Jasper Lyle

Chapter Ten.

Mystery.

Noontide in Kafirland! what a glow! A bold but popular authoress was severely rated lately for the passage, “made twilight undulate.” Truly, in an African noon the atmosphere flickers like water.

Not a sound, save the great bee, as large as a beetle, going whooming, whooming, among the doricas and convolvuluses screening the verandah. The locusts, all emerald and scarlet and gold, lie motionless in the pomegranate hedges. The cattle stand panting in the plains, too much exhausted to feed. The Hottentots are enjoying the sun in their own way, either fast asleep, with their yellow faces turned upward to the dazzling sky, or sitting smoking in the glare; and the dogs seek shady corners, and breathe last and hard, with their pink tongues hanging out of their parched mouths.

On the reinforcement of the Annerley garrison, the Kafirs had deemed it prudent to “sit still” in the hills. Doubtless, too, they were awaiting the issue of the grand meeting in the Amatola valley. A certain feeling of security for the present drew the inmates of the dwelling-house together in various occupations. The ladies resumed their feminine employments, and the mornings were passed in the entrance-hall, which, like those of most South African residences, was fitted up as a family sitting-room.

It was a pretty cool retreat in general, but this morning the air was so sultry, that every one felt listless—every one but Mr Trail, and he was busy, as usual, in his school. The hum of the children’s voices was audible in the hall. Marion said it made her quite sleepy to listen to it; she threw down her pencil. Ormsby sat looking at her over his book, as he pretended to read, lounging in his camp chair. Mrs Daveney was writing; but now and then she would raise her eyes to her youngest daughter, and glance from her to Ormsby. It was evident that the young officer’s attentions to Marion were observed by the mother. Eleanor and Mrs Trail were sorting books and work for the school, the Bechuana teacher standing by, looking, as Ormsby said, provokingly cool.

Frankfort sat with a book in his hand also, but attentively noting all that was passing.

He was beginning to feel a little uneasy respecting Marion, and the thoughtless flirt, Ormsby—the girl so innocent, so fair, and barely seventeen. He observed, too, that her sister, at times, looked anxiously towards these young people, who always contrived to be side by side, interested in some particular object or topic.

Mrs Daveney finished her despatch, closed her desk, and begging Marion to follow her, left the room. Marion pouted, but obeyed; Ormsby retreated to solace himself with a cigar. Mrs Trail was sent for by her husband, the Bechuana girl carried off the books and work, and Frankfort and Eleanor were left alone.

Frankfort was a man unaccustomed to violent emotions, and, as we have shown, not usually susceptible of sudden impressions; besides which, he had acquired a habit of reasoning with himself, when other men would have been too selfish to see the necessity of it; but all the reasoning in the world now would not subdue the throbbing of his pulses as the young widow’s dress swept past him on her way to the door.

Mr Daveney was expected that night; the anxious daughter was dreading a storm.

“Ah!” said she, shading her eyes as she looked towards the hills, “this bright day portends mischief, I fear. God grant my father may reach home by sunset.”

A hot blast of air poured through the doorway. She closed it, and sat down within a few feet of Frankfort. He felt she was on the point of addressing him, and saw, by her embarrassed air, that what she was going to say was not mere commonplace.

“Major Frankfort,” said she, after a short pause, “I am glad to have this opportunity of addressing a few words to you on a matter of deep concern to me. I am not going to speak of myself—my history cannot interest you, although it must be clear to you that I am a joyless creature—but I, claiming a right to judge and act for those I love, because sorrowful experience has aged me more than years beyond them—I venture to ask for a proof of your friendship, albeit we have been acquainted little more than one week—” She hesitated—Frankfort looked at her, her eyes were cast down, the tears were beginning to steal from under the drooping lids; he could not speak, his heart was so full of pity, and yet there were doubts mingled with this pity—was there any self-reproach added to the bitterness of the anguish that oppressed that stricken heart?

He was thinking only of Eleanor, while she was intent on interesting him in her sister’s welfare—she brushed away the tears.

“Ah!” said she, “how self stands between us and the impulses of good! Here I have come, with the resolution to do my duty to my sister, and I am alluding to my own vain regrets for what can never be amended—it is of Marion I would speak, Major Frankfort. Your friend Mr Ormsby is evidently a man of the world, who sees no harm in devoting himself to any young creature who may take his fancy far the time. Will you pardon my reminding you, that if you have observed this, it must suggest itself to you—it must clearly be your—your duty, to speak to him? Alas, alas!” added she, “I scarcely know how to address you on this most painful subject; men are so apt to impute evil motives to women, whose principles are honest, whose minds would be pure, but for the heavy lessons learned from the other sex. Ah!” continued she, covering her face with her hands to hide the blushes that crimsoned it, “can I trust you—will you help me? Save my sister, my darling Marion,—save her from the misery of a blighted heart. Oh, think, Major Frankfort, how terrible a doom it is to dwell in the desert, with but the record of a dream!

“You would understand me better if you knew all—you would appreciate my earnestness, my anxiety to shield my sister from a deadly sorrow, ere it be too late. Ah!” she cried, clasping her hands, and speaking with more energy than she had hitherto displayed, “if you should set down what I say to wrong account—if you should misunderstand me!—”

“Believe me, Mrs Lyle,” answered Frankfort, with great emotion,—“believe me, when I say that, from the depths of my soul, I understand you.”

He lifted his eyes to her face as he spoke. At the mention of her name, “Mrs Lyle,” something like a spasm passed across her features, and he saw her slender fingers close convulsively together. His words admitted of opposite interpretations, but the deep sympathy expressed in that frank and earnest face was too manifest to be doubted for an instant. Eleanor’s eyes drooped beneath the melting gaze that fixed itself upon them. It was long since she had received such silent but expressive homage. She thought but little of it after the first instant of surprise. She put no trust in man.

The deep blush passed away, and left the cheek as cold and statue-like as ever. She went on speaking of her sister. “It may seem,” she continued, “that I am assuming my mother’s prerogative in opening this subject; but I wish to spare both her and my father pain and anxiety during this period of public harass and responsibility, and therefore, relying on, or rather treating to, your generosity, I hope I may depend on you to remonstrate with Mr Ormsby on his show of devotion to my sister, since it can mean nothing.”

“But,” said Frankfort, “is it fair to speak of it as a show of devotion? Your sister is one who would command admiration in any circle. She is so charmingly fresh and innocent—so unlike the young ladies who, as you say, would be pure in heart but for the heavy lessons taught them by our sex, that, putting beauty out of the question, my friend would be happy indeed in winning the affections of such a being as she appears to be.”

“As she appears to be! Oh, wise and cautious that you are!—more merciful though than he, you would not seek at first sight to win a prize, believing it to be pure gold, and then reject it, because, on nearer view, you discovered the dross of human weakness!” She spoke with a bitterness which Frankfort felt was foreign to her gentle nature. He had not been for ten days domesticated with this sorrow-laden woman without discovering, in those trifles which mark the character, how tender, how feminine she was! She ceased to speak—but he could not withdraw his gaze from her earnest, mournful face. Every word, every look, betokened the strangest associations of worldly experience with the simplicity of a naturally trusting heart. The nervous trepidation, the modest blush, the sweet, faltering voice, how deeply were they contrasted with the resolute way in which she urged her right of sisterly guardianship, and the opinions she permitted to escape her lips, albeit unused to rebuke, or to the expression of ungentle thoughts!

By what silver cords are we often drawn unconsciously towards each other! Frankfort, for aught Eleanor considered, might have been one of those who thought ill of the female sex because he had received its favours; Eleanor, for aught Frankfort knew, might be playing a part. A mere man of the world would have suspected her of laying a scheme to ensnare Ormsby for her sister’s sake, whilst willing to attract himself; but both were single-minded, honest-hearted people. The woman’s heart was full of anxiety, and she longed for help from a strong and steady hand; she met with an open palm, and she accepted its assistance in all confidence and security.

They parted, Frankfort promising to put the matter in a serious light before his thoughtless friend, Eleanor thanking him for her sister’s sake, and totally unconscious of the spell she was gradually weaving round the hitherto untouched heart of the thoughtful, high-souled soldier.

He knew the weight of his influence with Ormsby. That night, after Mr Daveney’s return, Eleanor looked from her window into the avenue, between the mansion and the gateway. Two figures were pacing beneath the over-arching trees. Now they stopped and talked; now the slighter of the two left the other, with an angry gesture, then returned; now they were linked, arm in arm, and approached nearer the house.

Eleanor had left her light in her sister’s room, and Marion was calling to her to say “Good night;” she was full of a ride next day. “How charming, after being shut up so long! Papa even thought these might be peace with Kafirland, after all. Some of the chiefs had sent him messengers, with flags of truce, and at any rate the open plains would be safe, and they should have a gallant escort, and—”

Marion was rattling on, as she sat before her glass, brushing her bright hair, which hung in great luxuriance over her white dressing-gown; but hearing no reply from Eleanor, she turned round, and saw her sister, with her head leaning on her hand, in her old abstracted way: jumping up, she ran to her, and casting her arms—how dazzlingly fair they looked against that sable robe!—round Eleanor’s neck, she exclaimed, “Sweet sister mine, how selfish I must seem; but I am so happy!—and you—ah! you only answer me with your tears; but, my own darling, you must not refuse to be comforted—you must not.” And she kissed the high, thoughtful brow of the pale, sad face she loved.

“Comfort, Marion! dear, bright-faced, light-hearted sister!—earth can give me no comfort, no consolation; but I love you—I love you;” and she took Marion to her bosom, and kissed her tenderly. “Consolation and comfort are yet to come. Doubtless they will come, but they have not been granted me yet. Ah! ‘Sunbeam,’” she added, calling her by the name a Kafir chieftain had applied to Marion—“‘Sunbeam,’ may no clouds overshadow you!”

She longed—oh! how she longed—to warn Marion of the thorns and rugged ways of the path which looked so fair, with Love beckoning in the distance, and smiling at the feet that stumbled in striving to reach his temple, in which were many altars—some of triumph, most of sacrifice; but she had not the heart to rend aside the veil.

She gathered up her sister’s radiant tresses, kissed again the rosy cheek, and withdrew to her own little room. The moon shone through the latticed windows, chequering the objects it illuminated: she extinguished her light, and looked out into the avenue. Frankfort and Ormsby were still there. On the right and left were the wagons: the lager consisted of some twenty people on either side, but all was noiseless, save the pacing of a solitary sentinel, who waited for Frankfort to go the midnight rounds. The latter hurried up the avenue, and bid the man proceed, saying he would follow; and then she heard the two officers exchange a friendly “Good night.”

“Remember,” said Frankfort.

“I will,” replied Ormsby; “you are right, and I am wrong, my good fellow.” The rest was lost to Eleanor, who retired from the window.

Another blazing day! Mrs Daveney established herself with Marion and Mrs Trail in the cool dining-room; Eleanor was assisting Mr Trail in the school; Frankfort was displaying his success in engineering to his host, and was planning work for Ormsby and himself.

Marion was more listless than usual, laying down her work—sad, stupid work it was—coarse frock-making for those “wretched little Hottentots”—and lifting up the dark moreen blinds to see if thunder-clouds were gathering. “No; there were streaks in the sky like great white plumes, there would be a breeze in the evening, and she should have her ride.”

“Sit down, Marion,” said Mrs Daveney, rather impatiently; “how restless you are! it is impossible to write while you are wandering about the room.”

Marion sat down, her cheeks in a glow, and stitched away in nervous haste. Her mother noted all this.

At the early dinner all the party met again. There was some change of seats, in consequence of Mr Daveney resuming his accustomed place at his table. Mrs Daveney’s keen eye remarked that Ormsby was not at Marion’s side as usual, and then, to her surprise, she saw a glance of intelligence pass between Frankfort and Eleanor.

She recognised the meaning of this at once.

The ride was again talked of, and Mr Daveney yielded to Marion’s entreaty “only for an hour’s canter in the cool of the day.” Eleanor consented to go; that decided her father.

You will have discovered, dear reader—I am always inclined to like my reader—that Mrs Daveney was a woman likely to be a little jealous of her own authority. It was fortunate that her husband was content to share his with her, otherwise there would have been struggles for the real and the fancied prerogative, in which the high-spirited woman would have surely conquered. She was certain that Eleanor had opened her mind to Frankfort on the subject of Ormsby’s devotion to Marion, and she felt angry at being, as she considered, forestalled in her prerogative; and Eleanor, you know, had some compunction in the matter too.

You will have discovered, too, that between the mother and elder daughter there was not that tenderness, of manner at least, which existed between Mrs Daveney and Marion. Eleanor had been born during the illness of that best-beloved being, who had entered the world when dangers beset his parents—poor little quiet thing! she was set aside at once, that this fragile creature might, if possible, be saved. He died; and then there came, as consolation, the bright-eyed, rosy-lipped Marion.

But with the father, the gentle, dark-haired Eleanor had made her steady way, and kept it. She grew up, to use a trite simile, like a violet in the shade. No one thought anything of that colourless oval face, those dove-like eyes, that intelligent brow shaded by heavy curls. There was no promise in the thin, small figure; the gentle voice was seldom heard; the smile not often seen; and it was with considerable satisfaction that Mrs Daveney consented to let the delicate, drooping girl accompany her father on a visit to the Governor’s wife at Cape Town.

The said Governor’s wife, Lady Annabel Fairfax, was a relative of Mr Daveney’s. She had loved him in her youth, but he had never known that; and now she welcomed his gentle daughter with that deep tenderness which pure-hearted women feel for the children of those on whom their first affections have been bestowed.

But we shall have to refer to this part of Eleanor’s history by-and-by.

While she rides, her mother is pacing the verandah with Mr Trail. Good Mr Trail, he is soothing that ruffled spirit, deprecating its jealousy of authority in trifles; he analyses Mrs Daveney’s motives, he sifts them like wheat before her very face, and he condenses, in the “half-hour’s talk,” almost the history of her moral life since her marriage. He is a very old friend; he has been associated with her in her husband’s district for years; he has seen her children grow up, and he loves them.

He loves Eleanor best, though: we naturally feel most for those we pity.

And Eleanor—she is riding side-by-side with Major Frankfort. Ah, take heed, Frankfort—she has, as yet, no thought of thee!

It was like a picture of a hunting-party in old times. Eleanor revived to new life on horseback, and her bright bay steed rejoiced in the precious burden he bore. She took the lead with Frankfort, leaving her father with Marion and Ormsby. Poor Ormsby, he deserved some credit for letting Frankfort arrange the reins for Marion; but the rosy lips were pouting, the eyes reproachfully turned towards him, and he could not resist the temptation of joining her in the avenue when her father fell back to see that the escort following them was well armed.

Start not, reader, at the notion of ladies riding for pleasure with armed escorts in a heathen land. Many a time and oft have I traversed these enamelled plains, too much exhilarated with the grandeur of the scene to think of danger.

Eleanor, in her dark riding-habit, fitting so as admirably to display the graceful shape and easy attitude of the rider, a large, simple straw hat shading the face, over which, under the influence of the refreshing breeze, a hue like the inside of a delicate shell was stealing, was a delightful picture to Frankfort, who had often longed to draw her from the shade she always sought; and Marion, in a riding-dress like her sister’s, but with an ostrich plume wound round her hat, resembled one of those saucy dames, who “went a hunting” in the merry days of vicious, pleasant, witty Charles the Second.

They scarce drew rein for four miles. There was no spoor of Kafirs, the hills were silent, and there were herds of bucks gathered on the plains. The tribes were evidently sitting ominously still.

The Trails and Mrs Daveney were watching at the gateway when the riders came in sight. Those left behind were always anxious till the wanderers came back again, in these uncertain days.

The time of truce was passed by the settlers in the district in “making ready” for the expectant foe—in Kafirland the people were collecting cattle, arms, and ammunition. It was the lull that precedes the storm, and the community at Annerley knew it. All there calmly but resolutely awaited the crisis. The women, children, and old men, occupying the wagon bivouac, were fain to be content with the news they received occasionally from their friends at their homesteads; the Trails kept the even tenor of their way in the school, and among the humble people of the settlement; and Ormsby, unable to restrain his passion for Marion, was in a serious dilemma between his wish to remain and Frankfort’s advice to him to rejoin his regiment at once, if he was not in earnest.

“In earnest, my good fellow!” exclaimed the incorrigible flirt; “you don’t suppose I am in earnest, do you?”

“Then, if you are not in earnest, according to the world’s acceptance of the term,” replied Frankfort, “you should go. If you remain under such circumstances, I can neither consider you as a man of honour nor an honourable man.”

Ormsby was selfish, as you know; but he had a great respect for Frankfort, who, without making a fuss about being a “man of honour,” was an honourable man. Ah, reader! there is a wide difference between the two, as perhaps you have found before now.

That evening Ormsby went to Mr Daveney, and solicited leave to pay his addresses to his daughter Marion.

Mr Daveney desired time to think; but, at any rate, refused to hear of a definite engagement until the young soldier had reconsidered the subject, and written home to his father for “consent and approbation.” Nay, the honest-hearted settler—Mr Daveney and his wife often referred to themselves as settlers—would have had the young man return to his regiment without delay, that he might try the test of time and absence, before Marion was even consulted; but despatches suddenly arrived, bringing accounts of the result of the great meeting with the chiefs, who, contrary to their usual practice, breathed nothing but war and defiance in the very teeth of the authorities. It was clear, the borders of the colony could not be passed with any chance of safety. There seemed no alternative now but to await the reiteration of the war-cry, and stand to arms from Port Elizabeth to Natal. The Dutch in the upper districts refused their aid in the Colonial cause, and the Kafirs chuckled at hearing that the Amahulu and the Amaglezi—(the Boers and the English)—were “barking at each other like dogs.”

The little episode of which Marion was the heroine had been the means of bringing Eleanor and Frankfort into nearer communion than during the first week of their acquaintance. The young widow’s gravity of manner was little changed, but the deep melancholy was gradually giving way before the influence of a mind that opened its stores chiefly for her. She did not talk more than usual, but she listened, and Frankfort felt he had gained a vantage-ground.

He kept it, too. Like Scheherazade in the “Arabian Nights,” he always contrived, when he quitted this fair, sad creature’s side, to leave something for her mind to rest upon; some subject which she would wish resumed. I am wrong in using the word “contrived”—that was not Frankfort’s “way”—but the interest Eleanor took in all that he so pleasantly and intelligently discussed invested it with an additional charm to himself.

Meanwhile, father, mother, friends, looked on, and hoped that a light was dawning on the horizon of Eleanor’s clouded life, and they rejoiced. They had no doubt of Frankfort’s honesty of purpose. His bearing and his sentiments were alike frank, just, kind, manly, and single-minded. He was not blindly, passionately in love with the soft voice and mournful eyes that had certainly at first enchained his attention—bewitched him, as some would have it—but he was most deeply interested in the young widow; anxious to penetrate the cloud of sorrow that even in his presence shaded her brow, and, as he reluctantly admitted to himself, created a gulf between her and him, which he only hoped to remove or pass over. Every night, as he paced the avenue after the sentinels were posted, did he resolve on openly addressing Mr Daveney on the subject of his widowed daughter’s position; but the resolve faded into air, when he reconsidered what had passed between himself and Eleanor in the day. He had two weighty reasons for pausing. He was by no means sure of Eleanor’s sentiments towards himself, and he had a dread, though this he was unwilling to acknowledge, in his own mind, of lifting the veil of mystery with which he felt more than he knew she was invested.

But as soon as he did gain courage to sound the depths of his own heart, he recognised the duty he owed to her, to her family, especially his gracious, generous host, and to himself; and he resolved that another sun should not set till the question, on which he felt whole years of happiness must depend, was decided.

The dew was on the leaves and the sun high in the east, when Eleanor Lyle came through the cool hall into the glowing verandah on the morning when Frankfort had at last resolved on requesting an interview with her father.

He had a very strong idea that she liked him. She was one who had evidently suffered from the treachery or the evil humour of man; everything she said or did was tinged with some fatal remembrance. She shrunk from the sound of the name she bore; she could not believe in Ormsby’s faith; she did not openly ignore all honourable feelings in the other sex, but she clearly set no store by men’s promises to women. She did not volunteer these strong opinions—they were drawn from her; but Frankfort soon discovered that it was he only who could elicit them. Yes, she most certainly liked him—she had a good opinion of him, too, he fancied; he had tested it at times in his own quiet way.

They met together in the verandah this fine, warm, balmy, dewy morning, while the world was pleasantly astir. Children creeping out of the wagon bivouacs with “shining morning faces;” herd-boys coming by the house with baskets of meelies and fine burnished English tins of milk; graceful Fingo girls, with fresh-gathered pumpkins and cool green water-melons on their heads; Mrs Trail’s Bechuana nursemaid and ruddy children—such contrasts to their dusky Abigail—loaded with heather, lilac, pink, and white, and purple; and then there swung out from the old mulberry-tree in the vineyard the call to prayers in the school. The people from the wagons hurried off; the front garden and avenue were deserted; there was not a sound but the whooming of a great bee that was always rifling the doricas and invading the roses and convolvuluses, till the “morning hymn” swelled on the warm, still air in solemn chorus, and true, though unstudied, harmony.

They descended the steps, and sought the shade of the avenue. It was flanked on either side by a little nursery of trees; there was a good deal of low bramble and brushwood, which made almost a labyrinth of the ground; but there was a shady spot beside a silver thread of water that stole from the rill irrigating the vineyard, and Frankfort and Eleanor were bent on gathering water-cresses for breakfast. I doubt if people not interested in each other would have thought of taking all this trouble for a few green leaves; but these two went about it as if they had laid out for themselves a serious employment.

It was a delicious nook. Eleanor had even laughed at the scramble she had had in reaching it, and sat down heated and fatigued with her descent of the bank, down which Frankfort might have made an excuse to lift her if he had so pleased—he would have been pleased to do so—but he did not; there was such a divine purity about this young and graceful and subdued being, that, had he been in a desert with her, he would, have felt that it was she who drew the barrier between them, which he dared not pass.

All this may seem very anomalous when you think how Frankfort dreaded to lift the veil between them; but, remember, his doubts were the issue of lonely reflective hours in Eleanor’s presence. He grieved at the secret sorrow that oppressed her, and bound with its heavy fetters the joyous impulses of youth.

How handsome he looked as he cast himself on the green-sward beside the little rill, his hat laid aside, his open, honest countenance brightened with enjoyment at the radiance of the morning and the fragrant beauty of this green retreat, with the shy retiring Eleanor actually smiling in his face, as he fanned her with the broad green leaves of arums growing in the shining watercourse. Ah, it was the honesty of that face that made it so handsome! Eleanor was not one to be attracted by mere statuesque beauty—she had forsworn love for ever—she was anticipating peace in this abjuration of love, when the kindly eyes and approving smile of this true-hearted soldier beamed on her with an effect like sunlight on the hills in Kafirland, scathed by the lightning. There are patches on which no green grass will ever again grow—desolate spots in the great oasis; but these are overlooked as the herald of a new day touches them with his glory, and casts all that is unsightly into shade.

Gems of dew glittered on the mossy bank—flowers, rainbow-hued, were opening their chalices to the genial influence of day—a magnificent corallodendrum spread its scarlet-tufted boughs over a low rustic bench, and they seated themselves together under this fine canopy. Eleanor had desired a little Fingo boy to follow her with a basket for the cresses—Frankfort thought he obeyed his mistress much too soon.

She had taken off the large straw hat—Frankfort held it for her; her fine hair was slightly disordered; there was a light in her eye, a colour in her cheek, her lover—we must call him such now—had never seen before. That young face, that candid smile—nay, the smile sometimes broke into a low musical laugh. Ah! could, the demon of self-reproach be lurking beneath all this bewitching feminine charm?

Frankfort felt that the time must soon come when he should ask her for her history. He had resolved to learn it from herself. He longed to pour balm into the wounded heart; he was growing hourly less afraid of hearing the truth. He was just, too,—he felt that no offer of confidence could be made to him till he solicited it.

He would do so now. She sent her little dusky page to the rill and rose to follow him. She was tying on her hat, when a slender chain encircling her throat caught in the strings, and she unwittingly drew it from her bosom. Frankfort saw suspended to it the miniature he had found in the vineyard.

He felt emboldened,—he ventured to touch it.

She made no remonstrance, but with a deep sigh would have replaced it.

Frankfort held it fast. His hand did not shake, but his heart beat.

How often does a sudden impulse bring to a crisis what has cost us many hours of forethought! and how often—oh! how often!—does the one great event of a life hinge upon some trifle unforeseen! A look, a word, an unexpected meeting, will often remove the doubts and agonies of years, when but for what we call accident, there might have been no meeting, no blessed exchange of look or word.

Frankfort felt that this was a crisis in his life.

“Eleanor,” said he, “whose child was this?”

“Mine, Major Frankfort,” she replied, “mine; he died, and—” she broke into a passion of tears. He drew close to her—she suffered him to take her hand. All his doubts faded at sight of those fast-falling tears,—those sobs of agony.

“Not now, not yet,” said she; “the bitterness of death is past; but you have touched a chord which has vibrated through my soul, and I must have time to recover my trembling senses.”

She took the arm offered her; they returned by an open pathway to the house, the little Fingo following, carrying his basket piled full of fresh and glittering leaves, and in his arms a quantity of arums, the large water-lilies of South Africa.

Mrs Daveney and Marion were in the entrance-rooms. Since Ormsby’s avowal of his attachment, Marion was more constantly at her mother’s side. I have shown you how Mr Trail had exerted his influence over Mrs Daveney for good; how his words, like the dew from heaven, falling on good seed, had revived her best impulses, and removed the tares of false pride and self-glorification from her heart. Ah, kind, useful man, there be many that the world calls “as good as thee;” but there are ways of ministering God’s word, “the small rain upon the tender herb,” refreshing the soil, not tearing it up and sweeping it away in the torrent of over-zeal and self-righteousness. It is such as Mr Trail who pioneer the way for the timid, and keep the ground for the weak. Verily, it is the meek-spirited who possess the earth; they consider the evil of their own nature in reproving others, and obtain concessions to their humility which would be denied to their assumption of supremacy.

How dark and unfathomable are the depths of our own hearts, till the Day-star from on high sheds its divine ray on our souls, and teaches us to guide others by conquering ourselves!

But it strikes me you may think me prosy,—too fond of dissecting people’s motives. Pardon me, it is my way, my fault, my habit,—excuse it if it does not suit you, and pass on.

“Ah!” cries the worldly-minded reader, “by Eleanor’s tact and candour, a very delicate point has been settled; confidence has been established among all; Ormsby declares he never should have known his own mind if he had not been brought to the point; he was never so happy in his life.”

In a word, you will exclaim, “All’s well that ends well.” Certainly, that is one of the secrets of self-gratulation and content in this work-a-day world.

But do not jump at conclusions—we are not near the end of our story yet.

Mrs Daveney saw traces of tears in Eleanor’s eyes. She glanced at Frankfort, and observed that his face was fall of serious thought; but, albeit Marion had always been the favourite, so to speak, the mother had every confidence in Eleanor. How often mothers love one child best, but trust another most!

Mr Trail had brought this mother and eldest daughter nearer to each other than they had been for years; and Mrs Daveney anticipated Eleanor’s confidence ere the morning passed. The latter did not appear at the breakfast-table, and the kind, anxious father went to satisfy himself that she was not ill.

There was a shade of anxiety on his brow, and as he passed his wife, on leaving the table at the call of some farm-servant, he whispered to her that Eleanor wished to see her.

The result of their conference was the resolution on Eleanor’s part, with the sanction of father and mother, to “tell Major Frankfort the history of the miniature, and more if he desired it.”

Light broke on Eleanor as her mother reminded her of many trifling incidents, plainly manifesting Frankfort’s partiality for her. These, connected with what had lately passed between the young widow and the generous, candid soldier, left no doubt an her mind of the nature of his regard for her. She began to weigh every look; she suddenly remembered he had addressed her as “Eleanor,”—she had been too much startled by the unexpected allusion to her lost darting to think of anything but the revival of the bitter pang.

Then Frankfort’s violent emotion was so at variance with his usual delicacy. She was half-frightened to believe that he loved her. They had spent three weeks together under the same roof. It might truly be said that the light of a new day had dawned upon her, so insensibly had Frankfort’s influence stolen over her, and sweetened an existence, of late so wretched and forlorn.

To have seen the settlement of Annerley, in the early part of March, 18—, you would have thought, had you known nothing of the terrible elements gathering silently around, that Mercy and Peace had met together, that Righteousness and Truth had kissed each other.

“In the deep noontide, in the sunset’s hush,” the children’s voices chimed together in the busy school; mothers and sisters plied their needles in the shady, trellised passage; the cattle herds grew careless, and dozed away the dreamy day; the ladies of the family party suffered themselves to hope that the dove with the olive branch was winging her way from the mountain haunts of the unhappy heathen. Ormsby was hourly profiting by his association with his energetic, intelligent, active-minded host. The “maxims” he had been accustomed to laugh at as “Frankfort’s platitudes” were household words here. The fresh, innocent mind of Marion was a new and beautiful study, and he was a little, a very little, afraid of Mrs Daveney. He was not quite sure that he liked her—she was evidently inclined to keep him in order, and then she was “dreadfully clever.”

So complete was the quiet reigning in this beautiful wilderness, that even Mr Daveney began to think the chiefs had held council, and determined on prolonging the truce, owing to the lateness of the season, the corn being yet unripe in the districts between the Buffalo and Keiskama rivers. The two officers were awaiting his expected despatch to rejoin their regiments, if ordered to do so, as they had considered it right, on so long and unforeseen detention, to “report” their whereabouts to their commanding officer.

You will think it all very novel-like and romantic to have brought these delightful, handsome, intelligent officers into the wilderness, and established them there with an obliging mamma, and a soldierlike host, and two charming daughters—you will consider it all perfectly correct in romance, but not quite so true to nature. Ah! if you had seen the world at home and abroad as I have done, dear reader, you would have discovered that romance and reality are much more nearly allied than untravelled folks imagine. I assure you, the picture of the Annerley settlement is not exaggerated, though I admit that the family I have selected to introduce to you is not of common stamp, even in England; but there is plenty of space for more of them in Southern Africa, and there is so little room in England, that vice jostles against virtue, and often has the best of it.

Frankfort and Eleanor were again seated on the rustic bench, beneath the scarlet-tufted corallodendrum. He could not doubt any longer that he had at least touched her heart—how deep the impression was, he could not tell. In her manner to him she was like a child, all joyousness; at times smiling, almost gay, and occasionally confiding, but as yet not so in matters connected with herself. Sometimes she would half promise to “talk of herself” to him; then the time came, and something would intervene. If he had shrunk from asking her previous history, she dreaded to tell it. She said so, but added, for his comfort—“Fear not, dear Major Frankfort; you may pity me as unfortunate, and contemn me as weak, but you will not have occasion to condemn. I am only a wronged, deceived, and, for a long time, most unhappy woman; and if you should despise me for my misfortunes, which you may do”—she put her hand on his lips, as he was about to interrupt her—“you will not love me less, though you may not choose me for your wife.”

He took her hand in his, and pressed it with a fervency, eloquent but silent.

“Ah!” said she, shuddering, “it is so long since I was happy, that, albeit you present the cup, I hold it to my lips, trembling lest it fall.”

She took the miniature of her boy from her bosom. Frankfort bent over her, and gazed upon the angel face, dimmed with the young mother’s tears; but though she wept, it was not with that passionate anguish he had witnessed before. He drew her to him—he ventured to kiss away those slow-falling tears—he had told her that morning that he loved her.

“Tell me,” at last whispered Frankfort, trembling and cold with suspense, “who was this child’s father?”

“I could not nerve myself to tell you my sad story,” replied Eleanor. “I have written it. My father will give it you this evening, I own I shrunk from this tearing open of the records of the past. There are some passages from which you will turn perhaps in dismay. You will discover, what you may have already suspected, that I have loved and been deceived; but you have yet to decide whether I am a fitting bride for you. I confess I have no hope.”

Frankfort withdrew his hand from Eleanor’s. He paced the walk in great agitation.

She waited till he approached her again. “Pity me,” said she, rising. “Ah! it has been a terrible task to make this revelation to you. Do me justice—I did not seek to win you. I had abjured love for ever; but you came; you were kind; I listened; a new emotion stirred my heart, unlike the wild passion which once brought me to the depths of despair, and now, God help me! you, too, may forsake me.”

She was weeping. “Tell me,” he again whispered, “is there any self-reproach?—any shame? Ah, Eleanor! I must know—any—”

“Disgrace!” you would say, interrupted Eleanor.

Her lover answered her not a word, but stood waiting her reply. The strong, tall man shook like an aspen-tree.

“You will learn all,” said Eleanor, “in the packet I have left for you with my father. I leave it to you to decide whether we may meet again.”

The light of day was fading. Side by side, they returned towards the house; but not a word did either speak. They went round by the vineyard; they stood at the gateway leading to the trellised passage. Frankfort opened it, and Eleanor would have passed him by.

He drew her back. “Shall we meet again, Eleanor?” said he.

“Alas!” she answered, “I fear you will decide otherwise.” And he—his heart answered her in the spirit, if not in the words, of Moore’s beautiful song:

“I know not and care not if guilt’s in that heart,
I but know that I love thee, whatever thou art!”

Ah, reader! you will be glad to know, for I cannot help telling you, that Eleanor, though disgraced, was not guilty, save in the act, and that I do not defend, of marrying one for whom she had no real affection.

The inmates of Annerley have retired to their rest. The whole household seems hushed in the deepest repose; but Frankfort is seated with a packet before him, which he longs, yet dreads, to open.

He tears the seal away, and the sight of Eleanor Lyle’s handwriting makes his heart beat—he can hear it in the silence of the midnight hour.

But we must first see how sped the convicts.