CHAPTER XX.

THE END OF ALSTON’S HORSE

Alston’s Horse soon reached the ridge, past which the Undi were

commencing to run, at a distance of about three hundred and fifty

yards, and the order was given to dismount and line it. This they did,

one man in every four keeping a few paces back to hold the horses of

his section. Then they opened fire; and next second came back the sound

of the thudding of the bullets on the shields and bodies of the Zulu

warriors.

Ernest, seated up high on his great black horse “The Devil,” for the

officers did not dismount, could see how terrible was the effect of

that raking fire, delivered as it was, not by raw English boys, who

scarcely knew one end of a rifle from the other, but by men, all of

whom could shoot, and many of whom were crack shots. All along the line

of the Undi companies men threw up their arms and dropped dead, or

staggered out of the ranks wounded. But the main body never paused.

By-and-by they would come back and move the wounded, or kill them if

they were not likely to recover.

Soon, as the range got longer, the fire began to be less deadly, and

Ernest could see that fewer men were dropping.

“Ernest,” said Alston, galloping up to him, “I am going to charge them.

Look, they will soon cross the donga, and reach the slopes of the

mountain, and we sha’n’t be able to follow them on the broken ground.”

“Isn’t it rather risky?” asked Ernest, somewhat dismayed at the idea of

launching their little clump of mounted men at the moving mass before

them.

“Risky? yes, of course it is, but my orders were to delay the enemy as

much as possible, and the horses are fresh. But, my lad”—and he bent

towards him and spoke low—“it doesn’t much matter whether we are killed

charging or running away. I am sure that the camp must be taken; there

is no hope. Good-bye, Ernest; if I fall, fight the corps as long as

possible, and kill as many of those devils as you can; and if you

survive, remember to make off well to the left. The regiments will have

passed by then. God bless you, my boy! Now order the bugler to sound

the ‘cease fire,’ and let the men mount.”

“Yes, sir.”

They were the last words Alston ever spoke to him, and Ernest often

remembered, with affectionate admiration, that even at that moment he

thought more of his friend’s safety than he did of his own. As to their

tenor, Ernest had already suspected the truth, though, luckily, the

suspicion had not as yet impregnated the corps. Mazooku, too, who as

usual was with him, mounted on a Basutu pony, had just informed him

that, in his (Mazooku’s) opinion, they were all as good as ripped up

(alluding to the Zulu habit of cutting a dead enemy open), and adding a

consolatory remark to the effect that man can die but once, and “good

job too.”

But, strangely enough, he did not feel afraid; indeed, he never felt

quieter in his life than he did in that hour of near death. A wild

expectancy thrilled his nerves and looked out of his eyes. “What would

it be like?” he wondered. And in another minute all such thoughts were

gone, for he was at the head of his troop, ready for the order.

Alston, followed by the boy Roger, galloped swiftly round, seeing that

the formation was right, and then gave the word to unsheath the short

swords with which he had insisted upon the corps being armed.

Meanwhile, the Undi were drawing on to a flat plain, four hundred yards

or more broad, at the foot of the mountain, a very suitable spot for a

cavalry manoeuvre.

“Now, men of Alston’s Horse, there is the enemy before you. Let me see

how you can go through them. _Charge!_”

“_Charge!_” re-echoed Ernest.

[Illustration: “The last Charge of Alston’s Horse.”]

“_Charge!_” roared Sergeant-Major Jones, brandishing his sword.

Down the slope they go, slowly at first; now they are on the plain, and

the pace quickens to a hand-gallop. Ernest feels his great horse gather

himself together and spring along beneath him; he hears the hum of

astonishment rising from the dense black mass before them as it halts

to receive the attack; he glances round, and sees the set faces and

determined look upon the features of his men, and his blood boils up

with a wild exhilaration, and for awhile he tastes the fierce joy of

war.

Quicker still grows the pace; now he can see the white round the dark

eyeballs of the Zulus.

“_Crash!_” They are among them, trampling them down, hewing them down,

thrusting, slashing, stabbing, and being stabbed. The air is alive with

assegais, and echoes with the savage Zulu war-cries and with the shouts

of the gallant troopers, fighting now as troopers have not often fought

before. Presently, as in a dream, Ernest sees a huge Zulu seize

Alston’s horse by the bridle, jerk it on to its haunches, and raise his

assegai. Then the boy Roger, who is by his father’s side, makes a point

with his sword, and runs the Zulu through. He falls, but next moment

the lad is attacked by more, is assegaied, and falls fighting bravely.

Then Alston pulls up, and, turning, shoots with his revolver at the men

who have killed his son. Two fall, another runs up, and with a shout

drives a great spear right through Alston, so that it stands out a

hand-breadth behind his back. On to the body of his son he, too, falls

and dies. Next second the Zulu’s head is cleft in twain down to the

chin. That was Jeremy’s stroke.

All this time, they are travelling on, leaving a broad red line of dead

and dying in their track. Presently it was done; they had passed right

through the Impi. But out of sixty-four men they had lost their captain

and twenty troopers. As they emerged, Ernest noticed that his sword was

dripping blood, and his sword-hand stained red. Yet he could not at the

moment remember having killed anybody.

But Alston was dead, and he was now in command of what remained of the

corps. They were in no condition to charge again, for many horses and

some men were wounded. So he led them round the rear of the Impi,

which, detaching a company of about three hundred men to deal with the

remnants of the troop, went on its way with lessened numbers, and

filled with admiration at the exhibition of a courage in no way

inferior to their own.

This company, running swiftly, took possession of the ridge down which

the troop had charged, and by which alone it would be possible for

Ernest to retreat, and taking shelter behind stones, began to pour in

an inaccurate but galling fire on the little party of whites. Ernest

charged up through them, losing two more men and several horses in the

process; but what was his horror, on reaching the crest of the ridge,

to see about a thousand Zulus, drawn up, apparently in reserve, in the

neck of the pass leading to the plain beyond! To escape through them

would be almost impossible, for he was crippled with wounded and

dismounted men, and the pace of a force is the pace of the slowest.

Their position was desperate, and looking round at his men, he could

see that they thought so too.

His resolution was soon taken. A few paces from where he had for a

moment halted the remainder of the corps was a little eminence,

something like an early Saxon tumulus. To this he rode, and,

dismounting, turned his horse loose, ordering his men to do the same.

So good was the discipline, and so great his control over them, that

there were no wild rushes to escape: they obeyed, reaching their

desperate case, and formed a ring round the rise.

“Now, men of Alston’s Horse,” said Ernest, “we have done our best, let

us die our hardest.”

The men set up a cheer, and next minute the Zulus, creeping up under

shelter of the rocks which were strewed around, attacked them with

fury.

In five minutes, in spite of the withering fire which they poured in

upon the surrounding Zulus, six more of the little band were dead. Four

were shot, two were killed in a rush made by about a dozen men, who,

reckless of their own life, determined to break through the white man’s

ring. They perished in the attempt, but not before they had stabbed two

of Alston’s Horse. The remainder, but little more than thirty men,

retired a few paces farther up the little rise so as to contract their

circle, and kept up a ceaseless fire upon the enemy. The Zulus, thanks

to the accurate shooting of the white men, had by this time lost more

than fifty of their number, and, annoyed at being put to such loss by a

foe numerically so insignificant, they determined to end the matter

with a rush. Ernest saw their leader, a great almost naked fellow, with

a small shield and a necklace of lion’s claws, walking, utterly

regardless of the pitiless rifle fire, from group to group, and

exhorting them. Taking up a rifle which had just fallen from the hand

of a dead trooper—for up to the present Ernest had not joined in the

firing—he took a fine sight at about eighty yards at the Zulu chief’s

broad chest, and pulled. The shot was a good one; the great fellow

sprang into the air and dropped. Instantly another commander took his

place and the final advance began.

But the Zulus had to come up-hill, with but little cover, and scores

were mown down by the scorching and continuous fire from the

breech-loaders. Twice, when within twenty yards, were they driven back,

twice did they come on again. Now they were but twelve paces or so

away, and a murderous fire was kept up upon them. For a moment they

wavered, then pushed forwards up the slope.

“Close up!” shouted Ernest, “and use your swords and pistols.”

His voice was heard above the din. Some of the men dropped the now

useless rifles, and the revolvers began to crack.

Then the Zulus closed in upon the doomed band, with a shout of “Bulala

umlungo!” (Kill the white man!)

Out rang the pistol-shots, and fire flew from the clash of swords and

assegais; and still the little band, momentarily growing fewer, fought

on with labouring breath. Never did hope-forsaken men make a more

gallant stand. Still they fought, and still they fell, one by one, and

as they fell were stabbed to death; but scarcely one of them was there

whose death-wound was in his back.

At last the remaining Zulus drew back; they thought that it was done.

But no; three men yet stood together upon the very summit of the mound,

holding six foes at bay. The Zulu captain laughed aloud when he saw it,

and gave a rapid order. Thereupon the remaining Zulus formed up, and

stabbing the wounded as they went, departed swiftly over the dead,

after the main body of the corps, which had now vanished round the

mountain.

They left the six to finish the three.

Three hundred had come to attack Alston’s Horse; not more than one

hundred departed from that attack. The overpowered white men had

rendered a good account of their foes.

The three left alive on the summit of the little hill were, as Fate

would have it, Ernest, Jeremy, and the ex-sailor, who had complained of

the “sargustic” companion, who, it happened, had just died by his side.

Their revolvers were empty; Ernest’s sword had broken off short in the

body of a Zulu; Jeremy still had his sword, and the sailor a clubbed

carbine.

Presently one of the six Zulus dodged in under the carbine and ran the

sailor through. Glancing round, Ernest saw his face turn grey. The

honest fellow died as he had lived, swearing hard.

“Ah, you —— black mate,” he sang out, “take that, and be damned to

you!” The clubbed rifle came down upon the Zulu’s skull and cracked it

to bits, and both fell dead together.

Now there were five Zulus left, and only Ernest and Jeremy to meet

them. But stay; suddenly from under a corpse uprises another foe. No,

it is not a foe, it is Mazooku, who has been shamming dead, but

suddenly and most opportunely shows himself to be very much alive.

Advancing from behind, he stabs one of the attacking party, and kills

him. That leaves four. Then he engages another, and after a long

struggle kills him too, which leaves three. And still the two white men

stand back to back with flashing eyes and gasping breath, and hold

their own. Soaked with blood, desperate, and expecting death, they were

yet a gallant sight to see. Two of the remaining Zulus rush at the

giant Jeremy, one at Ernest. Ernest, having no effective weapon left,

dodges the assegai thrust, and then closes with his antagonist, and

they roll, over and over, down the hill together, struggling for the

assegai the Zulu holds. It snaps in two, but the blade and about eight

inches of the shaft remain with Ernest. He drives it through his

enemy’s throat, and he dies. Then he struggles up to see the closing

scene of the drama, but not in time to help in it. Mazooku has wounded

his man badly, and is following to kill him. And Jeremy? He has struck

at one of the Kafirs, with his sword. The blow is received on the edge

of the cowhide shield, and sinks half-way through it, so that the hide

holds the steel fast. With a sharp twist of the shield the weapon is

jerked out of his hand, and he is left defenceless, with nothing to

trust to except his native strength. Surely he is lost! But no—with a

sudden rush he seizes both Zulus by the throat, one in each hand, and,

strong men as they are, swings them wide apart. Then with a tremendous

effort he jerks their heads together with such awful force that they

fall senseless, and Mazooku comes up and spears them.

Thus was the fight ended.

Ernest and Jeremy sank upon the bloody grass, gasping for breath. The

firing from the direction of the camp had now died away, and, after the

tumult, the shouts, and the shrieks of the dying, the silence seemed

deep.

It was the silence of the dead.

There they lay, white man and Zulu, side by side in the peaceable

sunlight and in a vague bewildered way Ernest noticed that the faces,

which a few minutes before looked so grim, were mostly smiling now.

They had passed through the ivory gates and reached the land of smiles.

How still they all were! A little black-and-white bird, such as fly

from ant-hill to ant-hill, came and settled upon the forehead of a

young fellow, scarcely more than a boy, and the only son of his mother,

who lay quiet across two Zulus. The bird knew why he was so still.

Ernest had liked the boy, and knew his mother, and began to wonder as

he lay panting on the grass what she would feel when she heard of her

son’s fate. But just then Mazooku’s voice broke the silence. He had

been standing staring at the body of one of the men he had killed, and

was now apostrophising it in Zulu.

“Ah, my brother,” he said, “son of my own father, with whom I used to

play when I was little; I always told you that you were a perfect fool

with an assegai but little thought that I should ever have such an

opportunity of proving it to you. Well, it can’t be helped; duty is

duty, and family ties must give way to it. Sleep well, my brother; it

was painful to kill you—very!”

Ernest lifted himself from the ground, and laughed the hysterical laugh

of shattered nerves, at this naive and thoroughly Zulu moralising. Just

then Jeremy rose and came to him. He was a fearful sight to see—his

hands, his face, his clothes, were all red; and he was bleeding from a

cut on the face, and another on the hand.

“Come, Ernest,” he said, in a hollow voice, “we must clear out of

this.”

“I suppose so,” said Ernest.

On the plain at the foot of the hill several of the horses were quietly

cropping the grass, till such time as the superior animal, man, had

settled his differences. Among them was Ernest’s black stallion, “The

Devil,” which had been wounded, though slightly, on the flank. They

walked towards the horses, stopping on their way to arm themselves from

the weapons which lay about. As they passed the body of the man Ernest

had killed in his last struggle for life, he stopped and drew the

broken assegai from his throat. “A memento!” said he. The horses were

caught without difficulty, and “The Devil” and the two next best

animals selected. Then they mounted, and rode towards the top of the

ridge over which Ernest had seen the body of Zulus lying in reserve.

When they were near it Mazooku got down and crept to the crest on his

stomach. Presently, to their great relief, he signalled to them to

advance: the Zulus had moved on, and the valley was deserted. And so

the three passed over the neck, that an hour and a half before they had

crossed with sixty-one companions, who were now all dead. “I think we

have charmed lives,” said Jeremy, presently. “All gone except us two.

It can’t be chance.”

“It is fate,” said Ernest, briefly.

From the top of the neck they got a view of the camp, which now looked

quiet and peaceful, with its white tents and its Union Jack fluttering

as usual in the breeze.

“They must be all dead too,” said Ernest; “which way shall we go?”

Then it was that Mazooku’s knowledge of the country proved of the

utmost service to them. He had been brought up at a kraal in the

immediate neighbourhood, and knew every inch of the land. Avoiding the

camp altogether, he led them to the left of the battle-field, and after

two hours’ ride over rough country, brought them to a ford of the

Bulialo which he was acquainted with, some miles below where the few

survivors of the massacre struggled across the river, or were drowned

in attempting to do so. Following this route they never saw a single

Zulu, for these had all departed in the other direction, and were

spared the horrors of the stampede and of “Fugitives’ Drift.”

At last they gained the farther side of the river, and were,

comparatively speaking, safe on Natal ground.

They determined, after much anxious consultation, to make for the

little fort at Helpmakaar, and had ridden about a mile or so towards

it, when suddenly the Zulu’s quick ear caught the sound of distant

firing to their right. It was their enemy, the Undi Corps, attacking

Rorke’s Drift. Leaving Mazooku to hold the horses, Ernest and Jeremy

dismounted, and climbed a solitary koppie or hill which just there

cropped out from the surface of the plain. It was of an ironstone

formation, and on the summit lay a huge flat slab of almost pure ore.

On to this they climbed, and looked along the course of the river, but

could see nothing. Rorke’s Drift was hidden by a rise in the ground.

All this time a dense thundercloud had been gathering in the direction

of Helpmakaar, and was now, as is common before sunset in the South

African summer season, travelling rapidly up against the wind, set in a

faint rainbow as in a frame. The sun, on the other hand, was sinking

towards the horizon, so that his golden beams, flying across a space of

blue sky, impinged upon the black bosom of the cloud, and were

reflected thence in sharp lights and broad shadows, flung like

celestial spears and shields across the plains of Zululand.

Isandhlwana’s Mountain was touched by one great ray which broke in

glory upon his savage crest, and crowned him that day as king of death,

but the battlefield over which he towered was draped in gloom. It was a

glorious scene. Above, the wild expanse of sky broken up by flaming

clouds, and tinted with hues such as might be reflected from the

jewelled walls of heaven. Behind, the angry storm, set in its

rainbow-frame like ebony in a ring of gold. In front, the rolling

plain, where the tall grasses waved, the broad Bulialo flashing through

it like a silver snake, the sun-kissed mountains, and the shadowed

slopes.

It was a glorious scene. Nature in her most splendid mood flung all her

colour-streamers loose across the earth and sky, and waved them wildly

ere they vanished into night’s abyss. Life, in his most radiant

ecstasy, blazed up in varied glory before he sank, like a lover, to

sleep awhile in the arms of his eternal mistress—Death.

Ernest gazed upon it, and it sank into his heart, which, set to

Nature’s tune, responded ever when her hands swept the chords of earth

or heaven. It lifted him above the world, and thrilled him with

indescribable emotion. His eyes wandered over the infinite space above,

searching for the presence of a God; then they fell upon Isandhlwana,

and marked the spot just where the shadows were deepest; where his

comrades lay, and gazed upon the splendid sky with eyes that could not

see; and at last his spirit gave way, and, weakened with emotion and

long toil and abstinence, he burst into a paroxysm of grief.

“O Jeremy,” he sobbed, “they are all dead, all except you and I, and I

feel a coward that I should still live to weep over them. When it was

over, I should have let that Zulu kill me; but I was a coward, and I

fought for my life. Had I but held my hand for a second, I should have

gone with Alston and the others, Jeremy.”

“Come, come, old fellow, you did your best, and fought the corps like a

brick. No man could have done more.”

“Yes, Jeremy, but I should have died with them; it was my duty to die.

And I do not care about living, and they did. I have been an

unfortunate dog all my life. I shot my cousin, I lost Eva, and now I

have seen all my comrades killed, and I, who was their leader, alone

escaped, and perhaps I have not done with my misfortunes yet. What

next, I wonder? what next?”

Ernest’s distress was so acute, that Jeremy, looking at him and seeing

that all he had gone through had been too much for him, tried to soothe

him, lest he should go into hysterics, by putting his arm round his

waist and giving him a good hug.

“Look here, old chap,” he said; “it is no use bothering one’s head

about these things. We are just so many feathers blown about by the

wind, and must float where the wind blows us. Sometimes it is a good

wind, and sometimes a bad one; but on the whole it is bad, and we must

just make the best of it, and wait till it doesn’t think it worth while

to blow our particular feathers about any more, and then we shall come

to the ground, and not till then. And now we have been up here for more

than five minutes, and given the horses a bit of a rest. We must be

pushing on if we want to get to Helpmakaar before dark, and I only hope

we shall get there before the Zulus, that’s all. By Jove, here comes

the storm—come on!” And Jeremy jumped off the lump of iron-ore, and

began to descend the koppie.

Ernest, who had been listening with his face in his hands, rose and

followed him in silence. As he did so, a breath of ice-cold air from

the storm-cloud, which was now right over-head, fanned his hot brow,

and when he had gone a few yards he turned to meet it, and to cast one

more look at the scene.

It was the last earthly landscape he ever saw. For at that instant

there leaped from the cloud overhead a fierce stream of jagged light,

which struck the mass of iron-ore on which they had been seated,

shivered and fused it, and then ran down the side of the hill to the

plain. Together with the lightning there came an ear-splitting crack of

thunder.

Jeremy, who was now nearly at the bottom of the little hill, staggered

at the shock. When he recovered, he looked up where Ernest had been

standing, and could not see him. He rushed up the hill again, calling

him in accents of frantic grief. There was no answer. Presently he

found him lying on the ground, white and still.

[Illustration: “He found him lying on the ground, white and still.”]

BOOK III.

CHAPTER I.

THE CLIFFS OF OLD ENGLAND

It was an April evening; off the south coast of England. The sun had

just made up his mind to struggle out from behind a particularly black

shower-cloud, and give that part of the world a look before he bade it

good-night.

“That is lucky,” said a little man, who was with difficulty hanging on

to the bulwark netting of the H.M.S. _Conway Castle;_ “now, Mr. Jones,

look if you can’t see them in the sunlight.”

Mr. Jones accordingly looked through his glasses again.

“Yes,” he said, “I can see them distinctly.”

“See what?” asked another passenger, coming up. “The cliffs of Old

England,” answered the little man, joyously.

“Oh, is that all?” said the other; “curse the cliffs of Old England!”

“Nice remark that for a man who is going home to be married, eh?” said

the little man, turning to where his companion had stood.

But Mr. Jones had shut up his glasses, and vanished aft.

Presently he reached a deck-cabin, and entered without knocking.

“England is in sight, old fellow,” he said, addressing somebody who lay

back smoking in a cane-chair.

The person addressed made a movement as though to rise, then put up his

hand to a shade that covered his eyes.

“I forgot,” he answered, with a smile; “it will have to be very much in

sight before I can see it. By the way, Jeremy,” he went on, nervously,

“I want to ask you something. These doctors tell such lies.” And he

removed the shade. “Now, look at my eyes, and tell me honestly, am I

disfigured? Are they shrunk, I mean, or have they got a squint, or

anything of that sort?” and Ernest turned up his dark orbs, which,

except that they had acquired that painful, expectant look peculiar to

the blind, were just as they always had been.

Jeremy looked at them, first in one light, then in another.

“Well!” said Ernest, impatiently. “I can feel that you are staring me

out of countenance.”

“Hamba gachlé,” replied the imperturbable one. “I am di—di—diagnosing

the case. There, that will do. To all appearance, your optics are as

sound as mine. You get a girl to look at them, and see what she says.”

“Ah, well; that is something to be thankful for.”

Just then somebody knocked at the cabin-door. It was a steward.

“You sent for me, Sir Ernest?”

“O yes, I remember. Will you be so good as to find my servant? I want

him.”

“Yes, Sir Ernest.”

Ernest moved impatiently.

“Confound that fellow, with his everlasting ‘Sir Ernest’!”

“What, haven’t you got used to your handle yet?”

“No, I haven’t, and I wish it were at Jericho, and that is a fact. It

is all your fault, Jeremy. If you had not told that confoundedly

garrulous little doctor, who went and had the information printed in

the _Natal Mercury,_ it would never have come out at all. I could have

dropped the title in England; but now all these people know that I am

Sir Ernest, and Sir Ernest I shall remain for the rest of my days.”

“Well, most people would not think that such a dreadful misfortune.”

“Yes, they would, if they had happened to shoot the real heir. By the

way, what did the lawyer say in his letter? As we are so near home, I

suppose I had better post myself up. You will find it in the

despatch-box. Read it, there’s a good fellow.”

Jeremy opened the box, battered with many years of travel, and searched

about for the letter. It contained a curious collection of articles,

prominent among which was a handkerchief, which once belonged to Eva

Ceswick; a long tress of chestnut hair tied up with a blue ribbon;

ditto of golden, which had come—well, not from Eva’s locks; a whole

botanical collection of dead flowers, tender souvenirs of goodness

knows who, for, after awhile, these accumulated dried specimens are

difficult to identify; and many letters and other curiosities.

At last Jeremy came to the desired document, written in a fair clerk’s

hand; and having shovelled back the locks of hair, &c., began to read

it aloud:

_St. Ethelred’s Court, Poultry,_

_22nd January, 1879._

“Sir,—”

“You see,” broke in Ernest, “while we were fighting over there at

Isandhlwana, those beggars were writing to tell me that I was a

baronet. Case of the ‘bloody hand’ with a vengeance, eh?”

“Sir” (began Jeremy again), “it is our duty to inform you of the death,

on the 16th of the present month, of our esteemed client, Sir Hugh

Kershaw, Bart., of Archdale Hall, Devonshire, and of the consequent

devolution of the baronetcy to yourself, as only son of the late Sir

Hugh’s only brother, Ernest Kershaw, Esq.

“Into the question of the unhappy manner in which you came to be placed

in the immediate succession it does not become us to enter. We have

before us at this moment a copy of Her Majesty’s pardon, granted to you

under the Transvaal Amnesty Act, and forwarded to us by Reginald

Cardus, Esq., of Dum’s Ness, Suffolk, which we have neither the wish

nor the will to dispute. It is clear to us that, under this pardon, you

are totally free from any responsibility for the breach of the law

which you perpetrated some years since; and of this it is our duty to

advise you your title to succeed is also a clear one.

“As was only to be expected under the circumstances, the late Sir Hugh

did not bear any feeling of goodwill towards you. Indeed, we do not

think that we shall be exaggerating if we say that the news of your

free pardon materially hastened his end. On the attainment of full age

by the late Hugh Kershaw, Esq., who fell by your hand, the entail of

the family estates was cut, and only the mansion-house of Archdale

Hall, the heirlooms, which are numerous and valuable, therein

contained, and the deer-park, consisting of one hundred and eighty-five

acres of land, were resettled. These consequently pass to you, and we

shall be glad to receive your instructions concerning them, should you

elect to honour us with your confidence. The estates pass, under the

will of the late Baronet, to a distant cousin of his late wife’s, James

Smith, Esq., 52 Camperdown Road, Upper Clapham. We now think that we

have put you in possession of all the facts connected with your

accession to the baronetcy, and, awaiting your instructions, have the

honour to remain,

“Your obedient servants,

(Signed) “Paisley & Paisley.”

“Ah, so much for that!” was Ernest’s comment. “What am I to do with

Archdale Hall, its heirlooms, and its deer-park of one hundred and

eighty-five acres, I wonder? I shall sell them if I can. Mine is a

pretty position: a baronet with about sixpence halfpenny per annum to

support my rank on; a very pretty position!”

“Hamba gachlé,” replied Jeremy; “time enough to consider all that. But

now, as we are on the reading lay, I may as well give you the benefit

of my correspondence with the officer commanding Her Majesty’s forces

in Natal and Zululand.”

“Fire away!” remarked Ernest, wearily.

“First letter, dated Newcastle, Natal, 27th January, from your humble

servant to officer commanding, &c.:

“‘Sir,—I have the honour to report, by order of Lieutenant and Adjutant

Kershaw, of Alston’s Horse, at present incapacitated by lightning from

doing so himself’——”

“Very neatly put that, I think!” interpolated Jeremy.

“Very. Go on.”

—“‘that on the 22nd inst., Alston’s Horse, having received orders to

check the flanking movement of the Undi Corps, proceeded to try and do

so. Coming to a ridge commanding the advance of the Undi, the corps, by

order of their late commander, Captain Alston, dismounted, and opened

fire on them at a distance of about three hundred yards, with

considerable effect. This did not, however, check the Undi, who

appeared to number between three and four thousand men, so Captain

Alston issued an order to charge the enemy. This was done with some

success. The Zulus lost a number of men; the corps, which passed right

through the enemy, about twenty troopers, Captain Alston, and his son

Roger Alston, who acted as his aide-de-camp. Several horses and one or

two men were also severely wounded, which crippled the further

movements of the corps.

“’Lieutenant and Adjutant Kershaw, on taking command of the corps,

determined to attempt to retreat. In this attempt, however, he failed,

owing to the presence of dismounted and wounded men; to the detachment

of a body of about three hundred Zulus to intercept any such retreat;

and to the presence of a large body of Zulus on the farther side of the

pass leading to the valley through which such retreat must be

conducted.

“’Under these circumstances he determined to fight the remains of the

corps to the last, and dismounting them, took possession of a fairly

advantageous position. A desperate hand-to-hand encounter ensued. It

ended in the almost total extermination of Alston’s Horse, and in that

of the greater part of the attacking Zulus. The names of the surviving

members of Alston’s Horse are—Lieutenant and Adjutant Kershaw,

Sergeant-Major Jeremy Jones, Trooper Mazooku (the only native in the

corps). These ultimately effected their escape, the enemy having either

been all destroyed or having followed the track of the Undi. Lieutenant

and Adjutant Kershaw regrets to have to state that in process of

effecting his escape he was struck by lightning and blinded.

“’He estimates the total loss inflicted on the enemy by Alston’s Horse

at from four hundred to four hundred and fifty men. In face of such

determined bravery as was evinced by every one of his late gallant

comrades, Lieutenant Kershaw feels that it would be invidious for him

to mention any particular names. Every man fought desperately, and died

with his face to the enemy. He begs to enclose a return of the names of

those lost, the accuracy of which he cannot, however, guarantee, as it

is compiled from memory, the papers of the corps having all been lost.

Trusting that the manoeuvres attempted by Lieutenant Kershaw under

somewhat difficult circumstances will meet with your approval, I have,

&c.—By order of Lieutenant Kershaw,

(Signed) Jeremy Jones, _Sergeant-Major._

“Then follows the reply, dated Maritzburg, 2nd February:

“‘Sir,—1. I have to direct you to convey to Lieutenant and Adjutant

Kershaw, and the surviving members of the corps known as Alston’s

Horse, the high sense entertained by the Officer, &c., of the gallant

conduct of that corps in the face of overwhelming odds at Isandhlwana

on the 22nd of January.

“‘2. It is with deep regret that the Officer, &c., learns of the heavy

misfortune which has befallen Lieutenant Kershaw. He wishes to express

his appreciation of the way in which that officer handled the remnants

of his corps, and to inform him that his name will be forwarded to the

proper quarter for the expression of Her Majesty’s pleasure with regard

to his services.*

“‘3. I am directed to offer you a commission in any of the volunteer

corps now on service in this campaign.—I have, &c.,

(Signed) “‘CHIEF OF THE STAFF.’”

Then comes a letter from Sergeant-Major Jones, gratefully acknowledging

the expression of the high opinion of the Officer, &c., and declining

the offer of a commission in another volunteer corps.

Next is a private letter from the Officer, &c., offering to recommend

Sergeant-Major Jeremy Jones for a commission in the army.

And, finally, a letter from Sergeant-Major Jones to the Officer, &c.,

gratefully declining the same.

Ernest looked up sharply. The _raison d’être_ of the movement was gone,

for he could no longer see, but the habit remained.

* It may be stated here that, if this was ever done, the War Office did

not consider Ernest’s service worthy of notice; for he never heard

anything more about them.

“Why did you decline the commission, Jeremy?”

Jeremy moved uneasily, and looked through the little cabin-window.

“On general principles,” he answered, presently.

“Nonsense! I know you would have liked to go into the army. Don’t you

remember, as we were riding up to the camp at Isandhlwana, you said

that you proposed that if the corps did anything, we should try and

work it?”

“Yes.”

“Well?”

“Well, I said _we!_”

“I don’t quite follow you, Jeremy.”

“My dear Ernest, you can’t go in for a commission now, can you?”

Ernest laughed a little bitterly.

“What has that to do with it?”

“Everything. I am not going to leave you in your misfortune to go and

enjoy myself in the army. I could not do it; I should be wretched if I

did. No, old fellow, we have gone through a good many things side by

side, and, please God, we will stick to each other to the end of the

chapter.”

Ernest was always easily touched by kindness, especially now that his

nerves were shaken, and his heart softened by misfortune, and his eyes

filled with tears at Jeremy’s words. Putting out his hand, he felt

about for Jeremy’s, and, when he had found it, grasped it warmly.

“If I have troubles, Jeremy, at least I have a blessing that few can

boast—a true friend. If you had gone with the rest at Isandhlwana

yonder, I think that my heart would have broken. I think we do bear one

another a love ‘passing the love of women.’ It would not be worth much

if it didn’t, that is one thing. I wonder if Absalom was a finer fellow

than you are, Jeremy? ‘from the sole of his foot even to the crown of

his head there was no blemish in him.’ Your hair would not weigh ‘two

hundred shekels after the king’s weight,’ though” (Jeremy wore his hair

cropped like a convict’s); “but I would back you to throw Absalom over

your shoulder, hair and all.”

It was his fashion to talk nonsense when affected by anything, and

Jeremy, knowing it, said nothing.

Just then there came a knock at the door, and who should enter but

Mazooku, and Mazooku transformed. His massive frame, instead of being

clothed in the loose white garments he generally wore, was arrayed in a

flannel shirt with an enormous stick-up collar, a suit of

pepper-and-salt reach-me-downs several sizes too small for him, and a

pair of boots considerably too large for his small and shapely feet;

for, like those of most Zulus of good blood, his hands and feet were

extremely delicately made.

To add to the incongruity of his appearance, on the top of his hair,

which was still done in ridges, Zulu fashion, and decorated with long

bone snuff-spoons, was perched an extremely small and rakish-looking

billycock hat, and in his hand he carried his favourite and most

gigantic knobstick.

On opening the cabin-door he saluted in the ordinary fashion, and

coming in, squatted down on his haunches to await orders, forgetting

that he was not in all the freedom of his native dress. The results

were most disastrous. With a crack and a bang the reach-me-down

trousers, already strained to their utmost capacity, split right up the

back. The astonished Zulu flew up into the air, but presently

discovering what had happened, sat down again, remarking that there was

“much more room now.”

Jeremy burst out laughing, and having sketched his retainer’s

appearance for the benefit of Ernest, told him what had happened.

“Where did you get those things from, Mazooku?” asked Ernest.

Mazooku explained that he had bought the rig-out for three pound ten

from a second-class passenger, as the weather was growing cold.

“Do not wear them again. I will buy you clothes as soon as we get to

England. If you are cold, wear your great-coat.”

“Koos!”

“How is ‘The Devil’?” Ernest had brought the black stallion on which he

had escaped from Isandhlwana home with him.

Mazooku replied that the horse was well, but playful. A man forward had

been teasing him with a bit of bread. He had waited till that man

passed under his box, and had seized him in his teeth, lifted him off

the ground by his coat, and shaken him severely.

“’Good! Give him a bran-mash to-night.”

“Koos!”

“And so you find the air cold. Are you not regretting that you came? I

warned you that you would regret.”

“Ou ka Inkoos” (“O no, chief”), the Zulu answered, in his liquid native

tongue. “When first we came upon the smoking ship, and went out on to

the black water out of which the white men rise, and my bowels twisted

up and melted within me, and I went through the agonies of a hundred

deaths, then I regretted. ‘O, why,’ I said in my heart, ‘did not

Mazimba my father kill me rather than bring me on to this great moving

river? Surely if I live I shall grow like a white man from the

whiteness of my heart, for I am exceedingly afraid, and have cast all

my inside forth.’ All this I said, and many more things which I cannot

remember, but they were dark and heavy things. But behold! my father,

when my bowels ceased to melt, and when new ones had grown to replace

those which I had thrown forth, I was glad, and did eat much beef, and

then I questioned my heart about this journey over the black water. And

my heart answered and said, ‘Mazooku, son of Ingoluvu, of the tribe of

the Maquilisini, of the people of the Amazulu, you have done well.

Great is the chief whom you serve; great is Mazimba on the

hunting-path; great was he in the battle; all the Undi could not kill

him, and his brother the lion (Jeremy), and his servant the jackal

(Mazooku), who hid in a hole and then bit those who digged. O yes,

Mazimba is great, and his breast is full of valour; you have seen him

strike the Undi down; and his mind is full of the white man’s knowledge

and discretion; you have seen him form the ring that spat out fire so

fast that his servants the horsemen were buried under the corpses of

the Undi. So great is he, that the “heaven above” smelled him out as

“tagati,” as a wizard, and struck him with their lightning, but could

not kill him then.’ And so now my father wanders and wanders, and shall

wander in the darkness, seeing not the sun or the stars, or the

flashing of spears, or the light that gathers in the eyes of brave men

as they close in the battle, or the love which gleams in the eyes of

women. And how is this? Shall my father want a dog to lead him in his

darkness? Shall his dog Mazooku, son of Ingoluvu, prove a faithless

dog, and desert the hand that fed him, and the man who is braver than

himself? No, it shall not be so, my chief and my father. By the head of

Chaka, whither thou goest thither will I go also, and where thou shalt

build thy kraal there shall I make my hut. Koos! Baba!”

And having saluted after the dignified Zulu fashion, Mazooku departed

to tie up his split trousers with a bit of string. There was something

utterly incongruous between his present appearance and his melodious

and poetical words, instinct as they were with qualities which in some

respects make the savage Zulu a gentleman, and put him above the white

Christian, who for the most part regards the “nigger” as a creature

beneath contempt. For there are lessons to be learned even from Zulu

“niggers,” and among them we may reckon those taught by a courage which

laughs at death; an absolute fidelity to those who have the right to

command it, or the qualities necessary to win it; and, in their raw and

unconverted state, perfect honesty and truthfulness.

“He is a good fellow, Mazooku,” said Ernest, when the Zulu had gone;

“but I fear that one of two things will happen to him. Either he will

get homesick and become a nuisance, or he will get civilised and become

drunken and degraded. I should have done better to leave him in Natal.”

CHAPTER II.

ERNEST’S EVIL DESTINY

About nine o’clock on the morning following Mazooku’s oration, a young

lady came running up the stairs of the principal Plymouth hotel, and

burst into a private sitting-room, like a human bomb-shell of

attractive appearance, somewhat to the astonishment of a bald old

gentleman who was sitting at breakfast.

“Good gracious, Dorothy, have you gone suddenly mad?”

“O Reginald, the _Conway Castle_ is nearly in, and I have been to the

office and got leave for us to go off in the launch; so come along,

quick!”

“What time does the launch leave?”

“A quarter to ten exactly.”

“Then we have three-quarters of an hour.”

“O please, Reginald, be quick; it might go before, you know.”

Mr. Cardus smiled, and, rising, put on his hat and coat, “to oblige

Dorothy,” he said; but, as a matter of fact, he was as excited as she

was. There was a patch of red on each of his pale cheeks, and his hand

shook.

In a quarter of an hour they were walking up and down the quay by the

Custom House, waiting for the launch to start.

“After all these years,” said Mr. Cardus, “and blind!” “Do you think

that he will be much disfigured, Reginald?” “I don’t know, dear; your

brother said nothing about it.” “I can hardly believe it; it seems so

strange to think that he and Jeremy should have been spared out of all

those people. How good God is!”

“A cynic,” replied Mr. Cardus, with a smile, “or the relations of the

other people, might draw a different conclusion.”

But Dorothy was thinking how good God was to _her._ She was dressed in

pink that morning, and

“Oh, she looked sweet

As the little pink flower that grows in the wheat.”

Dorothy neither was, nor ever would be, a pretty woman, but she was

essentially a charming one. Her kindly puzzled face (and, to judge from

the little wrinkles on it, she had never got to the bottom of the

questions which contracted her forehead as a child), her steady blue

eyes, her diminutive rounded form, and, above all, the indescribable

light of goodness which shone round her like a halo, all made her

charming. What did it matter if the mouth was a little wide, or the

nose somewhat “tip-tilted?” Those who can look so sweet are able to

dispense with such fleshly attributes as a Grecian nose or chiselled

lips. At the least, they will have the best of it after youth is past;

and let me remind you, my young and lovely reader, that the longer and

dustier portion of life’s road winds away towards the pale horizon of

our path on the farther side of the grim mile-post marked “30.”

But what made her chiefly attractive was her piquante taking manner and

the _chic_ of her presence. She was such a perfect lady.

“All aboard, if you please,” broke in the agent. “Run in the

gangway!”and they were off towards the great gray vessel with a blue

pennant at her top.

It was a short run, but it seemed long to Dorothy and the old gentleman

with her. Bigger and bigger grew the great vessel, till at last it

seemed to swallow up their tiny steamer.

“Ease her! Look out for the line there! Now haul away! Make fast!”

It was all done in an instant, and next moment they stood upon the

broad white deck, amid the crowd of passengers, and were looking round

for Ernest and Jeremy.

But they were not to be seen.

“I hope they are here,” faltered Dorothy.

Mr. Cardus took his hat off, and wiped his bald head. He too hoped that

they were there.

At that moment Dorothy became aware of a black man, clad in a white

smock pulled on over a great-coat, and carrying a big spear and a

kerrie in his hand, who was pushing his way towards them. Next moment

he stood before them, saluting vigorously.

“Koos!” he said, thrusting his spear into the air before Mr. Cardus’s

astonished nose.

“Inkosikaas!” (chieftainess) he repeated, going through the same

process before Dorothy. “This way, master; this way, missie. The chief

without eyes send me to you. This way; the lion bring him now.”

They followed him through the press towards the after-part of the ship,

while, giving up the unfamiliar language, he vociferated in Zulu (it

might have been Sanskrit, for all they knew):

“Make way, you low people, make way for the old man with the shining

head, on whose brow sits wisdom, and the fair young maiden, the sweet

rosebud, who comes,” &c.

At that moment Dorothy’s quick eye saw a great man issuing from a

cabin, leading another man by the hand. And then she forgot everything,

and ran forward.

“O Ernest, Ernest!” she cried.

The blind man’s cheek flushed at the music of her voice.

He drew his hand from Jeremy’s, and stretched out his arms towards the

voice. It would have been easy to avoid them—one never need be kissed

by a blind man—but she did not avoid them. On the contrary, she placed

herself so that the groping arms closed round her, while a voice said:

“Dolly, where are you?”

“Here, Ernest, here!” and in another moment he had drawn her to him,

and kissed her on the face, and she had returned the kiss.

Then she kissed Jeremy too, or rather Jeremy lifted her up two or three

feet and kissed her—it came to the same thing. And then Mr. Cardus

wrung them both by the hand, wringing Ernest’s the hardest; and Mazooku

stood by, and, Zulu fashion, chanted a little song of his own

improvising, about how the chiefs came back to their kraal after a long

expedition, in which they had, &c.; and how Wisdom, in the shape of a

shining headed and ancient one, the husband without any doubt of many

wives, and the father of at least a hundred children, &c.; and Beauty,

in the shape of a sweet and small one, &c.; and finally they all went

very near to crying, and dancing a fling on the quarter-deck together.

And then they all talked at once, and set about collecting their things

in a muddle-headed fashion. When these had been put in a pile, and

Mazooku was seated, assegai and all, upon the top of them, as a solemn

warning to thieves (and ill would it have gone with the thief who dared

to meddle with that pile), they started off to inspect Ernest’s great

black horse, “The Devil.”

And behold, Dorothy stroked “The Devil’s” nose, and he, recognising how

sweet and good she was, abandoned his usual habits, and did not bite

her, but only whinnied and asked for sugar. Then Ernest, going into the

box with the horse, which nobody but he and Mazooku were fond of taking

liberties with, felt down his flank till he came to a scar inflicted by

an assegai in that mad charge through the Undi, and showed it to them.

And Dorothy’s eyes filled with tears of thankfulness, as she thought of

what that horse and its rider had gone through, and of the bleaching

bones of those who had galloped by their side; and she would have liked

to kiss Ernest again, only there was no excuse. So she only pressed his

hand, feeling that the sorrow of the empty years which were gone was

almost atoned for by this hour of joy.

Then they went ashore to the hotel, and sat together in the pleasant

sitting-room which Dorothy had chosen, and made sweet with great

bunches of violets (for she remembered that Ernest loved violets), and

talked. At length Mr. Cardus and Jeremy went off to see about getting

the things through the Custom House, where they arrived to find Mazooku

keeping half a dozen gorgeous officials, who wanted to open a box, at

bay with his knobsticks, and plastering them with offensive epithets,

which fortunately they did not understand.

“Doll,” said Ernest, presently, “it is a beautiful day, is it not? Will

you take me for a walk, dear? I should like to go for a walk.”

“Yes, Ernest, of course I will.”

“You are sure you do not mind being seen with a blind man? You must

give me your hand to hold, you know.”

“Ernest, how can you?”

Mind giving him her hand to hold, indeed! thought Dorothy to herself,

as she ran to put her bonnet on. O, that she could give it to him for

always! And in her heart she blessed the accident of his blindness,

because it brought him so much nearer to her. He would be helpless

without her, this tall strong man, and she would be ever at his side to

help him. He would not be able to read a book, or write a letter, or

move from room to room without her. Surely she would soon be able so to

weave herself into his life that she would become indispensable to it.

And then, perhaps—perhaps—and her heart pulsed with a joy so intense at

the mere thought of what might follow that it became a pain, and she

caught her breath and leaned against the wall. For every fibre of her

frame was thrilled with a passionate love of this blind man whom she

had lost for so many years, and now had found again; and in her breast

she vowed that if she could help it she would lose him no more. Why

should she? When he had been engaged to Eva, she had done her best for

him and her, and bitterly had she felt the way in which he had been

treated, but Eva had taken her own course, and was now no longer in the

outward and visible running, whatever place she might still hold in the

inward and spiritual side of Ernest’s nature.

Dorothy did not underrate that place; she knew well that the image of

her rival had sunk too deep into his heart to be altogether dislodged

by her. But she was prepared to put up with that.

“One can’t have everything, you know,” she said, shaking her wise

little head at her own reflection in the glass, as she tied her

bonnet-strings.

Dorothy was an eminently practical little person, and having recognised

the “eternal verity” of the saying that half a loaf is better than no

bread, especially if one happens to be dying of hunger, she made up her

mind to make the best of the position. Since she could not help it, Eva

would be welcome to the inward and spiritual side of Ernest, if only

she could secure the outward and visible side; “for after all, that is

real and tangible, and there isn’t much comfort in spiritual affection,

you know,” she said, with another shake of the head.

In short, the arguments which proved so convincing to her were not

unlike those that carried conviction home to the gentle breast of Mr.

Plowden, when he made up his mind to marry Eva in the teeth of her

engagement to, and love for, Ernest; but, putting aside the diversity

of the circumstances, there was this difference between them: Mr.

Plowden recognised no higher spiritual part at all; he did not believe

in that sort of thing; he contracted for Eva as he would have

contracted to buy a lovely animal, and when he had got the given

quantity of flesh and blood he was satisfied. Of the soul—the inner

self—which the human casket held, and which loathed and hated him, he

took no account. He had got the woman, what did he care about the

woman’s soul? Souls, and spiritual parts, and affinities with what is

good and high, and the divinity of love, &c. &c., were capital things

to preach about, but they did not apply to the affairs of every-day

life. Besides, if he had been asked, he would have given it as his

candid opinion that women did not possess any of these things.

There are hundreds of educated men who think like Mr. Plowden, and

there are thousands of educated ladies who give colour to such opinions

by their idle, aimless course of life, their utter inappreciation of

anything beyond their own little daily round, and the gossip of the

dozen or so of families who for them make up what they call society and

the interests of existence, and by their conduct in the matter of

marriage. Truly the great factor in the lowering of women is woman

herself. But what does it matter? In due course they have their

families, and the world goes on!

Now, Dorothy did believe in all these things, and she knew what an

important part they play in human affairs, and how they dominate over,

and direct, finer minds. So did she believe in the existence of the

planets, and in the blooming of roses in walled gardens; but she could

not get near to know the beauties of the stars, or to see the opening

rosebuds, so she had to satisfy herself with the heat that poured from

the one, and the scent that came from the other. When one is

star-stricken, or mad in the matter of roses, that is better than

nothing.

And so, taking Ernest by the hand, she led him through the crowded

streets with tender care, and on to the quiet Hoe. And as they passed,

the people turned to look at the handsome young fellow who was blind,

and some thought that they would not mind a little blindness if it led

to being personally conducted by so sweet a girl.

Soon they reached the gardens.

“Now tell me about yourself, Ernest. What have you been doing all these

long years, besides growing bigger and handsomer, and getting that hard

look about the mouth?”

“A great many things, Doll. Shooting, fighting, playing the fool.”

“Pshaw! I know all that, or at least I can guess it. What have you been

doing in your mind, you know?”

“Why, thinking of you, of course, Doll.”

“Ernest, if you talk to me like that, I will go away, and leave you to

find your own way home. I know well of whom you have been thinking

every day and every night. It was not of me. Now, confess it.”

“Don’t let’s talk of _her,_ Doll. If you talk of the devil, you know,

you sometimes raise him; not that he requires much raising in this

instance,” he laughed bitterly.

“I was so sorry for you, Ernest dear, and I did my best; indeed I did.

But I could do nothing with her. She must have been off her head, or

that man” (Dorothy always spoke of Plowden as ‘that man’)” and Florence

had some power over her; or perhaps she never really cared for you;

there are some women, you know, who seem very sweet, but cannot truly

care for anybody except themselves. At any rate, she married, and has a

family of children, for I have seen their births in the paper. Oh,

Ernest, when I think of all you must have suffered out there about that

woman, I cease to be sorry for her, and begin to hate her. I am afraid

you have been very unhappy, Ernest, all these years.”

“Ah, yes, I have been unhappy sometimes—sometimes I have consoled

myself. There, what is the use of telling lies?—I have always been

unhappy, and never so much so as when I have been in process of

consolation. But you should not hate her, poor girl! Perhaps she has

her bad times too; only, fortunately, you women cannot feel, at least

not much—not like us, I mean.”

“I don’t know about that,” put in Dorothy.

“Well, I will qualify my remark—most women. And, besides, it is not

quite her fault; people cannot help themselves much in this world. She

was appointed to be my evil destiny, that is all, and she must fulfil

her mission. All my life she will probably bring me trouble, till at

last the fate works itself out. But, Dolly, my dear, there must be an

end to these things, and Nature, always fertile in analogies, teaches

us that the end of sorrow will be happiness. It is from the darkness of

night that day is born, and ice and snow are followed by the flowers.

Nothing is lost in the world, as old Alston used to say, and it is

impossible to suppose that all the grief and suffering are alone

wasted; that they are the only dull seed that will not, when their day

comes, bloom into a beautiful life. They may seem to be intangible

things now; but, after all, the difference between tangible and

intangible is only a difference of matter. We know that intangible

things are real enough, and perhaps in a future state we shall find

that they are the true immortal parts. I think so myself.”

“I think so too.”

“Well, then, Doll, you see, if once one gets the mastery of that idea,

it makes the navigation easier. Once admit that everything works to an

end, and that end a good and enduring one, and you will cease to call

out under your present sorrows. But it is hard for the little boy to

learn to like being whipped, and we are all children, Doll, to the end

of our days.”

“Yes.”

“And you see, Doll, for some reason I have been picked out to catch it

pretty warm. It does seem rather hard that a woman like that should be

allowed to turn all the wine of a man’s life into vinegar; but so it

often is. Now, if she had died, that would have been bad enough; but I

could have borne it, and bided my time in the hope of joining her. Or

if she had ceased to love me, and learned to love the other man, I

think I could have borne that, because my pride would have come to my

rescue, and because I know that the law of her affections is the only

law that the heart of woman really acknowledges, however many others

she may be forced to conform to; and that a woman of refined nature who

has ceased to love you, and is yet forced to live with you, is in

consequence a thing worthless to you, and dishonoured in her own eyes.

Besides, I ask no favour in such matters. I have no sympathy, as a

general rule, with people who raise a howl because they have lost the

affection of their wives or sweethearts, for they should have been able

to keep them. If any man could have cut me out, he was welcome to do

so, for he would have proved himself the better man, and as for the

lady, I would not have her without her heart. But I gather that was not

quite the case with Eva.”

“O no, indeed; at least she said that she was wretched.”

“Exactly as I thought. Well, now, you will understand that it is rather

hard. You see I did love her dearly, and it is painful to think of this

woman, whose love I won, and who by that divine right and by the law of

nature should have been my wife, as forced into being the wife of

another man, however charming he may be; and I hope for her sake that

he is charming. In fact, it fills me with a sensation I cannot

describe.”

“Poor Ernest!”

“Oh no, don’t pity me. Everybody has his troubles—this is mine.”

“Oh, Ernest, but you have been unfortunate, and now your sight has

gone; but perhaps Critchett or Couper would be able to do something for

that.”

“All the Critchetts and Coupers in the world will never do anything for

it, my dear. But you must remember that where I only lost my sight,

many others lost their lives, and it is supposed to be better to lose

your sight than your life. Besides, blindness has its advantages: it

gives you so much more time to think, and it humbles you so. You can

have no idea what it is like, Doll. Intense, everlasting blackness

hedging you in like a wall: one long, long night, even when the

sunlight is beating on your face; and out of the night, voices and the

touching of hands, like the voices and the touchings of departed

spirits. Your physical body is as helpless and as much at the mercy of

the world as your spiritual body is in the hands of the Almighty. And

things grow dim to you too: you begin to wonder what familiar faces and

sights are like, as you wonder about the exact appearance of those who

died many years ago, or of places you have not seen for years. All of

which, my dear Doll, is very favourable to thought. When next you lie

awake for five or six hours in the night, try to reckon all the things

which occupy your brain; then imagine such wakefulness and its

accompanying thoughts extended over the period of your natural life,

and you will get some idea of the depth and breadth and height of total

blindness.”

His words struck her, and she did not know what to answer, so she only

pressed his hand in token of her mute sympathy.

He understood her meaning; the faculties of the blind are very quick.

“Do you know, Doll,” he said, “coming back to you and to your gentle

kindness is like coming into the peace and quiet of a sheltered harbour

after bearing the full brunt of the storm.” Just then a cloud which had

obscured the sun passed away, and its full light struck upon his face.

“There,” he went on, “it is like that. It is like emerging into the

sweet sunshine after riding for miles through the rain and mist. You

bring peace with you, my dear. I have not felt such peace for years as

I feel holding your hand to-day.”

“I am very glad, dear Ernest,” she answered; and they walked on in

silence. At that moment, a little girl, who was trundling a hoop down

the gravel-path, stopped her hoop to look at the pair. She was very

pretty, with large dark eyes, but Dorothy noticed that she had a

curious mark upon her forehead. Presently Dorothy saw her run back

towards an extremely tall and graceful woman, who was sauntering along,

followed at some distance by a nurse with a baby in her arms, and

turning occasionally to look at the beds of spring flowers, hyacinths

and tulips, which bordered the path.

“O mother!” she heard the little girl call out, in the clear voice of

childhood, “there is such a nice blind man! He isn’t old and ugly, and

he hasn’t a dog, and he doesn’t ask for pennies. Why is he blind if he

hasn’t a dog, and doesn’t ask for pennies?”

Blindness, according to this little lady’s ideas, evidently sprang from

the presence of a cur and an unsatisfied hunger for copper coin.

Sometimes it does.

The tall graceful lady looked up carelessly, saying, “Hush, dear!” She

was quite close to them now, for they were walking towards each other,

and Dorothy gave a great gasp, for before her stood _Eva Plowden._

There was no doubt about it. She was paler and haughtier-looking than

of yore; but it was she. No one who had once seen her could mistake

that queenly beauty. Certainly Dorothy could not mistake it.

“What is the matter, Doll?” said Ernest, carelessly. He was thinking of

other things.

“Nothing; I hurt myself.”

They were quite close now.

And Eva, too, looked at them, and she, too, saw the face she had never

thought to see again. With all her eyes, and with her lips parted as

though to cry out, she gazed at the sight before her—slowly, slowly,

taking in all it meant.

They were nearly level now.

Then there leaped up into her eyes and face—the eyes and face which a

second before had been so calm and statue-like—a wild light of love, an

intensity of passionate and jealous desire, such as is not often to be

seen on the faces of women.

“Ernest there, and Ernest blind, and being led by the hand of Dorothy,

and looking happy with her! How dared she touch her love! How dared he

look happy with her!” Those were the thoughts which flashed through her

troubled mind.

She made a step towards them, as though to address him, and the blind

eyes fell upon her lovely face, and wandered over it. It made her mad.

His eyes were on her face, and yet he could not see her. O God!

Dorothy saw the motion, and, moved by an overmastering instinct, threw

herself between them in an attitude of protection not unmixed with

defiance. And so, for a second, their eyes flashing and their bosoms

heaving with emotion, the two women stood face to face, and the blind

pathetic eyes wandered uneasily over both, feeling a presence they were

unable to define.

It was a tragic, almost a dreadful scene. The passions it revealed were

almost too intense for words, as no brush can justly paint a landscape

made vivid by the unnatural fierceness of the lightning.

“Well, Doll, why do you stop?” Ernest said, impatiently.

His voice broke the spell. Eva withdrew her arm, which was half

outstretched, and touched her lips with her finger as though to enjoin

silence. Then a deep misery spread itself over her flushed face, her

head sank low, and she passed thence with rapid steps. Presently the

nurse with the baby followed her, and Dorothy noticed vaguely that this

child had also a mark upon its forehead. The whole thing had not taken

forty seconds.

“Doll,” said Ernest, in a wild voice, and commencing to tremble, “who

was that passed us?”

“A lady,” was the answer.

“A lady; yes, I know that—what lady?”

“I don’t know—a lady with children.”

It was a fib; but she could not tell him then; an instinct warned her

not to do so.

“Oh, it is strange, Doll, strange; but, do you know, I felt just now as

though Eva were very near me. Come, let us go home!”

Just then the cloud got over the sun again, and they walked home in the

shadow. Apparently, too, all their talkativeness had gone the way of

the sun. They had nothing to say.

CHAPTER III.

INTROSPECTIVE

Eva Plowden could scarcely be said to be a happy woman. A refined woman

who has deliberately married one man when she loves another is not as a

rule happy afterwards, unless, indeed, she is blessed, or cursed, with

a singularly callous nature. But there are degrees and degrees of

unhappiness. Such a fate as Eva’s would have killed Dorothy, and would

have driven Florence, bad as she might otherwise be, to suicide or

madness. But with Eva herself it was not so; she was not sufficiently

finely strung to suffer thus. Hers was not a very happy life, and that

was all about it. She had been most miserable; but when the first burst

of her misery had passed, like the raving storm that sometimes ushers

in a wet December day, she had more or less reconciled herself—like a

sensible woman—to her position. The day was always rather wet, it is

true; but still the sun peeped out now and again, and if life was not

exactly a joyous thing, it was at least endurable.

And yet with it all she loved Ernest in her heart as much as ever; his

memory was inexpressibly dear to her, and her regrets were sometimes

very bitter. On the whole, however, she had got over it

wonderfully—better than anybody would have thought possible, who could

have witnessed her agony some years before, when Florence told her the

whole truth immediately after the wedding. The Sabine women, we are

told, offered every reasonable resistance to their rape by the Romans,

but before long they gave the strongest proofs of reconciliation to

their lot. There was something of the Sabine woman about Eva. Indeed,

the contrast between her state of mind as regarded Ernest, and Ernest’s

state of mind as regarded her, would make a curious study. They each

loved the other, and yet how different had the results of that love

been on the two natures! To Eva it had been and was a sorrow, sometimes

a very real one; to Ernest, the destruction of all that made life worth

living. The contrast, indeed, was almost pitiable, it was so striking;

so wide a gulf was fixed between the two. The passion of the one was a

wretched thing compared to the other. But both were real; it was merely

a difference of degree. If Eva’s affection was weak when measured by

Ernest’s, it was because the soil in which it grew was poorer. She gave

all she had to give.

As for Mr. Plowden, he could not but feel that on the whole his

matrimonial speculation had answered very well. He was honestly fond of

his wife, and, as he had a right to be, very proud of her. At times she

was cold and capricious, and at times she was sarcastic; but, take it

altogether, she made him a good and serviceable wife, and lifted him up

many pegs in the social scale. People saw that though Plowden was not a

gentleman, he had managed to marry a lady, and a very lovely lady too;

and he was tolerated, indeed to a certain extent courted, for the sake

of his wife. It was principally to attain this end that he had married

her, so he had every reason to be satisfied with his bargain, and he

was, besides, proud to be the legal owner of so handsome a creature.

Eva often thought of her old lover, though, except in the vaguest way,

she had heard nothing of him for years. Indeed, she was, as it

happened, thinking of him tenderly enough that very morning, when her

little girl had called her attention to the “nice blind man.” And when

at last, in a way which seemed to her little short of miraculous, she

set eyes again upon his face, all her smouldering passion broke into

flame, and she felt that she still loved him with all her strength,

such as it was.

At that moment indeed she realised how great, how bitter, how complete

was the mistake she had made, and what a beautiful thing life might

have been for her if things had gone differently. But, remembering how

things _were,_ she bowed her head and passed on, for the time

completely crushed.

Presently, however, two points became clear in the confusion of her

mind, taking shape and form as distinct and indisputable mental facts,

and these were—first, that she was wildly jealous of Dorothy; second,

that it was her fixed determination to see Ernest. She regretted now

that she had been too overcome to go up and speak to him, for see him

she must and would; indeed, her sick longing to look upon his face and

hear his voice filled her with alarm.

Eva reached her home, after the meeting on the Hoe, just before

luncheon-time. Her husband was now acting as locum tenens for the

rector of one of the Plymouth parishes. They had moved thus from place

to place for years, waiting for the Kesterwick living to fall vacant,

and Eva liked the roving life well enough—it diverted her thoughts.

Presently she heard her husband enter, bringing somebody else with him,

and summoned up the sweet smile for which she was remarkable to greet

him.

In another instant he was in the room, followed by a fresh-faced

subaltern, whose appearance reminded her of the pictures of cherubs.

Mr. Plowden had changed but little since we saw him last, with the

exception that his hair was now streaked with white, and the whole face

rather stouter. Otherwise the cold gray eyes were as cold as ever, and

the countenance of Plowden was what the countenance of Plowden had

always been—powerful, intelligent, and coarse-looking.

“Let me introduce my friend Lieutenant Jasper to you, my dear,” he

said, in his full strong voice, which was yet unpleasant to the ear.

“We met at Captain Johnstone’s, and, as it is a long way to go to the

barracks for lunch, I asked him to come and take pot-luck with us.”

The cherubic Jasper had screwed an eyeglass into his round eye, and

through it was contemplating Eva with astonished ecstasy; but, like

most very beautiful women, she was used to that sort of thing, and it

only amused her faintly. Mr. Plowden, too, was used to it, and took it

as a personal compliment.

“I am delighted,” she murmured, and held out her hand.

The cherub, suddenly awaking to the fact, dropped his eyeglass, and,

plunging at the hand, seized it as a pike does a little fish, and shook

it with enthusiasm.

Eva smiled again.

“Shall we go to lunch?” she said, sweetly: and they went to lunch, she

sailing down in front of them with the grace of a swan.

At lunch itself the conversation flagged rather—that is, Mr. Plowden

talked with all the facility of an extemporary preacher; the cherub

gazed at this pale dark-eyed angel; and Eva, fully occupied with her

own thoughts, contributed a great many appreciative smiles and a few

random remarks. Just as they were, to her intense relief, nearing the

conclusion of the meal, a messenger arrived to summon Mr. Plowden to

christen a dying baby. He got up at once, for he was punctilious in the

performance of his duties, and, making excuses to his guest, departed

on his errand, thus forcing Eva to carry on the conversation.

“Have you been in Plymouth long, Mr. Jasper?” she asked.

The eyeglass dropped spasmodically.

“Plymouth? O dear, no; I only landed this morning.”

“Landed? Indeed! where from? I did not know that any boat was in except

the _Conway Castle._

“Well, I came by her, from the Zulu war, you know. I was invalided home

for fever.”

The cherub suddenly became intensely interesting to Eva, for it had

struck her that Ernest must have come from Africa.

“Indeed! I hope you had a pleasant passage. It depends so much on your

fellow-passengers, does it not?”

“O yes, we had a very nice lot of men on board, wounded officers

mostly. There were a couple of very decent civilians, too—a giant of a

fellow called Jones, and a blind baronet, Sir Ernest Kershaw.”

Eva’s bosom heaved.

“I once knew a Mr. Ernest Kershaw; I wonder if it is the same? He was

tall, and had dark eyes.”

“That’s the man; he only got his title a month or two ago. A melancholy

sort of chap, I thought; but then he can’t see now. That Jones is a

wonderful fellow, though—could pull two heavy men up at once, as easily

as you would lift a puppy-dog. Saw him do it myself. I knew them both

out there.”

“Oh! Where did you meet them?”

“Well, it was rather curious. I suppose you heard of the great disaster

at that place with an awful name. Well, I was at a beastly hole called

Helpmakaar, when a fellow came riding like anything from Rorke’s Drift,

telling us what had happened, and that the Zulus were coming. So we all

set to and worked like mad, and just as we had got the place a little

fit for them, somebody shouted that he saw them coming. That was just

as it was getting dark. I ran to the wall to look, and saw, not the

Zulus, but a great big fellow carrying a dead fellow in his arms,

followed by a Kafir leading three horses. At least, I thought the

fellow was dead, but he wasn’t—he had been struck by lightning. We let

him in; and such a sight as they were you never saw, all soaked with

blood from top to toe!”

“Ah! And how did they come like that?”

“They were the only survivors of a volunteer corps called Alston’s

Horse. They killed all the Zulus that were attacking them, when the

Zulus had killed everybody except them. Then they came away, and the

blind fellow—that is, Sir Ernest—got struck in a storm; fellows often

do out there.”

Eva put further questions, and listened with breathless interest to the

story of Ernest’s and Jeremy’s wonderful escape, so far as the details

were known to Mr. Jasper, quite regardless of the pitiless fire that

young gentleman was keeping on herself through his eyeglass. At last,

reluctantly enough, he rose to go.

“I must be off now, Mrs. Plowden; I want to go and call on Sir Ernest

at the hotel. He lent me a Derringer pistol to practise at a bottle

with, and I forgot to give it back.”

Eva turned the full battery of her beautiful eyes upon him. She saw

that the young gentleman was struck, and determined to make use of him.

Women are unscrupulous when they have an end in view.

“I am so sorry you must go; but I hope you will come and see me again,

and tell me some more about the war and the battles.”

“You are very kind,” he stammered. “I shall be delighted.”

He did not think it necessary to add that he had not had the luck to

see a shot fired himself. Why should he?

“By the way, if you are going to see Sir Ernest, do you think you could

give him a private message from me? I have a reason for not wishing it

to be overheard.”

“O yes, I daresay I can. Nothing would give me greater pleasure.”

“You are very good.” Another glance. “Will you tell him that I wish he

would take a fly and come to see me? I shall be in all this afternoon.”

A pang of jealousy shot through the cherubic bosom, but he comforted

himself with the reflection that a fine woman like that could not care

for a “blind fellow.”

“O, certainly, I will try.”

“Thank you;” and she extended her hand.

He took it, and, intoxicated by those superb eyes, ventured to press it

tenderly. A mild wonder took possession of Eva’s mind that anybody so

very young could have developed such an astonishing amount of

impudence, but she did not resent the pressure. What did she care about

having her hand squeezed when it was a question of seeing Ernest?

Poor deluded cherub!

CHAPTER IV.

AFTER MANY DAYS

Within an hour of the departure of Lieutenant Jasper, Eva heard a fly

draw up at the door. Then came an interval and the sound of two people

walking up the steps, one of whom stumbled a good deal; then a ring.

“Is Mrs. Plowden at home?” said a clear voice, the well-remembered

tones of which sent the blood to her head and then back to her heart

with a rush.

“Yes, sir.”

“Oh! Wait here, flyman. Now, my good girl, I must ask you to give me

your hand, for I am not in a condition to find my way about strange

places.”

Another pause, and the drawing-room door opened, and the maid came in,

leading Ernest, who wore a curious, drawn look upon his face.

“How do you do?” she said, in a low voice, coming and taking him by the

hand. “That will do, Jane.”

He did not speak till the door closed; he only looked at her with those

searching blind eyes.

Thus they met again after many years.

She led him to a sofa, and he sat down.

“Do not leave go of my hand,” he said quickly; “I have not yet got used

to talking to people in the dark.”

She sat down on the sofa beside him, feeling frightened and yet happy.

For awhile they remained silent; apparently they could find nothing to

say, and, after all, silence seemed most fitting. She had never thought

to sit hand in hand with him again. She looked at him; there was no

need for her to keep a guard over her loving glances, for he was blind.

At length she broke the silence.

“Were you surprised to get my message?” she asked, gently.

“Yes; it was like getting a message from the dead. I never expected to

see you again. I thought that you had quite passed out of my life.”

“So you had forgotten me?”

“Why do you say such a thing to me? You must know, Eva, that it is

impossible for me to forget you; I almost wish that it were possible. I

meant that you had passed out of my outward life, for out of my mind

you can never pass.”

Eva hung her head and was silent, and yet his words sent a thrill of

happiness through her. So she had not quite lost him after it all.

“Listen, Eva,” Ernest went on, gathering himself together, and speaking

sternly enough now, and with a strange suppressed energy that

frightened her. “How you came to do what you have done you best know.”

“It is done; do not let us speak of it. I was not altogether to blame,”

she broke in.

“I was not going to speak of it. But I was going to say this, now while

I have the chance, because time is short, and I think it right that you

should know the truth. I was going to tell you just that for what you

have done I freely forgive you.”

“O Ernest!”

“It is,” he went on, not heeding her, “a question that you can settle

with your conscience and your God. But I wish to tell you what it is

that you have done. You have wrecked my life, and made it an unhappy

thing; you have taken that from me which I can never have to give

again; you have embittered my mind, and driven me to sins of which I

should not otherwise have dreamed. I loved you, and you gave me proofs

which I could not doubt that I had won your love. You let me love you,

and then when the hour of trial came you deserted and morally destroyed

me, and the great and holy affection that should have been the blessing

of my life has become its curse.”

Eva covered her face with her hands and sat silent.

“You do not answer me, Eva,” he said presently, with a little laugh.

“Perhaps you find what I have to say difficult to answer, or perhaps

you think I am taking a liberty.”

“You are very hard,” she said, in a low voice.

“Had you not better wait till I have done before you call me hard? If I

wished to be hard, I should tell you that I no longer cared for you,

that my prevailing feeling towards you was one of contempt. It would,

perhaps, mortify you to think that I had shaken off such heavy chains.

But it is not the truth, Eva. I love you now, as I always have loved

you, as I always shall love you. I hope for nothing, I ask for nothing;

in this business it has always been my part to give, not to receive. I

despise myself for it, but so it is.”

She laid her hand upon his shoulder. “Spare me, Ernest,” she whispered.

“I have very little more to say, only this: I believe all that I have

given you has not been given uselessly. I believe that the love of the

flesh will die with the flesh. But my love for you has been something

more and higher than that, or how has it lived without hope, and in

spite of its dishonour, through so many years? It is of the spirit, and

I believe that its life will be like that of the spirit, unending, and

that when this hateful existence is done with I shall in some way reap

its fruits with you.”

“Why do you believe that, Ernest? It seems too happy to be true.”

“Why do I believe it? I cannot tell you. Perhaps it is nothing but the

fantasy of a mind broken down with brooding on its grief. In trouble we

grow towards the light—like a plant in the dark, you know. As a crushed

flower smells sweet, so all that is most aspiring in human nature is

called into life when God lays His heavy hand upon us. Heaven is

sorrow’s sole ambition. No, Eva, I do not know why I believe

it—certainly you have given me no grounds for this—but I do believe it,

and it comforts me. By the way, how did you know that I was here?”

“I passed you on the Hoe this morning, walking with Dorothy.”

Ernest started. “I felt you pass,” he said, “and asked Dorothy who it

was. She said she did not know.”

“She knew, but I made a sign to her not to say.”

“Oh!”

“Ernest, will you promise me something?” asked Eva, wildly.

“What is it?”

“Nothing. I have changed my mind—nothing at all!”

The promise that she was about to ask was that he would not marry

Dorothy, but her better nature rose in rebellion against it. Then they

talked awhile of Ernest’s life abroad.

“Well,” said Ernest, rising after a pause, “good-bye, Eva.”

“It is a very cruel word,” she murmured.

“Yes, it is cruel, but not more cruel than the rest.”

“It has been a happiness to see you, Ernest.”

He shrugged his shoulders as he answered. “Has it? For myself I am not

sure if it has been a happiness or a misery. I must have a year or two

of quiet and darkness to think it over before I make up my mind. Will

you kindly ring the bell for the servant to take me away?”

Half unconsciously she obeyed him, and then she came and took his hand

and looked with all her eyes and all her soul into his face. It was

fortunate that he could not see her.

“O Ernest, you are blind!” she said, scarcely knowing what she said.

He laughed—a hard little laugh. “Yes, Eva, _I_ am as blind now as _you_

have been always.”

“Ernest! Ernest! how can I live without seeing you? _I love you!_” and

she fell into his arms.

He kissed her once—twice, and then somehow, he never knew how, found

the strength to put her from him. Perhaps it was because he heard the

servant coming.

Next moment the servant came and led him away. As soon as he was gone

Eva flung herself on to the sofa, and sobbed as though her heart would

break.

When Dorothy saw a fresh-faced young officer, who had come up to see

Ernest, mysteriously lead him aside, and whisper something in his ear

which caused him to turn first red and then white, being a shrewd

observer, she thought it curious. But when Ernest asked her to ring the

bell and then ordered a fly to be brought round at once, the idea of

Eva at once flashed into her mind. She and no other must be at the

bottom of this mystery. Presently the fly was announced, and Ernest

went off without a word, leaving her to the tender mercies of the

cherub, who was contemplating her with his round eye as he had

contemplated Eva, and finding her also charming. It must be remembered

that he had but just returned from South Africa, and was prepared,

_faute de mieux,_ to fall in love with an apple-woman. How much more,

then, would he succumb to the charms of the stately Eva and the

extremely fascinating Dorothy! It was some time before the latter could

get rid of his eyeglass. On an ordinary occasion she would have been

glad enough to entertain him, for Dorothy liked a little male society;

and the cherub, though he did look so painfully young, was not half a

bad fellow, and after all his whole soul was in his eyeglass, and his

staring was meant to be complimentary. But just now she had a purpose

in her head, and was heartily glad when he departed to reflect over the

rival attractions of the two charmers.

[Illustration: “After many days.”]

It was very evident to Dorothy, who was always strictly practical, that

to keep Eva and Ernest in the same town was to hold dry tow to a

lighted match over a barrel of gun-powder. She only hoped that he might

come back now without having put his foot into it.

“Oh, what fools men are!” she said to herself, with a stamp; “a pretty

face and a pair of bright eyes, and they count the world well lost for

them. Bah! if it had been a plain woman who played Ernest that trick,

would he be found dangling about after her now? Not he. But with her,

she has only to say a soft word or two, and he will be at her feet,

I’ll be bound. I am ashamed of them both.”

Meanwhile she was putting on her bonnet, which was a very favourite

time with her for meditation, having already made up her mind as to her

course of action. Ernest had authorised her to make arrangements for an

interview with an oculist. She proceeded to make those arrangements by

telegram, wiring to a celebrated surgeon to know if he could make an

appointment for the following afternoon. Then she took a walk by

herself to think things over. In an hour she returned, to find Ernest

in the sitting-room, looking extremely shaken and depressed.

“You have been to see Eva?” she said.

“Yes,” he answered.

Just then there was a knock at the door, and the servant brought in a

telegram. It was from the oculist. He would be glad to see Sir Ernest

Kershaw at four o’clock on the following afternoon.

“I have made an appointment for you with an eye-doctor, Ernest, at four

o’clock to morrow.”

“To-morrow!” he said.

“Yes. The sooner you get your eyes looked to the better.”

He sighed. “What is the good? However, I will go.”

And so next morning they all took the express, and at the appointed

time Ernest found himself in the skilful hands of the oculist. But

though an oculist can mend the sight, he cannot make it.

“I can do nothing for you, Sir Ernest,” he said, after an exhaustive

examination. “Your eyes will remain as they are, but you must always be

blind.”

Ernest took the news with composure.

“I thought as much,” he said; but Dorothy put her handkerchief to her

face and wept secretly.

Next morning he went with Jeremy to call on Messrs. Paisley and

Paisley, and told them to try and let Archdale Hall, and to lock up the

numerous and valuable heirlooms, as unfortunately he was unable to see

them. Then they went on home to Dum’s Ness, and that night Ernest lay

awake in the room where he had slept for so many years in the boyhood

which now seemed so dim and remote, and listened to the stormy wind

raving round the house, and thought with an aching heart of Eva, but

was thankful that he had bid her farewell, and wondered if he could

find the strength to keep away from her.

And Eva, his lost love, she too lay by the sea and listened to the

wind, and thought on him. There she lay in her beauty, seeking the

sleep that would not settle round her. She could not sleep; forgetful

sleep does not come readily to such as she. For her and those like her

are vain regrets and an empty love and longing, and the wreath of

thorns that crowns the brow where sorrow is enthroned.

Yet, Eva, lift that fevered head, and turn those seeking eyes to

heaven. See, through the casement, above the tumult of the storm, there

gleams a star. For you, too, there shines a star called Hope, but it is

set in no earthly sky. Have patience, wayward heart, there is but a

space of trouble. As you suffer, so have millions suffered, and are

they not at peace? so shall millions suffer: