-five acres, I wonder? I shall sell them if I can. Mine is a -pretty position: a baronet with about sixpence halfpenny per annum to -support my rank on; a very pretty position!” - -“Hamba gachlé,” replied Jeremy; “time enough to consider all that. But -now, as we are on the reading lay, I may as well give you the benefit -of my correspondence with the officer commanding Her Majesty’s forces -in Natal and Zululand.” - -“Fire away!” remarked Ernest, wearily. - -“First letter, dated Newcastle, Natal, 27th January, from your humble -servant to officer commanding, &c.: - -“‘Sir,—I have the honour to report, by order of Lieutenant and Adjutant -Kershaw, of Alston’s Horse, at present incapacitated by lightning from -doing so himself’——” - -“Very neatly put that, I think!” interpolated Jeremy. - -“Very. Go on.” - -—“‘that on the 22nd inst., Alston’s Horse, having received orders to -check the flanking movement of the Undi Corps, proceeded to try and do -so. Coming to a ridge commanding the advance of the Undi, the corps, by -order of their late commander, Captain Alston, dismounted, and opened -fire on them at a distance of about three hundred yards, with -considerable effect. This did not, however, check the Undi, who -appeared to number between three and four thousand men, so Captain -Alston issued an order to charge the enemy. This was done with some -success. The Zulus lost a number of men; the corps, which passed right -through the enemy, about twenty troopers, Captain Alston, and his son -Roger Alston, who acted as his aide-de-camp. Several horses and one or -two men were also severely wounded, which crippled the further -movements of the corps. - -“’Lieutenant and Adjutant Kershaw, on taking command of the corps, -determined to attempt to retreat. In this attempt, however, he failed, -owing to the presence of dismounted and wounded men; to the detachment -of a body of about three hundred Zulus to intercept any such retreat; -and to the presence of a large body of Zulus on the farther side of the -pass leading to the valley through which such retreat must be -conducted. - -“’Under these circumstances he determined to fight the remains of the -corps to the last, and dismounting them, took possession of a fairly -advantageous position. A desperate hand-to-hand encounter ensued. It -ended in the almost total extermination of Alston’s Horse, and in that -of the greater part of the attacking Zulus. The names of the surviving -members of Alston’s Horse are—Lieutenant and Adjutant Kershaw, -Sergeant-Major Jeremy Jones, Trooper Mazooku (the only native in the -corps). These ultimately effected their escape, the enemy having either -been all destroyed or having followed the track of the Undi. Lieutenant -and Adjutant Kershaw regrets to have to state that in process of -effecting his escape he was struck by lightning and blinded. - -“’He estimates the total loss inflicted on the enemy by Alston’s Horse -at from four hundred to four hundred and fifty men. In face of such -determined bravery as was evinced by every one of his late gallant -comrades, Lieutenant Kershaw feels that it would be invidious for him -to mention any particular names. Every man fought desperately, and died -with his face to the enemy. He begs to enclose a return of the names of -those lost, the accuracy of which he cannot, however, guarantee, as it -is compiled from memory, the papers of the corps having all been lost. -Trusting that the manoeuvres attempted by Lieutenant Kershaw under -somewhat difficult circumstances will meet with your approval, I have, -&c.—By order of Lieutenant Kershaw, - -(Signed) Jeremy Jones, _Sergeant-Major._ - - -“Then follows the reply, dated Maritzburg, 2nd February: - -“‘Sir,—1. I have to direct you to convey to Lieutenant and Adjutant -Kershaw, and the surviving members of the corps known as Alston’s -Horse, the high sense entertained by the Officer, &c., of the gallant -conduct of that corps in the face of overwhelming odds at Isandhlwana -on the 22nd of January. - -“‘2. It is with deep regret that the Officer, &c., learns of the heavy -misfortune which has befallen Lieutenant Kershaw. He wishes to express -his appreciation of the way in which that officer handled the remnants -of his corps, and to inform him that his name will be forwarded to the -proper quarter for the expression of Her Majesty’s pleasure with regard -to his services.* - -“‘3. I am directed to offer you a commission in any of the volunteer -corps now on service in this campaign.—I have, &c., - -(Signed) “‘CHIEF OF THE STAFF.’” - - -Then comes a letter from Sergeant-Major Jones, gratefully acknowledging -the expression of the high opinion of the Officer, &c., and declining -the offer of a commission in another volunteer corps. - -Next is a private letter from the Officer, &c., offering to recommend -Sergeant-Major Jeremy Jones for a commission in the army. - -And, finally, a letter from Sergeant-Major Jones to the Officer, &c., -gratefully declining the same. - -Ernest looked up sharply. The _raison d’être_ of the movement was gone, -for he could no longer see, but the habit remained. - -* It may be stated here that, if this was ever done, the War Office did -not consider Ernest’s service worthy of notice; for he never heard -anything more about them. - - -“Why did you decline the commission, Jeremy?” - -Jeremy moved uneasily, and looked through the little cabin-window. - -“On general principles,” he answered, presently. - -“Nonsense! I know you would have liked to go into the army. Don’t you -remember, as we were riding up to the camp at Isandhlwana, you said -that you proposed that if the corps did anything, we should try and -work it?” - -“Yes.” - -“Well?” - -“Well, I said _we!_” - -“I don’t quite follow you, Jeremy.” - -“My dear Ernest, you can’t go in for a commission now, can you?” - -Ernest laughed a little bitterly. - -“What has that to do with it?” - -“Everything. I am not going to leave you in your misfortune to go and -enjoy myself in the army. I could not do it; I should be wretched if I -did. No, old fellow, we have gone through a good many things side by -side, and, please God, we will stick to each other to the end of the -chapter.” - -Ernest was always easily touched by kindness, especially now that his -nerves were shaken, and his heart softened by misfortune, and his eyes -filled with tears at Jeremy’s words. Putting out his hand, he felt -about for Jeremy’s, and, when he had found it, grasped it warmly. - -“If I have troubles, Jeremy, at least I have a blessing that few can -boast—a true friend. If you had gone with the rest at Isandhlwana -yonder, I think that my heart would have broken. I think we do bear one -another a love ‘passing the love of women.’ It would not be worth much -if it didn’t, that is one thing. I wonder if Absalom was a finer fellow -than you are, Jeremy? ‘from the sole of his foot even to the crown of -his head there was no blemish in him.’ Your hair would not weigh ‘two -hundred shekels after the king’s weight,’ though” (Jeremy wore his hair -cropped like a convict’s); “but I would back you to throw Absalom over -your shoulder, hair and all.” - -It was his fashion to talk nonsense when affected by anything, and -Jeremy, knowing it, said nothing. - -Just then there came a knock at the door, and who should enter but -Mazooku, and Mazooku transformed. His massive frame, instead of being -clothed in the loose white garments he generally wore, was arrayed in a -flannel shirt with an enormous stick-up collar, a suit of -pepper-and-salt reach-me-downs several sizes too small for him, and a -pair of boots considerably too large for his small and shapely feet; -for, like those of most Zulus of good blood, his hands and feet were -extremely delicately made. - -To add to the incongruity of his appearance, on the top of his hair, -which was still done in ridges, Zulu fashion, and decorated with long -bone snuff-spoons, was perched an extremely small and rakish-looking -billycock hat, and in his hand he carried his favourite and most -gigantic knobstick. - -On opening the cabin-door he saluted in the ordinary fashion, and -coming in, squatted down on his haunches to await orders, forgetting -that he was not in all the freedom of his native dress. The results -were most disastrous. With a crack and a bang the reach-me-down -trousers, already strained to their utmost capacity, split right up the -back. The astonished Zulu flew up into the air, but presently -discovering what had happened, sat down again, remarking that there was -“much more room now.” - -Jeremy burst out laughing, and having sketched his retainer’s -appearance for the benefit of Ernest, told him what had happened. - -“Where did you get those things from, Mazooku?” asked Ernest. - -Mazooku explained that he had bought the rig-out for three pound ten -from a second-class passenger, as the weather was growing cold. - -“Do not wear them again. I will buy you clothes as soon as we get to -England. If you are cold, wear your great-coat.” - -“Koos!” - -“How is ‘The Devil’?” Ernest had brought the black stallion on which he -had escaped from Isandhlwana home with him. - -Mazooku replied that the horse was well, but playful. A man forward had -been teasing him with a bit of bread. He had waited till that man -passed under his box, and had seized him in his teeth, lifted him off -the ground by his coat, and shaken him severely. - -“’Good! Give him a bran-mash to-night.” - -“Koos!” - -“And so you find the air cold. Are you not regretting that you came? I -warned you that you would regret.” - -“Ou ka Inkoos” (“O no, chief”), the Zulu answered, in his liquid native -tongue. “When first we came upon the smoking ship, and went out on to -the black water out of which the white men rise, and my bowels twisted -up and melted within me, and I went through the agonies of a hundred -deaths, then I regretted. ‘O, why,’ I said in my heart, ‘did not -Mazimba my father kill me rather than bring me on to this great moving -river? Surely if I live I shall grow like a white man from the -whiteness of my heart, for I am exceedingly afraid, and have cast all -my inside forth.’ All this I said, and many more things which I cannot -remember, but they were dark and heavy things. But behold! my father, -when my bowels ceased to melt, and when new ones had grown to replace -those which I had thrown forth, I was glad, and did eat much beef, and -then I questioned my heart about this journey over the black water. And -my heart answered and said, ‘Mazooku, son of Ingoluvu, of the tribe of -the Maquilisini, of the people of the Amazulu, you have done well. -Great is the chief whom you serve; great is Mazimba on the -hunting-path; great was he in the battle; all the Undi could not kill -him, and his brother the lion (Jeremy), and his servant the jackal -(Mazooku), who hid in a hole and then bit those who digged. O yes, -Mazimba is great, and his breast is full of valour; you have seen him -strike the Undi down; and his mind is full of the white man’s knowledge -and discretion; you have seen him form the ring that spat out fire so -fast that his servants the horsemen were buried under the corpses of -the Undi. So great is he, that the “heaven above” smelled him out as -“tagati,” as a wizard, and struck him with their lightning, but could -not kill him then.’ And so now my father wanders and wanders, and shall -wander in the darkness, seeing not the sun or the stars, or the -flashing of spears, or the light that gathers in the eyes of brave men -as they close in the battle, or the love which gleams in the eyes of -women. And how is this? Shall my father want a dog to lead him in his -darkness? Shall his dog Mazooku, son of Ingoluvu, prove a faithless -dog, and desert the hand that fed him, and the man who is braver than -himself? No, it shall not be so, my chief and my father. By the head of -Chaka, whither thou goest thither will I go also, and where thou shalt -build thy kraal there shall I make my hut. Koos! Baba!” - -And having saluted after the dignified Zulu fashion, Mazooku departed -to tie up his split trousers with a bit of string. There was something -utterly incongruous between his present appearance and his melodious -and poetical words, instinct as they were with qualities which in some -respects make the savage Zulu a gentleman, and put him above the white -Christian, who for the most part regards the “nigger” as a creature -beneath contempt. For there are lessons to be learned even from Zulu -“niggers,” and among them we may reckon those taught by a courage which -laughs at death; an absolute fidelity to those who have the right to -command it, or the qualities necessary to win it; and, in their raw and -unconverted state, perfect honesty and truthfulness. - -“He is a good fellow, Mazooku,” said Ernest, when the Zulu had gone; -“but I fear that one of two things will happen to him. Either he will -get homesick and become a nuisance, or he will get civilised and become -drunken and degraded. I should have done better to leave him in Natal.” - - - - -CHAPTER II. -ERNEST’S EVIL DESTINY - - -About nine o’clock on the morning following Mazooku’s oration, a young -lady came running up the stairs of the principal Plymouth hotel, and -burst into a private sitting-room, like a human bomb-shell of -attractive appearance, somewhat to the astonishment of a bald old -gentleman who was sitting at breakfast. - -“Good gracious, Dorothy, have you gone suddenly mad?” - -“O Reginald, the _Conway Castle_ is nearly in, and I have been to the -office and got leave for us to go off in the launch; so come along, -quick!” - -“What time does the launch leave?” - -“A quarter to ten exactly.” - -“Then we have three-quarters of an hour.” - -“O please, Reginald, be quick; it might go before, you know.” - -Mr. Cardus smiled, and, rising, put on his hat and coat, “to oblige -Dorothy,” he said; but, as a matter of fact, he was as excited as she -was. There was a patch of red on each of his pale cheeks, and his hand -shook. - -In a quarter of an hour they were walking up and down the quay by the -Custom House, waiting for the launch to start. - -“After all these years,” said Mr. Cardus, “and blind!” “Do you think -that he will be much disfigured, Reginald?” “I don’t know, dear; your -brother said nothing about it.” “I can hardly believe it; it seems so -strange to think that he and Jeremy should have been spared out of all -those people. How good God is!” - -“A cynic,” replied Mr. Cardus, with a smile, “or the relations of the -other people, might draw a different conclusion.” - -But Dorothy was thinking how good God was to _her._ She was dressed in -pink that morning, and - -“Oh, she looked sweet -As the little pink flower that grows in the wheat.” - - -Dorothy neither was, nor ever would be, a pretty woman, but she was -essentially a charming one. Her kindly puzzled face (and, to judge from -the little wrinkles on it, she had never got to the bottom of the -questions which contracted her forehead as a child), her steady blue -eyes, her diminutive rounded form, and, above all, the indescribable -light of goodness which shone round her like a halo, all made her -charming. What did it matter if the mouth was a little wide, or the -nose somewhat “tip-tilted?” Those who can look so sweet are able to -dispense with such fleshly attributes as a Grecian nose or chiselled -lips. At the least, they will have the best of it after youth is past; -and let me remind you, my young and lovely reader, that the longer and -dustier portion of life’s road winds away towards the pale horizon of -our path on the farther side of the grim mile-post marked “30.” - -But what made her chiefly attractive was her piquante taking manner and -the _chic_ of her presence. She was such a perfect lady. - -“All aboard, if you please,” broke in the agent. “Run in the -gangway!”and they were off towards the great gray vessel with a blue -pennant at her top. - -It was a short run, but it seemed long to Dorothy and the old gentleman -with her. Bigger and bigger grew the great vessel, till at last it -seemed to swallow up their tiny steamer. - -“Ease her! Look out for the line there! Now haul away! Make fast!” - -It was all done in an instant, and next moment they stood upon the -broad white deck, amid the crowd of passengers, and were looking round -for Ernest and Jeremy. - -But they were not to be seen. - -“I hope they are here,” faltered Dorothy. - -Mr. Cardus took his hat off, and wiped his bald head. He too hoped that -they were there. - -At that moment Dorothy became aware of a black man, clad in a white -smock pulled on over a great-coat, and carrying a big spear and a -kerrie in his hand, who was pushing his way towards them. Next moment -he stood before them, saluting vigorously. - -“Koos!” he said, thrusting his spear into the air before Mr. Cardus’s -astonished nose. - -“Inkosikaas!” (chieftainess) he repeated, going through the same -process before Dorothy. “This way, master; this way, missie. The chief -without eyes send me to you. This way; the lion bring him now.” - -They followed him through the press towards the after-part of the ship, -while, giving up the unfamiliar language, he vociferated in Zulu (it -might have been Sanskrit, for all they knew): - -“Make way, you low people, make way for the old man with the shining -head, on whose brow sits wisdom, and the fair young maiden, the sweet -rosebud, who comes,” &c. - -At that moment Dorothy’s quick eye saw a great man issuing from a -cabin, leading another man by the hand. And then she forgot everything, -and ran forward. - -“O Ernest, Ernest!” she cried. - -The blind man’s cheek flushed at the music of her voice. - -He drew his hand from Jeremy’s, and stretched out his arms towards the -voice. It would have been easy to avoid them—one never need be kissed -by a blind man—but she did not avoid them. On the contrary, she placed -herself so that the groping arms closed round her, while a voice said: -“Dolly, where are you?” - -“Here, Ernest, here!” and in another moment he had drawn her to him, -and kissed her on the face, and she had returned the kiss. - -Then she kissed Jeremy too, or rather Jeremy lifted her up two or three -feet and kissed her—it came to the same thing. And then Mr. Cardus -wrung them both by the hand, wringing Ernest’s the hardest; and Mazooku -stood by, and, Zulu fashion, chanted a little song of his own -improvising, about how the chiefs came back to their kraal after a long -expedition, in which they had, &c.; and how Wisdom, in the shape of a -shining headed and ancient one, the husband without any doubt of many -wives, and the father of at least a hundred children, &c.; and Beauty, -in the shape of a sweet and small one, &c.; and finally they all went -very near to crying, and dancing a fling on the quarter-deck together. - -And then they all talked at once, and set about collecting their things -in a muddle-headed fashion. When these had been put in a pile, and -Mazooku was seated, assegai and all, upon the top of them, as a solemn -warning to thieves (and ill would it have gone with the thief who dared -to meddle with that pile), they started off to inspect Ernest’s great -black horse, “The Devil.” - -And behold, Dorothy stroked “The Devil’s” nose, and he, recognising how -sweet and good she was, abandoned his usual habits, and did not bite -her, but only whinnied and asked for sugar. Then Ernest, going into the -box with the horse, which nobody but he and Mazooku were fond of taking -liberties with, felt down his flank till he came to a scar inflicted by -an assegai in that mad charge through the Undi, and showed it to them. -And Dorothy’s eyes filled with tears of thankfulness, as she thought of -what that horse and its rider had gone through, and of the bleaching -bones of those who had galloped by their side; and she would have liked -to kiss Ernest again, only there was no excuse. So she only pressed his -hand, feeling that the sorrow of the empty years which were gone was -almost atoned for by this hour of joy. - -Then they went ashore to the hotel, and sat together in the pleasant -sitting-room which Dorothy had chosen, and made sweet with great -bunches of violets (for she remembered that Ernest loved violets), and -talked. At length Mr. Cardus and Jeremy went off to see about getting -the things through the Custom House, where they arrived to find Mazooku -keeping half a dozen gorgeous officials, who wanted to open a box, at -bay with his knobsticks, and plastering them with offensive epithets, -which fortunately they did not understand. - -“Doll,” said Ernest, presently, “it is a beautiful day, is it not? Will -you take me for a walk, dear? I should like to go for a walk.” - -“Yes, Ernest, of course I will.” - -“You are sure you do not mind being seen with a blind man? You must -give me your hand to hold, you know.” - -“Ernest, how can you?” - -Mind giving him her hand to hold, indeed! thought Dorothy to herself, -as she ran to put her bonnet on. O, that she could give it to him for -always! And in her heart she blessed the accident of his blindness, -because it brought him so much nearer to her. He would be helpless -without her, this tall strong man, and she would be ever at his side to -help him. He would not be able to read a book, or write a letter, or -move from room to room without her. Surely she would soon be able so to -weave herself into his life that she would become indispensable to it. -And then, perhaps—perhaps—and her heart pulsed with a joy so intense at -the mere thought of what might follow that it became a pain, and she -caught her breath and leaned against the wall. For every fibre of her -frame was thrilled with a passionate love of this blind man whom she -had lost for so many years, and now had found again; and in her breast -she vowed that if she could help it she would lose him no more. Why -should she? When he had been engaged to Eva, she had done her best for -him and her, and bitterly had she felt the way in which he had been -treated, but Eva had taken her own course, and was now no longer in the -outward and visible running, whatever place she might still hold in the -inward and spiritual side of Ernest’s nature. - -Dorothy did not underrate that place; she knew well that the image of -her rival had sunk too deep into his heart to be altogether dislodged -by her. But she was prepared to put up with that. - -“One can’t have everything, you know,” she said, shaking her wise -little head at her own reflection in the glass, as she tied her -bonnet-strings. - -Dorothy was an eminently practical little person, and having recognised -the “eternal verity” of the saying that half a loaf is better than no -bread, especially if one happens to be dying of hunger, she made up her -mind to make the best of the position. Since she could not help it, Eva -would be welcome to the inward and spiritual side of Ernest, if only -she could secure the outward and visible side; “for after all, that is -real and tangible, and there isn’t much comfort in spiritual affection, -you know,” she said, with another shake of the head. - -In short, the arguments which proved so convincing to her were not -unlike those that carried conviction home to the gentle breast of Mr. -Plowden, when he made up his mind to marry Eva in the teeth of her -engagement to, and love for, Ernest; but, putting aside the diversity -of the circumstances, there was this difference between them: Mr. -Plowden recognised no higher spiritual part at all; he did not believe -in that sort of thing; he contracted for Eva as he would have -contracted to buy a lovely animal, and when he had got the given -quantity of flesh and blood he was satisfied. Of the soul—the inner -self—which the human casket held, and which loathed and hated him, he -took no account. He had got the woman, what did he care about the -woman’s soul? Souls, and spiritual parts, and affinities with what is -good and high, and the divinity of love, &c. &c., were capital things -to preach about, but they did not apply to the affairs of every-day -life. Besides, if he had been asked, he would have given it as his -candid opinion that women did not possess any of these things. - -There are hundreds of educated men who think like Mr. Plowden, and -there are thousands of educated ladies who give colour to such opinions -by their idle, aimless course of life, their utter inappreciation of -anything beyond their own little daily round, and the gossip of the -dozen or so of families who for them make up what they call society and -the interests of existence, and by their conduct in the matter of -marriage. Truly the great factor in the lowering of women is woman -herself. But what does it matter? In due course they have their -families, and the world goes on! - -Now, Dorothy did believe in all these things, and she knew what an -important part they play in human affairs, and how they dominate over, -and direct, finer minds. So did she believe in the existence of the -planets, and in the blooming of roses in walled gardens; but she could -not get near to know the beauties of the stars, or to see the opening -rosebuds, so she had to satisfy herself with the heat that poured from -the one, and the scent that came from the other. When one is -star-stricken, or mad in the matter of roses, that is better than -nothing. - -And so, taking Ernest by the hand, she led him through the crowded -streets with tender care, and on to the quiet Hoe. And as they passed, -the people turned to look at the handsome young fellow who was blind, -and some thought that they would not mind a little blindness if it led -to being personally conducted by so sweet a girl. - -Soon they reached the gardens. - -“Now tell me about yourself, Ernest. What have you been doing all these -long years, besides growing bigger and handsomer, and getting that hard -look about the mouth?” - -“A great many things, Doll. Shooting, fighting, playing the fool.” - -“Pshaw! I know all that, or at least I can guess it. What have you been -doing in your mind, you know?” - -“Why, thinking of you, of course, Doll.” - -“Ernest, if you talk to me like that, I will go away, and leave you to -find your own way home. I know well of whom you have been thinking -every day and every night. It was not of me. Now, confess it.” - -“Don’t let’s talk of _her,_ Doll. If you talk of the devil, you know, -you sometimes raise him; not that he requires much raising in this -instance,” he laughed bitterly. - -“I was so sorry for you, Ernest dear, and I did my best; indeed I did. -But I could do nothing with her. She must have been off her head, or -that man” (Dorothy always spoke of Plowden as ‘that man’)” and Florence -had some power over her; or perhaps she never really cared for you; -there are some women, you know, who seem very sweet, but cannot truly -care for anybody except themselves. At any rate, she married, and has a -family of children, for I have seen their births in the paper. Oh, -Ernest, when I think of all you must have suffered out there about that -woman, I cease to be sorry for her, and begin to hate her. I am afraid -you have been very unhappy, Ernest, all these years.” - -“Ah, yes, I have been unhappy sometimes—sometimes I have consoled -myself. There, what is the use of telling lies?—I have always been -unhappy, and never so much so as when I have been in process of -consolation. But you should not hate her, poor girl! Perhaps she has -her bad times too; only, fortunately, you women cannot feel, at least -not much—not like us, I mean.” - -“I don’t know about that,” put in Dorothy. - -“Well, I will qualify my remark—most women. And, besides, it is not -quite her fault; people cannot help themselves much in this world. She -was appointed to be my evil destiny, that is all, and she must fulfil -her mission. All my life she will probably bring me trouble, till at -last the fate works itself out. But, Dolly, my dear, there must be an -end to these things, and Nature, always fertile in analogies, teaches -us that the end of sorrow will be happiness. It is from the darkness of -night that day is born, and ice and snow are followed by the flowers. -Nothing is lost in the world, as old Alston used to say, and it is -impossible to suppose that all the grief and suffering are alone -wasted; that they are the only dull seed that will not, when their day -comes, bloom into a beautiful life. They may seem to be intangible -things now; but, after all, the difference between tangible and -intangible is only a difference of matter. We know that intangible -things are real enough, and perhaps in a future state we shall find -that they are the true immortal parts. I think so myself.” - -“I think so too.” - -“Well, then, Doll, you see, if once one gets the mastery of that idea, -it makes the navigation easier. Once admit that everything works to an -end, and that end a good and enduring one, and you will cease to call -out under your present sorrows. But it is hard for the little boy to -learn to like being whipped, and we are all children, Doll, to the end -of our days.” - -“Yes.” - -“And you see, Doll, for some reason I have been picked out to catch it -pretty warm. It does seem rather hard that a woman like that should be -allowed to turn all the wine of a man’s life into vinegar; but so it -often is. Now, if she had died, that would have been bad enough; but I -could have borne it, and bided my time in the hope of joining her. Or -if she had ceased to love me, and learned to love the other man, I -think I could have borne that, because my pride would have come to my -rescue, and because I know that the law of her affections is the only -law that the heart of woman really acknowledges, however many others -she may be forced to conform to; and that a woman of refined nature who -has ceased to love you, and is yet forced to live with you, is in -consequence a thing worthless to you, and dishonoured in her own eyes. -Besides, I ask no favour in such matters. I have no sympathy, as a -general rule, with people who raise a howl because they have lost the -affection of their wives or sweethearts, for they should have been able -to keep them. If any man could have cut me out, he was welcome to do -so, for he would have proved himself the better man, and as for the -lady, I would not have her without her heart. But I gather that was not -quite the case with Eva.” - -“O no, indeed; at least she said that she was wretched.” - -“Exactly as I thought. Well, now, you will understand that it is rather -hard. You see I did love her dearly, and it is painful to think of this -woman, whose love I won, and who by that divine right and by the law of -nature should have been my wife, as forced into being the wife of -another man, however charming he may be; and I hope for her sake that -he is charming. In fact, it fills me with a sensation I cannot -describe.” - -“Poor Ernest!” - -“Oh no, don’t pity me. Everybody has his troubles—this is mine.” - -“Oh, Ernest, but you have been unfortunate, and now your sight has -gone; but perhaps Critchett or Couper would be able to do something for -that.” - -“All the Critchetts and Coupers in the world will never do anything for -it, my dear. But you must remember that where I only lost my sight, -many others lost their lives, and it is supposed to be better to lose -your sight than your life. Besides, blindness has its advantages: it -gives you so much more time to think, and it humbles you so. You can -have no idea what it is like, Doll. Intense, everlasting blackness -hedging you in like a wall: one long, long night, even when the -sunlight is beating on your face; and out of the night, voices and the -touching of hands, like the voices and the touchings of departed -spirits. Your physical body is as helpless and as much at the mercy of -the world as your spiritual body is in the hands of the Almighty. And -things grow dim to you too: you begin to wonder what familiar faces and -sights are like, as you wonder about the exact appearance of those who -died many years ago, or of places you have not seen for years. All of -which, my dear Doll, is very favourable to thought. When next you lie -awake for five or six hours in the night, try to reckon all the things -which occupy your brain; then imagine such wakefulness and its -accompanying thoughts extended over the period of your natural life, -and you will get some idea of the depth and breadth and height of total -blindness.” - -His words struck her, and she did not know what to answer, so she only -pressed his hand in token of her mute sympathy. - -He understood her meaning; the faculties of the blind are very quick. - -“Do you know, Doll,” he said, “coming back to you and to your gentle -kindness is like coming into the peace and quiet of a sheltered harbour -after bearing the full brunt of the storm.” Just then a cloud which had -obscured the sun passed away, and its full light struck upon his face. -“There,” he went on, “it is like that. It is like emerging into the -sweet sunshine after riding for miles through the rain and mist. You -bring peace with you, my dear. I have not felt such peace for years as -I feel holding your hand to-day.” - -“I am very glad, dear Ernest,” she answered; and they walked on in -silence. At that moment, a little girl, who was trundling a hoop down -the gravel-path, stopped her hoop to look at the pair. She was very -pretty, with large dark eyes, but Dorothy noticed that she had a -curious mark upon her forehead. Presently Dorothy saw her run back -towards an extremely tall and graceful woman, who was sauntering along, -followed at some distance by a nurse with a baby in her arms, and -turning occasionally to look at the beds of spring flowers, hyacinths -and tulips, which bordered the path. - -“O mother!” she heard the little girl call out, in the clear voice of -childhood, “there is such a nice blind man! He isn’t old and ugly, and -he hasn’t a dog, and he doesn’t ask for pennies. Why is he blind if he -hasn’t a dog, and doesn’t ask for pennies?” - -Blindness, according to this little lady’s ideas, evidently sprang from -the presence of a cur and an unsatisfied hunger for copper coin. -Sometimes it does. - -The tall graceful lady looked up carelessly, saying, “Hush, dear!” She -was quite close to them now, for they were walking towards each other, -and Dorothy gave a great gasp, for before her stood _Eva Plowden._ -There was no doubt about it. She was paler and haughtier-looking than -of yore; but it was she. No one who had once seen her could mistake -that queenly beauty. Certainly Dorothy could not mistake it. - -“What is the matter, Doll?” said Ernest, carelessly. He was thinking of -other things. - -“Nothing; I hurt myself.” - -They were quite close now. - -And Eva, too, looked at them, and she, too, saw the face she had never -thought to see again. With all her eyes, and with her lips parted as -though to cry out, she gazed at the sight before her—slowly, slowly, -taking in all it meant. - -They were nearly level now. - -Then there leaped up into her eyes and face—the eyes and face which a -second before had been so calm and statue-like—a wild light of love, an -intensity of passionate and jealous desire, such as is not often to be -seen on the faces of women. - -“Ernest there, and Ernest blind, and being led by the hand of Dorothy, -and looking happy with her! How dared she touch her love! How dared he -look happy with her!” Those were the thoughts which flashed through her -troubled mind. - -She made a step towards them, as though to address him, and the blind -eyes fell upon her lovely face, and wandered over it. It made her mad. -His eyes were on her face, and yet he could not see her. O God! - -Dorothy saw the motion, and, moved by an overmastering instinct, threw -herself between them in an attitude of protection not unmixed with -defiance. And so, for a second, their eyes flashing and their bosoms -heaving with emotion, the two women stood face to face, and the blind -pathetic eyes wandered uneasily over both, feeling a presence they were -unable to define. - -It was a tragic, almost a dreadful scene. The passions it revealed were -almost too intense for words, as no brush can justly paint a landscape -made vivid by the unnatural fierceness of the lightning. - -“Well, Doll, why do you stop?” Ernest said, impatiently. - -His voice broke the spell. Eva withdrew her arm, which was half -outstretched, and touched her lips with her finger as though to enjoin -silence. Then a deep misery spread itself over her flushed face, her -head sank low, and she passed thence with rapid steps. Presently the -nurse with the baby followed her, and Dorothy noticed vaguely that this -child had also a mark upon its forehead. The whole thing had not taken -forty seconds. - -“Doll,” said Ernest, in a wild voice, and commencing to tremble, “who -was that passed us?” - -“A lady,” was the answer. - -“A lady; yes, I know that—what lady?” - -“I don’t know—a lady with children.” - -It was a fib; but she could not tell him then; an instinct warned her -not to do so. - -“Oh, it is strange, Doll, strange; but, do you know, I felt just now as -though Eva were very near me. Come, let us go home!” - -Just then the cloud got over the sun again, and they walked home in the -shadow. Apparently, too, all their talkativeness had gone the way of -the sun. They had nothing to say. - - - - -CHAPTER III. -INTROSPECTIVE - - -Eva Plowden could scarcely be said to be a happy woman. A refined woman -who has deliberately married one man when she loves another is not as a -rule happy afterwards, unless, indeed, she is blessed, or cursed, with -a singularly callous nature. But there are degrees and degrees of -unhappiness. Such a fate as Eva’s would have killed Dorothy, and would -have driven Florence, bad as she might otherwise be, to suicide or -madness. But with Eva herself it was not so; she was not sufficiently -finely strung to suffer thus. Hers was not a very happy life, and that -was all about it. She had been most miserable; but when the first burst -of her misery had passed, like the raving storm that sometimes ushers -in a wet December day, she had more or less reconciled herself—like a -sensible woman—to her position. The day was always rather wet, it is -true; but still the sun peeped out now and again, and if life was not -exactly a joyous thing, it was at least endurable. - -And yet with it all she loved Ernest in her heart as much as ever; his -memory was inexpressibly dear to her, and her regrets were sometimes -very bitter. On the whole, however, she had got over it -wonderfully—better than anybody would have thought possible, who could -have witnessed her agony some years before, when Florence told her the -whole truth immediately after the wedding. The Sabine women, we are -told, offered every reasonable resistance to their rape by the Romans, -but before long they gave the strongest proofs of reconciliation to -their lot. There was something of the Sabine woman about Eva. Indeed, -the contrast between her state of mind as regarded Ernest, and Ernest’s -state of mind as regarded her, would make a curious study. They each -loved the other, and yet how different had the results of that love -been on the two natures! To Eva it had been and was a sorrow, sometimes -a very real one; to Ernest, the destruction of all that made life worth -living. The contrast, indeed, was almost pitiable, it was so striking; -so wide a gulf was fixed between the two. The passion of the one was a -wretched thing compared to the other. But both were real; it was merely -a difference of degree. If Eva’s affection was weak when measured by -Ernest’s, it was because the soil in which it grew was poorer. She gave -all she had to give. - -As for Mr. Plowden, he could not but feel that on the whole his -matrimonial speculation had answered very well. He was honestly fond of -his wife, and, as he had a right to be, very proud of her. At times she -was cold and capricious, and at times she was sarcastic; but, take it -altogether, she made him a good and serviceable wife, and lifted him up -many pegs in the social scale. People saw that though Plowden was not a -gentleman, he had managed to marry a lady, and a very lovely lady too; -and he was tolerated, indeed to a certain extent courted, for the sake -of his wife. It was principally to attain this end that he had married -her, so he had every reason to be satisfied with his bargain, and he -was, besides, proud to be the legal owner of so handsome a creature. - -Eva often thought of her old lover, though, except in the vaguest way, -she had heard nothing of him for years. Indeed, she was, as it -happened, thinking of him tenderly enough that very morning, when her -little girl had called her attention to the “nice blind man.” And when -at last, in a way which seemed to her little short of miraculous, she -set eyes again upon his face, all her smouldering passion broke into -flame, and she felt that she still loved him with all her strength, -such as it was. - -At that moment indeed she realised how great, how bitter, how complete -was the mistake she had made, and what a beautiful thing life might -have been for her if things had gone differently. But, remembering how -things _were,_ she bowed her head and passed on, for the time -completely crushed. - -Presently, however, two points became clear in the confusion of her -mind, taking shape and form as distinct and indisputable mental facts, -and these were—first, that she was wildly jealous of Dorothy; second, -that it was her fixed determination to see Ernest. She regretted now -that she had been too overcome to go up and speak to him, for see him -she must and would; indeed, her sick longing to look upon his face and -hear his voice filled her with alarm. - -Eva reached her home, after the meeting on the Hoe, just before -luncheon-time. Her husband was now acting as locum tenens for the -rector of one of the Plymouth parishes. They had moved thus from place -to place for years, waiting for the Kesterwick living to fall vacant, -and Eva liked the roving life well enough—it diverted her thoughts. - -Presently she heard her husband enter, bringing somebody else with him, -and summoned up the sweet smile for which she was remarkable to greet -him. - -In another instant he was in the room, followed by a fresh-faced -subaltern, whose appearance reminded her of the pictures of cherubs. -Mr. Plowden had changed but little since we saw him last, with the -exception that his hair was now streaked with white, and the whole face -rather stouter. Otherwise the cold gray eyes were as cold as ever, and -the countenance of Plowden was what the countenance of Plowden had -always been—powerful, intelligent, and coarse-looking. - -“Let me introduce my friend Lieutenant Jasper to you, my dear,” he -said, in his full strong voice, which was yet unpleasant to the ear. -“We met at Captain Johnstone’s, and, as it is a long way to go to the -barracks for lunch, I asked him to come and take pot-luck with us.” - -The cherubic Jasper had screwed an eyeglass into his round eye, and -through it was contemplating Eva with astonished ecstasy; but, like -most very beautiful women, she was used to that sort of thing, and it -only amused her faintly. Mr. Plowden, too, was used to it, and took it -as a personal compliment. - -“I am delighted,” she murmured, and held out her hand. - -The cherub, suddenly awaking to the fact, dropped his eyeglass, and, -plunging at the hand, seized it as a pike does a little fish, and shook -it with enthusiasm. - -Eva smiled again. - -“Shall we go to lunch?” she said, sweetly: and they went to lunch, she -sailing down in front of them with the grace of a swan. - -At lunch itself the conversation flagged rather—that is, Mr. Plowden -talked with all the facility of an extemporary preacher; the cherub -gazed at this pale dark-eyed angel; and Eva, fully occupied with her -own thoughts, contributed a great many appreciative smiles and a few -random remarks. Just as they were, to her intense relief, nearing the -conclusion of the meal, a messenger arrived to summon Mr. Plowden to -christen a dying baby. He got up at once, for he was punctilious in the -performance of his duties, and, making excuses to his guest, departed -on his errand, thus forcing Eva to carry on the conversation. - -“Have you been in Plymouth long, Mr. Jasper?” she asked. - -The eyeglass dropped spasmodically. - -“Plymouth? O dear, no; I only landed this morning.” - -“Landed? Indeed! where from? I did not know that any boat was in except -the _Conway Castle._ - -“Well, I came by her, from the Zulu war, you know. I was invalided home -for fever.” - -The cherub suddenly became intensely interesting to Eva, for it had -struck her that Ernest must have come from Africa. - -“Indeed! I hope you had a pleasant passage. It depends so much on your -fellow-passengers, does it not?” - -“O yes, we had a very nice lot of men on board, wounded officers -mostly. There were a couple of very decent civilians, too—a giant of a -fellow called Jones, and a blind baronet, Sir Ernest Kershaw.” - -Eva’s bosom heaved. - -“I once knew a Mr. Ernest Kershaw; I wonder if it is the same? He was -tall, and had dark eyes.” - -“That’s the man; he only got his title a month or two ago. A melancholy -sort of chap, I thought; but then he can’t see now. That Jones is a -wonderful fellow, though—could pull two heavy men up at once, as easily -as you would lift a puppy-dog. Saw him do it myself. I knew them both -out there.” - -“Oh! Where did you meet them?” - -“Well, it was rather curious. I suppose you heard of the great disaster -at that place with an awful name. Well, I was at a beastly hole called -Helpmakaar, when a fellow came riding like anything from Rorke’s Drift, -telling us what had happened, and that the Zulus were coming. So we all -set to and worked like mad, and just as we had got the place a little -fit for them, somebody shouted that he saw them coming. That was just -as it was getting dark. I ran to the wall to look, and saw, not the -Zulus, but a great big fellow carrying a dead fellow in his arms, -followed by a Kafir leading three horses. At least, I thought the -fellow was dead, but he wasn’t—he had been struck by lightning. We let -him in; and such a sight as they were you never saw, all soaked with -blood from top to toe!” - -“Ah! And how did they come like that?” - -“They were the only survivors of a volunteer corps called Alston’s -Horse. They killed all the Zulus that were attacking them, when the -Zulus had killed everybody except them. Then they came away, and the -blind fellow—that is, Sir Ernest—got struck in a storm; fellows often -do out there.” - -Eva put further questions, and listened with breathless interest to the -story of Ernest’s and Jeremy’s wonderful escape, so far as the details -were known to Mr. Jasper, quite regardless of the pitiless fire that -young gentleman was keeping on herself through his eyeglass. At last, -reluctantly enough, he rose to go. - -“I must be off now, Mrs. Plowden; I want to go and call on Sir Ernest -at the hotel. He lent me a Derringer pistol to practise at a bottle -with, and I forgot to give it back.” - -Eva turned the full battery of her beautiful eyes upon him. She saw -that the young gentleman was struck, and determined to make use of him. -Women are unscrupulous when they have an end in view. - -“I am so sorry you must go; but I hope you will come and see me again, -and tell me some more about the war and the battles.” - -“You are very kind,” he stammered. “I shall be delighted.” - -He did not think it necessary to add that he had not had the luck to -see a shot fired himself. Why should he? - -“By the way, if you are going to see Sir Ernest, do you think you could -give him a private message from me? I have a reason for not wishing it -to be overheard.” - -“O yes, I daresay I can. Nothing would give me greater pleasure.” - -“You are very good.” Another glance. “Will you tell him that I wish he -would take a fly and come to see me? I shall be in all this afternoon.” - -A pang of jealousy shot through the cherubic bosom, but he comforted -himself with the reflection that a fine woman like that could not care -for a “blind fellow.” - -“O, certainly, I will try.” - -“Thank you;” and she extended her hand. - -He took it, and, intoxicated by those superb eyes, ventured to press it -tenderly. A mild wonder took possession of Eva’s mind that anybody so -very young could have developed such an astonishing amount of -impudence, but she did not resent the pressure. What did she care about -having her hand squeezed when it was a question of seeing Ernest? - -Poor deluded cherub! - - - - -CHAPTER IV. -AFTER MANY DAYS - - -Within an hour of the departure of Lieutenant Jasper, Eva heard a fly -draw up at the door. Then came an interval and the sound of two people -walking up the steps, one of whom stumbled a good deal; then a ring. - -“Is Mrs. Plowden at home?” said a clear voice, the well-remembered -tones of which sent the blood to her head and then back to her heart -with a rush. - -“Yes, sir.” - -“Oh! Wait here, flyman. Now, my good girl, I must ask you to give me -your hand, for I am not in a condition to find my way about strange -places.” - -Another pause, and the drawing-room door opened, and the maid came in, -leading Ernest, who wore a curious, drawn look upon his face. - -“How do you do?” she said, in a low voice, coming and taking him by the -hand. “That will do, Jane.” - -He did not speak till the door closed; he only looked at her with those -searching blind eyes. - -Thus they met again after many years. - -She led him to a sofa, and he sat down. - -“Do not leave go of my hand,” he said quickly; “I have not yet got used -to talking to people in the dark.” - -She sat down on the sofa beside him, feeling frightened and yet happy. -For awhile they remained silent; apparently they could find nothing to -say, and, after all, silence seemed most fitting. She had never thought -to sit hand in hand with him again. She looked at him; there was no -need for her to keep a guard over her loving glances, for he was blind. -At length she broke the silence. - -“Were you surprised to get my message?” she asked, gently. - -“Yes; it was like getting a message from the dead. I never expected to -see you again. I thought that you had quite passed out of my life.” - -“So you had forgotten me?” - -“Why do you say such a thing to me? You must know, Eva, that it is -impossible for me to forget you; I almost wish that it were possible. I -meant that you had passed out of my outward life, for out of my mind -you can never pass.” - -Eva hung her head and was silent, and yet his words sent a thrill of -happiness through her. So she had not quite lost him after it all. - -“Listen, Eva,” Ernest went on, gathering himself together, and speaking -sternly enough now, and with a strange suppressed energy that -frightened her. “How you came to do what you have done you best know.” - -“It is done; do not let us speak of it. I was not altogether to blame,” -she broke in. - -“I was not going to speak of it. But I was going to say this, now while -I have the chance, because time is short, and I think it right that you -should know the truth. I was going to tell you just that for what you -have done I freely forgive you.” - -“O Ernest!” - -“It is,” he went on, not heeding her, “a question that you can settle -with your conscience and your God. But I wish to tell you what it is -that you have done. You have wrecked my life, and made it an unhappy -thing; you have taken that from me which I can never have to give -again; you have embittered my mind, and driven me to sins of which I -should not otherwise have dreamed. I loved you, and you gave me proofs -which I could not doubt that I had won your love. You let me love you, -and then when the hour of trial came you deserted and morally destroyed -me, and the great and holy affection that should have been the blessing -of my life has become its curse.” - -Eva covered her face with her hands and sat silent. - -“You do not answer me, Eva,” he said presently, with a little laugh. -“Perhaps you find what I have to say difficult to answer, or perhaps -you think I am taking a liberty.” - -“You are very hard,” she said, in a low voice. - -“Had you not better wait till I have done before you call me hard? If I -wished to be hard, I should tell you that I no longer cared for you, -that my prevailing feeling towards you was one of contempt. It would, -perhaps, mortify you to think that I had shaken off such heavy chains. -But it is not the truth, Eva. I love you now, as I always have loved -you, as I always shall love you. I hope for nothing, I ask for nothing; -in this business it has always been my part to give, not to receive. I -despise myself for it, but so it is.” - -She laid her hand upon his shoulder. “Spare me, Ernest,” she whispered. - -“I have very little more to say, only this: I believe all that I have -given you has not been given uselessly. I believe that the love of the -flesh will die with the flesh. But my love for you has been something -more and higher than that, or how has it lived without hope, and in -spite of its dishonour, through so many years? It is of the spirit, and -I believe that its life will be like that of the spirit, unending, and -that when this hateful existence is done with I shall in some way reap -its fruits with you.” - -“Why do you believe that, Ernest? It seems too happy to be true.” - -“Why do I believe it? I cannot tell you. Perhaps it is nothing but the -fantasy of a mind broken down with brooding on its grief. In trouble we -grow towards the light—like a plant in the dark, you know. As a crushed -flower smells sweet, so all that is most aspiring in human nature is -called into life when God lays His heavy hand upon us. Heaven is -sorrow’s sole ambition. No, Eva, I do not know why I believe -it—certainly you have given me no grounds for this—but I do believe it, -and it comforts me. By the way, how did you know that I was here?” - -“I passed you on the Hoe this morning, walking with Dorothy.” - -Ernest started. “I felt you pass,” he said, “and asked Dorothy who it -was. She said she did not know.” - -“She knew, but I made a sign to her not to say.” - -“Oh!” - -“Ernest, will you promise me something?” asked Eva, wildly. - -“What is it?” - -“Nothing. I have changed my mind—nothing at all!” - -The promise that she was about to ask was that he would not marry -Dorothy, but her better nature rose in rebellion against it. Then they -talked awhile of Ernest’s life abroad. - -“Well,” said Ernest, rising after a pause, “good-bye, Eva.” - -“It is a very cruel word,” she murmured. - -“Yes, it is cruel, but not more cruel than the rest.” - -“It has been a happiness to see you, Ernest.” - -He shrugged his shoulders as he answered. “Has it? For myself I am not -sure if it has been a happiness or a misery. I must have a year or two -of quiet and darkness to think it over before I make up my mind. Will -you kindly ring the bell for the servant to take me away?” - -Half unconsciously she obeyed him, and then she came and took his hand -and looked with all her eyes and all her soul into his face. It was -fortunate that he could not see her. - -“O Ernest, you are blind!” she said, scarcely knowing what she said. - -He laughed—a hard little laugh. “Yes, Eva, _I_ am as blind now as _you_ -have been always.” - -“Ernest! Ernest! how can I live without seeing you? _I love you!_” and -she fell into his arms. - -He kissed her once—twice, and then somehow, he never knew how, found -the strength to put her from him. Perhaps it was because he heard the -servant coming. - -Next moment the servant came and led him away. As soon as he was gone -Eva flung herself on to the sofa, and sobbed as though her heart would -break. - -When Dorothy saw a fresh-faced young officer, who had come up to see -Ernest, mysteriously lead him aside, and whisper something in his ear -which caused him to turn first red and then white, being a shrewd -observer, she thought it curious. But when Ernest asked her to ring the -bell and then ordered a fly to be brought round at once, the idea of -Eva at once flashed into her mind. She and no other must be at the -bottom of this mystery. Presently the fly was announced, and Ernest -went off without a word, leaving her to the tender mercies of the -cherub, who was contemplating her with his round eye as he had -contemplated Eva, and finding her also charming. It must be remembered -that he had but just returned from South Africa, and was prepared, -_faute de mieux,_ to fall in love with an apple-woman. How much more, -then, would he succumb to the charms of the stately Eva and the -extremely fascinating Dorothy! It was some time before the latter could -get rid of his eyeglass. On an ordinary occasion she would have been -glad enough to entertain him, for Dorothy liked a little male society; -and the cherub, though he did look so painfully young, was not half a -bad fellow, and after all his whole soul was in his eyeglass, and his -staring was meant to be complimentary. But just now she had a purpose -in her head, and was heartily glad when he departed to reflect over the -rival attractions of the two charmers. - -[Illustration: “After many days.”] - -It was very evident to Dorothy, who was always strictly practical, that -to keep Eva and Ernest in the same town was to hold dry tow to a -lighted match over a barrel of gun-powder. She only hoped that he might -come back now without having put his foot into it. - -“Oh, what fools men are!” she said to herself, with a stamp; “a pretty -face and a pair of bright eyes, and they count the world well lost for -them. Bah! if it had been a plain woman who played Ernest that trick, -would he be found dangling about after her now? Not he. But with her, -she has only to say a soft word or two, and he will be at her feet, -I’ll be bound. I am ashamed of them both.” - -Meanwhile she was putting on her bonnet, which was a very favourite -time with her for meditation, having already made up her mind as to her -course of action. Ernest had authorised her to make arrangements for an -interview with an oculist. She proceeded to make those arrangements by -telegram, wiring to a celebrated surgeon to know if he could make an -appointment for the following afternoon. Then she took a walk by -herself to think things over. In an hour she returned, to find Ernest -in the sitting-room, looking extremely shaken and depressed. - -“You have been to see Eva?” she said. - -“Yes,” he answered. - -Just then there was a knock at the door, and the servant brought in a -telegram. It was from the oculist. He would be glad to see Sir Ernest -Kershaw at four o’clock on the following afternoon. - -“I have made an appointment for you with an eye-doctor, Ernest, at four -o’clock to morrow.” - -“To-morrow!” he said. - -“Yes. The sooner you get your eyes looked to the better.” - -He sighed. “What is the good? However, I will go.” - -And so next morning they all took the express, and at the appointed -time Ernest found himself in the skilful hands of the oculist. But -though an oculist can mend the sight, he cannot make it. - -“I can do nothing for you, Sir Ernest,” he said, after an exhaustive -examination. “Your eyes will remain as they are, but you must always be -blind.” - -Ernest took the news with composure. - -“I thought as much,” he said; but Dorothy put her handkerchief to her -face and wept secretly. - -Next morning he went with Jeremy to call on Messrs. Paisley and -Paisley, and told them to try and let Archdale Hall, and to lock up the -numerous and valuable heirlooms, as unfortunately he was unable to see -them. Then they went on home to Dum’s Ness, and that night Ernest lay -awake in the room where he had slept for so many years in the boyhood -which now seemed so dim and remote, and listened to the stormy wind -raving round the house, and thought with an aching heart of Eva, but -was thankful that he had bid her farewell, and wondered if he could -find the strength to keep away from her. - -And Eva, his lost love, she too lay by the sea and listened to the -wind, and thought on him. There she lay in her beauty, seeking the -sleep that would not settle round her. She could not sleep; forgetful -sleep does not come readily to such as she. For her and those like her -are vain regrets and an empty love and longing, and the wreath of -thorns that crowns the brow where sorrow is enthroned. - -Yet, Eva, lift that fevered head, and turn those seeking eyes to -heaven. See, through the casement, above the tumult of the storm, there -gleams a star. For you, too, there shines a star called Hope, but it is -set in no earthly sky. Have patience, wayward heart, there is but a -space of trouble. As you suffer, so have millions suffered, and are -they not at peace? so shall millions suffer: - - “While thou, that once didst make the place thou stoodst in lovely, shalt lie still, - Thy form departed, and thy face remembered not in good or ill.” - -For of this we may be sure—if suffering is not the widest gate of -heaven, then heaven has no gates. Unhappy woman, stretch out those -longing arms in supplication to the God of sorrows for strength to bear -your load, since here it shall not be lightened. The burdens which -Providence binds on our backs, Providence will sometimes lessen, but -those which our own folly fastens remain till death deliver us. - -So, Eva, dry your tears, for they can avail you naught, and go get you -to your daily task—go tend your children, and smile that sweet sad -smile on all alike, and _wait._ As you have sowed so shall you reap, -but seed-time is not done, and not yet is the crop white to the -harvest. - - - - -CHAPTER V. -HOME AGAIN - - -It was very peaceful, that life at Kesterwick, after all the fierce -racket and excitement of the past years. Indeed, as day succeeded day, -and brought nothing to disturb his darkness but the sound of Dorothy’s -gentle voice, and the scent of flowers on the marshes when the wind -blew towards the ocean, and the sharp strong odour of the sea when it -set upon the land, Ernest could almost fancy that the past was nothing -but a dream more or less ugly, and that this was a dream more or less -pleasant, from which he should presently wake up and find himself a boy -again. - -English villages change but little. Now and again a person dies, and -pretty frequently some one is born; but, on the whole, the tide of time -creeps on very imperceptibly, and though in the course of nature the -entire population is changed every sixty years or so, nobody seems to -realise that it is changing. There is so little in such places by which -to mark the change. The same church-tower makes a landmark to the eye -as it did centuries ago to the eyes of our ancestors, and the same -clouds sweep across the same blue space above it. There are the same -old houses, the same streams, and, above all, the same roads and lanes. -If you could put one of our Saxon forefathers down in the neighbourhood -of most of our country towns, he would have little difficulty in -finding his way about. It is the men who change, not the places. - -Still there were some few changes at Kesterwick. Here and there the sea -had taken another bite out of the cliff, notably on the north side of -Dum’s Ness, out of which a large slice had gone, thus bringing the -water considerably nearer to the house. Here and there a tree, too, had -been cut down, or a cottage built, or a family changed its residence. -For instance, Miss Florence Ceswick had suddenly shut up the Cottage, -where she had remained ever since Eva’s marriage, seeing nothing of her -sister or her sister’s husband, and had gone abroad—people said to -Rome, to study art. For Florence had suddenly electrified the -Kesterwick neighbourhood by appearing as an artist of tragic force and -gruesome imagination. A large picture by her hand had been exhibited in -the Royal Academy of the previous year, and, though the colouring was -somewhat crude, it made a great and deserved sensation, and finally -sold for a considerable sum. - -This picture represented a promontory of land running out far into a -stormy ocean. The sky above the sea was of an inky blackness, except -where a fierce ray of light from a setting sun pierced it, and impinged -upon the boiling waters which surged round the low cliff of the -promontory. On the extreme edge of the cliff stood a tall and lovely -woman. The wind caught the white robe she wore and pressed it against -her, revealing the extraordinary beauty of her form, and, lifting her -long fair locks, tossed them in wild confusion. She was bending -forward, pointing with her right hand at the water, with such a look of -ghastly agony upon her beautiful face and in the great gray eyes, that -people of impressionable temperament were wont to declare it haunted -their sleep for weeks. Down below her, just where the fierce ray lit up -the heaving waters, gleamed a naked corpse. It was that of a young man, -and was slowly sinking into the unfathomable darkness of the depths, -turning round and round as it sank. The eyes and mouth were wide open, -and the stare of the former appeared to be fixed upon those of the -woman on the cliff. Lastly, over the corpse, in the storm-wreaths above -their heads, there hovered on steady wings a dim female figure, with -its arm thrown across the face as though to hide it. In the catalogue -this picture was called “The Lost Lover,” but speculation was rife as -to what it meant. - -Dorothy heard of it, and went to London to see it. The first thing that -struck her about the work was the extraordinary contrast it presented -to the commonplace canvases by which it was surrounded, of reapers, of -little girls frisking with baa-lambs, and nude young women musing -profoundly on the edge of pools, as though they were trying to solve -the great question—to wash or not to wash. But presently the horror of -the picture laid hold upon her, and seemed to fascinate her, as it had -so many others. Then she became aware that the faces were familiar to -her, and suddenly it broke upon her mind that the sinking corpse was -Ernest, and the agonised woman, Eva. She examined the faces more -attentively. There was no doubt about it. Florence, with consummate -art, had changed the colouring of the hair and features, and even to a -great extent altered the features themselves; but she had preserved the -likeness perfectly, both upon the dead face of the murdered man, and in -the horror-inspired eyes of his lover. The picture made her sick with -fear—she could not tell why—and she hurried from Burlington House full -of dread of the terrible mind that had conceived it. - -There had been no intercourse between the two women since Eva’s -marriage. Florence lived quite alone at the Cottage, and never went out -anywhere; and if they met by any chance, they passed with a bow. But -for all that, it was a relief to Dorothy to hear that she was not for -some long time to see that stern face with its piercing brown eyes. - -In Dum’s Ness itself there appeared to be no change at all. Except that -Mr. Cardus had built a new orchid-house at the back—for as he grew -older his mania for orchids increased rather than diminished—the place -was exactly the same. Even the arrangement of the sitting-room was -unchanged, and on its familiar bracket rested the case which Jeremy had -made containing the witch’s head. - -The people in the house to all appearance had changed as little as the -house itself. Jeremy confided to Ernest that Doll had grown rather -“tubby,” which was his elegant way of indicating that she had developed -a very pretty figure, and that Grice (the old housekeeper) was as -skinny as a flayed weasel, and had eyes like the point of a knife. -Ernest maliciously repeated these sayings to the two ladies concerned, -with the result that they were both furious. Then he retreated, and -left them to settle it with Jeremy. - -Old Atterleigh, too, was almost exactly the same, except that of late -years his intellect seemed to have brightened a little. It was, -however, difficult to make him understand that Ernest was blind, -because the latter’s eyes looked all right. He retained some -recollection of him, and brought him his notched stick to show him -that, according to his (“hard-riding Atterleigh’s”) calculation, his -time of service with the devil, otherwise Mr. Cardus, would expire in a -few months. Dorothy read what the old man wrote upon his slate, and -repeated it to Ernest; for, he being practically dumb and Ernest being -blind, that was the only way in which they could communicate. - -“And what will you do then?” asked Ernest. “You will be wretched -without any writs to fill up. Who will look after the lost souls, I -should like to know?” - -The old man at once wrote vigorously on his slate: - -“I shall go out hunting on the big black horse you brought with you; he -will carry my weight.” - -“I should advise you not to try,” said Ernest, laughing; “he does not -like strange riders.” But the old man, at the mere thought of hunting, -was striding up and down the room, clanking his spurs and waving his -hunting crop with his uninjured arm. - -“Is your grandfather as much afraid of my uncle as ever, Doll?” - -“Oh yes, I think so; and do you know, Ernest, I don’t quite like the -way he looks at him sometimes.” - -Ernest laughed. “I should think that the old boy is harmless enough,” -he said. - -“I hope so,” said Dorothy. - -When first they came back to Dum’s Ness, Jeremy was at a great loss to -know what to do with himself, and was haunted by the idea that Mr. -Cardus would want him to resume that stool in his office which years -before he had quitted to go in search of Ernest. A week or so after his -arrival, however, his fears were very pleasantly set at rest. After -breakfast, Mr. Cardus sent for him to come into his office. - -“Well, Jeremy,” he said, letting his soft black eyes wander round that -young gentleman’s gigantic form—for it was by now painfully large—not -so much in height, for he was not six feet three—as in its great width, -which made big men look like children beside him, and even dwarfed his -old grandfather’s enormous frame—“well, Jeremy, what do you think of -doing? You are too big for a lawyer; all your clients would be afraid -of you.” - -“I don’t know about being too big,” said Jeremy, solemnly, “but I know -that I am too great an ass. Besides, I can’t afford to spend several -years in being articled at my time of life.” - -“Quite so. Then what do you propose doing?” - -“I don’t know from Adam.” - -“Well, how would you like to turn your sword to a plough-share, and -become a farmer?” - -“I think that would suit me first-rate. I have some capital laid by. -Ernest and I made a little money out there.” - -“No, I would not advise you to take a farm in that way; these are bad -times. But I want a practical man to look after my land round -here—salary £150. What do you say?” - -“You are very kind; but I doubt if I can boss that coach; I don’t know -anything of the work.” - -“Oh, you will very soon learn; there is a capital bailiff; Stamp—you -remember him—he will soon put you up to the ropes. So we will consider -that settled.” - -Thus it was that our friend Jeremy entered on a new walk in life, and -one which suited him very well. In less than a year’s time he grew -aggressively agricultural, and one never met him but what he had a -handful of oats, or a mangel-wurzel in his coat-tail pocket, which he -was ready to swear were samples of the finest oats, mangel-wurzel, or -whatever the particular agricultural product might be that ever had -been, or were ever likely to be, grown. - - - - -CHAPTER VI. -HOW IT ALL CAME ABOUT - - -How did it all come about? - -Let us try and discover. Dorothy and Ernest were together all day long. -They only separated when Mazooku came to lead the latter off to bed. At -breakfast-time he led him back again, and handed him over to Dorothy -for the day. Not that our Zulu friend liked this; he did not like it at -all. It was, he considered, his business to lead his master about, and -not that of the “Rosebud,” who was, as he discovered, after all nothing -but a girl connected with his master neither by birth nor marriage. And -on this point there finally arose a difference of opinion between the -Rosebud and Mazooku. - -The latter was leading Ernest for his morning walk, when Dorothy, -perceiving it, and being very jealous of what she considered her -rights, sallied out and took his hand from the great Zulu’s. Then did -Mazooku’s long-pent indignation break forth. - -“O Rosebud, sweet and small Rosebud!” he commenced, addressing her in -Zulu, of which, needless to say, she understood not one word, “why do -you come and take my father’s hand out of my hand? Is not Mazimba my -father blind, and am I not his dog, his old dog, to lead him in his -blindness? Why do you take his bone from a dog?” - -“What is the man saying?” asked Dorothy. - -“He is offended because you come to lead me; he says that he is my dog, -and that you snatch his bone from him: A pretty sort of bone indeed!” -he added. - -“Tell him,” said Dorothy, “that here in this country I hold your hand. -What does he want? Is he not always with you? Does he not sleep across -your door? What more does he want?” - -Ernest translated her reply. - -“Ow!” said the Zulu, with a grunt of dissatisfaction. - -“He is a faithful fellow, Doll, and has stood by me for many years; you -must not vex him.” - -But Dorothy, after the manner of loving women, was tenacious of what -she considered _her_ rights. - -“Tell him that he can walk in front,” she said, putting on an obstinate -little look—and she could look obstinate when she liked. “Besides,” she -added, “he cannot be trusted to lead you. I am sure he was tipsy last -night.” - -Ernest translated the first remark only—into the latter he did not care -to inquire, for the Zulu vowed that he could never understand Dorothy’s -English, and Mazooku accepted the compromise. Thus for awhile the -difference was patched up. - -Sometimes Dorothy and Ernest would go out riding together; for, blind -as he was, Ernest could not be persuaded to give up his riding. It was -a pretty sight to see them; Ernest mounted on his towering black -stallion, “The Devil,” which in his hands was as gentle as a lamb, but -with everybody else fully justified his appellation, and Dorothy on a -cream-coloured cob Mr. Cardus had given her, holding in her right hand -a steel guiding-rein linked to “The Devil’s” bit. In this way they -would wander all over the country-side, and sometimes, when a good -piece of turf presented itself, even venture on a sharp canter. Behind -them Mazooku rode as groom, mounted on a stout pony, with his feet -stuck, Zulu fashion, well out at right-angles to his animal’s side. - -They were a strange trio. - -And so from week’s end to week’s end Dorothy was ever by Ernest’s side, -reading to him, writing for him, walking and riding with him, weaving -herself into the substance of his life. - -And at last there came one sunny August day, when they were sitting -together in the shade of the chancel of Titheburgh Abbey. It was a -favourite spot of theirs, for the gray old walls sheltered them from -the glare of the sun and the breath of the winds. It was a spot, too, -rich in memories of the dead past, and a pleasant place to sit. - -Through the gaping window-places came the murmur of the ocean and the -warmth of the harvest sunshine; and gazing out by the chancel doorway, -Dorothy could see the long lights of the afternoon dance and sparkle on -the emerald waves. - -She had been reading to him, and the book lay idle on her knees as she -gazed dreamily at those lights and shadows, a sweet picture of pensive -womanhood. He, too, had relapsed into silence, and was evidently -thinking deeply. - -Presently she roused herself. - -“Well, Ernest,” she said, “what are you thinking about? You are as dull -as—as the dullest thing in the world, whatever that may be. What is the -dullest thing in the world?” - -“I don’t know,” he answered, awakening. “Yes, I think I do; an American -novel.” - -“Yes, that is a good definition. You are as dull as an American novel.” - -“It is unkind of you to say so, Doll, my dear. I was thinking of -something, Doll.” - -She made a little face, which of course he could not see, and answered -quickly: - -“You generally are thinking of something. You generally are thinking -of—Eva, except when you are asleep, and then you are dreaming of her.” - -Ernest coloured up. - -“Yes,” he said, “it is true; she is often more or less in my mind. It -is my misfortune, Doll, not my fault. You see, I do not do things by -halves.” - -Dorothy bit her lip. - -“She should be vastly flattered, I am sure. Few women can boast of -having inspired such affection in a man. I suppose it is because she -treated you so badly. Dogs love the hand that whips them. You are a -curious character, Ernest. Not many men would give so much to one who -has returned so little.” - -“So much the better for them. If I had a son, I think that I should -teach him to make love to all women, and to use their affection as a -means of amusement and self-advancement, but to fall in love with -none.” - -“That is one of your bitter remarks, for which I suppose we must thank -Eva. You are always making them now. Let me tell you that there are -good women in the world; yes, and honest, faithful women, who, when -they have given their heart, are true to their choice, and would not do -it violence to be made Queen of England. But you men do not go the -right way to find them. You think of nothing but beauty, and never take -the trouble to learn the hearts of the sweet girls who grow like -daisies in the grass all round you, but who do not happen to have great -melting eyes or a splendid figure. You tread them underfoot, and if -they were not so humble they would be crushed, as you rush off and try -to pick the rose; and then you prick your fingers and cry out, and tell -all the daisies how shamefully the rose has treated you.” - -Ernest laughed, and Dorothy went on: - -“Yes, it is an unjust world. Let a woman but be beautiful and -everything is at her feet, for you men are despicable creatures, and -care for little except what is pleasant to the senses. On the other -hand, let her be plain, or only ordinary-looking—for the fate of most -of us is just to escape being ugly—and you pay as much regard to her as -you do to the chairs you sit on. And yet, strange as it may seem to -you, probably she has her feelings, and her capacities for high -affection, and her imaginative power, all working vigorously behind her -plain little face. Probably, too, she is better than your beauty. -Nature does not give everything. When she endows a woman with perfect -loveliness, she robs her either of her heart or her brains. But you men -don’t see that, because you won’t look; so in course of time all the -fine possibilities in Miss Plainface wither up, and she becomes a -disappointed old maid, while my Lady Beauty pursues her career of -selfishness and mischief-making, till at last she withers up too, -that’s one comfort. We all end in bones, you know, and there isn’t much -difference between us then.” - -Ernest had been listening with great amusement to Dorothy’s views. He -had no idea that she took such matters into her shrewd consideration. - -“I heard a girl say the other day that, on the whole, most women -preferred to become old maids,” he said. - -“Then she told fibs; they don’t. It isn’t natural that they should—that -is, if they care for anybody. Just think, there are more than ten -hundred thousand of our charming sisterhood in these islands, and more -women being born every day! Ten hundred thousand restless, unoccupied, -disgusted, loveless women! It is simply awful to think of. I wonder -they don’t breed a revolution. If they were all beautiful, they would.” - -He laughed again. - -“Do you know what remedy Mazooku would apply to this state of affairs?” - -“No.” - -“The instant adoption of polygamy. There are no unmarried women among -the Natal Zulus, and as a class they are extremely happy.” - -Dorothy shook her head. - -“It wouldn’t do here; it would be too expensive.” - -“I say, Doll, you spoke just now of our ‘charming sisterhood’; you are -rather young to consider yourself an old maid. Do you want to become -one?” - -“Yes,” she said sharply. - -“Then _you_ don’t care for anybody, eh?” - -She blushed up furiously. - -“What business is that of yours, I should like to know?” she answered. - -“Well, Doll, not much. But will you be angry with me if I say -something?” - -“I suppose you can say what you like.” - -“Yes; but will you listen?” - -“If you speak I cannot help hearing.” - -“Well, then, Doll—now don’t be angry, dear.” - -“O Ernest, how you aggravate me! Can’t you get it out and have done -with it?” - -“All right, Doll, I’ll steam straight ahead this time. It is this. I -have sometimes lately been vain enough to think that you cared a little -about me, Doll, although I am as blind as a bat. I want to ask you if -it is true. You must tell me plain, Doll, because I cannot see your -eyes to learn the truth from them.” - -She turned quite pale at his words, and her eyes rested upon his blind -orbs with a look of unutterable tenderness. So it had come at last. - -“Why do you ask me that question. Ernest? Whether or no I care for you, -I am very sure that you do not care for me.” - -“You are not quite right there, Doll, but I will tell you why I ask it; -it is not out of mere curiosity. - -“You know all the history of my life, Doll, or at least most of it. You -know how I loved Eva, and gave her all that a foolish youngster can -give to a weak woman—gave it in such a way that I can never have it -back again. Well, she deserted me; I have lost her. The best happiness -of my life has been wrecked beyond redemption; that is a fact which -must be accepted as much as the fact of my blindness. I am physically -and morally crippled, and certainly in no fit state to ask a woman to -marry me on the ground of my personal advantages. But if, my dear Doll, -you should, as I have sometimes thought, happen to care about anything -so worthless, then, you see, the affair assumes a different aspect.” - -“I don’t quite understand you. What do you mean?” she said, in a low -voice. - -“I mean that in that case I will ask you if you will take me for a -husband.” - -“You do not love me, Ernest; I should weary you.” - -He felt for her hand, found it, and took it in his own. She made no -resistance. - -“Dear,” he said, “it is this way: I can never give you that passion I -gave to Eva, because, thank God, the human heart can know it but once -in a life; but I can and will give you a husband’s tenderest love. You -are very dear to me, Doll, though it is not in the same way that Eva is -dear. I have always loved you as a sister, and I think that I should -make you a good husband. But, before you answer me, I want you to -thoroughly understand about Eva. Whether I marry or not, I fear that I -shall never be able to shake her out of my mind. At one time I thought -that perhaps if I made love to other women I might be able to do so, on -the principle that one nail drives out another. But it was a failure; -for a month or two I got the better of my thoughts, then they would get -the better of me again. Besides, to tell you the truth, I am not quite -sure that I wish to do so. My trouble about this woman has become a -part of myself. It is, as I told you, my ‘evil destiny,’ and goes where -I go. And now, dear Doll, you will see why I asked you if you really -cared for me before I asked you to marry me. If you do not care for me, -then it will clearly not be worth your while to marry me, for I am -about as poor a catch as a man can well be; if you do—well, then it is -a matter for your consideration.” - -She paused awhile and answered: - -“Suppose that the positions were reversed, Ernest; at least, suppose -this: suppose that you had loved your Eva all your life, but she had -not loved you except as a brother, having given her heart to some other -man, who was, say, married to somebody else, or in some way separated -from her. Well, supposing that this man died, and that one day Eva came -to you and said, ‘Ernest, my dear, I cannot love you as I loved him who -has gone, and whom I one day hope to rejoin in heaven; but if you wish -it, and it will make you the happier, I will be your true and tender -wife.’ What should you answer her, Ernest?” - -“Answer? why, I suppose that I should take her at her word and be -thankful. Yes, I think that I should take her at her word.” - -“And so, dear Ernest, do I take you at your word; for as it is with you -about Eva, so it is with me about you. As a child I loved you; ever -since I have been a woman I have loved you more and more, even through -all those cold years of absence. And when you came back, ah, then it -was to me as it would be to you if you suddenly once more saw the light -of day. Ernest, my beloved, you are all my life to me, and I take you -at your word, my dear. I will be your wife.” - -He stretched out his arms, found her, drew her to him, and kissed her -on the lips. - -“Doll, I don’t deserve that you should love me so; it makes me feel -ashamed that I have not more to give you in return.” - -“Ernest, you will give me all you can; I mean to make you grow very -fond of me. Perhaps one day you will give me everything.” - -He hesitated a little while before he spoke again. - -“Doll,” he said, “you are quite sure that you do not mind about Eva?” - -“My dear Ernest, I accept Eva as a fact, and make the best of her, just -as I should if I wanted to marry a man with a monomania that he was -Henry VIII.” - -“Doll, you know I call her my evil destiny. The fact is, I am afraid of -her; she overpowers my reason. Well, now, Doll, what I am driving at is -this: supposing—not that I think she will—that she were to crop up -again, and take it into her head to try and make a fool of me! She -_might_ succeed, Doll.” - -“Ernest, will you promise me something on your honour?” - -“Yes, dear.” - -“Promise me that you will hide from me nothing that passes between Eva -and yourself, if anything ever should pass, and that in this matter you -will always consider me not in the light of a wife, but of a trusted -friend.” - -“Why do you ask me to promise that?” - -“Because then I shall, I hope, be able to keep you both out of trouble. -You are not fit to look after yourselves, either of you.” - -“I promise. And now, Doll, there is one more thing. It is somehow fixed -in my mind that my fate and that woman’s are intertwined. I believe -that what we are now passing through is but a single phase of -interwoven existence; that we have, perhaps, already passed through -many stages, and that many higher stages and developments await us. Of -course, it may be fantasy, but at any rate I believe it. The question -is, do you care to link your life with that of a man who holds such a -belief?” - -“Ernest, I daresay your belief is a true one, at any rate for you who -believe it, for it seems probable that as we sow so shall we reap, as -we spiritually imagine so shall we spiritually inherit, since causes -must in time produce effects. These beliefs are not implanted in our -hearts for nothing, and surely in the wide heavens there is room for -the realisation of them all. But I too have my beliefs, and one of them -is, that in God’s great Hereafter every loving and desiring soul will -be with the soul thus loved and desired. For him or her, at any rate, -the other will be there, forming a part of his or her life, though, -perhaps, it may elsewhere and with others also be pursuing its own -desires and satisfying its own aspirations. So you see, Ernest, your -beliefs will not interfere with mine, nor shall I be afraid of losing -you in another place. - -“And now, Ernest, my heart’s love, take my hand, and let me lead you -home; take my hand, as you have taken my heart, and never leave go of -it again till at last I die.” - -And so hand in hand they went home together, through the lights and -shadows of the twilight. - - - - -CHAPTER VII. -MAZOOKU’S FAREWELL - - -Dorothy and Ernest got back to Dum’s Ness just in time to dress for -dinner, for since Ernest and Jeremy had come back, Dorothy, whose will -in that house was law, had instituted late dinner. The dinner passed -over as usual, Dorothy sitting between Ernest and her grandfather, and -attending to the wants of those two unfortunates, both of whom would -have found it rather difficult to get through their meal without her -gentle, unobtrusive help. But when dinner was over and the cloth -removed, and Grice had placed the wine upon the table and withdrawn, an -unusual thing happened. - -Ernest asked Dorothy to fill his glass with port, and when she had done -so he said: - -“Uncle and Jeremy, I am going to ask you to drink a health.” - -The old man looked up sharply. “What is it, Ernest, my boy?” - -As for Dorothy, she blushed a rosy red, guessing what was coming, and -not knowing whether to be pleased or angry. - -“It is this, uncle—it is the health of my future wife, Dorothy.” - -Then came a silence of astonishment. Mr. Cardus broke it: - -“Years ago, Ernest, my dear nephew, I told you that I wished this to -come to pass; but other things happened to thwart my plans, and I never -expected to see it. Now in God’s good time it has come, and I drink the -health with all my heart. My children, I know that I am a strange man, -and my life has been devoted to a single end, which is now drawing near -its final development; but I have found time in it to learn to love you -both. Dorothy, my daughter, I drink your health. May the happiness that -was denied to your mother fall upon your head, her share and your share -too! Ernest, you have passed through many troubles, and have been -preserved almost miraculously to see this day. In Dorothy you will find -a reward for everything, for she is a good woman. Perhaps I shall never -live to see your happiness and the children of your happiness—I do not -think I shall; but may the solemn blessing I give you now rest upon -your dear heads! God bless you both, my children. All peace go with -you, Dorothy and Ernest!” - -“Amen!” said Jeremy, in a loud voice, and with a vague idea that he was -in church. Then he got up and shook Ernest’s hand so hard in his -fearful grip that the latter was constrained to holloa out, and lifted -Dolly out of her chair like a plaything, and kissed her boisterously, -knocking the orchid-bloom she wore out of her hair in the process. Then -they all sat down again and beamed at one another and drank -port-wine—at least the men did—and were inanely happy. - -Indeed, the only person to whom the news was not satisfactory was -Mazooku. - -“Ou!” he said, with a grunt, when Jeremy communicated it to him. “So -the Rosebud is going to become the Rose, and I shan’t even be able to -lead my father to bed now. Ou!” And from that day forward Mazooku’s -abstracted appearance showed that he was meditating deeply on -something. - -Next morning his uncle sent for Ernest into the office. Dorothy led him -in. - -“O, here you are!” said his uncle. - -“Yes, here we are, Reginald,” answered Dorothy; “what is it? Shall I go -away?” - -“No, don’t go away. What I have to say concerns you both. Come and look -at the orchids, Ernest; they are beautiful. Ah!” he went on, -stammering, “I forgot you can’t see them. Forgive me.” - -“Never mind, uncle, I can smell them;” and they went into the -blooming-house appropriated to the temperate kinds. - -At the end of this house was a little table and some iron chairs, where -Mr. Cardus would sometimes come and smoke a cigarette. Here they sat -down. - -“Now, young people,” said Mr. Cardus, wiping his bald head, “you are -going to get married. May I ask what you are going to get married on?” - -“By Jove,” said Ernest, “I never thought of that! I haven’t got much, -except a title, a mansion with ‘numerous and valuable’ heirlooms, and -one hundred and eighty acres of park,” he added, laughing. - -“No, I don’t suppose you have; but, luckily for you both, I am not so -badly off, and I mean to do something for you. What do you think would -be the proper thing? Come, Dorothy, my little housewife, what do you -reckon you can live on—living here, I mean, for I suppose that you do -not mean to run away and leave me alone in my old age, do you?” - -Dorothy wrinkled up her forehead as she used to as a child, and began -to calculate upon her fingers. Presently she answered: - -“Three hundred a year comfortably, quietly on two.” - -“What!” said Mr. Cardus, “when the babies begin to come?” - -Dorothy blushed, old gentlemen are so unpleasantly out-spoken, and -Ernest jumped, for the prospect of unlimited babies is alarming till -one gets used to it. - -“Better make it five hundred,” he said. - -“Oh,” said Mr. Cardus, “that’s what you think, is it? Well, I tell you -what I think. I am going to allow you young people two thousand a year -and pay the housekeeping bills.” - -“My dear uncle, that is far more than we want.” - -“Nonsense, Ernest! it is there and to spare; and why should you not -have it, instead of its piling up in the bank or in investments? There -are enough of them now, I can tell you. Everything that I have touched -has turned to gold; I believe it has often been the case with -unfortunate men. Money! I have more than I know what to do with, and -there are idiots who think that to have lots of money is to be happy.” - -He paused awhile and then went on: - -“I would give you more, but you are both comparatively young, and I do -not wish to encourage habits of extravagance in you. The world is full -of vicissitudes, and it is impossible for anybody to know how he may be -pecuniarily situated in ten years’ time. But I wish you, Ernest, to -keep up your rank—moderately, if you like, but still to keep it up. -Life is all before you now, and whatever you choose to go in for, you -shall not want the money to back you. Look here, my children, I may as -well tell you that when I die you will inherit nearly all I have got; I -have left it to be divided equally between you, with reversion to the -survivor. I drew up that will some years back, and I do not think that -it is worth while altering it now.” - -“Forgive me,” said Ernest, “but how about Jeremy?” - -Mr. Cardus’s face changed a little. He had never got over his dislike -of Jeremy, though his sense of justice caused him to stifle it. - -“I have not forgotten Jeremy,” he said, in a tone that indicated that -he did not wish to pursue the conversation. - -Ernest and Dorothy thanked the old man for his goodness, but he would -not listen, so they went off and left him to return to his -letter-writing. In the passage Dorothy peeped through the glass half of -the door which opened into her grandfather’s room. - -There sat the old man writing, writing, his long iron-gray hair hanging -all about his face. Presently he seemed to think of something, and a -smile, which the contorted mouth made ghastly, spread itself over the -pallid countenance. Rising, he went to the corner and extracted a long -tally-stick on which notches were cut. Sitting down again, he counted -the remaining notches over and over, and then took a penknife and cut -one out. This done, he put the stick back, and, looking at the wall, -began to mutter—for he was not quite dumb—and to clasp and unclasp his -powerful hand. Dorothy entered the room quickly. - -“Grandfather, what are you doing?” she said sharply. - -The old man started, and his jaw dropped. Then the eyes grew dull, and -his usual apathetic look stole over his face. Taking up his slate, he -wrote, “Cutting out my notches.” - -Dorothy asked him some farther questions, but could get nothing more -out of him. - -“I don’t at all like the way grandfather has been going on lately,” she -said to Ernest. “He is always muttering and clinching his hand, as -though he had some one by the throat. You know he thinks that he has -been serving the fiend all these years, and that his time will be up -shortly, whereas you know, though Reginald had no cause to love him, he -has been very kind to him. If it had not been for Reginald, my -grandfather would have been sent to the madhouse; but because he was -connected with his loss of fortune, he thinks he is the devil. He -forgets how he served Reginald; you see even in madness the mind only -remembers the injuries inflicted on itself, and forgets those it -inflicted on others. I don’t at all like his way.” “I should think that -he had better be shut up.” - -“Oh, Reginald would never do it. Come, dear, let us go out.” - -It was a month or so after Mr. Cardus’s announcement of his pecuniary -intentions that a little wedding-party stood before the altar in -Kesterwick Church. It was a very small party, consisting, indeed, only -of Ernest, Dorothy, Mr. Cardus, Jeremy, and a few idlers, who, seeing -the church door open, had strolled in to see what was going on. Indeed, -the marriage had been kept a profound secret; for since he had been -blind, Ernest had developed a great dislike to being stared at. Nor, -indeed, had he any liking for the system under which a woman proclaims -with loud and unseemly rejoicings that she has found a man to marry -her, and the clan of her relations celebrate her departure with a few -outward and visible tears and much inward and spiritual joy. - -But among that small crowd, unobserved by any of them, quite close up -in the shadow of one of the massive pillars, sat a veiled woman. She -sat quite quiet and still; she might have been carved in stone; but as -the service went on she raised her thick veil, and fixed her keen brown -eyes upon the two who stood before the altar. And as she did so, the -lips of this shadowy lady trembled a little, and a mist of trouble rose -from the unhealthy marshes of her mind and clouded her fine cut -features. Long and steadily she gazed, then dropped the veil again, and -said beneath her breath: - -“Was it worth while for this? Well, I have seen him.” - -Then this shadowy noble-looking lady rose, and glided from the church, -bearing away with her the daunting burden of her sin. - -And Ernest? He stood there and said the responses in his clear manly -voice; but even as he did so there rose before him the semblance of the -little room in faraway Pretoria, and of the vision which he had had of -this very church, and of a man standing where he himself stood now, and -a lovely woman standing where stood Dorothy his wife. Well, it was -gone, as all visions go—as we, who are but visions of a longer life, go -too. It was gone—gone into that limbo of the past which is ever opening -its insatiable maw and swallowing us and our joys and our -sorrows—making a meal of the atoms of to-day that it may support itself -till the atoms of to-morrow are ready for its appetite. - -It was gone, and he was married, and Dorothy his wife stood there -wreathed in smiles and blushes which he could not see, and Mr. -Halford’s voice, now grown weak and quavering, was formulating -heartfelt congratulations, which were being repeated in the gigantic -echo of Jeremy’s deep tones, and in his uncle’s quick jerky utterances. -So he took Dorothy his wife into his arms and kissed her, and she led -him down the church to the old vestry, into which so many thousand -newly married couples had passed during the course of the last six -centuries, and he signed his name where they placed his pen upon the -parchment, wondering the while if he was signing it straight, and then -went out, and was helped into the carriage, and driven home. - -Ernest and his wife went upon no honeymoon; they stopped quietly there -at the old house, and began to accustom themselves to their new -relationship. Indeed, to the outsider at any rate, there seemed to be -little difference between it and the former one; for they could not be -much more together now than they had been before. Yet in Dorothy’s face -there was a difference. A great peace, an utter satisfaction which had -been wanting before, came down and brooded upon it, and made it -beautiful. She both looked and was a happy woman. - -But to the Zulu Mazooku this state of affairs did not appear to be -satisfactory. - -One day—it was three days after the marriage—Ernest and Dorothy were -walking together outside the house, when Jeremy, coming in from a visit -to a distant farm, advanced, and, joining them, began to converse on -agricultural matters; for he was already becoming intensely and -annoyingly technical. Presently, as they talked, they became aware of -the sound of naked feet running swiftly over the grass. - -“That sounds like a Zulu dancing,” said Ernest, quickly. - -It was a Zulu; it was Mazooku, but Mazooku transformed. It had been his -fancy to bring a suit of war finery, such as he had worn when he was -one of Cetywayo’s soldiers, with him from Natal; and now he had donned -it all, and stood before them, a striking yet alarming figure. From his -head a single beautiful gray feather, taken from the Bell crane, rose a -good two feet into the air; around his waist hung a kilt of white -ox-tails, and beneath his right knee and shoulder were small circles of -white goat’s hair. For the rest, he was naked. In his left hand he held -a milk-white fighting shield made of ox-hide, and in his right his -great “bangwan,” or stabbing assegai. Still as a statue he stood before -them, his plume bending in the breeze; and Dorothy, looking with -wondering eyes, marvelled at the broad chest scarred all over with -assegai wounds, and the huge sinewy limbs. Suddenly he raised the -spear, and saluted in sonorous tones: - -“Koos! Baba!” - -“Speak,” said Ernest. - -“I speak, Mazimba, my father. I come to meet my father as a man meets a -man. I come with spear and shield, but not in war. With my father I -came from the land of the sun into this cold land, where the sun is as -pale as the white faces it shines on. Is it not so, my father?” - -“I hear you.” - -“With my father I came. Did not my father and I stand together for many -a day? Did I not slay the two Basutus down in the land of Secocoeni, -chief of the Bapedi, at my father’s bidding? Did I not once save my -father from the jaws of the wild beast that walks by night—from the -fangs of the lion? Did I not stand by the side of my father at the -place of the Little Hand, when all the plain of Isandhlwana was red -with blood? Do I dream in the night, or was it so, my father?” - -“I hear you. It was so.” - -“Then when the heavens above smelt out my father, and smote him with -their fire, did I not say, ‘Ah, my father, now art thou blind, and -canst fight no more, and no more play the part of a man. Better that -thou hadst died a man’s death, O my father! But as thou art blind, lo! -whither thou goest, thither will I go also and be my father’s dog.’ Did -I not say this, O Mazimba, my father?” - -“Thou didst say it.” - -“And so we sailed across the black water, thou Mazimba and I and the -great Lion, like unto whom no man was ever born of woman, and came -hither, and have lived for many moons the lives of women, have eaten -and drunken, and have not fought or hunted, or known the pleasure of -men. Is it not so, Mazimba, my father?” - -“Thou speakest truly, Mazooku; it is even so.” - -“Yes, we sailed across the black water in the smoking ship, sailed to -the land of wonders, which is full of houses and trees, so that a man -cannot breathe in it, or throw out his arms lest they should strike a -wall; and, behold! there came an ancient one with a shining head -wonderful to look on, and a girl Rosebud, small but very sweet, and -greeted my father and the Lion, and led them away in the carriages -which put the horses inside them, and set them in this place, where -they may look for ever at the sadness of the sea. - -“And then, behold, the Rosebud said, ‘What doth this black dog here? -Shall a dog lead Mazimba by the hand? Begone, thou black dog, and walk -in front or ride behind; it is I who will hold Mazimba’s hand.’ - -“Then my father, sinking deep in ease, and becoming a fat man, rich in -oxen and waggons and corn, said to himself, ‘I will take this Rosebud -to wife.’ And so the Rosebud opened her petals, and closed them round -my father, and became a Rose; and now she sheds her fragrance round him -day by day and night by night, and the black dog stands and howls -outside the door. - -“And so, my father, it came to pass that Mazooku, thy ox and thy dog, -communed with his heart, and said: ‘Here is no more any place for thee. -Mazimba thy chief has no longer any need of thee, and behold in this -land of women thou, too, shalt grow like a woman. So get up and go to -thy father, and say to him, “O my father, years ago I put my hand -between thy hands, and became a loyal man to thee; now I would withdraw -it, and return to the land whence we came; for here I am not wanted, -and here I cannot breathe.”’ I have spoken, O my father and my chief.” - -“Mazooku, umdanda ga Ingoluvu, umfana ga Amazulu” (son of Ingoluvu, -child of the Zulu race), answered Ernest, adopting the Zulu metaphor, -his voice sounding wonderfully soft as the liquid tongue he spoke so -well came rolling out, “thou hast been a good man to me, and I have -loved thee. But thou shalt go. Thou art right: now is my life the life -of a woman; never again shall I hear the sound of the rifle or the -ringing of steel in war. And so thou goest, Mazooku. It is well. But at -times thou wilt think of thy blind master Mazimba, and of Alston, the -wise captain who sleeps, and of the Lion who threw the ox over his -shoulder. Go, and be happy. Many be thy wives, many thy children, and -countless thy cattle! The Lion shall take thee by the hand and lead -thee to the sea, and shall give thee of my bounty wherewith to buy a -little food when thou comest to thine own land, and a few oxen, and a -piece of ground, or a waggon or two, so that thou shalt not be hungry, -nor want for cattle to give for wives. Mazooku, fare thee well!” - -[Illustration: Mazooku’s Farewell.] - -“One word, Mazimba, my father, and I will trouble thine ears no more, -since for thee my voice shall be silent for ever. When the time has -come for thee to die, and thou dost pass, as the white men say, up -‘into the heavens above,’ and thy sight dawns again, and thou art once -more a man eager for battle, then turn thee and cry with a loud voice: -‘Mazooku, son of Ingoluvu, of the tribe of the Maquilisini, where art -thou, O my dog? Come thou and serve me!’ And surely, if I still live, -then shall I hear thy voice, and groan and die, that I may pass to -thee; and if I be already dead, then shall I be there at thy side even -as thou callest. This thou wilt do for me, O Mazimba, my father and my -chief, because, lo! I have loved thee as the child loves her who -suckled it, and I would look upon thy face again, O my father from the -olden time, my chief from generation to generation!” - -“If it be in my power, this I will do, Mazooku.” - -The great Zulu drew himself up, raised his spear, and for the first and -last time in his life gave Ernest the royal salute—to which, by the -way, he had no right at all—“_Bayte, Bayte!_” Then he turned and ran -swiftly thence, nor would he see Ernest again before he went. “The pain -of death was over,” he said. - -As the sound of his footsteps grew faint, Ernest sighed. - -“There goes our last link with South Africa, Jeremy, my boy. It is a -good thing, for he was growing too fond of the bottle; they all do -here. But it makes me very sad, and sometimes I think that, as Mazooku -says, it is a pity we did not go under with Alston and the others. It -would all have been over now.” - -“Thank you,” said Jeremy, after reflecting; “on the whole, I am pretty -comfortable as I am.” - - - - -CHAPTER VIII. -MR. CARDUS ACCOMPLISHES HIS REVENGE - - -Mr. de Talor owed his great wealth not to his own talents, but to a -lucky secret in the manufacture of the grease used on railways -discovered by his father. Talor _pre_ had been a railway-guard till his -discovery brought him wealth. He was a shrewd man, however, and on his -sudden accession of fortune did his best to make a gentleman of his -only son, at that date a lad of fifteen. But it was too late; the -associations and habits of childhood are not easily overcome, and no -earthly power or education could accomplish the desired object. When -his son was twenty years of age, old Jack Talor died, and his son -succeeded to his large fortune and a railway-grease business which -supplied the principal markets of the world. - -This son had inherited a good deal of his father’s shrewdness, and set -himself to make the best of his advantages. First he placed a “de” -before his name, and assumed a canting crest. Next he bought the -Ceswick Ness estates, and bloomed into a country gentleman. It was -shortly after this latter event that he made a mistake, and fell in -love with the beauty of the neighbourhood, Mary Atterleigh. But Mary -Atterleigh would have none of him, being at the time secretly engaged -to Mr. Cardus. In vain did he resort to every possible means to shake -her resolution, even going so far as to try to bribe her father to put -pressure upon her; but at this time old Atterleigh, “Hard-riding -Atterleigh,” as he was called, was well off, and resisted his advances, -whereupon De Talor, in a fit of pique, married another woman, who was -only too glad to put up with his vulgarity in consideration of his -wealth and position as a county magnate. - -Shortly afterwards three events occurred almost simultaneously. -“Hard-riding Atterleigh” got into money difficulties through -over-gratification of his passion for hounds and horses; Mr. Cardus was -taken abroad for the best part of a year in connection with a business -matter and a man named Jones, a friend of Mr. de Talor’s staying in his -house at the time, fell in love with Mary Atterleigh. Herein De Talor -saw an opportunity of revenge upon his rival, Mr. Cardus. He urged upon -Jones that his real road to the possession of the lady lay through the -pocket of her father, and even went so far as to advance him the -necessary funds to bribe Atterleigh; for though Jones was well off, he -could not at such short notice lay hands upon a sufficient sum in cash -to serve his ends. - -The plot succeeded. Atterleigh’s scruples were overcome as easily as -the scruples of men in his position without principle to back them -generally are, and pressure of a most outrageous sort was brought to -bear upon the gentle-minded Mary, with the result that when Mr. Cardus -returned from abroad he found his affianced bride the wife of another -man, who became in due course the father of Jeremy and Dolly. - -This cruel and most unexpected bereavement drove Mr. Cardus partially -mad, and when he came to himself there arose in his mind a monomania -for revenge on all concerned in bringing it about. It became the -passion and object of his life. Directing all his remarkable -intelligence and energy to the matter, he early discovered the heinous -part that De Talor had played in the plot, and swore to devote his life -to the unholy purpose of avenging it. For years he pursued his enemy, -trying plan after plan to achieve his ruin, and as one failed fell back -upon another. But to ruin a man of De Talor’s wealth was no easy -matter, especially when, as in the present instance, the avenger was -obliged to work like a mole in the dark, never allowing his enemy to -suspect that he was other than a friend. How he ultimately achieved his -purpose the reader shall now learn. - -Ernest and Dorothy had been married about three weeks, and the latter -was just beginning to get accustomed to hearing herself called Lady -Kershaw, when one morning a dogcart drove up to the door, and out of it -emerged Mr. de Talor. - -“Dear me, how Mr. de Talor has changed of late!” said Dorothy, who was -looking out of the window. - -“How? Has he grown less like a butcher?” asked Ernest. - -“No,” she answered; “but he looks like a used-up butcher about to go -through the Bankruptcy Court.” - -“Butchers never go bankrupt,” said Ernest; and at that moment Mr de -Talor came in. - -Dorothy was right; the man was much changed. The fat cheeks were flabby -and fallen, the insolent air was gone, and he was so shrunken that he -looked not more than half his former size. - -“How do you do, Lady Kershaw? I saw Cardus ’ad got some one with him, -so I drove round to pay my respects and congratulate the bride. Why, -bless me. Sir Ernest, you ’ave grown since I saw you last! Ah, we used -to be great friends then. You remember how you used to come and shoot -up at the Ness” (he had once or twice given the two lads a day’s -rabbit-shooting). “But, bless me, I hear that you have become quite a -fire-eater since then, and been knocking over the niggers right and -left—eh?” - -He paused for breath, and Ernest said a few words, not many, for he -disliked the man’s flattery as much as in past years he used to dislike -his insolence. - -“Ah,” went on De Talor, looking up and pointing to the case containing -the witch’s head, “I see you’ve still got that beastly thing your -brother once showed me; I thought it was a clock, and he pretty well -frightened me out of my wits. Now I think of it, I’ve never ’ad any -luck since I saw that thing.” - -At this moment the housekeeper Grice came to say that Mr. Cardus was -ready to see Mr. de Talor if he would step into the office. Dorothy -thought that their visitor turned paler at this news, and it evidently -occupied his mind sufficiently to cause him to hurry from the room -without bidding them good-bye. - -When Mr. de Talor entered the office he found the lawyer pacing up and -down. - -“How do you do, Cardus?” he said jauntily. - -“How do you do, Mr. de Talor?” was the cold reply. - -De Talor walked to the glass door and looked at the glowing mass of -blooming orchids. - -“Pretty flowers, Cardus, those, very. Orchids, ain’t they? Must have -cost you a pot of money.” - -“They have not cost me much, Mr. de Talor; I have reared most of them.” - -“Then you are lucky; the bill my man gives me for his orchids is -something awful.” - -“You did not come to speak to me about orchids, Mr. de Talor.” - -“No, Cardus, I didn’t; business first, pleasure afterwards—eh?” - -“Yes,” said Mr. Cardus, in his soft, jerky way. “Business first, -pleasure afterwards.” - -Mr. de Talor fidgeted his legs about. - -“Well, Cardus, about that mortgage. You are going to give me a little -more time, I hope?” - -“On the contrary, Mr. de Talor, the interest being now eight months -overdue, I have given my London agents orders to foreclose, for I don’t -conduct such business myself.” - -De Talor turned pale. “Foreclose! Good God, Cardus! it is not -possible—on such an old friend too!” - -“Excuse me, it is not only possible, but a fact. Business is business, -even where _old friends_ are concerned.” - -“But if you foreclose, what is to become of me, Cardus?” - -“That, I imagine, is a matter for your exclusive consideration.” - -His visitor gasped, and looked like an unfortunate fish suddenly pulled -out of the water. - -“Let us recapitulate the facts. I have at different periods within the -last several years lent you sums of money secured on your landed -estates at Ceswick’s Ness and the neighbourhood, amounting in -all”—referring to a paper—“to one hundred and seventy-six thousand five -hundred and thirty-eight pounds ten shillings and fourpence; or, -reckoning in the overdue interest, to one hundred and seventy-nine -thousand and fifty-two pounds eight shillings. That is so, I think.” - -“Yes, I suppose so, Cardus.” - -“There is no supposition about it. The documents prove it.” - -“Well, Cardus?” - -“Well, Mr. de Talor; and now, as you cannot pay, I have instructed my -London agents to commence an action in Chancery for the sale of the -lands, and to buy in the property. It is a most desirable property.” - -“O Cardus, don’t be rough on me! I am an old man now, and you led me -into this speculation.” - -“Mr. de Talor, I also am an old man; if not very old in years, at least -as old as Methuselah in heart.” - -“I don’t understand it all, Cardus.” - -“It will give me the greatest pleasure to explain. But to do so I must -go back a little. Some ten or twelve years ago, you may remember,” he -began, sitting down with his back to the light, which struck full on -the wretched De Talor’s face, “that a firm named Rastrick and Codley -took out a patent for a new railway-grease, and set up an establishment -in Manchester not far from the famous De Talor house, which was -established by your father.” - -“Yes, curse them!” groaned De Talor. - -Mr. Cardus smiled. - -“By all means, curse them. But what did this enterprising firm do, Mr. -de Talor? They set to work, and sold a grease superior to the article -manufactured by your house, at about eighteen per cent. cheaper. But -the De Talor house had the ear of the markets, and the contracts with -all the leading lines and Continental firms, and for awhile it seemed -as though the new house must go to the wall; and if they had not had -considerable capital at command, they must have gone to the wall.” - -“Ah, and where did they get it from? That’s the mystery,” said De -Talor. - -“Precisely; that was the mystery. I shall clear it up a little -presently. To return. After awhile the buyers began to find that -Rastrick and Codley’s grease was a better grease and a cheaper grease, -and as the contracts lapsed, the companies renewed them, not with the -De Talor house, but with the house of Rastrick and Codley. Doubtless -you remember.” - -Mr. de Talor groaned in acquiescence, and the lawyer continued: “In -time this state of affairs produced its natural results—De Talor’s -house was ruined, and the bulk of the trade fell into the hands of the -new firm.” - -“Ah, I should just like to know who they really were—the low sneaks!” - -“Would you? I will tell you. The firm of Rastrick and Codley -were—Reginald Cardus, solicitor, of Dum’s Ness.” - -Mr. de Talor struggled out of his chair, looked wildly at the lawyer, -and sank down again. - -“You look ill; may I offer you a glass of wine?” - -The wretched man shook his head. - -“Very good. Doubtless you are curious to know how I, a lawyer, and not -otherwise connected with Manchester, obtained the monopoly of the -grease trade, which is, by the way, at this moment paying very well. I -will satisfy your curiosity. I have always had a mania for taking up -inventions, quite quietly, and in the names of others. Sometimes I have -made money over them, sometimes I have lost; on the whole, I have made -largely. But whether I have made or lost, the inventors have, as a -rule, never known who was backing them. One day, one lucky day, this -railway-grease patent was brought to my notice. I took it up and -invested fifty thousand in it straight off the reel. Then I invested -another fifty thousand. Still your firm cut my throat. I made an -effort, and invested a third fifty thousand. Had I failed, I should -then have been a ruined man; I had strained my credit to the utmost. -But fortune favours the brave, Mr. de Talor, and I succeeded. It was -your firm that failed. I have paid all my debts, and I reckon that the -railway-grease concern is worth, after paying liabilities, some two -hundred thousand pounds. If you should care to go in for it, Messrs. -Rastrick and Codley will, I have no doubt, be most happy to treat with -you. It has served its purpose, and is now in the market.” - -De Talor looked at him with amazement. He was too upset to speak. - -“So much, Mr. de Talor, for my share in the grease episode. The failure -of your firm, or rather its stoppage from loss of trade, left you still -a rich man, but only half as rich as you had been. And this, you may -remember, made you furious. You could not bear the idea of losing -money; you would rather have lost blood from your veins than sovereigns -from your purse. When you thought of the grease which had melted in the -fire of competition, you could have wept tears of rage. In this plight -you came to me to ask advice.” - -“Yes; and you told me to speculate.” - -“Not quite accurate, Mr. de Talor. I said—I remember the words -well—‘You are an able man, and understand the money market; why don’t -you take advantage of these fluctuating times, and recoup yourself for -all you have lost?’ The prospect of gain tempted you, Mr. de Talor, and -you jumped at the idea. You asked me to introduce you to a reliable -firm, and I introduced you to Messrs. Campsey and Ash, one of the best -in the City.” - -“Confound them for a set of rogues!” answered De Talor. - -“Rogues! I am sorry you think so, for I have an interest in their -business.” - -“Good heavens! what next?” groaned De Talor. - -“Well, notwithstanding the best efforts of Messrs. Campsey and Ash on -your behalf, in pursuance of such written instructions as you from time -to time communicated to them, and to which you can no doubt refer if -you please, things went wrong with you, Mr. de Talor, and year by year, -when your balance-sheet was sent in, you found that you had lost more -than you gained. At last, one unlucky day, about three years ago, you -made a plunge against the advice, you may remember, of Messrs. Campsey -and Ash, and lost. It was after that, that I began to lend you money. -The first loan was for fifty thousand; then came more losses, and more -loans, till at length we had reached the present state of affairs.” - -“O Cardus, you don’t mean to sell me up, do you? What shall I do -without money? And think of my daughters: ’ow will they manage without -their comforts? Give me time. What makes you so rough on me?” - -Mr. Cardus had been walking up and down the room rapidly. At De Talor’s -words he stopped, and going to a despatch-box, unlocked it, and drew -from a bundle of documents a yellow piece of stamped paper. It was a -cancelled bill for ten thousand pounds in the favour of Jonas de Talor, -Esquire. This bill he came and held before his visitor’s eyes. - -“That, I believe, is your signature,” he said quietly, pointing to the -receipt written across the bill. - -De Talor turned almost livid with fear, and his lips and hands began to -tremble. - -“Where did you get that?” he asked. - -Mr. Cardus regarded him, or rather all round him, with the melancholy -black eyes that never looked straight at anything, and yet saw -everything, and then answered: - -“Among your friend Jones’s papers. You scoundrel!” he went on, with a -sudden change of manner, “now perhaps you begin to understand why I -have hunted you down step by step: why for thirty years I have waited, -and watched, and failed, and at last succeeded. It is for the sake of -Mary Atterleigh. It was you who, infuriated because she would have none -of such a coarse brute, set the man Jones on to her. It was you who -lent him the money with which to buy her from old Atterleigh. There -lies the proof before you. By the way, Jones need never have repaid you -that ten thousand pounds, for it was marriage-brokage, and therefore -not recoverable at law. It was you, I say, who were the first cause of -my life being laid waste, and who nearly drove me to the madhouse, ay, -who did drive Mary, my betrothed wife, into the arms of that fellow, -whence, God be praised! she soon passed to her rest.” - -Mr. Cardus paused, breathing quick with suppressed rage and excitement; -the large white eyebrows contracted till they nearly met, and, -abandoning his usual habit, he looked straight into the eyes of the -abject creature in the chair before him. - -“It’s a long while ago, Cardus; can’t you forgive, and let bygones be -bygones?” - -“Forgive! Yes, for my own sake, I could forgive; but for her sake, whom -you first dishonoured and then killed, I will never forgive. Where are -your companions in guilt? Jones is dead; I ruined him. Atterleigh is -there; I did not ruin him, because, after all, he was the author of -Mary’s life; but his ill-gotten gains did him no good; a higher power -than mine took vengeance on his crime, and I saved him from the -madhouse. And Jones’s children, they are here too, for once they lay -beneath _her_ breast. But do you think that I will spare you, you -coarse arrogant knave—you, who spawned the plot? No, not if it were to -cost me my own life, would I forego one jot or tittle of my revenge!” - -At that moment Mr. Cardus happened to look up, and saw through the -glass part of the door of his office, of which the curtain was -partially drawn, the wild-looking head of Hard-riding Atterleigh. He -appeared to be looking through the door, for his eyes, in which there -was a very peculiar look, were fixed intently upon Mr. Cardus’s face. -When he saw that he was observed, he vanished. - -“Now go,” said the lawyer sternly to the prostrate De Talor; “and never -let me see your face again!” - -“But I haven’t any money; where am I to go?” groaned De Talor. - -“Wherever you like, Mr. de Talor—this is a free country; but, if I had -control of your destination, it should be—to the devil!” - -The wretched man staggered to his feet. - -“All right, Cardus; I’ll go, I’ll go. You’ve got it all your own way -now. You are damned hard, you are; but perhaps you’ll get it taken out -of you some day. I’m glad you never got hold of Mary; it must have been -pleasant to you to see her marry Jones.” - -In another second he was gone, and Mr. Cardus was left thinking, among -other things, of that look in old Atterleigh’s eyes, which he could not -get out of his mind. Thus did he finally accomplish the revenge to -which he had devoted his life. - - - - -CHAPTER IX. -MAD ATTERLEIGH’S LAST RIDE - - -A month had passed since Mr. de Talor had crept, utterly crushed, from -the presence of the man whom Providence had appointed to mete out to -him his due. During this time Mr. Cardus had been busy from morning -till night. He was always a busy man, writing daily with his own hand -an almost incredible number of letters; for he carried on all, or -nearly all, his great affairs by correspondence, but of late his work -seemed to have doubled. - -In the course of that month the society in the neighbourhood of -Kesterwick experienced a pleasurable sensation of excitement, for -suddenly the De Talor family vanished off the face of the Kesterwick -world, and the Ceswick Ness estates, after being advertised, were put -up for sale, and bought, so said report, by a London firm of lawyers on -behalf of an unknown client. The De Talors were gone, where to nobody -knew, nor did they much care to inquire—that is, with the exception of -the servants whose wages were left unpaid, and the tradespeople to whom -large sums were owing. They inquired vigorously enough, but without the -smallest result; the De Talors had gone and left no trace, except the -trace of bankruptcy, and Kesterwick knew them no more, but was glad -over the sensation made by their disappearance. - -But on one Saturday Mr. Cardus’s business seemed to come to a sudden -stop. He wrote some letters and put them in the post-bag, and then he -went to admire his orchids. - -“Life,” he said aloud to himself, “shall be all orchids now; my work is -done. I will build a new house for Brazilian sons, and spend two -hundred pounds on stocking it. Well, I can afford it.” - -This was about five o’clock. Half an hour later, when he had well -examined his flowers, he strolled out Titheburgh Abbey way, and here he -met Ernest and his wife, who had been sitting in their favourite spot. - -“Well, my dears,” he said, “and how are you?” - -“Pretty well, uncle, thank you; and how are you?” - -“I? Oh, I am very jolly indeed for an old man; as jolly as an -individual who has just bid good-bye to work for ever should be,” he -said. - -“Why, Reginald, what _do_ you mean?” - -“Mean, Dorothy, my dear? I mean that I have wound up my affairs and -retired on a modest competence. Ah, you young people should be grateful -to me, for let me tell you that everything is now in apple-pie order, -and when I slip off you will have no trouble at all, except to pay the -probate duty, and that will be considerable. I never quite knew till a -week ago how rich I was; but, as I said the other day, everything I -have touched has turned to gold. It will be a large fortune for you to -manage, my dears; you will find it a great responsibility.” - -“I hope you will live many years to manage it yourself,” said Ernest. - -“Ah, I don’t know, I am pretty tough; but who can see the future? -Dolly, my dear girl,” he went on, in a dreamy way, “you are growing -like your mother. Do you know, I sometimes think that I am not far off -her now; you see I speak plainly to you two. Years ago I used to -think—that is, sometimes—that your mother was dust and nothing more; -that she had left me for ever; but of late I have changed my ideas. I -have seen,” he went on, speaking in an absent way, as though he were -meditating to himself, “how wonderfully Providence works even in the -affairs of this imperfect world, and I begin to believe that there must -be a place where it allows itself a larger development. Yes, I think I -shall find your mother somewhere, Dorothy, my dear. I seem to feel her -very near me sometimes. Well, I have avenged her.” - -“I think that you will find her, Reginald,” she answered; “but your -vengeance is wicked and wrong. I have often made bold to tell you so, -though sometimes you have been angry with me, and I tell you so again. -It can only bring evil with it. What have we poor creatures to do with -vengeance, who do not understand the reason of things, and can scarcely -see an inch before our noses?” - -“Perhaps you are right, my love—you generally are right in the main; -but my desire for vengeance upon that man De Talor has been the breath -of my nostrils, and behold! I have achieved it. Man, if he only lives -long enough, and has strength of will enough can achieve anything. But -man fritters away his powers over a variety of objects; he is led -astray in pursuit of the butterfly Pleasure, or the bubble Ambition, or -the Destroying Angel Woman; and his purposes fall to the ground between -a dozen stools. Most men, too, are not capable of a purpose. Men are -weak creatures; and yet what a mighty seed lies hid in every human -breast! Think, my children, what man might, nay, may become, when his -weakness and follies have fallen from him, when his rudimentary virtues -have been developed, and his capacities for physical and mental -beauties brought to an undreamed of perfection! Look at the wild flower -and the flower of the hot-house—it is nothing compared to the -possibilities inherent in man, even as we know him. It is a splendid -dream! Will it ever be fulfilled, I wonder? Well, well— - -‘Whatever there is to know -That we shall know one day.’ - - -Come, let us turn; it will soon be time to dress for dinner. By the -way, Dorothy, that reminds me. I don’t quite like the way that your -respected grandfather is going on. I told him that I had no more deeds -for him to copy, that I had done with deeds, and he went and got that -confounded stick of his, and showed me that according to his own little -calculations his time was up; and then he got his slate and wrote about -my being the devil on it, but that I had no more power over him, and -that he was bound for heaven. The other day, too, I caught him staring -at me through the glass of the door with a very queer look in his -eyes.” - -“Ah, Reginald, so you have noticed it! I quite agree with you; I don’t -at all like his goings-on. Do you know, I think that he had better be -shut up.” - -“I don’t like to shut him up, Dorothy. However, here we are; we will -talk about it to-morrow.” - -Having led Ernest to his room, Dorothy, before beginning to dress -herself, went to the office to see if her grandfather was still there. -And there, sure enough, she found him, pacing up and down, muttering, -and waving his long stick, out of which all the notches had now been -cut. - -“What are you doing, grandfather?” she asked; “why haven’t you gone to -dress?” - -He snatched up his slate and wrote rapidly upon it: - -“Time’s up! Time’s up! Time’s up! I’ve done with the devil and all his -works. I’m off to heaven on the big black horse to find Mary. Who are -you? You look like Mary.” - -“Grandfather,” said Dolly, quietly taking the slate out of his hand, -“what do you mean by writing such nonsense? Let me hear no more of it. -You ought to be ashamed of yourself. Now, mind, I will have no more of -it. Put away that stick, and go and wash your hands for dinner.” - -The old man did as he was bid somewhat sulkily, Dorothy thought; but -when he arrived at the dinner-table there was nothing noticeable about -his manner. - -They dined at a quarter to seven, and dinner did not take them very -long. When it was over, old Atterleigh drank some wine, and then, -according to his habit, went and sat in the ancient ingle-nook which -had presumably been built by the forgotten Dum for his comfort on -winter evenings. And on winter evenings, when there was a jolly -wood-fire burning on the hearth, it was a pleasant spot enough; but to -sit there in the dark on a lovely summer night was an act, well—worthy -of old Atterleigh. - -After dinner the conversation turned upon that fatal day when Alston’s -Horse was wiped out at Isandhlwana. It was a painful subject both to -Ernest and Jeremy, but the former was gratifying his uncle’s curiosity -by explaining to him how that last dread struggle with the six Zulus -came to determine itself in their favour. - -“And how was it,” asked Mr. Cardus, “that you managed to get the better -of the fellow you rolled down the hill with?” - -“Because the assegai broke, and, fortunately enough, the blade was left -in my hand. Where is it, Doll?” (for Jeremy had brought it home with -him.) - -Dorothy got up and reached the broken assegai, which had about eight -inches of the shaft, from its place over the mantelpiece. - -“Now then, Jeremy, if you would be so good as to sprawl upon your back -on the floor, I will just show my uncle what happened.” - -Jeremy complied, not without grumbling about dirtying his dress-coat. - -“Now, Jeremy, my boy, where are you? O, there! Well, excuse my taking -the liberty of kneeling on your chest, and holloa out if the assegai -goes into you. If we are going to have a performance at all, it may as -well be a realistic one. Now, uncle, you see when we finished rolling, -which was just as this assegai snapped in two, as luck would have it I -was uppermost, and managed to get my knee on my friend’s left arm and -to hold his right with my left. Then, before he could get loose, I -drove this bit of spear through the side of his throat, just there, so -that it cut the jugular vein, and he died shortly afterwards; and now -you know all about it.” - -Here Ernest rose and laid the spear upon the table, and Jeremy, -entering into the spirit of the thing, began to die as artistically as -a regard for his dress-coat would allow. Just then Dorothy, looking up, -saw her grandfather Atterleigh’s distorted face peering round the wall -of the ingle-nook, where he was sitting in the dark, and looking at the -scene of mimic slaughter with that same curious gaze that he had worn -on several occasions lately. He withdrew his head at once. - -“Get up, Jeremy!” said his sister, sharply, “and stop writhing about -there like a great snake. You look as though you had been murdered; it -is horrible!” - -Jeremy arose laughing, and, having obtained Dorothy’s permission, they -all lit their pipes, and, sitting there in the fading light, fell to -talking about that sad scene of slaughter, which indeed appeared that -night to have a strange fascination for Mr. Cardus. He asked Ernest and -Jeremy about it again and again—how this man was killed, and that?—did -they die at once? and so on. - -The subject was always distressing to Ernest, and one to which he -rarely alluded, full as it was for him of the most painful -recollections, especially those connected with his dear friend Alston -and his son. - -Dorothy knew this, and knew too that Ernest would be low spirited, for -at least a day after the conversation, which she did her best to stop. -At last she succeeded; but the melancholy associations connected with -the talk had apparently already done their work, for everybody lapsed -into the most complete silence, and sat grouped together at the top end -of the old oak table as quietly as though they were cut in stone. -Meanwhile, the twilight deepened, and little gusts of wind arose, and -gently shook the old-fashioned window-lattices, making a sound as -though feeble hands were trying to throw them open. The dull evening -light crept from place to place, and threw great shadows about the -room, glanced upon the armour on its panelled walls, and at last began -to die away into darkness. The whole scene was eerie, and for some -unknown reason it oppressed Dorothy. She wondered why everybody was so -silent, and yet she herself did not feel equal to breaking the silence; -there was a load upon her heart. - -Just then a curious thing happened. As may be remembered, the case -containing the wonderful mummied head, found by Eva Ceswick, had years -before been placed by Jeremy upon a bracket at the end of the room. -Round about this case hung various pieces of armour, and among others, -above it, suspended by a piece of string from a projecting hook, was a -heavy iron gauntlet. For many years—twenty or more—it had hung from the -hook, but now at last the string was worn through, and even as Dorothy -was wondering at the silence it gave. Down came the heavy iron hand -with a crash, and, as it passed, it caught the latch of the long -air-tight case, and jarred the door wide open. - -Everybody in the room sprang to their feet, and, as they did so, a last -ray from the setting sun struggled through one of the windows and -rested upon the open case, staining it, and all about it, the hue of -blood, and filling the fearful crystal eyes within with a lurid light. -How they glowed and shone, to be sure, after their long years of -sleep!—for the case had scarcely been opened for years—while their -tremulous glance, now dull, now intense, according as the light played -upon them, appeared to wander round and round the room, as though in -search of somebody or something. - -It was an awful sight which that ray of sunlight showed, as it played -upon the trembling crystal orbs, the scornful, deathly features, and -the matchless hair that streamed on either side. Together with the -sudden break in the silence, caused by the crashing fall of the -gauntlet, as it had done many years before, it proved altogether too -much for the beholder’s nerves. - -“What is that?” asked Ernest, with a start, as the gauntlet fell. - -Dorothy glanced up and gave a little cry of horror. “Oh, that dreadful -head! it is looking at us.” - -They all rose to their feet, and Dorothy, seizing Ernest by one hand, -and covering her eyes with the other, retreated, slowly followed by the -others, towards the swing-door. Soon they had reached the door, were -through it, down the passage, and out into the peaceful stillness of -the evening. Then Jeremy spoke, and his language was more forcible than -polite. - -“Well, I am blowed!” he said, wiping the cold perspiration from his -forehead. - -“Oh, Reginald, I do wish you would get that horrible thing out of the -house; there has been nothing but misfortune ever since it has been -here. I cannot bear it, I cannot bear it!” said Dolly, hysterically. - -“Nonsense, you superstitious child!” answered Mr. Cardus, who was now -recovering from his start. “The gauntlet knocked the door open, that -was all. It is nothing but a mummied head; but, if you don’t like it, I -will send it to the British Museum to-morrow.” - -“Oh, please do, Reginald,” answered Dorothy, who appeared quite -unhinged. - -So hurried had been their retreat from the room that everybody had -forgotten “Hard-riding Atterleigh” sitting in the dark in the -ingle-nook. But the bustle in the room had attracted him, and already, -before they had left, he had projected his large head covered with the -tangled gray locks, and begun to stare about. Presently his eyes fell -upon the crystal orbs, and then, to him, the orbs appeared to cease -their wanderings and rest upon his eyes. For awhile the two heads -stared at each other thus—the golden head without a body in the box, -and the gray head that, thrust out as it were from the ingle-wall, -seemed to have no body either. They stared and stared, till at last the -golden head got the mastery of the grey head, and the old man crept -from his corner, crept down the room till he was almost beneath the -baleful eyes, and _nodded, nodded, nodded_ at them. - -And they, too, seemed to _nod, nod, nod_ at him. Then he retreated -backwards as slowly as he had come, nodding all the while, till he came -to where the broken assegai lay upon the table, and, taking it, thrust -it up his sleeve. As he did so, the ray of light faded and the fiery -eyes went out. It was as though the thick white lids and long eyelashes -had dropped over them. - -None of the other four returned to the sitting-room that night. - -When he had recovered from his fright, Jeremy went into his little -room, the same in which he used to stuff birds as a boy, and busied -himself with his farm accounts. Mr. Cardus, Dorothy, and Ernest walked -about together in the balmy moonlight, for, very shortly after the -twilight had departed, the great harvest-moon came up and flooded the -world with light. Mr. Cardus was in a talkative, excited mood that -night. He talked about his affairs, which he had now finally wound up, -and about Mary Atterleigh, mentioning little tricks of manner and voice -which were reproduced in Dorothy. He talked too about Ernest’s and -Dorothy’s marriage, and said what a comfort it was to him. Finally, -about ten o’clock, he said that he was tired and was going to bed. - -“God bless you, my dears; sleep well! Good-night,” he said. “We will -settle about that new orchid-house to-morrow. Good-night, good-night.” - -Shortly afterwards Dorothy and Ernest also went to bed, reaching their -room by a back entrance, for they neither of them felt inclined to come -under the fire of the crystal eyes again, and soon they were asleep in -each other’s arms. - -The minutes stole on one by one through the dead silence of the night, -bearing their records with them to the archives of the past. Eleven -o’clock came and fled away; midnight came too, and swept on bat-like -wings across the world. Everywhere—on land, sky, and sea—there was -silence, nothing but silence sleeping in the moonlight. - - - - -_Hark!_ Oh, heavens, what was that! - -One fearful, heartrending yell of agony, ringing all through the -ancient house, rattling the casements, shaking the armour against the -panelled walls, pulsing and throbbing in horrible notes out into the -night, echoing and dying far away over the sea! And then silence again, -silence sleeping in the moonlight. - -They sprang from their beds, did every living soul beneath that roof, -and rushed in their night-gear, men and women together, into the -sitting-room. The crystal eyes seemed to be awake again, for the moon -was up and played upon them, causing them now and then to flash out in -gleams of opalescent light. - -Somebody lit a candle, somebody missed Mr. Cardus; surely he could -never have slept through that! Yes, he had slept through it. They -rushed and tumbled, a confused mass of white, into the room where he -lay. He was there sure enough, and he slept very sound, with a red gash -in his throat, from which the blood fell in heavy drops, down, down to -the ground. - -They stood aghast, and as they stood, from the courtyard outside there -came a sound of galloping hoofs. They knew the sound of the galloping; -it was that of Ernest’s great black stallion! - - - - -A mile or more away out on the marshes, just before you come to the -well-known quicksands, which have, tradition says, swallowed so many -unfortunates, and which shudder palpably at times and are unpleasant to -look on, stands a lock-house, inhabited by one solitary man, who has -charge of the sluice. On this very night it is necessary for him to -open his sluice-gates at a particular moment, and now he stands -awaiting that propitious time. He is an ancient mariner; his hands are -in his pockets, his pipe is in his mouth, his eyes are fixed upon the -sea. We have met him before. Suddenly he hears the sound of a powerful -horse galloping furiously. He turns, and his hair begins to rise upon -his head, for this is what he sees in the bright moonlight: - -Fast, fast towards him thunders a great coal-black horse, snorting with -mingled rage and terror, and on its bare back there sits a man with a -grip of iron—an old man, for his gray locks stream out behind him—who -waves above his head the fragment of a spear. - -On they come. Before them is the wide sluice; if they are mortal, they -will turn or plunge into it. No; the great black horse gathers himself, -and springs into the air. - -By Heaven, he has cleared it! No horse ever took that leap before, or -will again. On at whirlwind speed towards the shuddering quicksand two -hundred yards away! - -_Splash!_ Horse and man are in it, making the moist mass shake and -tremble for twenty yards round. The bright moonlight shows it all. The -horse shrieks in fear and agony, as only a horse can; the man on its -back waves the spear. - -The horse vanishes, the man vanishes; the spear glitters an instant -longer in the moonlight, and then vanishes too. They have all vanished -for ever. - -They have all vanished, and again the perfect silence sleeps in the -moonlight. - -“Bust me!” says the ancient one, aloud, and shaking with a mortal -dread; “bust me, I have stood still and seed many a queer thing, but I -never seed a thing like that!” And he turned and fled fast as his old -legs would carry him, forgetful of Dutch cheeses and of sluice-gates, -forgetful of everything except that demon horse and man. - -Thus ended “Hard-riding Atterleigh’s” maddest gallop, and thus, too -ended the story of Mr. Cardus and his revenge. - -[Illustration: Mad Atterleigh’s last Ride.] - - - - -CHAPTER X. -DOROTHY’S TRIUMPH - - -Some years passed before Eva Plowden returned to Kesterwick, and then -she was carried thither. Alive she did not return, nor during all those -years did she and Ernest ever meet. - -They buried her, in obedience to her last wishes, there in the -churchyard where lay generation upon generation of her ancient race, -and the daisies grew above her head. Twice had they bloomed above her -before Sir Ernest Kershaw stood by the spot, hallowed by the presence -of what once held the spirit of the woman he had loved. - -Ernest was now getting well into middle life, and Dorothy’s bright hair -was slightly lined with gray, as they stood that summer evening by -Eva’s grave. Many things had happened to the pair since Mr. Cardus’s -tragic death. They had had children—some they had lost, some -remained—honest English lads and lasses, with their father’s eyes. They -had enjoyed great wealth, and spent it royally, giving with both hands -to all who needed. They had drunk deep of the cup of this world’s joys -and sorrows. Ernest had gone into Parliament for a couple of years, and -made something of a name there. Then, impatient for the active life of -other days, he had accepted a high Colonial appointment, for which, -notwithstanding his blindness, his wealth and parliamentary reputation -eminently fitted him. Now he was just about to leave to fill the -governorship of one of the Australian colonies. - -Long years had passed, many things had happened; and yet as he stood by -that heap of turf, which he could not see, it seemed but yesterday -when—and he sighed. - -“Not quite cured yet, Ernest?” said Dorothy, interrogatively. - -“Yes, Dorothy,” he answered, with a little sigh, “I think I am cured. -At any rate,” he went on, as she took his hand to lead him away from -the grave, “I have learned to accept the decrees of Providence without -murmuring. I have done with dreams, and outlived pessimism. Life would, -it is true, have been a different thing for me if poor Eva had not -deserted me, for she poisoned its waters at the fount, and so they have -always tasted bitter. But happiness is not the end and object of man’s -existence; and if I could I do not think I would undo the past. Take me -to the old flat tombstone, Dolly, near the door.” - -She led him to it, and he sat down. - -“Ah,” he went on, “how beautiful she was! Was there ever woman like -her, I wonder? And now her bones lie there; her beauty is all gone; and -there lives of her only the unending issues of _what she did._ I have -only to think, Dolly, and I can see her as I saw her a score of times -passing in and out of this church-door. Yes, I can see her, and the -people round her, and the clothes she wore, and the smile in her -beautiful dark eyes—for her eyes seemed to smile, you remember, Dolly. -How I worshipped her, too, with all my heart and soul and strength, as -though she were an angel! And that was my mistake, Dolly. She was only -a woman—a weak woman.” - -“You said just now that you were cured, Ernest; one would hardly think -it to hear you talk,” put in Dorothy, smiling. - -“Yes, Doll, I am cured; you have cured me, my dear wife, for you have -crept into my life, and taken possession of it, so that there is little -room for anybody else; and now, Dorothy, I love you with all my heart.” - -She pressed his hand and smiled again, for she knew that she had -triumphed, and that he did love her, truly love her, and that his -passion for Eva was a poor thing compared to what it had been years -before—more indeed of a tender regret, not unmingled with a starry -hope, than a passion at all. Dorothy was a clever little person, and -understood something of Ernest and the human heart in general. She had -thought long ago that she would win Ernest altogether to her in the -end. By what tenderness, by what devotion and nobility of character she -accomplished this, those who know her can well imagine, but in the end -she did accomplish it, as she deserved to. The contrast between the -conduct of the two women who had mainly influenced his life was too -marked for Ernest, a man of a just and reasonable mind, to altogether -ignore; and when once he came to comparisons the natural results -followed. And yet, though he learned to love Dorothy so dearly, it -cannot be said that he forgot Eva; because there are things that some -men can never forget, since they are a part of their inner life, and of -these first love is unfortunately one. - -“Ernest,” went on Dorothy, “you remember what you told me when you -asked me to marry you in Titheburgh Abbey, about your belief that your -affection for Eva would outlast this world. Do you still believe that?” - -“Yes, Doll, to a great extent.” - -His wife sat and thought for a minute. - -“Ernest,” she said presently. - -“Yes, dear.” - -“I have managed to hold my own against Eva in this world, when she had -all the chances and all the beauty on her side, and what I have to say -about your theories now is, that when we get to the next, and are all -beautiful, it will be very strange if I don’t manage to hold my own -there. She had her chance, and she threw it away; now I have got mine, -and I don’t mean to throw it away, either in this world or the next.” - -Ernest laughed a little. “I must say, my dear, it would be a very poor -heaven if you were not there.” - -“I should think so, indeed. ‘Those whom God hath joined together let -not man put asunder’—nor woman either. But what is the good of our -stopping here to talk such stuff about things of which we really -understand nothing? Come, Ernest, Jeremy and the boys will be waiting -for us.” - -And so hand in hand they went on homeward through the quiet twilight. - - - -*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE WITCH’S HEAD *** - -Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions will -be renamed. - -Creating the works from print editions not protected by U.S. copyright -law means that no one owns a United States copyright in these works, -so the Foundation (and you!) can copy and distribute it in the -United States without permission and without paying copyright -royalties. Special rules, set forth in the General Terms of Use part -of this license, apply to copying and distributing Project -Gutenberg-tm electronic works to protect the PROJECT GUTENBERG-tm -concept and trademark. Project Gutenberg is a registered trademark, -and may not be used if you charge for an eBook, except by following -the terms of the trademark license, including paying royalties for use -of the Project Gutenberg trademark. If you do not charge anything for -copies of this eBook, complying with the trademark license is very -easy. You may use this eBook for nearly any purpose such as creation -of derivative works, reports, performances and research. Project -Gutenberg eBooks may be modified and printed and given away--you may -do practically ANYTHING in the United States with eBooks not protected -by U.S. copyright law. Redistribution is subject to the trademark -license, especially commercial redistribution. - -START: FULL LICENSE - -THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG LICENSE -PLEASE READ THIS BEFORE YOU DISTRIBUTE OR USE THIS WORK - -To protect the Project Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting the free -distribution of electronic works, by using or distributing this work -(or any other work associated in any way with the phrase "Project -Gutenberg"), you agree to comply with all the terms of the Full -Project Gutenberg-tm License available with this file or online at -www.gutenberg.org/license. - -Section 1. General Terms of Use and Redistributing Project -Gutenberg-tm electronic works - -1.A. By reading or using any part of this Project Gutenberg-tm -electronic work, you indicate that you have read, understand, agree to -and accept all the terms of this license and intellectual property -(trademark/copyright) agreement. If you do not agree to abide by all -the terms of this agreement, you must cease using and return or -destroy all copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in your -possession. If you paid a fee for obtaining a copy of or access to a -Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work and you do not agree to be bound -by the terms of this agreement, you may obtain a refund from the -person or entity to whom you paid the fee as set forth in paragraph -1.E.8. - -1.B. "Project Gutenberg" is a registered trademark. It may only be -used on or associated in any way with an electronic work by people who -agree to be bound by the terms of this agreement. There are a few -things that you can do with most Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works -even without complying with the full terms of this agreement. See -paragraph 1.C below. There are a lot of things you can do with Project -Gutenberg-tm electronic works if you follow the terms of this -agreement and help preserve free future access to Project Gutenberg-tm -electronic works. See paragraph 1.E below. - -1.C. The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation ("the -Foundation" or PGLAF), owns a compilation copyright in the collection -of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works. Nearly all the individual -works in the collection are in the public domain in the United -States. If an individual work is unprotected by copyright law in the -United States and you are located in the United States, we do not -claim a right to prevent you from copying, distributing, performing, -displaying or creating derivative works based on the work as long as -all references to Project Gutenberg are removed. Of course, we hope -that you will support the Project Gutenberg-tm mission of promoting -free access to electronic works by freely sharing Project Gutenberg-tm -works in compliance with the terms of this agreement for keeping the -Project Gutenberg-tm name associated with the work. You can easily -comply with the terms of this agreement by keeping this work in the -same format with its attached full Project Gutenberg-tm License when -you share it without charge with others. - -1.D. The copyright laws of the place where you are located also govern -what you can do with this work. Copyright laws in most countries are -in a constant state of change. If you are outside the United States, -check the laws of your country in addition to the terms of this -agreement before downloading, copying, displaying, performing, -distributing or creating derivative works based on this work or any -other Project Gutenberg-tm work. The Foundation makes no -representations concerning the copyright status of any work in any -country other than the United States. - -1.E. Unless you have removed all references to Project Gutenberg: - -1.E.1. The following sentence, with active links to, or other -immediate access to, the full Project Gutenberg-tm License must appear -prominently whenever any copy of a Project Gutenberg-tm work (any work -on which the phrase "Project Gutenberg" appears, or with which the -phrase "Project Gutenberg" is associated) is accessed, displayed, -performed, viewed, copied or distributed: - - This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and - most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no - restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it - under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included with this - eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the - United States, you will have to check the laws of the country where - you are located before using this eBook. - -1.E.2. If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is -derived from texts not protected by U.S. copyright law (does not -contain a notice indicating that it is posted with permission of the -copyright holder), the work can be copied and distributed to anyone in -the United States without paying any fees or charges. If you are -redistributing or providing access to a work with the phrase "Project -Gutenberg" associated with or appearing on the work, you must comply -either with the requirements of paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 or -obtain permission for the use of the work and the Project Gutenberg-tm -trademark as set forth in paragraphs 1.E.8 or 1.E.9. - -1.E.3. If an individual Project Gutenberg-tm electronic work is posted -with the permission of the copyright holder, your use and distribution -must comply with both paragraphs 1.E.1 through 1.E.7 and any -additional terms imposed by the copyright holder. Additional terms -will be linked to the Project Gutenberg-tm License for all works -posted with the permission of the copyright holder found at the -beginning of this work. - -1.E.4. Do not unlink or detach or remove the full Project Gutenberg-tm -License terms from this work, or any files containing a part of this -work or any other work associated with Project Gutenberg-tm. - -1.E.5. Do not copy, display, perform, distribute or redistribute this -electronic work, or any part of this electronic work, without -prominently displaying the sentence set forth in paragraph 1.E.1 with -active links or immediate access to the full terms of the Project -Gutenberg-tm License. - -1.E.6. You may convert to and distribute this work in any binary, -compressed, marked up, nonproprietary or proprietary form, including -any word processing or hypertext form. However, if you provide access -to or distribute copies of a Project Gutenberg-tm work in a format -other than "Plain Vanilla ASCII" or other format used in the official -version posted on the official Project Gutenberg-tm website -(www.gutenberg.org), you must, at no additional cost, fee or expense -to the user, provide a copy, a means of exporting a copy, or a means -of obtaining a copy upon request, of the work in its original "Plain -Vanilla ASCII" or other form. Any alternate format must include the -full Project Gutenberg-tm License as specified in paragraph 1.E.1. - -1.E.7. Do not charge a fee for access to, viewing, displaying, -performing, copying or distributing any Project Gutenberg-tm works -unless you comply with paragraph 1.E.8 or 1.E.9. - -1.E.8. You may charge a reasonable fee for copies of or providing -access to or distributing Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works -provided that: - -* You pay a royalty fee of 20% of the gross profits you derive from - the use of Project Gutenberg-tm works calculated using the method - you already use to calculate your applicable taxes. The fee is owed - to the owner of the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark, but he has - agreed to donate royalties under this paragraph to the Project - Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation. Royalty payments must be paid - within 60 days following each date on which you prepare (or are - legally required to prepare) your periodic tax returns. Royalty - payments should be clearly marked as such and sent to the Project - Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation at the address specified in - Section 4, "Information about donations to the Project Gutenberg - Literary Archive Foundation." - -* You provide a full refund of any money paid by a user who notifies - you in writing (or by e-mail) within 30 days of receipt that s/he - does not agree to the terms of the full Project Gutenberg-tm - License. You must require such a user to return or destroy all - copies of the works possessed in a physical medium and discontinue - all use of and all access to other copies of Project Gutenberg-tm - works. - -* You provide, in accordance with paragraph 1.F.3, a full refund of - any money paid for a work or a replacement copy, if a defect in the - electronic work is discovered and reported to you within 90 days of - receipt of the work. - -* You comply with all other terms of this agreement for free - distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm works. - -1.E.9. If you wish to charge a fee or distribute a Project -Gutenberg-tm electronic work or group of works on different terms than -are set forth in this agreement, you must obtain permission in writing -from the Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the manager of -the Project Gutenberg-tm trademark. Contact the Foundation as set -forth in Section 3 below. - -1.F. - -1.F.1. Project Gutenberg volunteers and employees expend considerable -effort to identify, do copyright research on, transcribe and proofread -works not protected by U.S. copyright law in creating the Project -Gutenberg-tm collection. Despite these efforts, Project Gutenberg-tm -electronic works, and the medium on which they may be stored, may -contain "Defects," such as, but not limited to, incomplete, inaccurate -or corrupt data, transcription errors, a copyright or other -intellectual property infringement, a defective or damaged disk or -other medium, a computer virus, or computer codes that damage or -cannot be read by your equipment. - -1.F.2. LIMITED WARRANTY, DISCLAIMER OF DAMAGES - Except for the "Right -of Replacement or Refund" described in paragraph 1.F.3, the Project -Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation, the owner of the Project -Gutenberg-tm trademark, and any other party distributing a Project -Gutenberg-tm electronic work under this agreement, disclaim all -liability to you for damages, costs and expenses, including legal -fees. YOU AGREE THAT YOU HAVE NO REMEDIES FOR NEGLIGENCE, STRICT -LIABILITY, BREACH OF WARRANTY OR BREACH OF CONTRACT EXCEPT THOSE -PROVIDED IN PARAGRAPH 1.F.3. YOU AGREE THAT THE FOUNDATION, THE -TRADEMARK OWNER, AND ANY DISTRIBUTOR UNDER THIS AGREEMENT WILL NOT BE -LIABLE TO YOU FOR ACTUAL, DIRECT, INDIRECT, CONSEQUENTIAL, PUNITIVE OR -INCIDENTAL DAMAGES EVEN IF YOU GIVE NOTICE OF THE POSSIBILITY OF SUCH -DAMAGE. - -1.F.3. LIMITED RIGHT OF REPLACEMENT OR REFUND - If you discover a -defect in this electronic work within 90 days of receiving it, you can -receive a refund of the money (if any) you paid for it by sending a -written explanation to the person you received the work from. If you -received the work on a physical medium, you must return the medium -with your written explanation. The person or entity that provided you -with the defective work may elect to provide a replacement copy in -lieu of a refund. If you received the work electronically, the person -or entity providing it to you may choose to give you a second -opportunity to receive the work electronically in lieu of a refund. If -the second copy is also defective, you may demand a refund in writing -without further opportunities to fix the problem. - -1.F.4. Except for the limited right of replacement or refund set forth -in paragraph 1.F.3, this work is provided to you 'AS-IS', WITH NO -OTHER WARRANTIES OF ANY KIND, EXPRESS OR IMPLIED, INCLUDING BUT NOT -LIMITED TO WARRANTIES OF MERCHANTABILITY OR FITNESS FOR ANY PURPOSE. - -1.F.5. Some states do not allow disclaimers of certain implied -warranties or the exclusion or limitation of certain types of -damages. If any disclaimer or limitation set forth in this agreement -violates the law of the state applicable to this agreement, the -agreement shall be interpreted to make the maximum disclaimer or -limitation permitted by the applicable state law. The invalidity or -unenforceability of any provision of this agreement shall not void the -remaining provisions. - -1.F.6. INDEMNITY - You agree to indemnify and hold the Foundation, the -trademark owner, any agent or employee of the Foundation, anyone -providing copies of Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works in -accordance with this agreement, and any volunteers associated with the -production, promotion and distribution of Project Gutenberg-tm -electronic works, harmless from all liability, costs and expenses, -including legal fees, that arise directly or indirectly from any of -the following which you do or cause to occur: (a) distribution of this -or any Project Gutenberg-tm work, (b) alteration, modification, or -additions or deletions to any Project Gutenberg-tm work, and (c) any -Defect you cause. - -Section 2. Information about the Mission of Project Gutenberg-tm - -Project Gutenberg-tm is synonymous with the free distribution of -electronic works in formats readable by the widest variety of -computers including obsolete, old, middle-aged and new computers. It -exists because of the efforts of hundreds of volunteers and donations -from people in all walks of life. - -Volunteers and financial support to provide volunteers with the -assistance they need are critical to reaching Project Gutenberg-tm's -goals and ensuring that the Project Gutenberg-tm collection will -remain freely available for generations to come. In 2001, the Project -Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation was created to provide a secure -and permanent future for Project Gutenberg-tm and future -generations. To learn more about the Project Gutenberg Literary -Archive Foundation and how your efforts and donations can help, see -Sections 3 and 4 and the Foundation information page at -www.gutenberg.org - -Section 3. Information about the Project Gutenberg Literary -Archive Foundation - -The Project Gutenberg Literary Archive Foundation is a non-profit -501(c)(3) educational corporation organized under the laws of the -state of Mississippi and granted tax exempt status by the Internal -Revenue Service. The Foundation's EIN or federal tax identification -number is 64-6221541. Contributions to the Project Gutenberg Literary -Archive Foundation are tax deductible to the full extent permitted by -U.S. federal laws and your state's laws. - -The Foundation's business office is located at 809 North 1500 West, -Salt Lake City, UT 84116, (801) 596-1887. Email contact links and up -to date contact information can be found at the Foundation's website -and official page at www.gutenberg.org/contact - -Section 4. Information about Donations to the Project Gutenberg -Literary Archive Foundation - -Project Gutenberg-tm depends upon and cannot survive without -widespread public support and donations to carry out its mission of -increasing the number of public domain and licensed works that can be -freely distributed in machine-readable form accessible by the widest -array of equipment including outdated equipment. Many small donations -($1 to $5,000) are particularly important to maintaining tax exempt -status with the IRS. - -The Foundation is committed to complying with the laws regulating -charities and charitable donations in all 50 states of the United -States. Compliance requirements are not uniform and it takes a -considerable effort, much paperwork and many fees to meet and keep up -with these requirements. We do not solicit donations in locations -where we have not received written confirmation of compliance. To SEND -DONATIONS or determine the status of compliance for any particular -state visit www.gutenberg.org/donate - -While we cannot and do not solicit contributions from states where we -have not met the solicitation requirements, we know of no prohibition -against accepting unsolicited donations from donors in such states who -approach us with offers to donate. - -International donations are gratefully accepted, but we cannot make -any statements concerning tax treatment of donations received from -outside the United States. U.S. laws alone swamp our small staff. - -Please check the Project Gutenberg web pages for current donation -methods and addresses. Donations are accepted in a number of other -ways including checks, online payments and credit card donations. To -donate, please visit: www.gutenberg.org/donate - -Section 5. General Information About Project Gutenberg-tm electronic works - -Professor Michael S. Hart was the originator of the Project -Gutenberg-tm concept of a library of electronic works that could be -freely shared with anyone. For forty years, he produced and -distributed Project Gutenberg-tm eBooks with only a loose network of -volunteer support. - -Project Gutenberg-tm eBooks are often created from several printed -editions, all of which are confirmed as not protected by copyright in -the U.S. unless a copyright notice is included. Thus, we do not -necessarily keep eBooks in compliance with any particular paper -edition. - -Most people start at our website which has the main PG search -facility: www.gutenberg.org - -This website includes information about Project Gutenberg-tm, -including how to make donations to the Project Gutenberg Literary -Archive Foundation, how to help produce our new eBooks, and how to -subscribe to our email newsletter to hear about new eBooks. |