“While thou, that once didst make the place thou stoodst in lovely, shalt lie still,

Thy form departed, and thy face remembered not in good or ill.”

For of this we may be sure—if suffering is not the widest gate of

heaven, then heaven has no gates. Unhappy woman, stretch out those

longing arms in supplication to the God of sorrows for strength to bear

your load, since here it shall not be lightened. The burdens which

Providence binds on our backs, Providence will sometimes lessen, but

those which our own folly fastens remain till death deliver us.

So, Eva, dry your tears, for they can avail you naught, and go get you

to your daily task—go tend your children, and smile that sweet sad

smile on all alike, and _wait._ As you have sowed so shall you reap,

but seed-time is not done, and not yet is the crop white to the

harvest.

CHAPTER V.

HOME AGAIN

It was very peaceful, that life at Kesterwick, after all the fierce

racket and excitement of the past years. Indeed, as day succeeded day,

and brought nothing to disturb his darkness but the sound of Dorothy’s

gentle voice, and the scent of flowers on the marshes when the wind

blew towards the ocean, and the sharp strong odour of the sea when it

set upon the land, Ernest could almost fancy that the past was nothing

but a dream more or less ugly, and that this was a dream more or less

pleasant, from which he should presently wake up and find himself a boy

again.

English villages change but little. Now and again a person dies, and

pretty frequently some one is born; but, on the whole, the tide of time

creeps on very imperceptibly, and though in the course of nature the

entire population is changed every sixty years or so, nobody seems to

realise that it is changing. There is so little in such places by which

to mark the change. The same church-tower makes a landmark to the eye

as it did centuries ago to the eyes of our ancestors, and the same

clouds sweep across the same blue space above it. There are the same

old houses, the same streams, and, above all, the same roads and lanes.

If you could put one of our Saxon forefathers down in the neighbourhood

of most of our country towns, he would have little difficulty in

finding his way about. It is the men who change, not the places.

Still there were some few changes at Kesterwick. Here and there the sea

had taken another bite out of the cliff, notably on the north side of

Dum’s Ness, out of which a large slice had gone, thus bringing the

water considerably nearer to the house. Here and there a tree, too, had

been cut down, or a cottage built, or a family changed its residence.

For instance, Miss Florence Ceswick had suddenly shut up the Cottage,

where she had remained ever since Eva’s marriage, seeing nothing of her

sister or her sister’s husband, and had gone abroad—people said to

Rome, to study art. For Florence had suddenly electrified the

Kesterwick neighbourhood by appearing as an artist of tragic force and

gruesome imagination. A large picture by her hand had been exhibited in

the Royal Academy of the previous year, and, though the colouring was

somewhat crude, it made a great and deserved sensation, and finally

sold for a considerable sum.

This picture represented a promontory of land running out far into a

stormy ocean. The sky above the sea was of an inky blackness, except

where a fierce ray of light from a setting sun pierced it, and impinged

upon the boiling waters which surged round the low cliff of the

promontory. On the extreme edge of the cliff stood a tall and lovely

woman. The wind caught the white robe she wore and pressed it against

her, revealing the extraordinary beauty of her form, and, lifting her

long fair locks, tossed them in wild confusion. She was bending

forward, pointing with her right hand at the water, with such a look of

ghastly agony upon her beautiful face and in the great gray eyes, that

people of impressionable temperament were wont to declare it haunted

their sleep for weeks. Down below her, just where the fierce ray lit up

the heaving waters, gleamed a naked corpse. It was that of a young man,

and was slowly sinking into the unfathomable darkness of the depths,

turning round and round as it sank. The eyes and mouth were wide open,

and the stare of the former appeared to be fixed upon those of the

woman on the cliff. Lastly, over the corpse, in the storm-wreaths above

their heads, there hovered on steady wings a dim female figure, with

its arm thrown across the face as though to hide it. In the catalogue

this picture was called “The Lost Lover,” but speculation was rife as

to what it meant.

Dorothy heard of it, and went to London to see it. The first thing that

struck her about the work was the extraordinary contrast it presented

to the commonplace canvases by which it was surrounded, of reapers, of

little girls frisking with baa-lambs, and nude young women musing

profoundly on the edge of pools, as though they were trying to solve

the great question—to wash or not to wash. But presently the horror of

the picture laid hold upon her, and seemed to fascinate her, as it had

so many others. Then she became aware that the faces were familiar to

her, and suddenly it broke upon her mind that the sinking corpse was

Ernest, and the agonised woman, Eva. She examined the faces more

attentively. There was no doubt about it. Florence, with consummate

art, had changed the colouring of the hair and features, and even to a

great extent altered the features themselves; but she had preserved the

likeness perfectly, both upon the dead face of the murdered man, and in

the horror-inspired eyes of his lover. The picture made her sick with

fear—she could not tell why—and she hurried from Burlington House full

of dread of the terrible mind that had conceived it.

There had been no intercourse between the two women since Eva’s

marriage. Florence lived quite alone at the Cottage, and never went out

anywhere; and if they met by any chance, they passed with a bow. But

for all that, it was a relief to Dorothy to hear that she was not for

some long time to see that stern face with its piercing brown eyes.

In Dum’s Ness itself there appeared to be no change at all. Except that

Mr. Cardus had built a new orchid-house at the back—for as he grew

older his mania for orchids increased rather than diminished—the place

was exactly the same. Even the arrangement of the sitting-room was

unchanged, and on its familiar bracket rested the case which Jeremy had

made containing the witch’s head.

The people in the house to all appearance had changed as little as the

house itself. Jeremy confided to Ernest that Doll had grown rather

“tubby,” which was his elegant way of indicating that she had developed

a very pretty figure, and that Grice (the old housekeeper) was as

skinny as a flayed weasel, and had eyes like the point of a knife.

Ernest maliciously repeated these sayings to the two ladies concerned,

with the result that they were both furious. Then he retreated, and

left them to settle it with Jeremy.

Old Atterleigh, too, was almost exactly the same, except that of late

years his intellect seemed to have brightened a little. It was,

however, difficult to make him understand that Ernest was blind,

because the latter’s eyes looked all right. He retained some

recollection of him, and brought him his notched stick to show him

that, according to his (“hard-riding Atterleigh’s”) calculation, his

time of service with the devil, otherwise Mr. Cardus, would expire in a

few months. Dorothy read what the old man wrote upon his slate, and

repeated it to Ernest; for, he being practically dumb and Ernest being

blind, that was the only way in which they could communicate.

“And what will you do then?” asked Ernest. “You will be wretched

without any writs to fill up. Who will look after the lost souls, I

should like to know?”

The old man at once wrote vigorously on his slate:

“I shall go out hunting on the big black horse you brought with you; he

will carry my weight.”

“I should advise you not to try,” said Ernest, laughing; “he does not

like strange riders.” But the old man, at the mere thought of hunting,

was striding up and down the room, clanking his spurs and waving his

hunting crop with his uninjured arm.

“Is your grandfather as much afraid of my uncle as ever, Doll?”

“Oh yes, I think so; and do you know, Ernest, I don’t quite like the

way he looks at him sometimes.”

Ernest laughed. “I should think that the old boy is harmless enough,”

he said.

“I hope so,” said Dorothy.

When first they came back to Dum’s Ness, Jeremy was at a great loss to

know what to do with himself, and was haunted by the idea that Mr.

Cardus would want him to resume that stool in his office which years

before he had quitted to go in search of Ernest. A week or so after his

arrival, however, his fears were very pleasantly set at rest. After

breakfast, Mr. Cardus sent for him to come into his office.

“Well, Jeremy,” he said, letting his soft black eyes wander round that

young gentleman’s gigantic form—for it was by now painfully large—not

so much in height, for he was not six feet three—as in its great width,

which made big men look like children beside him, and even dwarfed his

old grandfather’s enormous frame—“well, Jeremy, what do you think of

doing? You are too big for a lawyer; all your clients would be afraid

of you.”

“I don’t know about being too big,” said Jeremy, solemnly, “but I know

that I am too great an ass. Besides, I can’t afford to spend several

years in being articled at my time of life.”

“Quite so. Then what do you propose doing?”

“I don’t know from Adam.”

“Well, how would you like to turn your sword to a plough-share, and

become a farmer?”

“I think that would suit me first-rate. I have some capital laid by.

Ernest and I made a little money out there.”

“No, I would not advise you to take a farm in that way; these are bad

times. But I want a practical man to look after my land round

here—salary £150. What do you say?”

“You are very kind; but I doubt if I can boss that coach; I don’t know

anything of the work.”

“Oh, you will very soon learn; there is a capital bailiff; Stamp—you

remember him—he will soon put you up to the ropes. So we will consider

that settled.”

Thus it was that our friend Jeremy entered on a new walk in life, and

one which suited him very well. In less than a year’s time he grew

aggressively agricultural, and one never met him but what he had a

handful of oats, or a mangel-wurzel in his coat-tail pocket, which he

was ready to swear were samples of the finest oats, mangel-wurzel, or

whatever the particular agricultural product might be that ever had

been, or were ever likely to be, grown.

CHAPTER VI.

HOW IT ALL CAME ABOUT

How did it all come about?

Let us try and discover. Dorothy and Ernest were together all day long.

They only separated when Mazooku came to lead the latter off to bed. At

breakfast-time he led him back again, and handed him over to Dorothy

for the day. Not that our Zulu friend liked this; he did not like it at

all. It was, he considered, his business to lead his master about, and

not that of the “Rosebud,” who was, as he discovered, after all nothing

but a girl connected with his master neither by birth nor marriage. And

on this point there finally arose a difference of opinion between the

Rosebud and Mazooku.

The latter was leading Ernest for his morning walk, when Dorothy,

perceiving it, and being very jealous of what she considered her

rights, sallied out and took his hand from the great Zulu’s. Then did

Mazooku’s long-pent indignation break forth.

“O Rosebud, sweet and small Rosebud!” he commenced, addressing her in

Zulu, of which, needless to say, she understood not one word, “why do

you come and take my father’s hand out of my hand? Is not Mazimba my

father blind, and am I not his dog, his old dog, to lead him in his

blindness? Why do you take his bone from a dog?”

“What is the man saying?” asked Dorothy.

“He is offended because you come to lead me; he says that he is my dog,

and that you snatch his bone from him: A pretty sort of bone indeed!”

he added.

“Tell him,” said Dorothy, “that here in this country I hold your hand.

What does he want? Is he not always with you? Does he not sleep across

your door? What more does he want?”

Ernest translated her reply.

“Ow!” said the Zulu, with a grunt of dissatisfaction.

“He is a faithful fellow, Doll, and has stood by me for many years; you

must not vex him.”

But Dorothy, after the manner of loving women, was tenacious of what

she considered _her_ rights.

“Tell him that he can walk in front,” she said, putting on an obstinate

little look—and she could look obstinate when she liked. “Besides,” she

added, “he cannot be trusted to lead you. I am sure he was tipsy last

night.”

Ernest translated the first remark only—into the latter he did not care

to inquire, for the Zulu vowed that he could never understand Dorothy’s

English, and Mazooku accepted the compromise. Thus for awhile the

difference was patched up.

Sometimes Dorothy and Ernest would go out riding together; for, blind

as he was, Ernest could not be persuaded to give up his riding. It was

a pretty sight to see them; Ernest mounted on his towering black

stallion, “The Devil,” which in his hands was as gentle as a lamb, but

with everybody else fully justified his appellation, and Dorothy on a

cream-coloured cob Mr. Cardus had given her, holding in her right hand

a steel guiding-rein linked to “The Devil’s” bit. In this way they

would wander all over the country-side, and sometimes, when a good

piece of turf presented itself, even venture on a sharp canter. Behind

them Mazooku rode as groom, mounted on a stout pony, with his feet

stuck, Zulu fashion, well out at right-angles to his animal’s side.

They were a strange trio.

And so from week’s end to week’s end Dorothy was ever by Ernest’s side,

reading to him, writing for him, walking and riding with him, weaving

herself into the substance of his life.

And at last there came one sunny August day, when they were sitting

together in the shade of the chancel of Titheburgh Abbey. It was a

favourite spot of theirs, for the gray old walls sheltered them from

the glare of the sun and the breath of the winds. It was a spot, too,

rich in memories of the dead past, and a pleasant place to sit.

Through the gaping window-places came the murmur of the ocean and the

warmth of the harvest sunshine; and gazing out by the chancel doorway,

Dorothy could see the long lights of the afternoon dance and sparkle on

the emerald waves.

She had been reading to him, and the book lay idle on her knees as she

gazed dreamily at those lights and shadows, a sweet picture of pensive

womanhood. He, too, had relapsed into silence, and was evidently

thinking deeply.

Presently she roused herself.

“Well, Ernest,” she said, “what are you thinking about? You are as dull

as—as the dullest thing in the world, whatever that may be. What is the

dullest thing in the world?”

“I don’t know,” he answered, awakening. “Yes, I think I do; an American

novel.”

“Yes, that is a good definition. You are as dull as an American novel.”

“It is unkind of you to say so, Doll, my dear. I was thinking of

something, Doll.”

She made a little face, which of course he could not see, and answered

quickly:

“You generally are thinking of something. You generally are thinking

of—Eva, except when you are asleep, and then you are dreaming of her.”

Ernest coloured up.

“Yes,” he said, “it is true; she is often more or less in my mind. It

is my misfortune, Doll, not my fault. You see, I do not do things by

halves.”

Dorothy bit her lip.

“She should be vastly flattered, I am sure. Few women can boast of

having inspired such affection in a man. I suppose it is because she

treated you so badly. Dogs love the hand that whips them. You are a

curious character, Ernest. Not many men would give so much to one who

has returned so little.”

“So much the better for them. If I had a son, I think that I should

teach him to make love to all women, and to use their affection as a

means of amusement and self-advancement, but to fall in love with

none.”

“That is one of your bitter remarks, for which I suppose we must thank

Eva. You are always making them now. Let me tell you that there are

good women in the world; yes, and honest, faithful women, who, when

they have given their heart, are true to their choice, and would not do

it violence to be made Queen of England. But you men do not go the

right way to find them. You think of nothing but beauty, and never take

the trouble to learn the hearts of the sweet girls who grow like

daisies in the grass all round you, but who do not happen to have great

melting eyes or a splendid figure. You tread them underfoot, and if

they were not so humble they would be crushed, as you rush off and try

to pick the rose; and then you prick your fingers and cry out, and tell

all the daisies how shamefully the rose has treated you.”

Ernest laughed, and Dorothy went on:

“Yes, it is an unjust world. Let a woman but be beautiful and

everything is at her feet, for you men are despicable creatures, and

care for little except what is pleasant to the senses. On the other

hand, let her be plain, or only ordinary-looking—for the fate of most

of us is just to escape being ugly—and you pay as much regard to her as

you do to the chairs you sit on. And yet, strange as it may seem to

you, probably she has her feelings, and her capacities for high

affection, and her imaginative power, all working vigorously behind her

plain little face. Probably, too, she is better than your beauty.

Nature does not give everything. When she endows a woman with perfect

loveliness, she robs her either of her heart or her brains. But you men

don’t see that, because you won’t look; so in course of time all the

fine possibilities in Miss Plainface wither up, and she becomes a

disappointed old maid, while my Lady Beauty pursues her career of

selfishness and mischief-making, till at last she withers up too,

that’s one comfort. We all end in bones, you know, and there isn’t much

difference between us then.”

Ernest had been listening with great amusement to Dorothy’s views. He

had no idea that she took such matters into her shrewd consideration.

“I heard a girl say the other day that, on the whole, most women

preferred to become old maids,” he said.

“Then she told fibs; they don’t. It isn’t natural that they should—that

is, if they care for anybody. Just think, there are more than ten

hundred thousand of our charming sisterhood in these islands, and more

women being born every day! Ten hundred thousand restless, unoccupied,

disgusted, loveless women! It is simply awful to think of. I wonder

they don’t breed a revolution. If they were all beautiful, they would.”

He laughed again.

“Do you know what remedy Mazooku would apply to this state of affairs?”

“No.”

“The instant adoption of polygamy. There are no unmarried women among

the Natal Zulus, and as a class they are extremely happy.”

Dorothy shook her head.

“It wouldn’t do here; it would be too expensive.”

“I say, Doll, you spoke just now of our ‘charming sisterhood’; you are

rather young to consider yourself an old maid. Do you want to become

one?”

“Yes,” she said sharply.

“Then _you_ don’t care for anybody, eh?”

She blushed up furiously.

“What business is that of yours, I should like to know?” she answered.

“Well, Doll, not much. But will you be angry with me if I say

something?”

“I suppose you can say what you like.”

“Yes; but will you listen?”

“If you speak I cannot help hearing.”

“Well, then, Doll—now don’t be angry, dear.”

“O Ernest, how you aggravate me! Can’t you get it out and have done

with it?”

“All right, Doll, I’ll steam straight ahead this time. It is this. I

have sometimes lately been vain enough to think that you cared a little

about me, Doll, although I am as blind as a bat. I want to ask you if

it is true. You must tell me plain, Doll, because I cannot see your

eyes to learn the truth from them.”

She turned quite pale at his words, and her eyes rested upon his blind

orbs with a look of unutterable tenderness. So it had come at last.

“Why do you ask me that question. Ernest? Whether or no I care for you,

I am very sure that you do not care for me.”

“You are not quite right there, Doll, but I will tell you why I ask it;

it is not out of mere curiosity.

“You know all the history of my life, Doll, or at least most of it. You

know how I loved Eva, and gave her all that a foolish youngster can

give to a weak woman—gave it in such a way that I can never have it

back again. Well, she deserted me; I have lost her. The best happiness

of my life has been wrecked beyond redemption; that is a fact which

must be accepted as much as the fact of my blindness. I am physically

and morally crippled, and certainly in no fit state to ask a woman to

marry me on the ground of my personal advantages. But if, my dear Doll,

you should, as I have sometimes thought, happen to care about anything

so worthless, then, you see, the affair assumes a different aspect.”

“I don’t quite understand you. What do you mean?” she said, in a low

voice.

“I mean that in that case I will ask you if you will take me for a

husband.”

“You do not love me, Ernest; I should weary you.”

He felt for her hand, found it, and took it in his own. She made no

resistance.

“Dear,” he said, “it is this way: I can never give you that passion I

gave to Eva, because, thank God, the human heart can know it but once

in a life; but I can and will give you a husband’s tenderest love. You

are very dear to me, Doll, though it is not in the same way that Eva is

dear. I have always loved you as a sister, and I think that I should

make you a good husband. But, before you answer me, I want you to

thoroughly understand about Eva. Whether I marry or not, I fear that I

shall never be able to shake her out of my mind. At one time I thought

that perhaps if I made love to other women I might be able to do so, on

the principle that one nail drives out another. But it was a failure;

for a month or two I got the better of my thoughts, then they would get

the better of me again. Besides, to tell you the truth, I am not quite

sure that I wish to do so. My trouble about this woman has become a

part of myself. It is, as I told you, my ‘evil destiny,’ and goes where

I go. And now, dear Doll, you will see why I asked you if you really

cared for me before I asked you to marry me. If you do not care for me,

then it will clearly not be worth your while to marry me, for I am

about as poor a catch as a man can well be; if you do—well, then it is

a matter for your consideration.”

She paused awhile and answered:

“Suppose that the positions were reversed, Ernest; at least, suppose

this: suppose that you had loved your Eva all your life, but she had

not loved you except as a brother, having given her heart to some other

man, who was, say, married to somebody else, or in some way separated

from her. Well, supposing that this man died, and that one day Eva came

to you and said, ‘Ernest, my dear, I cannot love you as I loved him who

has gone, and whom I one day hope to rejoin in heaven; but if you wish

it, and it will make you the happier, I will be your true and tender

wife.’ What should you answer her, Ernest?”

“Answer? why, I suppose that I should take her at her word and be

thankful. Yes, I think that I should take her at her word.”

“And so, dear Ernest, do I take you at your word; for as it is with you

about Eva, so it is with me about you. As a child I loved you; ever

since I have been a woman I have loved you more and more, even through

all those cold years of absence. And when you came back, ah, then it

was to me as it would be to you if you suddenly once more saw the light

of day. Ernest, my beloved, you are all my life to me, and I take you

at your word, my dear. I will be your wife.”

He stretched out his arms, found her, drew her to him, and kissed her

on the lips.

“Doll, I don’t deserve that you should love me so; it makes me feel

ashamed that I have not more to give you in return.”

“Ernest, you will give me all you can; I mean to make you grow very

fond of me. Perhaps one day you will give me everything.”

He hesitated a little while before he spoke again.

“Doll,” he said, “you are quite sure that you do not mind about Eva?”

“My dear Ernest, I accept Eva as a fact, and make the best of her, just

as I should if I wanted to marry a man with a monomania that he was

Henry VIII.”

“Doll, you know I call her my evil destiny. The fact is, I am afraid of

her; she overpowers my reason. Well, now, Doll, what I am driving at is

this: supposing—not that I think she will—that she were to crop up

again, and take it into her head to try and make a fool of me! She

_might_ succeed, Doll.”

“Ernest, will you promise me something on your honour?”

“Yes, dear.”

“Promise me that you will hide from me nothing that passes between Eva

and yourself, if anything ever should pass, and that in this matter you

will always consider me not in the light of a wife, but of a trusted

friend.”

“Why do you ask me to promise that?”

“Because then I shall, I hope, be able to keep you both out of trouble.

You are not fit to look after yourselves, either of you.”

“I promise. And now, Doll, there is one more thing. It is somehow fixed

in my mind that my fate and that woman’s are intertwined. I believe

that what we are now passing through is but a single phase of

interwoven existence; that we have, perhaps, already passed through

many stages, and that many higher stages and developments await us. Of

course, it may be fantasy, but at any rate I believe it. The question

is, do you care to link your life with that of a man who holds such a

belief?”

“Ernest, I daresay your belief is a true one, at any rate for you who

believe it, for it seems probable that as we sow so shall we reap, as

we spiritually imagine so shall we spiritually inherit, since causes

must in time produce effects. These beliefs are not implanted in our

hearts for nothing, and surely in the wide heavens there is room for

the realisation of them all. But I too have my beliefs, and one of them

is, that in God’s great Hereafter every loving and desiring soul will

be with the soul thus loved and desired. For him or her, at any rate,

the other will be there, forming a part of his or her life, though,

perhaps, it may elsewhere and with others also be pursuing its own

desires and satisfying its own aspirations. So you see, Ernest, your

beliefs will not interfere with mine, nor shall I be afraid of losing

you in another place.

“And now, Ernest, my heart’s love, take my hand, and let me lead you

home; take my hand, as you have taken my heart, and never leave go of

it again till at last I die.”

And so hand in hand they went home together, through the lights and

shadows of the twilight.

CHAPTER VII.

MAZOOKU’S FAREWELL

Dorothy and Ernest got back to Dum’s Ness just in time to dress for

dinner, for since Ernest and Jeremy had come back, Dorothy, whose will

in that house was law, had instituted late dinner. The dinner passed

over as usual, Dorothy sitting between Ernest and her grandfather, and

attending to the wants of those two unfortunates, both of whom would

have found it rather difficult to get through their meal without her

gentle, unobtrusive help. But when dinner was over and the cloth

removed, and Grice had placed the wine upon the table and withdrawn, an

unusual thing happened.

Ernest asked Dorothy to fill his glass with port, and when she had done

so he said:

“Uncle and Jeremy, I am going to ask you to drink a health.”

The old man looked up sharply. “What is it, Ernest, my boy?”

As for Dorothy, she blushed a rosy red, guessing what was coming, and

not knowing whether to be pleased or angry.

“It is this, uncle—it is the health of my future wife, Dorothy.”

Then came a silence of astonishment. Mr. Cardus broke it:

“Years ago, Ernest, my dear nephew, I told you that I wished this to

come to pass; but other things happened to thwart my plans, and I never

expected to see it. Now in God’s good time it has come, and I drink the

health with all my heart. My children, I know that I am a strange man,

and my life has been devoted to a single end, which is now drawing near

its final development; but I have found time in it to learn to love you

both. Dorothy, my daughter, I drink your health. May the happiness that

was denied to your mother fall upon your head, her share and your share

too! Ernest, you have passed through many troubles, and have been

preserved almost miraculously to see this day. In Dorothy you will find

a reward for everything, for she is a good woman. Perhaps I shall never

live to see your happiness and the children of your happiness—I do not

think I shall; but may the solemn blessing I give you now rest upon

your dear heads! God bless you both, my children. All peace go with

you, Dorothy and Ernest!”

“Amen!” said Jeremy, in a loud voice, and with a vague idea that he was

in church. Then he got up and shook Ernest’s hand so hard in his

fearful grip that the latter was constrained to holloa out, and lifted

Dolly out of her chair like a plaything, and kissed her boisterously,

knocking the orchid-bloom she wore out of her hair in the process. Then

they all sat down again and beamed at one another and drank

port-wine—at least the men did—and were inanely happy.

Indeed, the only person to whom the news was not satisfactory was

Mazooku.

“Ou!” he said, with a grunt, when Jeremy communicated it to him. “So

the Rosebud is going to become the Rose, and I shan’t even be able to

lead my father to bed now. Ou!” And from that day forward Mazooku’s

abstracted appearance showed that he was meditating deeply on

something.

Next morning his uncle sent for Ernest into the office. Dorothy led him

in.

“O, here you are!” said his uncle.

“Yes, here we are, Reginald,” answered Dorothy; “what is it? Shall I go

away?”

“No, don’t go away. What I have to say concerns you both. Come and look

at the orchids, Ernest; they are beautiful. Ah!” he went on,

stammering, “I forgot you can’t see them. Forgive me.”

“Never mind, uncle, I can smell them;” and they went into the

blooming-house appropriated to the temperate kinds.

At the end of this house was a little table and some iron chairs, where

Mr. Cardus would sometimes come and smoke a cigarette. Here they sat

down.

“Now, young people,” said Mr. Cardus, wiping his bald head, “you are

going to get married. May I ask what you are going to get married on?”

“By Jove,” said Ernest, “I never thought of that! I haven’t got much,

except a title, a mansion with ‘numerous and valuable’ heirlooms, and

one hundred and eighty acres of park,” he added, laughing.

“No, I don’t suppose you have; but, luckily for you both, I am not so

badly off, and I mean to do something for you. What do you think would

be the proper thing? Come, Dorothy, my little housewife, what do you

reckon you can live on—living here, I mean, for I suppose that you do

not mean to run away and leave me alone in my old age, do you?”

Dorothy wrinkled up her forehead as she used to as a child, and began

to calculate upon her fingers. Presently she answered:

“Three hundred a year comfortably, quietly on two.”

“What!” said Mr. Cardus, “when the babies begin to come?”

Dorothy blushed, old gentlemen are so unpleasantly out-spoken, and

Ernest jumped, for the prospect of unlimited babies is alarming till

one gets used to it.

“Better make it five hundred,” he said.

“Oh,” said Mr. Cardus, “that’s what you think, is it? Well, I tell you

what I think. I am going to allow you young people two thousand a year

and pay the housekeeping bills.”

“My dear uncle, that is far more than we want.”

“Nonsense, Ernest! it is there and to spare; and why should you not

have it, instead of its piling up in the bank or in investments? There

are enough of them now, I can tell you. Everything that I have touched

has turned to gold; I believe it has often been the case with

unfortunate men. Money! I have more than I know what to do with, and

there are idiots who think that to have lots of money is to be happy.”

He paused awhile and then went on:

“I would give you more, but you are both comparatively young, and I do

not wish to encourage habits of extravagance in you. The world is full

of vicissitudes, and it is impossible for anybody to know how he may be

pecuniarily situated in ten years’ time. But I wish you, Ernest, to

keep up your rank—moderately, if you like, but still to keep it up.

Life is all before you now, and whatever you choose to go in for, you

shall not want the money to back you. Look here, my children, I may as

well tell you that when I die you will inherit nearly all I have got; I

have left it to be divided equally between you, with reversion to the

survivor. I drew up that will some years back, and I do not think that

it is worth while altering it now.”

“Forgive me,” said Ernest, “but how about Jeremy?”

Mr. Cardus’s face changed a little. He had never got over his dislike

of Jeremy, though his sense of justice caused him to stifle it.

“I have not forgotten Jeremy,” he said, in a tone that indicated that

he did not wish to pursue the conversation.

Ernest and Dorothy thanked the old man for his goodness, but he would

not listen, so they went off and left him to return to his

letter-writing. In the passage Dorothy peeped through the glass half of

the door which opened into her grandfather’s room.

There sat the old man writing, writing, his long iron-gray hair hanging

all about his face. Presently he seemed to think of something, and a

smile, which the contorted mouth made ghastly, spread itself over the

pallid countenance. Rising, he went to the corner and extracted a long

tally-stick on which notches were cut. Sitting down again, he counted

the remaining notches over and over, and then took a penknife and cut

one out. This done, he put the stick back, and, looking at the wall,

began to mutter—for he was not quite dumb—and to clasp and unclasp his

powerful hand. Dorothy entered the room quickly.

“Grandfather, what are you doing?” she said sharply.

The old man started, and his jaw dropped. Then the eyes grew dull, and

his usual apathetic look stole over his face. Taking up his slate, he

wrote, “Cutting out my notches.”

Dorothy asked him some farther questions, but could get nothing more

out of him.

“I don’t at all like the way grandfather has been going on lately,” she

said to Ernest. “He is always muttering and clinching his hand, as

though he had some one by the throat. You know he thinks that he has

been serving the fiend all these years, and that his time will be up

shortly, whereas you know, though Reginald had no cause to love him, he

has been very kind to him. If it had not been for Reginald, my

grandfather would have been sent to the madhouse; but because he was

connected with his loss of fortune, he thinks he is the devil. He

forgets how he served Reginald; you see even in madness the mind only

remembers the injuries inflicted on itself, and forgets those it

inflicted on others. I don’t at all like his way.” “I should think that

he had better be shut up.”

“Oh, Reginald would never do it. Come, dear, let us go out.”

It was a month or so after Mr. Cardus’s announcement of his pecuniary

intentions that a little wedding-party stood before the altar in

Kesterwick Church. It was a very small party, consisting, indeed, only

of Ernest, Dorothy, Mr. Cardus, Jeremy, and a few idlers, who, seeing

the church door open, had strolled in to see what was going on. Indeed,

the marriage had been kept a profound secret; for since he had been

blind, Ernest had developed a great dislike to being stared at. Nor,

indeed, had he any liking for the system under which a woman proclaims

with loud and unseemly rejoicings that she has found a man to marry

her, and the clan of her relations celebrate her departure with a few

outward and visible tears and much inward and spiritual joy.

But among that small crowd, unobserved by any of them, quite close up

in the shadow of one of the massive pillars, sat a veiled woman. She

sat quite quiet and still; she might have been carved in stone; but as

the service went on she raised her thick veil, and fixed her keen brown

eyes upon the two who stood before the altar. And as she did so, the

lips of this shadowy lady trembled a little, and a mist of trouble rose

from the unhealthy marshes of her mind and clouded her fine cut

features. Long and steadily she gazed, then dropped the veil again, and

said beneath her breath:

“Was it worth while for this? Well, I have seen him.”

Then this shadowy noble-looking lady rose, and glided from the church,

bearing away with her the daunting burden of her sin.

And Ernest? He stood there and said the responses in his clear manly

voice; but even as he did so there rose before him the semblance of the

little room in faraway Pretoria, and of the vision which he had had of

this very church, and of a man standing where he himself stood now, and

a lovely woman standing where stood Dorothy his wife. Well, it was

gone, as all visions go—as we, who are but visions of a longer life, go

too. It was gone—gone into that limbo of the past which is ever opening

its insatiable maw and swallowing us and our joys and our

sorrows—making a meal of the atoms of to-day that it may support itself

till the atoms of to-morrow are ready for its appetite.

It was gone, and he was married, and Dorothy his wife stood there

wreathed in smiles and blushes which he could not see, and Mr.

Halford’s voice, now grown weak and quavering, was formulating

heartfelt congratulations, which were being repeated in the gigantic

echo of Jeremy’s deep tones, and in his uncle’s quick jerky utterances.

So he took Dorothy his wife into his arms and kissed her, and she led

him down the church to the old vestry, into which so many thousand

newly married couples had passed during the course of the last six

centuries, and he signed his name where they placed his pen upon the

parchment, wondering the while if he was signing it straight, and then

went out, and was helped into the carriage, and driven home.

Ernest and his wife went upon no honeymoon; they stopped quietly there

at the old house, and began to accustom themselves to their new

relationship. Indeed, to the outsider at any rate, there seemed to be

little difference between it and the former one; for they could not be

much more together now than they had been before. Yet in Dorothy’s face

there was a difference. A great peace, an utter satisfaction which had

been wanting before, came down and brooded upon it, and made it

beautiful. She both looked and was a happy woman.

But to the Zulu Mazooku this state of affairs did not appear to be

satisfactory.

One day—it was three days after the marriage—Ernest and Dorothy were

walking together outside the house, when Jeremy, coming in from a visit

to a distant farm, advanced, and, joining them, began to converse on

agricultural matters; for he was already becoming intensely and

annoyingly technical. Presently, as they talked, they became aware of

the sound of naked feet running swiftly over the grass.

“That sounds like a Zulu dancing,” said Ernest, quickly.

It was a Zulu; it was Mazooku, but Mazooku transformed. It had been his

fancy to bring a suit of war finery, such as he had worn when he was

one of Cetywayo’s soldiers, with him from Natal; and now he had donned

it all, and stood before them, a striking yet alarming figure. From his

head a single beautiful gray feather, taken from the Bell crane, rose a

good two feet into the air; around his waist hung a kilt of white

ox-tails, and beneath his right knee and shoulder were small circles of

white goat’s hair. For the rest, he was naked. In his left hand he held

a milk-white fighting shield made of ox-hide, and in his right his

great “bangwan,” or stabbing assegai. Still as a statue he stood before

them, his plume bending in the breeze; and Dorothy, looking with

wondering eyes, marvelled at the broad chest scarred all over with

assegai wounds, and the huge sinewy limbs. Suddenly he raised the

spear, and saluted in sonorous tones:

“Koos! Baba!”

“Speak,” said Ernest.

“I speak, Mazimba, my father. I come to meet my father as a man meets a

man. I come with spear and shield, but not in war. With my father I

came from the land of the sun into this cold land, where the sun is as

pale as the white faces it shines on. Is it not so, my father?”

“I hear you.”

“With my father I came. Did not my father and I stand together for many

a day? Did I not slay the two Basutus down in the land of Secocoeni,

chief of the Bapedi, at my father’s bidding? Did I not once save my

father from the jaws of the wild beast that walks by night—from the

fangs of the lion? Did I not stand by the side of my father at the

place of the Little Hand, when all the plain of Isandhlwana was red

with blood? Do I dream in the night, or was it so, my father?”

“I hear you. It was so.”

“Then when the heavens above smelt out my father, and smote him with

their fire, did I not say, ‘Ah, my father, now art thou blind, and

canst fight no more, and no more play the part of a man. Better that

thou hadst died a man’s death, O my father! But as thou art blind, lo!

whither thou goest, thither will I go also and be my father’s dog.’ Did

I not say this, O Mazimba, my father?”

“Thou didst say it.”

“And so we sailed across the black water, thou Mazimba and I and the

great Lion, like unto whom no man was ever born of woman, and came

hither, and have lived for many moons the lives of women, have eaten

and drunken, and have not fought or hunted, or known the pleasure of

men. Is it not so, Mazimba, my father?”

“Thou speakest truly, Mazooku; it is even so.”

“Yes, we sailed across the black water in the smoking ship, sailed to

the land of wonders, which is full of houses and trees, so that a man

cannot breathe in it, or throw out his arms lest they should strike a

wall; and, behold! there came an ancient one with a shining head

wonderful to look on, and a girl Rosebud, small but very sweet, and

greeted my father and the Lion, and led them away in the carriages

which put the horses inside them, and set them in this place, where

they may look for ever at the sadness of the sea.

“And then, behold, the Rosebud said, ‘What doth this black dog here?

Shall a dog lead Mazimba by the hand? Begone, thou black dog, and walk

in front or ride behind; it is I who will hold Mazimba’s hand.’

“Then my father, sinking deep in ease, and becoming a fat man, rich in

oxen and waggons and corn, said to himself, ‘I will take this Rosebud

to wife.’ And so the Rosebud opened her petals, and closed them round

my father, and became a Rose; and now she sheds her fragrance round him

day by day and night by night, and the black dog stands and howls

outside the door.

“And so, my father, it came to pass that Mazooku, thy ox and thy dog,

communed with his heart, and said: ‘Here is no more any place for thee.

Mazimba thy chief has no longer any need of thee, and behold in this

land of women thou, too, shalt grow like a woman. So get up and go to

thy father, and say to him, “O my father, years ago I put my hand

between thy hands, and became a loyal man to thee; now I would withdraw

it, and return to the land whence we came; for here I am not wanted,

and here I cannot breathe.”’ I have spoken, O my father and my chief.”

“Mazooku, umdanda ga Ingoluvu, umfana ga Amazulu” (son of Ingoluvu,

child of the Zulu race), answered Ernest, adopting the Zulu metaphor,

his voice sounding wonderfully soft as the liquid tongue he spoke so

well came rolling out, “thou hast been a good man to me, and I have

loved thee. But thou shalt go. Thou art right: now is my life the life

of a woman; never again shall I hear the sound of the rifle or the

ringing of steel in war. And so thou goest, Mazooku. It is well. But at

times thou wilt think of thy blind master Mazimba, and of Alston, the

wise captain who sleeps, and of the Lion who threw the ox over his

shoulder. Go, and be happy. Many be thy wives, many thy children, and

countless thy cattle! The Lion shall take thee by the hand and lead

thee to the sea, and shall give thee of my bounty wherewith to buy a

little food when thou comest to thine own land, and a few oxen, and a

piece of ground, or a waggon or two, so that thou shalt not be hungry,

nor want for cattle to give for wives. Mazooku, fare thee well!”

[Illustration: Mazooku’s Farewell.]

“One word, Mazimba, my father, and I will trouble thine ears no more,

since for thee my voice shall be silent for ever. When the time has

come for thee to die, and thou dost pass, as the white men say, up

‘into the heavens above,’ and thy sight dawns again, and thou art once

more a man eager for battle, then turn thee and cry with a loud voice:

‘Mazooku, son of Ingoluvu, of the tribe of the Maquilisini, where art

thou, O my dog? Come thou and serve me!’ And surely, if I still live,

then shall I hear thy voice, and groan and die, that I may pass to

thee; and if I be already dead, then shall I be there at thy side even

as thou callest. This thou wilt do for me, O Mazimba, my father and my

chief, because, lo! I have loved thee as the child loves her who

suckled it, and I would look upon thy face again, O my father from the

olden time, my chief from generation to generation!”

“If it be in my power, this I will do, Mazooku.”

The great Zulu drew himself up, raised his spear, and for the first and

last time in his life gave Ernest the royal salute—to which, by the

way, he had no right at all—“_Bayte, Bayte!_” Then he turned and ran

swiftly thence, nor would he see Ernest again before he went. “The pain

of death was over,” he said.

As the sound of his footsteps grew faint, Ernest sighed.

“There goes our last link with South Africa, Jeremy, my boy. It is a

good thing, for he was growing too fond of the bottle; they all do

here. But it makes me very sad, and sometimes I think that, as Mazooku

says, it is a pity we did not go under with Alston and the others. It

would all have been over now.”

“Thank you,” said Jeremy, after reflecting; “on the whole, I am pretty

comfortable as I am.”

CHAPTER VIII.

MR. CARDUS ACCOMPLISHES HIS REVENGE

Mr. de Talor owed his great wealth not to his own talents, but to a

lucky secret in the manufacture of the grease used on railways

discovered by his father. Talor _pre_ had been a railway-guard till his

discovery brought him wealth. He was a shrewd man, however, and on his

sudden accession of fortune did his best to make a gentleman of his

only son, at that date a lad of fifteen. But it was too late; the

associations and habits of childhood are not easily overcome, and no

earthly power or education could accomplish the desired object. When

his son was twenty years of age, old Jack Talor died, and his son

succeeded to his large fortune and a railway-grease business which

supplied the principal markets of the world.

This son had inherited a good deal of his father’s shrewdness, and set

himself to make the best of his advantages. First he placed a “de”

before his name, and assumed a canting crest. Next he bought the

Ceswick Ness estates, and bloomed into a country gentleman. It was

shortly after this latter event that he made a mistake, and fell in

love with the beauty of the neighbourhood, Mary Atterleigh. But Mary

Atterleigh would have none of him, being at the time secretly engaged

to Mr. Cardus. In vain did he resort to every possible means to shake

her resolution, even going so far as to try to bribe her father to put

pressure upon her; but at this time old Atterleigh, “Hard-riding

Atterleigh,” as he was called, was well off, and resisted his advances,

whereupon De Talor, in a fit of pique, married another woman, who was

only too glad to put up with his vulgarity in consideration of his

wealth and position as a county magnate.

Shortly afterwards three events occurred almost simultaneously.

“Hard-riding Atterleigh” got into money difficulties through

over-gratification of his passion for hounds and horses; Mr. Cardus was

taken abroad for the best part of a year in connection with a business

matter and a man named Jones, a friend of Mr. de Talor’s staying in his

house at the time, fell in love with Mary Atterleigh. Herein De Talor

saw an opportunity of revenge upon his rival, Mr. Cardus. He urged upon

Jones that his real road to the possession of the lady lay through the

pocket of her father, and even went so far as to advance him the

necessary funds to bribe Atterleigh; for though Jones was well off, he

could not at such short notice lay hands upon a sufficient sum in cash

to serve his ends.

The plot succeeded. Atterleigh’s scruples were overcome as easily as

the scruples of men in his position without principle to back them

generally are, and pressure of a most outrageous sort was brought to

bear upon the gentle-minded Mary, with the result that when Mr. Cardus

returned from abroad he found his affianced bride the wife of another

man, who became in due course the father of Jeremy and Dolly.

This cruel and most unexpected bereavement drove Mr. Cardus partially

mad, and when he came to himself there arose in his mind a monomania

for revenge on all concerned in bringing it about. It became the

passion and object of his life. Directing all his remarkable

intelligence and energy to the matter, he early discovered the heinous

part that De Talor had played in the plot, and swore to devote his life

to the unholy purpose of avenging it. For years he pursued his enemy,

trying plan after plan to achieve his ruin, and as one failed fell back

upon another. But to ruin a man of De Talor’s wealth was no easy

matter, especially when, as in the present instance, the avenger was

obliged to work like a mole in the dark, never allowing his enemy to

suspect that he was other than a friend. How he ultimately achieved his

purpose the reader shall now learn.

Ernest and Dorothy had been married about three weeks, and the latter

was just beginning to get accustomed to hearing herself called Lady

Kershaw, when one morning a dogcart drove up to the door, and out of it

emerged Mr. de Talor.

“Dear me, how Mr. de Talor has changed of late!” said Dorothy, who was

looking out of the window.

“How? Has he grown less like a butcher?” asked Ernest.

“No,” she answered; “but he looks like a used-up butcher about to go

through the Bankruptcy Court.”

“Butchers never go bankrupt,” said Ernest; and at that moment Mr de

Talor came in.

Dorothy was right; the man was much changed. The fat cheeks were flabby

and fallen, the insolent air was gone, and he was so shrunken that he

looked not more than half his former size.

“How do you do, Lady Kershaw? I saw Cardus ’ad got some one with him,

so I drove round to pay my respects and congratulate the bride. Why,

bless me. Sir Ernest, you ’ave grown since I saw you last! Ah, we used

to be great friends then. You remember how you used to come and shoot

up at the Ness” (he had once or twice given the two lads a day’s

rabbit-shooting). “But, bless me, I hear that you have become quite a

fire-eater since then, and been knocking over the niggers right and

left—eh?”

He paused for breath, and Ernest said a few words, not many, for he

disliked the man’s flattery as much as in past years he used to dislike

his insolence.

“Ah,” went on De Talor, looking up and pointing to the case containing

the witch’s head, “I see you’ve still got that beastly thing your

brother once showed me; I thought it was a clock, and he pretty well

frightened me out of my wits. Now I think of it, I’ve never ’ad any

luck since I saw that thing.”

At this moment the housekeeper Grice came to say that Mr. Cardus was

ready to see Mr. de Talor if he would step into the office. Dorothy

thought that their visitor turned paler at this news, and it evidently

occupied his mind sufficiently to cause him to hurry from the room

without bidding them good-bye.

When Mr. de Talor entered the office he found the lawyer pacing up and

down.

“How do you do, Cardus?” he said jauntily.

“How do you do, Mr. de Talor?” was the cold reply.

De Talor walked to the glass door and looked at the glowing mass of

blooming orchids.

“Pretty flowers, Cardus, those, very. Orchids, ain’t they? Must have

cost you a pot of money.”

“They have not cost me much, Mr. de Talor; I have reared most of them.”

“Then you are lucky; the bill my man gives me for his orchids is

something awful.”

“You did not come to speak to me about orchids, Mr. de Talor.”

“No, Cardus, I didn’t; business first, pleasure afterwards—eh?”

“Yes,” said Mr. Cardus, in his soft, jerky way. “Business first,

pleasure afterwards.”

Mr. de Talor fidgeted his legs about.

“Well, Cardus, about that mortgage. You are going to give me a little

more time, I hope?”

“On the contrary, Mr. de Talor, the interest being now eight months

overdue, I have given my London agents orders to foreclose, for I don’t

conduct such business myself.”

De Talor turned pale. “Foreclose! Good God, Cardus! it is not

possible—on such an old friend too!”

“Excuse me, it is not only possible, but a fact. Business is business,

even where _old friends_ are concerned.”

“But if you foreclose, what is to become of me, Cardus?”

“That, I imagine, is a matter for your exclusive consideration.”

His visitor gasped, and looked like an unfortunate fish suddenly pulled

out of the water.

“Let us recapitulate the facts. I have at different periods within the

last several years lent you sums of money secured on your landed

estates at Ceswick’s Ness and the neighbourhood, amounting in

all”—referring to a paper—“to one hundred and seventy-six thousand five

hundred and thirty-eight pounds ten shillings and fourpence; or,

reckoning in the overdue interest, to one hundred and seventy-nine

thousand and fifty-two pounds eight shillings. That is so, I think.”

“Yes, I suppose so, Cardus.”

“There is no supposition about it. The documents prove it.”

“Well, Cardus?”

“Well, Mr. de Talor; and now, as you cannot pay, I have instructed my

London agents to commence an action in Chancery for the sale of the

lands, and to buy in the property. It is a most desirable property.”

“O Cardus, don’t be rough on me! I am an old man now, and you led me

into this speculation.”

“Mr. de Talor, I also am an old man; if not very old in years, at least

as old as Methuselah in heart.”

“I don’t understand it all, Cardus.”

“It will give me the greatest pleasure to explain. But to do so I must

go back a little. Some ten or twelve years ago, you may remember,” he

began, sitting down with his back to the light, which struck full on

the wretched De Talor’s face, “that a firm named Rastrick and Codley

took out a patent for a new railway-grease, and set up an establishment

in Manchester not far from the famous De Talor house, which was

established by your father.”

“Yes, curse them!” groaned De Talor.

Mr. Cardus smiled.

“By all means, curse them. But what did this enterprising firm do, Mr.

de Talor? They set to work, and sold a grease superior to the article

manufactured by your house, at about eighteen per cent. cheaper. But

the De Talor house had the ear of the markets, and the contracts with

all the leading lines and Continental firms, and for awhile it seemed

as though the new house must go to the wall; and if they had not had

considerable capital at command, they must have gone to the wall.”

“Ah, and where did they get it from? That’s the mystery,” said De

Talor.

“Precisely; that was the mystery. I shall clear it up a little

presently. To return. After awhile the buyers began to find that

Rastrick and Codley’s grease was a better grease and a cheaper grease,

and as the contracts lapsed, the companies renewed them, not with the

De Talor house, but with the house of Rastrick and Codley. Doubtless

you remember.”

Mr. de Talor groaned in acquiescence, and the lawyer continued: “In

time this state of affairs produced its natural results—De Talor’s

house was ruined, and the bulk of the trade fell into the hands of the

new firm.”

“Ah, I should just like to know who they really were—the low sneaks!”

“Would you? I will tell you. The firm of Rastrick and Codley

were—Reginald Cardus, solicitor, of Dum’s Ness.”

Mr. de Talor struggled out of his chair, looked wildly at the lawyer,

and sank down again.

“You look ill; may I offer you a glass of wine?”

The wretched man shook his head.

“Very good. Doubtless you are curious to know how I, a lawyer, and not

otherwise connected with Manchester, obtained the monopoly of the

grease trade, which is, by the way, at this moment paying very well. I

will satisfy your curiosity. I have always had a mania for taking up

inventions, quite quietly, and in the names of others. Sometimes I have

made money over them, sometimes I have lost; on the whole, I have made

largely. But whether I have made or lost, the inventors have, as a

rule, never known who was backing them. One day, one lucky day, this

railway-grease patent was brought to my notice. I took it up and

invested fifty thousand in it straight off the reel. Then I invested

another fifty thousand. Still your firm cut my throat. I made an

effort, and invested a third fifty thousand. Had I failed, I should

then have been a ruined man; I had strained my credit to the utmost.

But fortune favours the brave, Mr. de Talor, and I succeeded. It was

your firm that failed. I have paid all my debts, and I reckon that the

railway-grease concern is worth, after paying liabilities, some two

hundred thousand pounds. If you should care to go in for it, Messrs.

Rastrick and Codley will, I have no doubt, be most happy to treat with

you. It has served its purpose, and is now in the market.”

De Talor looked at him with amazement. He was too upset to speak.

“So much, Mr. de Talor, for my share in the grease episode. The failure

of your firm, or rather its stoppage from loss of trade, left you still

a rich man, but only half as rich as you had been. And this, you may

remember, made you furious. You could not bear the idea of losing

money; you would rather have lost blood from your veins than sovereigns

from your purse. When you thought of the grease which had melted in the

fire of competition, you could have wept tears of rage. In this plight

you came to me to ask advice.”

“Yes; and you told me to speculate.”

“Not quite accurate, Mr. de Talor. I said—I remember the words

well—‘You are an able man, and understand the money market; why don’t

you take advantage of these fluctuating times, and recoup yourself for

all you have lost?’ The prospect of gain tempted you, Mr. de Talor, and

you jumped at the idea. You asked me to introduce you to a reliable

firm, and I introduced you to Messrs. Campsey and Ash, one of the best

in the City.”

“Confound them for a set of rogues!” answered De Talor.

“Rogues! I am sorry you think so, for I have an interest in their

business.”

“Good heavens! what next?” groaned De Talor.

“Well, notwithstanding the best efforts of Messrs. Campsey and Ash on

your behalf, in pursuance of such written instructions as you from time

to time communicated to them, and to which you can no doubt refer if

you please, things went wrong with you, Mr. de Talor, and year by year,

when your balance-sheet was sent in, you found that you had lost more

than you gained. At last, one unlucky day, about three years ago, you

made a plunge against the advice, you may remember, of Messrs. Campsey

and Ash, and lost. It was after that, that I began to lend you money.

The first loan was for fifty thousand; then came more losses, and more

loans, till at length we had reached the present state of affairs.”

“O Cardus, you don’t mean to sell me up, do you? What shall I do

without money? And think of my daughters: ’ow will they manage without

their comforts? Give me time. What makes you so rough on me?”

Mr. Cardus had been walking up and down the room rapidly. At De Talor’s

words he stopped, and going to a despatch-box, unlocked it, and drew

from a bundle of documents a yellow piece of stamped paper. It was a

cancelled bill for ten thousand pounds in the favour of Jonas de Talor,

Esquire. This bill he came and held before his visitor’s eyes.

“That, I believe, is your signature,” he said quietly, pointing to the

receipt written across the bill.

De Talor turned almost livid with fear, and his lips and hands began to

tremble.

“Where did you get that?” he asked.

Mr. Cardus regarded him, or rather all round him, with the melancholy

black eyes that never looked straight at anything, and yet saw

everything, and then answered:

“Among your friend Jones’s papers. You scoundrel!” he went on, with a

sudden change of manner, “now perhaps you begin to understand why I

have hunted you down step by step: why for thirty years I have waited,

and watched, and failed, and at last succeeded. It is for the sake of

Mary Atterleigh. It was you who, infuriated because she would have none

of such a coarse brute, set the man Jones on to her. It was you who

lent him the money with which to buy her from old Atterleigh. There

lies the proof before you. By the way, Jones need never have repaid you

that ten thousand pounds, for it was marriage-brokage, and therefore

not recoverable at law. It was you, I say, who were the first cause of

my life being laid waste, and who nearly drove me to the madhouse, ay,

who did drive Mary, my betrothed wife, into the arms of that fellow,

whence, God be praised! she soon passed to her rest.”

Mr. Cardus paused, breathing quick with suppressed rage and excitement;

the large white eyebrows contracted till they nearly met, and,

abandoning his usual habit, he looked straight into the eyes of the

abject creature in the chair before him.

“It’s a long while ago, Cardus; can’t you forgive, and let bygones be

bygones?”

“Forgive! Yes, for my own sake, I could forgive; but for her sake, whom

you first dishonoured and then killed, I will never forgive. Where are

your companions in guilt? Jones is dead; I ruined him. Atterleigh is

there; I did not ruin him, because, after all, he was the author of

Mary’s life; but his ill-gotten gains did him no good; a higher power

than mine took vengeance on his crime, and I saved him from the

madhouse. And Jones’s children, they are here too, for once they lay

beneath _her_ breast. But do you think that I will spare you, you

coarse arrogant knave—you, who spawned the plot? No, not if it were to

cost me my own life, would I forego one jot or tittle of my revenge!”

At that moment Mr. Cardus happened to look up, and saw through the

glass part of the door of his office, of which the curtain was

partially drawn, the wild-looking head of Hard-riding Atterleigh. He

appeared to be looking through the door, for his eyes, in which there

was a very peculiar look, were fixed intently upon Mr. Cardus’s face.

When he saw that he was observed, he vanished.

“Now go,” said the lawyer sternly to the prostrate De Talor; “and never

let me see your face again!”

“But I haven’t any money; where am I to go?” groaned De Talor.

“Wherever you like, Mr. de Talor—this is a free country; but, if I had

control of your destination, it should be—to the devil!”

The wretched man staggered to his feet.

“All right, Cardus; I’ll go, I’ll go. You’ve got it all your own way

now. You are damned hard, you are; but perhaps you’ll get it taken out

of you some day. I’m glad you never got hold of Mary; it must have been

pleasant to you to see her marry Jones.”

In another second he was gone, and Mr. Cardus was left thinking, among

other things, of that look in old Atterleigh’s eyes, which he could not

get out of his mind. Thus did he finally accomplish the revenge to

which he had devoted his life.

CHAPTER IX.

MAD ATTERLEIGH’S LAST RIDE

A month had passed since Mr. de Talor had crept, utterly crushed, from

the presence of the man whom Providence had appointed to mete out to

him his due. During this time Mr. Cardus had been busy from morning

till night. He was always a busy man, writing daily with his own hand

an almost incredible number of letters; for he carried on all, or

nearly all, his great affairs by correspondence, but of late his work

seemed to have doubled.

In the course of that month the society in the neighbourhood of

Kesterwick experienced a pleasurable sensation of excitement, for

suddenly the De Talor family vanished off the face of the Kesterwick

world, and the Ceswick Ness estates, after being advertised, were put

up for sale, and bought, so said report, by a London firm of lawyers on

behalf of an unknown client. The De Talors were gone, where to nobody

knew, nor did they much care to inquire—that is, with the exception of

the servants whose wages were left unpaid, and the tradespeople to whom

large sums were owing. They inquired vigorously enough, but without the

smallest result; the De Talors had gone and left no trace, except the

trace of bankruptcy, and Kesterwick knew them no more, but was glad

over the sensation made by their disappearance.

But on one Saturday Mr. Cardus’s business seemed to come to a sudden

stop. He wrote some letters and put them in the post-bag, and then he

went to admire his orchids.

“Life,” he said aloud to himself, “shall be all orchids now; my work is

done. I will build a new house for Brazilian sons, and spend two

hundred pounds on stocking it. Well, I can afford it.”

This was about five o’clock. Half an hour later, when he had well

examined his flowers, he strolled out Titheburgh Abbey way, and here he

met Ernest and his wife, who had been sitting in their favourite spot.

“Well, my dears,” he said, “and how are you?”

“Pretty well, uncle, thank you; and how are you?”

“I? Oh, I am very jolly indeed for an old man; as jolly as an

individual who has just bid good-bye to work for ever should be,” he

said.

“Why, Reginald, what _do_ you mean?”

“Mean, Dorothy, my dear? I mean that I have wound up my affairs and

retired on a modest competence. Ah, you young people should be grateful

to me, for let me tell you that everything is now in apple-pie order,

and when I slip off you will have no trouble at all, except to pay the

probate duty, and that will be considerable. I never quite knew till a

week ago how rich I was; but, as I said the other day, everything I

have touched has turned to gold. It will be a large fortune for you to

manage, my dears; you will find it a great responsibility.”

“I hope you will live many years to manage it yourself,” said Ernest.

“Ah, I don’t know, I am pretty tough; but who can see the future?

Dolly, my dear girl,” he went on, in a dreamy way, “you are growing

like your mother. Do you know, I sometimes think that I am not far off

her now; you see I speak plainly to you two. Years ago I used to

think—that is, sometimes—that your mother was dust and nothing more;

that she had left me for ever; but of late I have changed my ideas. I

have seen,” he went on, speaking in an absent way, as though he were

meditating to himself, “how wonderfully Providence works even in the

affairs of this imperfect world, and I begin to believe that there must

be a place where it allows itself a larger development. Yes, I think I

shall find your mother somewhere, Dorothy, my dear. I seem to feel her

very near me sometimes. Well, I have avenged her.”

“I think that you will find her, Reginald,” she answered; “but your

vengeance is wicked and wrong. I have often made bold to tell you so,

though sometimes you have been angry with me, and I tell you so again.

It can only bring evil with it. What have we poor creatures to do with

vengeance, who do not understand the reason of things, and can scarcely

see an inch before our noses?”

“Perhaps you are right, my love—you generally are right in the main;

but my desire for vengeance upon that man De Talor has been the breath

of my nostrils, and behold! I have achieved it. Man, if he only lives

long enough, and has strength of will enough can achieve anything. But

man fritters away his powers over a variety of objects; he is led

astray in pursuit of the butterfly Pleasure, or the bubble Ambition, or

the Destroying Angel Woman; and his purposes fall to the ground between

a dozen stools. Most men, too, are not capable of a purpose. Men are

weak creatures; and yet what a mighty seed lies hid in every human

breast! Think, my children, what man might, nay, may become, when his

weakness and follies have fallen from him, when his rudimentary virtues

have been developed, and his capacities for physical and mental

beauties brought to an undreamed of perfection! Look at the wild flower

and the flower of the hot-house—it is nothing compared to the

possibilities inherent in man, even as we know him. It is a splendid

dream! Will it ever be fulfilled, I wonder? Well, well—

‘Whatever there is to know

That we shall know one day.’

Come, let us turn; it will soon be time to dress for dinner. By the

way, Dorothy, that reminds me. I don’t quite like the way that your

respected grandfather is going on. I told him that I had no more deeds

for him to copy, that I had done with deeds, and he went and got that

confounded stick of his, and showed me that according to his own little

calculations his time was up; and then he got his slate and wrote about

my being the devil on it, but that I had no more power over him, and

that he was bound for heaven. The other day, too, I caught him staring

at me through the glass of the door with a very queer look in his

eyes.”

“Ah, Reginald, so you have noticed it! I quite agree with you; I don’t

at all like his goings-on. Do you know, I think that he had better be

shut up.”

“I don’t like to shut him up, Dorothy. However, here we are; we will

talk about it to-morrow.”

Having led Ernest to his room, Dorothy, before beginning to dress

herself, went to the office to see if her grandfather was still there.

And there, sure enough, she found him, pacing up and down, muttering,

and waving his long stick, out of which all the notches had now been

cut.

“What are you doing, grandfather?” she asked; “why haven’t you gone to

dress?”

He snatched up his slate and wrote rapidly upon it:

“Time’s up! Time’s up! Time’s up! I’ve done with the devil and all his

works. I’m off to heaven on the big black horse to find Mary. Who are

you? You look like Mary.”

“Grandfather,” said Dolly, quietly taking the slate out of his hand,

“what do you mean by writing such nonsense? Let me hear no more of it.

You ought to be ashamed of yourself. Now, mind, I will have no more of

it. Put away that stick, and go and wash your hands for dinner.”

The old man did as he was bid somewhat sulkily, Dorothy thought; but

when he arrived at the dinner-table there was nothing noticeable about

his manner.

They dined at a quarter to seven, and dinner did not take them very

long. When it was over, old Atterleigh drank some wine, and then,

according to his habit, went and sat in the ancient ingle-nook which

had presumably been built by the forgotten Dum for his comfort on

winter evenings. And on winter evenings, when there was a jolly

wood-fire burning on the hearth, it was a pleasant spot enough; but to

sit there in the dark on a lovely summer night was an act, well—worthy

of old Atterleigh.

After dinner the conversation turned upon that fatal day when Alston’s

Horse was wiped out at Isandhlwana. It was a painful subject both to

Ernest and Jeremy, but the former was gratifying his uncle’s curiosity

by explaining to him how that last dread struggle with the six Zulus

came to determine itself in their favour.

“And how was it,” asked Mr. Cardus, “that you managed to get the better

of the fellow you rolled down the hill with?”

“Because the assegai broke, and, fortunately enough, the blade was left

in my hand. Where is it, Doll?” (for Jeremy had brought it home with

him.)

Dorothy got up and reached the broken assegai, which had about eight

inches of the shaft, from its place over the mantelpiece.

“Now then, Jeremy, if you would be so good as to sprawl upon your back

on the floor, I will just show my uncle what happened.”

Jeremy complied, not without grumbling about dirtying his dress-coat.

“Now, Jeremy, my boy, where are you? O, there! Well, excuse my taking

the liberty of kneeling on your chest, and holloa out if the assegai

goes into you. If we are going to have a performance at all, it may as

well be a realistic one. Now, uncle, you see when we finished rolling,

which was just as this assegai snapped in two, as luck would have it I

was uppermost, and managed to get my knee on my friend’s left arm and

to hold his right with my left. Then, before he could get loose, I

drove this bit of spear through the side of his throat, just there, so

that it cut the jugular vein, and he died shortly afterwards; and now

you know all about it.”

Here Ernest rose and laid the spear upon the table, and Jeremy,

entering into the spirit of the thing, began to die as artistically as

a regard for his dress-coat would allow. Just then Dorothy, looking up,

saw her grandfather Atterleigh’s distorted face peering round the wall

of the ingle-nook, where he was sitting in the dark, and looking at the

scene of mimic slaughter with that same curious gaze that he had worn

on several occasions lately. He withdrew his head at once.

“Get up, Jeremy!” said his sister, sharply, “and stop writhing about

there like a great snake. You look as though you had been murdered; it

is horrible!”

Jeremy arose laughing, and, having obtained Dorothy’s permission, they

all lit their pipes, and, sitting there in the fading light, fell to

talking about that sad scene of slaughter, which indeed appeared that

night to have a strange fascination for Mr. Cardus. He asked Ernest and

Jeremy about it again and again—how this man was killed, and that?—did

they die at once? and so on.

The subject was always distressing to Ernest, and one to which he

rarely alluded, full as it was for him of the most painful

recollections, especially those connected with his dear friend Alston

and his son.

Dorothy knew this, and knew too that Ernest would be low spirited, for

at least a day after the conversation, which she did her best to stop.

At last she succeeded; but the melancholy associations connected with

the talk had apparently already done their work, for everybody lapsed

into the most complete silence, and sat grouped together at the top end

of the old oak table as quietly as though they were cut in stone.

Meanwhile, the twilight deepened, and little gusts of wind arose, and

gently shook the old-fashioned window-lattices, making a sound as

though feeble hands were trying to throw them open. The dull evening

light crept from place to place, and threw great shadows about the

room, glanced upon the armour on its panelled walls, and at last began

to die away into darkness. The whole scene was eerie, and for some

unknown reason it oppressed Dorothy. She wondered why everybody was so

silent, and yet she herself did not feel equal to breaking the silence;

there was a load upon her heart.

Just then a curious thing happened. As may be remembered, the case

containing the wonderful mummied head, found by Eva Ceswick, had years

before been placed by Jeremy upon a bracket at the end of the room.

Round about this case hung various pieces of armour, and among others,

above it, suspended by a piece of string from a projecting hook, was a

heavy iron gauntlet. For many years—twenty or more—it had hung from the

hook, but now at last the string was worn through, and even as Dorothy

was wondering at the silence it gave. Down came the heavy iron hand

with a crash, and, as it passed, it caught the latch of the long

air-tight case, and jarred the door wide open.

Everybody in the room sprang to their feet, and, as they did so, a last

ray from the setting sun struggled through one of the windows and

rested upon the open case, staining it, and all about it, the hue of

blood, and filling the fearful crystal eyes within with a lurid light.

How they glowed and shone, to be sure, after their long years of

sleep!—for the case had scarcely been opened for years—while their

tremulous glance, now dull, now intense, according as the light played

upon them, appeared to wander round and round the room, as though in

search of somebody or something.

It was an awful sight which that ray of sunlight showed, as it played

upon the trembling crystal orbs, the scornful, deathly features, and

the matchless hair that streamed on either side. Together with the

sudden break in the silence, caused by the crashing fall of the

gauntlet, as it had done many years before, it proved altogether too

much for the beholder’s nerves.

“What is that?” asked Ernest, with a start, as the gauntlet fell.

Dorothy glanced up and gave a little cry of horror. “Oh, that dreadful

head! it is looking at us.”

They all rose to their feet, and Dorothy, seizing Ernest by one hand,

and covering her eyes with the other, retreated, slowly followed by the

others, towards the swing-door. Soon they had reached the door, were

through it, down the passage, and out into the peaceful stillness of

the evening. Then Jeremy spoke, and his language was more forcible than

polite.

“Well, I am blowed!” he said, wiping the cold perspiration from his

forehead.

“Oh, Reginald, I do wish you would get that horrible thing out of the

house; there has been nothing but misfortune ever since it has been

here. I cannot bear it, I cannot bear it!” said Dolly, hysterically.

“Nonsense, you superstitious child!” answered Mr. Cardus, who was now

recovering from his start. “The gauntlet knocked the door open, that

was all. It is nothing but a mummied head; but, if you don’t like it, I

will send it to the British Museum to-morrow.”

“Oh, please do, Reginald,” answered Dorothy, who appeared quite

unhinged.

So hurried had been their retreat from the room that everybody had

forgotten “Hard-riding Atterleigh” sitting in the dark in the

ingle-nook. But the bustle in the room had attracted him, and already,

before they had left, he had projected his large head covered with the

tangled gray locks, and begun to stare about. Presently his eyes fell

upon the crystal orbs, and then, to him, the orbs appeared to cease

their wanderings and rest upon his eyes. For awhile the two heads

stared at each other thus—the golden head without a body in the box,

and the gray head that, thrust out as it were from the ingle-wall,

seemed to have no body either. They stared and stared, till at last the

golden head got the mastery of the grey head, and the old man crept

from his corner, crept down the room till he was almost beneath the

baleful eyes, and _nodded, nodded, nodded_ at them.

And they, too, seemed to _nod, nod, nod_ at him. Then he retreated

backwards as slowly as he had come, nodding all the while, till he came

to where the broken assegai lay upon the table, and, taking it, thrust

it up his sleeve. As he did so, the ray of light faded and the fiery

eyes went out. It was as though the thick white lids and long eyelashes

had dropped over them.

None of the other four returned to the sitting-room that night.

When he had recovered from his fright, Jeremy went into his little

room, the same in which he used to stuff birds as a boy, and busied

himself with his farm accounts. Mr. Cardus, Dorothy, and Ernest walked

about together in the balmy moonlight, for, very shortly after the

twilight had departed, the great harvest-moon came up and flooded the

world with light. Mr. Cardus was in a talkative, excited mood that

night. He talked about his affairs, which he had now finally wound up,

and about Mary Atterleigh, mentioning little tricks of manner and voice

which were reproduced in Dorothy. He talked too about Ernest’s and

Dorothy’s marriage, and said what a comfort it was to him. Finally,

about ten o’clock, he said that he was tired and was going to bed.

“God bless you, my dears; sleep well! Good-night,” he said. “We will

settle about that new orchid-house to-morrow. Good-night, good-night.”

Shortly afterwards Dorothy and Ernest also went to bed, reaching their

room by a back entrance, for they neither of them felt inclined to come

under the fire of the crystal eyes again, and soon they were asleep in

each other’s arms.

The minutes stole on one by one through the dead silence of the night,

bearing their records with them to the archives of the past. Eleven

o’clock came and fled away; midnight came too, and swept on bat-like

wings across the world. Everywhere—on land, sky, and sea—there was

silence, nothing but silence sleeping in the moonlight.

_Hark!_ Oh, heavens, what was that!

One fearful, heartrending yell of agony, ringing all through the

ancient house, rattling the casements, shaking the armour against the

panelled walls, pulsing and throbbing in horrible notes out into the

night, echoing and dying far away over the sea! And then silence again,

silence sleeping in the moonlight.

They sprang from their beds, did every living soul beneath that roof,

and rushed in their night-gear, men and women together, into the

sitting-room. The crystal eyes seemed to be awake again, for the moon

was up and played upon them, causing them now and then to flash out in

gleams of opalescent light.

Somebody lit a candle, somebody missed Mr. Cardus; surely he could

never have slept through that! Yes, he had slept through it. They

rushed and tumbled, a confused mass of white, into the room where he

lay. He was there sure enough, and he slept very sound, with a red gash

in his throat, from which the blood fell in heavy drops, down, down to

the ground.

They stood aghast, and as they stood, from the courtyard outside there

came a sound of galloping hoofs. They knew the sound of the galloping;

it was that of Ernest’s great black stallion!

A mile or more away out on the marshes, just before you come to the

well-known quicksands, which have, tradition says, swallowed so many

unfortunates, and which shudder palpably at times and are unpleasant to

look on, stands a lock-house, inhabited by one solitary man, who has

charge of the sluice. On this very night it is necessary for him to

open his sluice-gates at a particular moment, and now he stands

awaiting that propitious time. He is an ancient mariner; his hands are

in his pockets, his pipe is in his mouth, his eyes are fixed upon the

sea. We have met him before. Suddenly he hears the sound of a powerful

horse galloping furiously. He turns, and his hair begins to rise upon

his head, for this is what he sees in the bright moonlight:

Fast, fast towards him thunders a great coal-black horse, snorting with

mingled rage and terror, and on its bare back there sits a man with a

grip of iron—an old man, for his gray locks stream out behind him—who

waves above his head the fragment of a spear.

On they come. Before them is the wide sluice; if they are mortal, they

will turn or plunge into it. No; the great black horse gathers himself,

and springs into the air.

By Heaven, he has cleared it! No horse ever took that leap before, or

will again. On at whirlwind speed towards the shuddering quicksand two

hundred yards away!

_Splash!_ Horse and man are in it, making the moist mass shake and

tremble for twenty yards round. The bright moonlight shows it all. The

horse shrieks in fear and agony, as only a horse can; the man on its

back waves the spear.

The horse vanishes, the man vanishes; the spear glitters an instant

longer in the moonlight, and then vanishes too. They have all vanished

for ever.

They have all vanished, and again the perfect silence sleeps in the

moonlight.

“Bust me!” says the ancient one, aloud, and shaking with a mortal

dread; “bust me, I have stood still and seed many a queer thing, but I

never seed a thing like that!” And he turned and fled fast as his old

legs would carry him, forgetful of Dutch cheeses and of sluice-gates,

forgetful of everything except that demon horse and man.

Thus ended “Hard-riding Atterleigh’s” maddest gallop, and thus, too

ended the story of Mr. Cardus and his revenge.

[Illustration: Mad Atterleigh’s last Ride.]

CHAPTER X.

DOROTHY’S TRIUMPH

Some years passed before Eva Plowden returned to Kesterwick, and then

she was carried thither. Alive she did not return, nor during all those

years did she and Ernest ever meet.

They buried her, in obedience to her last wishes, there in the

churchyard where lay generation upon generation of her ancient race,

and the daisies grew above her head. Twice had they bloomed above her

before Sir Ernest Kershaw stood by the spot, hallowed by the presence

of what once held the spirit of the woman he had loved.

Ernest was now getting well into middle life, and Dorothy’s bright hair

was slightly lined with gray, as they stood that summer evening by

Eva’s grave. Many things had happened to the pair since Mr. Cardus’s

tragic death. They had had children—some they had lost, some

remained—honest English lads and lasses, with their father’s eyes. They

had enjoyed great wealth, and spent it royally, giving with both hands

to all who needed. They had drunk deep of the cup of this world’s joys

and sorrows. Ernest had gone into Parliament for a couple of years, and

made something of a name there. Then, impatient for the active life of

other days, he had accepted a high Colonial appointment, for which,

notwithstanding his blindness, his wealth and parliamentary reputation

eminently fitted him. Now he was just about to leave to fill the

governorship of one of the Australian colonies.

Long years had passed, many things had happened; and yet as he stood by

that heap of turf, which he could not see, it seemed but yesterday

when—and he sighed.

“Not quite cured yet, Ernest?” said Dorothy, interrogatively.

“Yes, Dorothy,” he answered, with a little sigh, “I think I am cured.

At any rate,” he went on, as she took his hand to lead him away from

the grave, “I have learned to accept the decrees of Providence without

murmuring. I have done with dreams, and outlived pessimism. Life would,

it is true, have been a different thing for me if poor Eva had not

deserted me, for she poisoned its waters at the fount, and so they have

always tasted bitter. But happiness is not the end and object of man’s

existence; and if I could I do not think I would undo the past. Take me

to the old flat tombstone, Dolly, near the door.”

She led him to it, and he sat down.

“Ah,” he went on, “how beautiful she was! Was there ever woman like

her, I wonder? And now her bones lie there; her beauty is all gone; and

there lives of her only the unending issues of _what she did._ I have

only to think, Dolly, and I can see her as I saw her a score of times

passing in and out of this church-door. Yes, I can see her, and the

people round her, and the clothes she wore, and the smile in her

beautiful dark eyes—for her eyes seemed to smile, you remember, Dolly.

How I worshipped her, too, with all my heart and soul and strength, as

though she were an angel! And that was my mistake, Dolly. She was only

a woman—a weak woman.”

“You said just now that you were cured, Ernest; one would hardly think

it to hear you talk,” put in Dorothy, smiling.

“Yes, Doll, I am cured; you have cured me, my dear wife, for you have

crept into my life, and taken possession of it, so that there is little

room for anybody else; and now, Dorothy, I love you with all my heart.”

She pressed his hand and smiled again, for she knew that she had

triumphed, and that he did love her, truly love her, and that his

passion for Eva was a poor thing compared to what it had been years

before—more indeed of a tender regret, not unmingled with a starry

hope, than a passion at all. Dorothy was a clever little person, and

understood something of Ernest and the human heart in general. She had

thought long ago that she would win Ernest altogether to her in the

end. By what tenderness, by what devotion and nobility of character she

accomplished this, those who know her can well imagine, but in the end

she did accomplish it, as she deserved to. The contrast between the

conduct of the two women who had mainly influenced his life was too

marked for Ernest, a man of a just and reasonable mind, to altogether

ignore; and when once he came to comparisons the natural results

followed. And yet, though he learned to love Dorothy so dearly, it

cannot be said that he forgot Eva; because there are things that some

men can never forget, since they are a part of their inner life, and of

these first love is unfortunately one.

“Ernest,” went on Dorothy, “you remember what you told me when you

asked me to marry you in Titheburgh Abbey, about your belief that your

affection for Eva would outlast this world. Do you still believe that?”

“Yes, Doll, to a great extent.”

His wife sat and thought for a minute.

“Ernest,” she said presently.

“Yes, dear.”

“I have managed to hold my own against Eva in this world, when she had

all the chances and all the beauty on her side, and what I have to say

about your theories now is, that when we get to the next, and are all

beautiful, it will be very strange if I don’t manage to hold my own

there. She had her chance, and she threw it away; now I have got mine,

and I don’t mean to throw it away, either in this world or the next.”

Ernest laughed a little. “I must say, my dear, it would be a very poor

heaven if you were not there.”

“I should think so, indeed. ‘Those whom God hath joined together let

not man put asunder’—nor woman either. But what is the good of our

stopping here to talk such stuff about things of which we really

understand nothing? Come, Ernest, Jeremy and the boys will be waiting

for us.”

And so hand in hand they went on homeward through the quiet twilight.