CHAPTER XIII.

THE EVENING OF GINGHILOVO.

Much about the time that the conversation we have just recorded was taking place between the two fair equestriennes, the subject thereof, then with the troops in the laager of Ginghilovo, was very full of the same matter they had in hand—himself and his supposed wrongs.

'She never could have really cared for me, or she never could have acted as she did, unless she wished with the contingencies of war to have two strings to her bow,' thought Hammersley, as he lay on the grass a little apart from all, and sucked his briar-root viciously. 'Perhaps she thought it was her money I wanted—not herself. Ah, how could she look into her glass and think so!'

Ever before him he had that horrid episode in the shrubbery, and saw in memory the girl he loved so passionately in the arms of another, who was giving her apparently the kisses men only give to one woman in the world—a sight that seemed to scorch his eyes and heart.

'Yes,' he would mutter, 'one may be mistaken in some things, but there are some things there is no mistaking, and that affair was one of them.'

Perhaps at that very instant of time Finella was posed, as he had seen her last, with 'Cousin' Shafto, and the thought made him hate her! He felt himself growing colder and harder, though his heart ached sorely, for the 'soul-hunger of love' was in it.

'Well, well,' he would mutter, as he tugged his dark moustache; 'what are called hearts have surely gone to the wall in this Victorian age.'

His bitter memories would have soon passed away, could he have seen, as if in a magic mirror, at that moment Finella, in her riding-habit, on her knees in the solitude of her own room, before a large photo of a handsome young fellow in the uniform of the 24th (his helmet under his right arm, his left hand on the hilt of his sword), gazing at it, yet scarcely seeing it, so full were her soft eyes of hot salt tears, while her sweet little face looked white, woe-begone, and most miserable. But now the bugles sounding on the various flanks of the laager, when about six in the evening a general hum of voices pervaded it, and the order 'Stand to your arms!' announced that the enemy was in sight of the trenches.

In front of the old kraal of Ginghilovo, behind an earthen breastwork and abattis of felled trees, were the 60th Rifles, in their tunics of dark green, and sailors of the Shah with their Gatling guns, which they playfully called 'bull-dogs and barrel-organs.'

They were flanked by some of the 57th and two seven-pounders; the Argyleshire Highlanders, then in green tartan trews, held the rear face; and the defences were prolonged by the Lanarkshire, the 3rd Buffs, and some more of the Naval Brigade with a rocket battery.

Every heart in the laager beat high, and every face flushed with intense satisfaction, as two sombre columns of Zulus appeared, spreading like a human flood over the ground, after crossing the reedy Inyezane stream, deploying in a loose formation, which enabled them to find cover behind scattered boulders and patches of bush.

Now, when on the eve of an action, Hammersley, like every other officer, felt that new and hitherto unknown dread and doubt of the result which has more than once come upon our troops of all ranks, born of the new and abominable system which in so many ways has achieved the destruction of the grand old British army—'the army which would go anywhere, and do anything'—by the abolition of the regimental system, and with it the power of cohesion; but the worst, the so-called 'territorial system,' had not yet come.

Encouraged by the countenance and praises of Hammersley, Florian left nothing undone to win himself a name, and had already become distinguished for his daring, discretion, and acuteness of observation among all the Mounted Infantry when scouting or reconnoitring, and his further promotion seemed now to be only a matter of time.

Both courted danger, apparently with impunity, as the brave and dashing often do: Florian with a view to the future; Hammersley to forget. Soldiers will make fun, even when under fire, so some of his comrades quizzed Florian in his old laced tunic, and dubbed him 'the Captain;' but Vivian Hammersley thought, how like a gentleman and officer he looked in the half-worn garment he had given him.

Through the long, wavy, and reed-like grass two columns of Zulus crept swiftly on in close rather than extended order, and furiously assailed the north face of the square held by the Highlanders, flanked as usual by extended horns, and all yelling like fiends broken loose, while brandishing their great shields and glittering assegais, till smitten with death and destruction under the close-rolling Highland musketry.

They were commanded by a noble savage, named Somapo, with Dabulamanzi and the eldest son of Sirayo as seconds.

Almost unseen by the darkness of their uniforms, the Rifles lay down flat behind their shelter-trenches; the barrels of their weapons rested firmly on the earthen bank, enabling them to take steady and deadly aim, while dropping in quick succession the cartridges into the breech-blocks without even moving the left arm or the right shoulder, against which the butt-plate of the rifle rested, and their terrible fire knocked over in writhing heaps the Zulus, who, in all their savage fury and bravery, came rushing on ten thousand strong and more.

'Their white and coloured shields,' wrote one who was present, 'their crests of leopard-skin and feathers, and wild ox-tails dangling from their necks, gave them a terrible unearthly appearance. Every ten or fifteen yards, and a shot would be fired, and then, with an unearthly yell, they would again rush on with a sort of measured dance, while a humming and buzzing sound in time to their movement was kept up.'

Meanwhile the laager was literally zoned with fire and enveloped with smoke; yet within it no sound was heard save the rattling roar of the musketry, the clatter of the breech-blocks, and triumphant bagpipes of the Highlanders, with an occasional groan or exclamation of agony as a bullet found its billet.

In the fury of their advance and struggles to get onward over their own dead and dying, the Zulus from the rear would break through the fighting line, jostling and dashing each other aside, and rush yelling on, until they too bit the dust.

The booming of the Gatling guns and the dread hiss of the blazing rockets were heard ever and anon amid the medley of other sounds, and for half an hour the showers of lead and iron tore through and through the naked masses, where the places of the fallen were instantly taken by others.

By half-past six the shrill yells of the Zulus died away; but in mute despair and fury they still struggled in hope to storm the laager, when, if once within its defences, the fate of all would be sealed.

Four times like a living sea they flung themselves against it, and four times by sheets of lead and iron they were hurled back from the reddened bayonet's point, while some remained in the open, firing from behind the bloody piles of their own dead, which lay in awful lines or swathes of black bodies with white shields, a hundred yards apart, in rear of each other.

At last the survivors gave way, and all fled in confusion.

'Forward, the Mounted Infantry!' cried Lord Chelmsford.

And these, under Captain Barrow and Hammersley, sprang with alacrity to their saddles, slinging their rifles as they filed out of the laager.

'Front form squadron!' was now the order, and the sections of fours swept round into line.

'Come on, my lads!' cried Hammersley, as he unsheathed his sword and dug the spurs into his horse; 'forward—trot, gallop! By Jove! an hour of this work

'"Is worth an age without a name!"'

And away went the Mounted Infantry over the terrible swathes at a swinging pace.

Like most of the few officers of that peculiar and extemporised force, Vivian Hammersley had been accustomed to cross country and ride to hounds, and to deem that the greatest outdoor pleasure in life.

Tattoo, Florian's horse, fortunately for him in the work he had to do that evening, proved to be a tried Cape shooting-horse, accustomed to halt the moment his rein is dropped, and to stand like a rock when his rider fires. An experienced shooting-horse requires no sign from his master when required to stand, and on hearing a sound or stir in the bush is alert as a dog scenting danger or game.

Florian loved the animal like a friend, and often shared his beer with him, as Homer tells us the Greek warriors of old shared their wine with their battle-chargers; we suppose it is only human nature that we must love something that is in propinquity with us.

The Mounted Infantry overtook the fugitive Zulus, and fell furiously, sword in hand, upon their left flank, but not without receiving a scattered fire that emptied a few saddles.

The routed fled with a speed peculiarly their own; but Captain Barrow and his improvised troopers were in close pursuit, and from the laager their sword-blades could be seen flashing in the evening sunshine, as the cuts were dealt downward on right and left, and the foe was overtaken, pierced, and ridden over and through.

In this work the force necessarily became somewhat broken, and Hammersley, who, in the ardour of the pursuit, and being splendidly mounted, had outstripped all the Mounted Infantry and gone perilously far in advance, had his horse shot under him.

'Captain Hammersley—Hammersley! He will be cut to pieces!' cried several of the soldiers, who saw him and his horse go down in a cloud of dust, and in another moment he was seen astride the fallen animal contending against serious odds with his sword and revolver. And now ensued one of those episodes which were of frequent occurrence in the service of our Mounted Infantry.

Florian saw the sore strait in which Hammersley was placed, and had, quick as thought, but one desire—to save him or die by his side. At that part of the field a watercourse—a tributary of the Inyezene River—separated him from Hammersley, but putting the pace upon Tattoo, he rode gallantly to face it. Rider and horse seemed to possess apparently but one mind—one impulse. Tattoo cocked his slender ears, gave a glance at the water, sparkling in the setting sun, and, springing from his powerful and muscular hind-legs, cleared the stream from bank to bank—a distance not less than fifteen feet.

'Well done, old man!' exclaimed Florian; 'you are game!'

'Hurra!' burst from several of the troop, some of whom failed to achieve the leap. So Florian rode forward alone, and in less time than we have taken to record it, was by the side of Hammersley, who was bleeding from a wound in the left arm from an assegai launched at him by one of three powerful savages with whom he was contending, and in whom Florian recognised Methagazulu, the son of the famous Sirayo.

The last shot in Hammersley's revolver disposed of one; Florian shot a second, 'and drove his bayonet through the side of Sirayo's son, whom others were now returning to succour, and, lifting Hammersley on his own horse, conducted him rearward to a place of safety, covering the rear with his rifle, pouring in a quick fire with an excellent aim till a dozen of his comrades came up and received them both with a cheer.

Though wounded, Methagazulu did not die then, for, as we have elsewhere said, the close of the war found him a prisoner in the gaol of Pietermaritzburg.

But for the succour so promptly accorded by Florian, another moment would have seen that savage, after wounding Hammersley by one assegai, give him the coup de grace with another; as it is a superstition with the Zulus that if they do not rip their enemies open, disembowelling them, as their bodies swell and burst when dead, so will those of the slayers in life; and so firm is their belief in that, that after the victory had been won at Rorke's Drift many of the Zulus were seen to pause, even under a heavy fire, to rip up a few of our dead who lay outside the entrenchment; and cases have been known in which warriors who have been unable to perform this barbarous ceremony have committed suicide to escape what they deemed their inevitable doom.

Florian tied his handkerchief round Hammersley's arm, above the wound, to stay the blood, till he left him safely with the ambulance waggons and in care of Staff-Surgeon Gallipot; and though faint with the bleeding, for the wound was long and deep—a regular gash—Hammersley wrung the hand of his saver, and said:

'My gallant young fellow, you will have good reason if I live—as I doubt not I will—to recall this evening's work with satisfaction.'

'I shall ever remember, sir, with pride that I saved your life—the life of the only friend I have now in our decimated regiment since I lost poor Bob Edgehill.'

'It is not that I mean,' said Hammersley faintly, 'but, if spared, I shall see to your future, and all that sort of thing, you understand.'

'I thank you, sir, and hope——'

'Hope nothing,' said Hammersley, closing his eyes, as memory brought a gush of bitterness to his heart.

'Why, sir?'

'Because when one is prepared for the worst, disappointment can never come.'

Florian knew not what to make of this sudden change of mood in his officer, and so remained discreetly silent.

'Have you any water in your bottle?' asked Hammersley.

'A little, sir.'

'Then give me a drop, for God's sake—mine is empty.'

Florian took the water-bottle from his waist-belt and drew out the plug; the sufferer drank thirstily, and on being placed in a sitting position, with a blanket about him, strove to obtain a little sleep, being weary and faint with the events of the past day.

'Whoever he is, that lad has good blood in his veins, and he has no fear of lavishing it,' was his last thought as he watched the receding figure of Florian leading away his favourite Tattoo by the bridle.

Our total casualties at Ginghilovo were only sixty-one; those of the Zulus above twelve hundred. The story of the encounter might have been different had another column of ten thousand men, which had been despatched from Ulundi by Cetewayo the day after the march of Somapo, effected a junction with the latter.

Etschowe, the point to be relieved, was now fifteen miles distant; but Colonel Pearson in his isolated fort must have heard of the victory, for Florian, when out with a few files on scouting duty, could see the signals of congratulation flashed therefrom.

After the fierce excitement of the past day, he felt—he knew not why—depressed and almost sorrowful; but perhaps the solitudes among which he rode impressed him when night came on.

Lighted up by hundreds and thousands of stars, the clear sky spread like a vast shining canopy overhead, and then the great round moon shed down a flood of silver sheen on the grassy downs where the black bodies of the naked dead, with fallen jaws and glistening teeth and eyes, lay thick as leaves in autumn, and Tattoo picked his steps gingerly among them.

And in such a solemn and silent time, more keenly than ever, came to Florian's mind the ever-recurring thoughts of Dulcie Carlyon and of what she was doing; where was she and with whom—in safety or in peril?

Next morning Florian—as he was detailed for duty to the front with the Mounted Infantry, paid a farewell visit to Captain Hammersley, whom he found reposing among some straw in a kind of tilt cart, and rather feverish from the effects of his wound, and who had been desired to remain behind in the laager for a little time, though he could with difficulty be prevailed upon to do so.

Preceding the march of the column, the Mounted Infantry under Barrow filed forth at an easy pace in search of the enemy.

It was scarcely a new experience to Florian now, or to any man with the army in Zululand, that of putting a savage to death. Every rifle slew them by scores, when a hundred rounds of ammunition per man were poured into the naked hordes in less than an hour's time.

Lord Chelmsford left some of the Kentish Buffs, the Lanarkshire, and the Naval Brigade to garrison the laager at Ginghilovo, and marched for Etschowe with the 57th, the 60th Rifles, and Argyleshire Highlanders, escorting a long train of Scottish carts, laden with food and stores, preceded by the Mounted Infantry scouting far in advance.

The whole column wore the white helmet, but the dark green of the Rifles and the green tartan trews of the Highlanders varied the colour of the scarlet mass that marched up the right bank of the Inyezene river, with drums beating and bayonets flashing in the April sunshine.

Along the whole line of march were seen shields, rifles, assegais, furs, and feathers strewed about in thousands, cast away by the fugitives who had fled from Ginghilovo, and here and there the Kaffir vultures, hovering in mid air above a donga, or swooping down into it with a fierce croak, indicated where some dead men were lying.

Briskly the troops pushed on to rescue Colonel Pearson and his isolated garrison, which, during a blockade that had now extended to ten weeks, had been in daily expectation of experiencing the fate of those who perished at Isandhlwana; and surmounting all the natural difficulties of a rugged country, intersected by watercourses which recent rains had swollen, by sunset the mounted men under Barrow were close to the fort, and heard the hearty British cheers of a hungry garrison mingling with a merry chorus which they were singing.

Under Colonel Pemberton, the Rifles pushed on ahead with Lord Chelmsford, just as an officer on a grey charger came dashing round the base of the hill surmounted by the fort.

'Here is Pearson, gentlemen,' cried the Commander-in-Chief.

'How are you, my friend?'

'Old fellow—how are you?' and grasping each other's hand, they rode on towards the fort, where the General was received with an enthusiasm which grew higher when the Argyleshire Highlanders marched in with all their kilted pipers playing 'The Campbells are coming.'

The fort was destroyed and abandoned, and on the 4th of April the united columns began to fall back on Ginghilovo, the Mounted Infantry as usual in front, but clad in the uniform of that service—a Norfolk jacket and long untanned boots, all patched and worn now.

It was justly conceived that the laager would not be reached without fighting, as a body of Zulus, led in person by Dabulamanzi and the son of Sirayo, was expected to bar the way, and consequently serious loss of life was expected; but so far as Florian was concerned, he felt that he could face any danger now with comparative indifference, and his daily pleasure consisted in carefully grooming and feeding Tattoo; and Florian, as he rode on, was thinking with some perplexity of the farewell words of Captain Hammersley.

'Good-bye, sergeant—we have all our troubles, I suppose, whatever they are, and I should not care much if mine were ended here at Ginghilovo.'

'I should think that you cannot have much to trouble you, sir,' was Florian's laughing response as he left him.

CHAPTER XIV.

NEWS FROM THE SEAT OF WAR.

It was a soft and breezy April morning. The young leaves had scarcely burst their husk-like sheaths in the alternate showers and sunshine; the lambs were bleating in the meadows, the birds sang on bush and tree, the white clouds were floating in the azure sky, and the ivy rustled on the old walls of turreted Craigengowan, when there came some tidings that found a sharp echo in the hearts of Dulcie and Finella.

Arm-in-arm, as girls will often do, they were idling and talking of themselves and their own affairs in all the luxury of being together alone, near a stately old gateway of massive iron bars, hung on solid pillars, surmounted by time-worn wyverns, and all around it, without and within, grew tall nettles, mighty hemlock, and other weeds; while the avenue to which it once opened had disappeared, and years upon years ago been blended with the lawn, for none had trod it for 146 years, since the last loyal Laird of Craigengowan had ridden forth to fight for King James VIII., saying that it was not to be unclosed again till his return; and he returned no more, so it remains closed unto this day.

And it has been more than once averred by the peasantry that on the 13th of November, the anniversary of the battle in which he fell, when the night wind is making an uproar in the wintry woods of Craigengowan, the low branches crashing against each other, a weird moon shines between rifts in the black flying clouds, and the funeral-wreaths of the departed harvest flutter on the leafless hedges, a spectred horseman, in the costume of Queen Anne's time, his triangular hat bound with feathers, a square-skirted coat and gilded gambadoes—a pale, shimmering figure, through which the stars sparkle—can be seen outside the old iron gate, gazing with wistful and hollow eyes through the rusty bars, as if seeking for the vanished avenue down which he had ridden with his cuirassed troop to fight for King James VIII.; for sooth to say, old Craigengowan is as full of ghostly legends as haunted Glamis itself.

Finella had just told this tale to Dulcie when a valet rode past the gate and entered the lawn by another with the post-bag for the house. From this Finella took out a newspaper—one of the many it contained—and with eager eyes the two girls scanned its columns for the last news from Zululand, and simultaneously a shrill exclamation, which made the man turn in his saddle as he rode on, escaped them both.

The paper contained a brief telegraphic notice of the conflict at the laager of Ginghilovo, and with it the following paragraph:

'Captain Vivian Hammersley, of the unfortunate 24th Regiment, led a squadron of Barrow's Mountain Infantry; and having, with the most brilliant gallantry, pressed the flying foe much too far, had his horse shot under him, and was in danger of being instantly assegaied by several infuriated savages, who were driven off and shot down in quick succession by Sergeant Florian MacIan, who mounted the wounded officer on his own horse and brought him safely into the lines, for which noble act of humanity and valour he is, we believe, recommended for promotion by Captain Barrow, of the 19th Hussars, commanding the Mounted Infantry, and by Lord Chelmsford. The fatal day of Isandhlwana has made many commissions vacant in the unfortunate 24th Foot; and we have no doubt that one of them will be conferred upon this gallant young sergeant.'

'Oh, Dulcie, let me kiss you—I can't kiss your Florian just now!' exclaimed the impulsive Finella, embracing her companion, whose eyes, like her own, were brimming with tears of joy and sympathy.

Hammersley had received a wound of which no details were given; and that circumstance, by its vaguity, filled the heart of Finella with the keenest anxiety. Oh, if he should die believing what he did of her, when she had been and was still so true and loyal to him!

The intelligence rather stunned her; and for some minutes she remained paralyzed with dismay. She was powerless, with all her wealth, to succour in any way her suffering lover, and no resolution could shape itself in her mind. He might be dying, or already dead, for the fight had taken place some days ago—dying amid suffering and misery, while she remained idly, lazily, and in comfort amid the luxuries of Craigengowan. Even Dulcie failed to console her; and declining to appear at the breakfast-table, she took refuge in her own room, with the usual feminine plea of a headache.

'Florian, poor dear Florian! so good, so brave, so fearless!' said Dulcie to herself aloud; 'how glad I am he has achieved this, for her sake!'

How sweet and soft grew her voice as she uttered the name of the lost, the absent one, while an hysterical lump was rising in her throat, and Shafto, who had seen the paper and knew the source of this emotion, looked grimly in her face, with twitching lips and knitted brows.

'I have no chance,' thought he, 'with these two girls—either Dulcie the poor or Finella the rich. Yet why should I not contrive to bend both to my purpose?' was his evil afterthought. 'Well,' said he aloud; 'you have seen the news, of course?'

'Yes, Shafto,' replied Dulcie in a low voice, while her tears fell fast.

'So—he is not killed yet!'

She regarded him with bitter reproach.

'Don't cry, Dulcie!' said Shafto, with a little emotion of shame, 'or you will make me feel like a brute now.'

'I always thought you must have felt like one long ago,' retorted the girl, as she swept disdainfully past him.

As Lord and Lady Fettercairn had no desire to bring the name of Captain Hammersley on the tapis, no reference whatever to the affair of Ginghilovo, or even to the Zulu War, was made in the presence of Finella.

Even if the latter had not been engaged, as she still could not help deeming herself, to Hammersley, and had she not a decided, repugnance to Shafto, her pride and her whole soul must have revolted against a mariage de convenance. She had formed, girl-like, her own conceptions of an ideal man, and beyond all whom she met, in London or elsewhere, Vivian Hammersley was her 'Prince Charming;' and in a day or two her mind was partially set at rest when she read a description of his wound, a flesh one, inflicted by an assegai, and which was then healing fast, but, as she knew, only to enable him to face fresh perils.

To be bartered away to anyone after being grotesquely wooed did not suit her independent views, and ere long her grandparents began to think with annoyance that they had better let her alone; but Lady Fettercairn was impatient and irrepressible.

Not so Shafto.

He had a low opinion of the sex, picked up perhaps in the bar-parlour of the inn at Revelstoke, if not inherent in his own nature. He had read somewhere that 'women love a judicious mixture of hardihood and flattery—the whole secret lies in that;' also, that if their hearts are soft their heads are softer in proportion.

Lady Fettercairn was somewhat perplexed when watching the young folks at Craigengowan.

She shrewdly suspected, of course, that Finella's coldness to Shafto was due to the influence of their late guest Hammersley, though she never could have guessed at the existence of the wedding-ring and diamond keeper he had entrusted to her care; but she failed to understand the terms on which her 'grandson' was with her companion, Miss Carlyon, and, though there was nothing tangible or reprehensible, there was an undefined something in their bearing she did not like.

Sometimes when talking of Devonshire, of Revelstoke, of the old town of Newton Ferrars, the dell that led to Noss, of the Yealm, the Erme, and the sea-beat Mewstone as safe and neutral topics, the girl seemed affable enough to him, for memories of her English home softened her heart; but when other topics were broached she was constrained to him and icy cold.

Was this acting?

To further the interests of Shafto by keeping him and Finella isolated and as much together as possible, Lady Fettercairn did not go to London and thus seek society. Fashionable folks—unless Parliamentary—do not return to town till Easter; but Lord Fettercairn, though a Representative Peer, cared very little about English and still less about Scottish affairs, or indeed any interests but his own; so, instead of leaving Craigengowan, they had invited a few guests there—men who had come for rod-fishing in the Bervie, the Carron and the Finella, with some ladies to entertain them, thus affording the girl means of avoiding Shafto whenever she chose.

The stately terrace before the house often looked gay from the number of guests promenading in the afternoon, or sitting in snug corners in wicker chairs covered with soft rugs—the ladies drinking tea, the bright colours of their dresses coming out well against the grey walls of the picturesque old mansion.

Among other visitors were the vinegar-visaged Lady Drumshoddy, and Messrs. Kippilaw, senior and junior, the latter a dapper little tomtit of a Writer to the Signet, intensely delighted and flattered to be among such 'swell' company, believing it was the result of his natural brilliance and attractions, and not of respect for his worthy old father, Kenneth Kippilaw.

The latter—a rara avis, scarce as the dodo and his kindred—was intensely national—a lover of his country and of everything Scottish; an enthusiast at Burns' festivals, and singularly patriotic to be what is locally termed a 'Parliament House bred man.' Thus the anti-nationality or utter indifference of Lord Fettercairn was a frequent bone of contention between them; and so bitterly did they sometimes argue about Scotland and her neglected interests, that it is a marvel the Peer did not seek out a more obsequious agent.

'Like his uncle, the late Master of Melfort, Mr. Shafto must go into Parliament,' said old Mr. Kippilaw; 'but I hope he will make a better use of his time.'

'What do you mean?' asked Lord Fettercairn coldly.

'By attending to Scottish affairs, and getting us equal grants with England and Ireland for public purposes.'

'Stuff—the old story, my dear sir. Who cares about Scotland or her interests?'

'Ay, who indeed!' exclaimed old Kippilaw, growing warm.

'She is content to be a mere province now.'

'The more shame for her—a province that contributes all her millions to the Imperial Exchequer and gets nothing in return.'

'A sure sign she doesn't want anything,' replied the peer, with one of his silent laughs. 'I wish you would not worry me with this patriotic "rot," Kippilaw—excuse the vulgarity of the phrase; but so long as I can get my rents out of Craigengowan and Finella, I don't care a jot if all the rest, Scotland with all its rights and wrongs, history, poetry and music, was ten leagues under the sea!'

So thus, for two reasons, political and personal, the 'Fettercairns' just then did not go to 'town.'

On the terrace this very afternoon Lady Fettercairn was watching Finella and Dulcie, linked arm in arm conversing apart from all, and her smooth brow clouded; for she knew well that the fact of Hammersley owing his life to Florian MacIan would make—as it did—a new tie between the two girls.

'You see, Shafto,' said she, 'how more than ever does Finella put that girl out of her place. Though most useful as she is to me, always pleasant and irreproachably lady-like, I think I must get rid of her.'

'Not yet—not yet, grandmother,' said Shafto, who did not just then wish this climax; 'do give her another chance.'

'To please you, I will, my dear boy; but I fear I am rash.'

'I wish Finella were not so beastly rich!' he exclaimed.

'Do not use such shocking terms, Shafto! But why?'

'It makes me look like a fortune-hunter, being after her.'

'"After her"? Another vulgarism—impossible—you—you—the heir of Fettercairn!'

'Well, it gives one no credit for disinterested affection,' said this plausible young gentleman.

We have said that Lady Fettercairn was irrepressible in seeking to control Finella.

'How quiet and abstracted you seem! Why don't you entertain our friends?' said she, as the girl drew near her in an angle of the terrace, where they were alone.

'I am thinking, grandmamma,' said Finella wearily.

'You seem to be for ever thinking, child; and I wonder what it can all be about.'

'I don't believe, grandmamma, it would interest you,' said Finella, a little defiantly.

'There you are wrong, Finella; what interests you, must of necessity interest me,' said Lady Fettercairn, haughtily yet languidly, as she fanned herself.

'Not always.'

'Is it something new, then? I suspect your thoughts,' she continued with some asperity. 'Finella, listen to me again. You and Shafto are the only two left of the Melfort family; we wish the two branches united, for their future good—the good of the name and the title; and if Shafto goes into Parliament, I do not see why he should not perhaps become Viscount or Earl of Fettercairn.'

'The old story! I have no ambition, grandmamma,' shrugging her shoulders, 'and certainly none to be the wife of Shafto, even were he made a duke. So please to let me alone,' she added desperately, 'or I may tell you that of—of—Shafto you may not like to hear.'

And in sooth now, Lady Fettercairn, like her lord, had heard so much evil of Shafto lately that she abruptly dropped the subject for the time.

And now Shafto began once more to persecute poor Dulcie—a persecution which might have a perilous effect upon her future.

CHAPTER XV.

PERSECUTION.

Shafto felt, with no small satisfaction, that he could, to a certain extent, control the actions of both these girls. Finella could not reveal the secret of her quarrel with him without admitting the terms on which she had been with Hammersley; and Dulcie, he thought, dared not resent his conduct, lest—through his influence with Lady Fettercairn—she might be cast into the world, without even a certificate that would enable her to procure another situation of any kind. Thus, to a certain extent, he revelled in security so far as both were concerned.

And deeming now that all must be at an end between Finella and Hammersley, he thought to pique the former perhaps by attentions to Dulcie—attentions by which he might ultimately gain some little favours for himself.

In both instances vain thoughts!

He was aware that he had an ample field of old and mutual interest or associations to go back upon with Dulcie; thus he thought if he could entangle her into an apparent flirtation for the purpose of mortifying Finella, and catching her heart on the rebound, sore as it must be with the seeming indifference of Hammersley, he would gain his end; and this mutual intimacy eventually annoyed and surprised Lady Fettercairn, and was likely to prove fatal to the interests and position of Dulcie, whom he felt he must either win for himself in some fashion, and, if not, in revenge have her expelled from Craigengowan.

One day the girl was alone. She was feeding the swans in the artificial lakelet that lay below the terrace. It was a serene and sunny forenoon; the water was smooth as crystal, and reflected the old house with all its turrets, crow-stepped gables, and dormer-gablets line for line. It mirrored also the swans swimming double, bird and shadow, like beautiful drifting boats, and the great white water-lilies that seemed to sleep rather than float on its surface.

It was indeed a drowsy, golden afternoon, and Dulcie Carlyon, an artist at heart, was fully impressed by the loveliness of her surroundings, when Shafto stood before her.

Shafto!—she quite shivered.

'Oh!' she exclaimed, as if a toad had crossed her path.

'A penny for your thoughts, Dulcie.' said that personage smilingly, seeing that she had been pondering so deeply that his approach had been unnoticed by her.

'They might startle you more than you think,' replied Dulcie, with undisguised annoyance.

'Indeed; are you weaving out a romance?'

'Perhaps.'

'With yourself for the heroine, or Finella; and that fellow Florian for the hero? Then there must be the requisite villain.'

'Oh, he is ready to hand,' said she daringly, with a flash in her blue eyes.

Shafto's brow grew black as midnight, and what coarse thing he might have said we know not, but policy made him ignore her reply.

'Please not to remain speaking to me,' said she, glancing nervously at the windows of the house; 'your doing so may displease the friends of Finella.'

'It is of her I wish to speak. Listen, Dulcie. I have not the influence over her I had hoped to have before you came among us. If that interloper Hammersley had not absorbed her interest, no doubt, as matters once looked, she might have pleased her relations and bound herself to me, provided she had never found out that I had loved a dear one, far away in Devonshire, and had but a half-concealed fancy for herself.'

Dulcie listened to this special pleading in contemptuous silence.

'I don't want to marry her now, any more than she wants to marry me,' he resumed unblushingly; 'but I may tell you it is rather hard to be ordered to play the lover to a girl who will scarcely throw me a civil word.'

'After the cruel trick you played her, is it to be expected?'

'So—you are in her confidence, then?'

But Dulcie only thought, 'What paradox is this? He dared again to make love to herself, after all that had passed with reference to Florian, and yet to be jealous of Finella's profound disdain of him.'

'Won't you try and love me a little, Dulcie?' said he, attempting his most persuasive tone.

'What do you mean, Shafto?' demanded the girl in great anger and perplexity; 'even if I would take you, which I would rather die than do, with all your wealth and prospective title, you could not marry me and Finella too!'

'Who speaks of marriage?' growled Shafto, under his breath, while a malicious smile glittered in his cold eyes, as he added aloud, 'You know which I wish to marry.'

'Then it cannot be me, nor shall it be Finella either, for the matter of that.'

'Does she act under your influence?'

'Do not think of it—she is under a more potent influence than I possess,' replied Dulcie, who, bewildered by his manner and remarks, was turning away, when he again confronted her, and the girl glanced uneasily at the windows, where, although she knew it not, the eyes of those she dreaded most were observing them both.

To marry Dulcie, even if she would have him, certainly did not suit 'the book' of Shafto; but, as he admired her attractive person, and hated Florian with unreasoning rancour, as some men do who have wronged others, he would gladly have lured her into a liaison with himself. He knew, however, her pride and purity too well, but he was not without the hope of blunting them, and eventually bending her to his will, under the threat or pressure of getting her expelled from Craigengowan, and thrown penniless, friendless, and with, perhaps, a tainted name, upon a cold, bitter, and censorious world.

'I know you better than to believe that you love me any more than I do you,' said Dulcie, with ill-concealed scorn; 'love is not in your nature, even for the brilliant Finella. You love her money—not herself.'

Dissembling his rage, he said in a suppliant tone:

'Why are you so cold and repellant to me, Dulcie?'

'I do not know that I am markedly so.'

'But I do: beyond the affair of the locket, born of my very regard for you, what is my offence?'

'What you are doing now, following me about—forcing your society on me, and tormenting as you do. I shall be compromised with Lady Fettercairn if you do not take care.'

'I think you treat me with cruel coldness, considering the love I have borne you so long. Why should not we be even the friends we once were at Revelstoke, and like each other always?'

'After all you have done to Florian!'

'What have I done to Florian?' he demanded, changing colour under the influence of his own secret thoughts.

'Cast him forth into the world penniless.'

'Oh, is that all?' said he, greatly relieved.

'Yes, that is all, so far as I know as yet.'

Again his brow darkened at this chance shot; but, still dissembling, he said:

'My dear little Dulcie, what is the use of all this foolish regard for Florian and revengeful mood at me? We shall never see him again.'

'Oh, Shafto, how can you talk thus coldly of Florian, with whom you went to school and college together, played together as boys, and read together as men—were deemed almost brothers rather than cousins! Shame on you!' and she stamped her little foot on the ground as she spoke.

'How pretty you look when angry! You do not care for me just now, perhaps; but in time you will, Dulcie.'

'Never, Shafto.'

'Surely you don't mean to carry on this game ever and always?'

'Ever and always, while I am a dependant here.'

'But I will take you away from here, and you need be a dependant no longer,' said he, while his countenance brightened and his manner warmed, as he utterly mistook her meaning. 'My allowance is most handsome, thanks to Lord—Lord—to my grandfather, and he can't last for ever. The old fellow is sixty-eight if he is a day. Forget all past unpleasantness; think only of the future, and all I can make it for you. I will give you any length of time if you will only give me your love.'

'Never, I tell you. Oh, this is intolerable!' exclaimed the girl passionately, finding that he still barred her way.

'Beware, Dulcie,' said he, as his shifty eyes flashed. 'The world and success in it are for him who knows how to wait; meantime, let us be friends. Friendship is said to be more enduring than love.'

'Well—we shall never be even friends again, Shafto.'

'Why?'

'Well do you know why. And let me remind you that all sin brings its own punishment in this world.'

'If found out,' he interrupted.

'And in the next, whether found out here or not.'

'Why the deuce do you preach thus to me?' he asked savagely, his fears again awakened, so true is it that

'Many a shaft at random sent
Finds mark the archer never meant.'

'And what do you take me for that you treat me thus, and talk to me in this manner?'

'What do I take you for? By your treatment of me I take you to be an insolent, cruel, and heartless fellow, who can be worse at times.'

'Take care! the pedestal you stand on may give way. It lies with me to smash it, and some fine day you may be sorry for the way in which you have dared to treat me, Shafto——'

'Gyle,' interrupted Dulcie almost spitefully.

'Melfort, d—n you!' he retorted coarsely, and losing all command over himself.

Tears now sprang to her eyes, and then, as he half feared to carry the matter so far with her, he apologized.

'Let me pass, sir,' said she.

'Won't you give me one little kiss first, Dulcie?'

She made no reply, but fixed her lovely dark blue eyes upon him with an expression of such loathing and contempt that even he was stung to the heart by it.

'Let me pass, sir!' she exclaimed again.

He stood aside to let her do so, and she swept by, holding her golden head haughtily erect; but Dulcie feared him now more than ever, and certainly she had roused revenge in his heart, with certain vague emotions of alarm.

Of all the thousands of homes in Scotland and England how miserable and unlucky was the chance that cast her under the same roof with the evil-minded Shafto! thought the girl in the solitude of her own room. But then, otherwise, she would never have known and shared the sweet and flattering friendship of Finella Melfort; and, as she never knew what wicked game Shafto might play, he would perhaps succeed in depriving her even of that solace as the end of his persecution.

The whole tenor of the conversation or interview forced upon her by Shafto impressed her with a keen and deep sense of humiliation that made her weep bitterly; how much more keen would the sense of that have been had she known what in the purity of her nature she never suspected, that, amid all his grotesque love-making, marriage was no way comprehended in his scheme!

Much as she disliked Shafto, an emotion of delicacy, with a timid doubt of the future with regard to Captain Hammersley, and what was behind that future with regard to 'the cousins,' as she of course deemed them to be, induced Dulcie to remain silent with Finella on the subject of his persistent and secret attentions to herself, though she would have deplored to see Finella the wife of Shafto.

The interview we have described had not passed without observers, we have said.

'Fettercairn, look how Miss Carlyon and Shafto are flirting near the Swan's Pool!' said the Lady of that Ilk, drawing her husband's attention to the pair from a window of the drawing-room.

'What makes you think they are doing so?' he asked, but nevertheless with knitted brows.

'Cannot you see it?'

'No; it is so long since I did anything in that way myself that really I—aw——'

'See with what empressement he bends down to address her, and she keeps her head down, too, though she seems to crest it up at times.'

'But she edges away from him palpably, as if she disliked what he is saying, and, by Jove, she looks indignant, too!'

'That may be all acting, in suspicion that she is observed, or it may be to lure him on; one never knows what may be passing in a girl's mind—if she thinks herself attractive especially.'

'Well—to me they seem quarrelling,' said Lord Fettercairn.

'Quarrelling—and with my companion! How could Shafto condescend to do so?'

'That is more than I can tell you—he is rather a riddle to me; but the girl is decidedly more than pretty, and very good style, too.'

'And hence the more dangerous. I must speak with Shafto on this subject seriously, or——'

'What then?'

'Get rid of her.'

'If we fail in marrying Shafto to Finella, who can say whom he may marry, as his instincts seem somewhat low, and after we are gone there may be a whole clan of low and sordid prodigals here in Craigengowan.'

'And Radicals!' suggested Lady Fettercairn.

'Desecrating the spots rendered almost sacred by association with a great and famous past,' said Lord Fettercairn loftily.

What this great and famous 'past' was, he could scarcely have told. It was not connected with his own mushroom line, whatever it might have been with the former lords of Craigengowan, whose guests had at times been Kings of Scotland and Princes of France and Spain.

'Finella is young, and does not know her own heart,' he resumed; 'besides, I believe it is enough generally to recommend a girl to marry a certain man, for her to set her face against him unreasoningly. But I think—and hope—that our Finella is different from the common run of girls.'

'Not in contriving, perhaps, to fall in love with the wrong man.'

'You mean that young fellow Hammersley?'

'Yes; I must own to having most grave suspicions,' replied Lady Fettercairn.

'She is a Melfort, and as such has no notion of being coerced.'

Lady Fettercairn thought of Lennard and Flora MacIan and remained silent, remembering that he too, the disowned and the outcast, was a genuine Melfort in the same sense.

CHAPTER XVI.

A THREAT.

To Finella, so pure in mind and proud in spirit, it was fast becoming utterly intolerable to find herself in the false and degraded position the craft of Shafto had placed her in with regard to so honourable a man as Vivian Hammersley; and the more she brooded over it, the deeper became her loathing of the daring trickster—a sentiment which she was, by the force of circumstances, compelled to veil and conceal from her guardians: hence, the more bitter her thoughts, the more passionate her longing for an explanation, and more definite her wishes.

Hammersley, though still a fact, seemed somehow to have passed out of her life, and thus she often said in a kind of wailing way to Dulcie:

'Oh, that he had never come here, or that I had never known or met him, in London or anywhere else! Then I should not have felt what it is to love and to lose him!'

'Pardon me, darling, but take courage,' replied Dulcie, caressing her. 'I have written to Florian at last, and his reply will tell us all about Captain Hammersley, and how he is looking, and so forth; though Florian, in a position so subordinate, cannot be in his confidence, of course.'

She did not add that she had in her letter told the whole story of the false position in which Finella had been placed, lest the latter's pride might revolt at such interference in her affairs, however well and kindly meant; and lest the letter—if it proved disappointing, by her lover remaining jealous, suspicious, obdurate, or contemptuous, if Florian ventured to speak on the subject, which she scarcely hoped—should prove a useless humiliation to Finella, who longed eagerly as herself for the reply.

But Dulcie prayed in her simple heart that good might come of it before the evil which she so nervously dreaded fell upon herself; for Shafto had made such humble apologies for his conduct to her on the day he interrupted her when feeding the swans, that, though she gave him her hand in token, not of forgiveness but of truce, she feared he was concocting fresh mischief; for soon after, encouraged thereby, he began his old persecution, but carefully and in secret again.

Finding that his chances with Finella were now apparently nil, even though all seemed at an end between her and Vivian Hammersley, Shafto, by force of old habit, perhaps, turned his attention to Dulcie, who, in her humble and dependent capacity, had a difficult card to play, while feeling exasperated and degraded by the passion he expressed for her on every available opportunity. Not that he would, she suspected, have married a poor girl like her, as one with money, no matter who, was the wisest match for him, lest the discovery of who he was came to pass, though that he deemed impossible now.

Shafto had learned and imitated much among the new and aristocratic folks in whose circle he found himself cast; and thus it was that he dared to make secret love, and to torment the helpless Dulcie with words that spoke of—

'Riches and love and pleasure,
And all but the name of wife.'

Had he done that, she would have treated him quite as coldly and scornfully; but she could do no more than she did. Yet he was fast making her life at Craigengowan a torture, and she feared him almost more than his so-called grandmother, who was only a proud and selfish patrician, while he—ah, she knew too well what he was capable of; but Dulcie had something more to learn yet.

One day, after having imbibed more wine, or eau-de-vie, than was good for him in Mr. Grapeston's pantry, as he sometimes did, he addressed the girl in a way there was no misunderstanding. She trembled and grew pale.

'Well, one thing I promise you if you try to please me,' said he—'to please me, do you understand?—while you remain under this roof, which I hope, darling, will not be long now—I shall trouble you no more.'

'To please you, Shafto!' stammered the girl; 'what do you mean?'

'I'll tell you that by-and-by, my pretty Dulcie, when the time comes.'

She drew back with a pallid face and a hauteur that would have become Lady Fettercairn herself, while he in turn made her a low mock bow, and stalked tipsily off with what he thought a dignity of bearing, leaving her sick with terror of a future of insult and apprehension.

Somehow she felt at his mercy, and began to contemplate flight, but to where?

Watching closely, Lady Fettercairn observed the extreme caution and coldness of Dulcie's bearing to Shafto; but, not believing in it, or that a person in her dependent state could resist advances of any kind from one in his lofty position, supposed she had only to wait long enough and observe with care to find out if aught was wrong.

'But why wait?' said Lady Drumshoddy; 'why not dismiss the creature at once?' she added with asperity.

'How comes it that you are so intimate with this girl Carlyon?' said Lady Fettercairn one day.

'Your companion?' said Shafto.

'Yes.'

'How often have I told you that we are old friends—knew each other in Devonshire since we were a foot high.'

'But this intimacy now is—to say the least of it, Shafto—undignified.'

'I am sorry you think so.'

'Besides, she has a lover, I believe, whose likeness she wears in a locket; and though she may be content to throw him over for rank and wealth with you, surely you would not care to receive a second-hand affection.'

'How your tongue goes on, grandmother!' said Shafto, greatly irritated; 'you are like Finella's pad Fern when it gets the bit between its teeth.'

'Thank you! But this lover or cousin, or whatever he is, of whom Miss Carlyon actually once spoke to me—who is he, and where is he?'

'How the deuce should I know!' exclaimed Shafto, growing pale; 'gone to the dogs, I suppose, as I always thought he would.'

'It was of him that madwoman spoke?'

'Yes, Madelon Galbraith. He was named Florian after his aunt.'

'Miss MacIan.'

That was enough for Lady Fettercairn, who, dropping that subject, returned with true feminine persistence to the other.

'I don't like this sort of thing, I repeat, Shafto.'

'What sort of thing?'

'This secret flirting with my companion, Miss Carlyon.'

'I don't flirt with her; and, by Jove, he'd be a pretty clever fellow who could do so.'

'Why?'

'She is so devilish stand-off, grandmother.'

'I am truly glad to hear it.'

'But can't I talk with her? We are old acquaintances, and have naturally much to say to each other.'

'Too much, I fear. You may talk, as you say, but not hover about her.'

'Anything more?' asked Shafto rudely.

'Yes, I wish you to settle down——'

'Oh! and marry Finella?'

'Yes, that you know well, dear Shafto,' said the lady coaxingly.

'Oh, by Jove! that is easier said than done. You don't know all the outs and ins of Finella; and one can't walk the course, so far as I can see.'

Shafto withdrew, but not before he saw the lace-edged handkerchief come into use, to hide the tears she did not shed at the brusque manner of her 'grandson,' who had failed to convince her, for she said to herself bitterly: