Noontide in Kafirland! what a glow! A bold but popular authoress was
severely rated lately for the passage, "made twilight undulate." Truly,
in an African noon the atmosphere flickers like water.
Not a sound, save the great bee, as large as a beetle, going whooming,
whooming, among the doricas and convolvuluses screening the verandah.
The locusts, all emerald and scarlet and gold, lie motionless in the
pomegranate hedges. The cattle stand panting in the plains, too much
exhausted to feed. The Hottentots are enjoying the sun in their own
way, either fast asleep, with their yellow faces turned upward to the
dazzling sky, or sitting smoking in the glare; and the dogs seek shady
corners, and breathe last and hard, with their pink tongues hanging out
of their parched mouths.
On the reinforcement of the Annerley garrison, the Kafirs had deemed it
prudent to "sit still" in the hills. Doubtless, too, they were awaiting
the issue of the grand meeting in the Amatola valley. A certain feeling
of security for the present drew the inmates of the dwelling-house
together in various occupations. The ladies resumed their feminine
employments, and the mornings were passed in the entrance-hall, which,
like those of most South African residences, was fitted up as a family
sitting-room.
It was a pretty cool retreat in general, but this morning the air was so
sultry, that every one felt listless--every one but Mr Trail, and he
was busy, as usual, in his school. The hum of the children's voices was
audible in the hall. Marion said it made her quite sleepy to listen to
it; she threw down her pencil. Ormsby sat looking at her over his book,
as he pretended to read, lounging in his camp chair. Mrs Daveney was
writing; but now and then she would raise her eyes to her youngest
daughter, and glance from her to Ormsby. It was evident that the young
officer's attentions to Marion were observed by the mother. Eleanor and
Mrs Trail were sorting books and work for the school, the Bechuana
teacher standing by, looking, as Ormsby said, provokingly cool.
Frankfort sat with a book in his hand also, but attentively noting all
that was passing.
He was beginning to feel a little uneasy respecting Marion, and the
thoughtless flirt, Ormsby--the girl so innocent, so fair, and barely
seventeen. He observed, too, that her sister, at times, looked
anxiously towards these young people, who always contrived to be side by
side, interested in some particular object or topic.
Mrs Daveney finished her despatch, closed her desk, and begging Marion
to follow her, left the room. Marion pouted, but obeyed; Ormsby
retreated to solace himself with a cigar. Mrs Trail was sent for by
her husband, the Bechuana girl carried off the books and work, and
Frankfort and Eleanor were left alone.
Frankfort was a man unaccustomed to violent emotions, and, as we have
shown, not usually susceptible of sudden impressions; besides which, he
had acquired a habit of reasoning with himself, when other men would
have been too selfish to see the necessity of it; but all the reasoning
in the world now would not subdue the throbbing of his pulses as the
young widow's dress swept past him on her way to the door.
Mr Daveney was expected that night; the anxious daughter was dreading a
storm.
"Ah!" said she, shading her eyes as she looked towards the hills, "this
bright day portends mischief, I fear. God grant my father may reach
home by sunset."
A hot blast of air poured through the doorway. She closed it, and sat
down within a few feet of Frankfort. He felt she was on the point of
addressing him, and saw, by her embarrassed air, that what she was going
to say was not mere commonplace.
"Major Frankfort," said she, after a short pause, "I am glad to have
this opportunity of addressing a few words to you on a matter of deep
concern to me. I am not going to speak of myself--my history cannot
interest you, although it must be clear to you that I am a joyless
creature--but I, claiming a right to judge and act for those I love,
because sorrowful experience has aged me more than years beyond them--I
venture to ask for a proof of your friendship, albeit we have been
acquainted little more than one week--" She hesitated--Frankfort looked
at her, her eyes were cast down, the tears were beginning to steal from
under the drooping lids; he could not speak, his heart was so full of
pity, and yet there were doubts mingled with this pity--was there any
self-reproach added to the bitterness of the anguish that oppressed that
stricken heart?
He was thinking only of Eleanor, while she was intent on interesting him
in her sister's welfare--she brushed away the tears.
"Ah!" said she, "how self stands between us and the impulses of good!
Here I have come, with the resolution to do my duty to my sister, and I
am alluding to my own vain regrets for what can never be amended--it is
of Marion I would speak, Major Frankfort. Your friend Mr Ormsby is
evidently a man of the world, who sees no harm in devoting himself to
any young creature who may take his fancy far the time. Will you pardon
my reminding you, that if you have observed this, it must suggest itself
to you--it must clearly be your--your duty, to speak to him? Alas,
alas!" added she, "I scarcely know how to address you on this most
painful subject; men are so apt to impute evil motives to women, whose
principles are honest, whose minds would be pure, but for the heavy
lessons learned from the other sex. Ah!" continued she, covering her
face with her hands to hide the blushes that crimsoned it, "can I trust
you--will you help me? Save my sister, my darling Marion,--save her
from the misery of a blighted heart. Oh, think, Major Frankfort, how
terrible a doom it is to dwell in the desert, with but the record of a
dream!
------------------------------------------------------------------------
"You would understand me better if you knew all--you would appreciate my
earnestness, my anxiety to shield my sister from a deadly sorrow, ere it
be too late. Ah!" she cried, clasping her hands, and speaking with more
energy than she had hitherto displayed, "if you should set down what I
say to wrong account--if you _should_ misunderstand me!--"
"Believe me, Mrs Lyle," answered Frankfort, with great
emotion,--"believe me, when I say that, from the depths of my soul, I
understand you."
He lifted his eyes to her face as he spoke. At the mention of her name,
"Mrs Lyle," something like a spasm passed across her features, and he
saw her slender fingers close convulsively together. His words admitted
of opposite interpretations, but the deep sympathy expressed in that
frank and earnest face was too manifest to be doubted for an instant.
Eleanor's eyes drooped beneath the melting gaze that fixed itself upon
them. It was long since she had received such silent but expressive
homage. She thought but little of it after the first instant of
surprise. She put no trust in man.
The deep blush passed away, and left the cheek as cold and statue-like
as ever. She went on speaking of her sister. "It may seem," she
continued, "that I am assuming my mother's prerogative in opening this
subject; but I wish to spare both her and my father pain and anxiety
during this period of public harass and responsibility, and therefore,
relying on, or rather treating to, your generosity, I hope I may depend
on you to remonstrate with Mr Ormsby on his show of devotion to my
sister, since it can mean nothing."
"But," said Frankfort, "is it fair to speak of it as a _show_ of
devotion? Your sister is one who would command admiration in any
circle. She is so charmingly fresh and innocent--so unlike the young
ladies who, as you say, would be pure in heart but for the heavy lessons
taught them by our sex, that, putting beauty out of the question, my
friend would be happy indeed in winning the affections of such a being
as she appears to be."
"As she _appears_ to be! Oh, wise and cautious that you are!--more
merciful though than he, _you_ would not seek at first sight to win a
prize, believing it to be pure gold, and then reject it, because, on
nearer view, you discovered the dross of human weakness!" She spoke
with a bitterness which Frankfort felt was foreign to her gentle nature.
He had not been for ten days domesticated with this sorrow-laden woman
without discovering, in those trifles which mark the character, how
tender, how feminine she was! She ceased to speak--but he could not
withdraw his gaze from her earnest, mournful face. Every word, every
look, betokened the strangest associations of worldly experience with
the simplicity of a naturally trusting heart. The nervous trepidation,
the modest blush, the sweet, faltering voice, how deeply were they
contrasted with the resolute way in which she urged her right of
sisterly guardianship, and the opinions she permitted to escape her
lips, albeit unused to rebuke, or to the expression of ungentle
thoughts!
By what silver cords are we often drawn unconsciously towards each
other! Frankfort, for aught Eleanor considered, might have been one of
those who thought ill of the female sex because he had received its
favours; Eleanor, for aught Frankfort _knew_, might be playing a part.
A mere man of the world would have suspected her of laying a scheme to
ensnare Ormsby for her sister's sake, whilst willing to attract himself;
but both were single-minded, honest-hearted people. The woman's heart
was full of anxiety, and she longed for help from a strong and steady
hand; she met with an open palm, and she accepted its assistance in all
confidence and security.
They parted, Frankfort promising to put the matter in a serious light
before his thoughtless friend, Eleanor thanking him for her sister's
sake, and totally unconscious of the spell she was gradually weaving
round the hitherto untouched heart of the thoughtful, high-souled
soldier.
He knew the weight of his influence with Ormsby. That night, after Mr
Daveney's return, Eleanor looked from her window into the avenue,
between the mansion and the gateway. Two figures were pacing beneath
the over-arching trees. Now they stopped and talked; now the slighter
of the two left the other, with an angry gesture, then returned; now
they were linked, arm in arm, and approached nearer the house.
Eleanor had left her light in her sister's room, and Marion was calling
to her to say "Good night;" she was full of a ride next day. "How
charming, after being shut up so long! Papa even thought these might be
peace with Kafirland, after all. Some of the chiefs had sent him
messengers, with flags of truce, and at any rate the open plains would
be safe, and they should have a gallant escort, and--"
Marion was rattling on, as she sat before her glass, brushing her bright
hair, which hung in great luxuriance over her white dressing-gown; but
hearing no reply from Eleanor, she turned round, and saw her sister,
with her head leaning on her hand, in her old abstracted way: jumping
up, she ran to her, and casting her arms--how dazzlingly fair they
looked against that sable robe!--round Eleanor's neck, she exclaimed,
"Sweet sister mine, how selfish I must seem; but I am so happy!--and
you--ah! you only answer me with your tears; but, my own darling, you
must not refuse to be comforted--you _must_ not." And she kissed the
high, thoughtful brow of the pale, sad face she loved.
"Comfort, Marion! dear, bright-faced, light-hearted sister!--earth can
give me no comfort, no consolation; but I love you--I love _you_;" and
she took Marion to her bosom, and kissed her tenderly. "Consolation and
comfort are yet to come. Doubtless they _will_ come, but they have not
been granted me yet. Ah! `Sunbeam,'" she added, calling her by the
name a Kafir chieftain had applied to Marion--"`Sunbeam,' may no clouds
overshadow you!"
She longed--oh! how she longed--to warn Marion of the thorns and rugged
ways of the path which looked so fair, with Love beckoning in the
distance, and smiling at the feet that stumbled in striving to reach his
temple, in which were many altars--some of triumph, most of sacrifice;
but she had not the heart to rend aside the veil.
She gathered up her sister's radiant tresses, kissed again the rosy
cheek, and withdrew to her own little room. The moon shone through the
latticed windows, chequering the objects it illuminated: she
extinguished her light, and looked out into the avenue. Frankfort and
Ormsby were still there. On the right and left were the wagons: the
_lager_ consisted of some twenty people on either side, but all was
noiseless, save the pacing of a solitary sentinel, who waited for
Frankfort to go the midnight rounds. The latter hurried up the avenue,
and bid the man proceed, saying he would follow; and then she heard the
two officers exchange a friendly "Good night."
"Remember," said Frankfort.
"I will," replied Ormsby; "you are right, and I am wrong, my good
fellow." The rest was lost to Eleanor, who retired from the window.
Another blazing day! Mrs Daveney established herself with Marion and
Mrs Trail in the cool dining-room; Eleanor was assisting Mr Trail in
the school; Frankfort was displaying his success in engineering to his
host, and was planning work for Ormsby and himself.
Marion was more listless than usual, laying down her work--sad, stupid
work it was--coarse frock-making for those "wretched little
Hottentots"--and lifting up the dark moreen blinds to see if
thunder-clouds were gathering. "No; there were streaks in the sky like
great white plumes, there would be a breeze in the evening, and she
should have her ride."
"Sit down, Marion," said Mrs Daveney, rather impatiently; "how restless
you are! it is impossible to write while you are wandering about the
room."
Marion sat down, her cheeks in a glow, and stitched away in nervous
haste. Her mother noted all this.
At the early dinner all the party met again. There was some change of
seats, in consequence of Mr Daveney resuming his accustomed place at
his table. Mrs Daveney's keen eye remarked that Ormsby was not at
Marion's side as usual, and then, to her surprise, she saw a glance of
intelligence pass between Frankfort and Eleanor.
She recognised the meaning of this at once.
The ride was again talked of, and Mr Daveney yielded to Marion's
entreaty "only for an hour's canter in the cool of the day." Eleanor
consented to go; that decided her father.
You will have discovered, dear reader--I am always inclined to like my
reader--that Mrs Daveney was a woman likely to be a little jealous of
her own authority. It was fortunate that her husband was content to
_share_ his with her, otherwise there would have been struggles for the
real and the fancied prerogative, in which the high-spirited woman would
have surely conquered. She was certain that Eleanor had opened her mind
to Frankfort on the subject of Ormsby's devotion to Marion, and she felt
angry at being, as she considered, forestalled in her prerogative; and
Eleanor, you know, had some compunction in the matter too.
You will have discovered, too, that between the mother and elder
daughter there was not that tenderness, of manner at least, which
existed between Mrs Daveney and Marion. Eleanor had been born during
the illness of that best-beloved being, who had entered the world when
dangers beset his parents--poor little quiet thing! she was set aside at
once, that this fragile creature might, if possible, be saved. He died;
and then there came, as consolation, the bright-eyed, rosy-lipped
Marion.
But with the father, the gentle, dark-haired Eleanor had made her steady
way, and kept it. She grew up, to use a trite simile, like a violet in
the shade. No one thought anything of that colourless oval face, those
dove-like eyes, that intelligent brow shaded by heavy curls. There was
no promise in the thin, small figure; the gentle voice was seldom heard;
the smile not often seen; and it was with considerable satisfaction that
Mrs Daveney consented to let the delicate, drooping girl accompany her
father on a visit to the Governor's wife at Cape Town.
The said Governor's wife, Lady Annabel Fairfax, was a relative of Mr
Daveney's. She had loved him in her youth, but he had never known
_that_; and now she welcomed his gentle daughter with that deep
tenderness which pure-hearted women feel for the children of those on
whom their first affections have been bestowed.
But we shall have to refer to this part of Eleanor's history by-and-by.
While she rides, her mother is pacing the verandah with Mr Trail. Good
Mr Trail, he is soothing that ruffled spirit, deprecating its jealousy
of authority in trifles; he analyses Mrs Daveney's motives, he sifts
them like wheat before her very face, and he condenses, in the
"half-hour's talk," almost the history of her moral life since her
marriage. He is a very old friend; he has been associated with her in
her husband's district for years; he has seen her children grow up, and
he loves them.
He loves Eleanor best, though: we naturally feel most for those we pity.
And Eleanor--she is riding side-by-side with Major Frankfort. Ah, take
heed, Frankfort--she has, as yet, no thought of thee!
It was like a picture of a hunting-party in old times. Eleanor revived
to new life on horseback, and her bright bay steed rejoiced in the
precious burden he bore. She took the lead with Frankfort, leaving her
father with Marion and Ormsby. Poor Ormsby, he deserved some credit for
letting Frankfort arrange the reins for Marion; but the rosy lips were
pouting, the eyes reproachfully turned towards him, and he could not
resist the temptation of joining her in the avenue when her father fell
back to see that the escort following them was well armed.
Start not, reader, at the notion of ladies riding for pleasure with
armed escorts in a heathen land. Many a time and oft have I traversed
these enamelled plains, too much exhilarated with the grandeur of the
scene to think of danger.
Eleanor, in her dark riding-habit, fitting so as admirably to display
the graceful shape and easy attitude of the rider, a large, simple straw
hat shading the face, over which, under the influence of the refreshing
breeze, a hue like the inside of a delicate shell was stealing, was a
delightful picture to Frankfort, who had often longed to draw her from
the shade she always sought; and Marion, in a riding-dress like her
sister's, but with an ostrich plume wound round her hat, resembled one
of those saucy dames, who "went a hunting" in the merry days of vicious,
pleasant, witty Charles the Second.
They scarce drew rein for four miles. There was no spoor of Kafirs, the
hills were silent, and there were herds of bucks gathered on the plains.
The tribes were evidently sitting ominously still.
The Trails and Mrs Daveney were watching at the gateway when the riders
came in sight. Those left behind were always anxious till the wanderers
came back again, in these uncertain days.
The time of truce was passed by the settlers in the district in "making
ready" for the expectant foe--in Kafirland the people were collecting
cattle, arms, and ammunition. It was the lull that precedes the storm,
and the community at Annerley knew it. All there calmly but resolutely
awaited the crisis. The women, children, and old men, occupying the
wagon bivouac, were fain to be content with the news they received
occasionally from their friends at their homesteads; the Trails kept the
even tenor of their way in the school, and among the humble people of
the settlement; and Ormsby, unable to restrain his passion for Marion,
was in a serious dilemma between his wish to remain and Frankfort's
advice to him to rejoin his regiment at once, if he was not in earnest.
"In earnest, my good fellow!" exclaimed the incorrigible flirt; "you
don't suppose I am in earnest, do you?"
"Then, if you are not in earnest, according to the world's acceptance of
the term," replied Frankfort, "you should go. If you remain under such
circumstances, I can neither consider you as a man of honour nor an
honourable man."
Ormsby was selfish, as you know; but he had a great respect for
Frankfort, who, without making a fuss about being a "man of honour,"
_was_ an honourable man. Ah, reader! there is a wide difference between
the two, as perhaps you have found before now.
That evening Ormsby went to Mr Daveney, and solicited leave to pay his
addresses to his daughter Marion.
Mr Daveney desired time to think; but, at any rate, refused to hear of
a definite engagement until the young soldier had reconsidered the
subject, and written home to his father for "consent and approbation."
Nay, the honest-hearted settler--Mr Daveney and his wife often referred
to themselves as settlers--would have had the young man return to his
regiment without delay, that he might try the test of time and absence,
before Marion was even consulted; but despatches suddenly arrived,
bringing accounts of the result of the great meeting with the chiefs,
who, contrary to their usual practice, breathed nothing but war and
defiance in the very teeth of the authorities. It was clear, the
borders of the colony could not be passed with any chance of safety.
There seemed no alternative now but to await the reiteration of the
war-cry, and stand to arms from Port Elizabeth to Natal. The Dutch in
the upper districts refused their aid in the Colonial cause, and the
Kafirs chuckled at hearing that the _Amahulu_ and the _Amaglezi_--(the
Boers and the English)--were "barking at each other like dogs."
The little episode of which Marion was the heroine had been the means of
bringing Eleanor and Frankfort into nearer communion than during the
first week of their acquaintance. The young widow's gravity of manner
was little changed, but the deep melancholy was gradually giving way
before the influence of a mind that opened its stores chiefly for her.
She did not talk more than usual, but she listened, and Frankfort felt
he had gained a vantage-ground.
He kept it, too. Like Scheherazade in the "Arabian Nights," he always
contrived, when he quitted this fair, sad creature's side, to leave
something for her mind to rest upon; some subject which she would wish
resumed. I am wrong in using the word "contrived"--that was not
Frankfort's "way"--but the interest Eleanor took in all that he so
pleasantly and intelligently discussed invested it with an additional
charm to himself.
Meanwhile, father, mother, friends, looked on, and hoped that a light
was dawning on the horizon of Eleanor's clouded life, and they rejoiced.
They had no doubt of Frankfort's honesty of purpose. His bearing and
his sentiments were alike frank, just, kind, manly, and single-minded.
He was not blindly, passionately in love with the soft voice and
mournful eyes that had certainly at first enchained his attention--
bewitched him, as some would have it--but he was most deeply interested
in the young widow; anxious to penetrate the cloud of sorrow that even
in his presence shaded her brow, and, as he reluctantly admitted to
himself, created a gulf between her and him, which he only _hoped_ to
remove or pass over. Every night, as he paced the avenue after the
sentinels were posted, did he resolve on openly addressing Mr Daveney
on the subject of his widowed daughter's position; but the resolve faded
into air, when he reconsidered what had passed between himself and
Eleanor in the day. He had two weighty reasons for pausing. He was by
no means sure of Eleanor's sentiments towards himself, and he had a
dread, though this he was unwilling to acknowledge, in his own mind, of
lifting the veil of mystery with which he _felt_ more than he _knew_ she
was invested.
But as soon as he did gain courage to sound the depths of his own heart,
he recognised the duty he owed to her, to her family, especially his
gracious, generous host, and to himself; and he resolved that another
sun should not set till the question, on which he felt whole years of
happiness must depend, was decided.
The dew was on the leaves and the sun high in the east, when Eleanor
Lyle came through the cool hall into the glowing verandah on the morning
when Frankfort had at last resolved on requesting an interview with her
father.
He had a very strong idea that she liked him. She was one who had
evidently suffered from the treachery or the evil humour of man;
everything she said or did was tinged with some fatal remembrance. She
shrunk from the sound of the name she bore; she could not believe in
Ormsby's faith; she did not openly ignore all honourable feelings in the
other sex, but she clearly set no store by men's promises to women. She
did not volunteer these strong opinions--they were drawn from her; but
Frankfort soon discovered that it was he only who could elicit them.
Yes, she most certainly liked him--she had a good opinion of him, too,
he fancied; he had tested it at times in his own quiet way.
They met together in the verandah this fine, warm, balmy, dewy morning,
while the world was pleasantly astir. Children creeping out of the
wagon bivouacs with "shining morning faces;" herd-boys coming by the
house with baskets of meelies and fine burnished English tins of milk;
graceful Fingo girls, with fresh-gathered pumpkins and cool green
water-melons on their heads; Mrs Trail's Bechuana nursemaid and ruddy
children--such contrasts to their dusky Abigail--loaded with heather,
lilac, pink, and white, and purple; and then there swung out from the
old mulberry-tree in the vineyard the call to prayers in the school.
The people from the wagons hurried off; the front garden and avenue were
deserted; there was not a sound but the whooming of a great bee that was
always rifling the doricas and invading the roses and convolvuluses,
till the "morning hymn" swelled on the warm, still air in solemn chorus,
and true, though unstudied, harmony.
They descended the steps, and sought the shade of the avenue. It was
flanked on either side by a little nursery of trees; there was a good
deal of low bramble and brushwood, which made almost a labyrinth of the
ground; but there was a shady spot beside a silver thread of water that
stole from the rill irrigating the vineyard, and Frankfort and Eleanor
were bent on gathering water-cresses for breakfast. I doubt if people
not interested in each other would have thought of taking all this
trouble for a few green leaves; but these two went about it as if they
had laid out for themselves a serious employment.
It was a delicious nook. Eleanor had even laughed at the scramble she
had had in reaching it, and sat down heated and fatigued with her
descent of the bank, down which Frankfort might have made an excuse to
lift her if he had so pleased--he would have been pleased to do so--but
he did not; there was such a divine purity about this young and graceful
and subdued being, that, had he been in a desert with her, he would,
have felt that it was she who drew the barrier between them, which he
dared not pass.
All this may seem very anomalous when you think how Frankfort dreaded to
lift the veil between them; but, remember, his doubts were the issue of
lonely reflective hours in Eleanor's presence. He grieved at the secret
sorrow that oppressed her, and bound with its heavy fetters the joyous
impulses of youth.
How handsome he looked as he cast himself on the green-sward beside the
little rill, his hat laid aside, his open, honest countenance brightened
with enjoyment at the radiance of the morning and the fragrant beauty of
this green retreat, with the shy retiring Eleanor actually smiling in
his face, as he fanned her with the broad green leaves of arums growing
in the shining watercourse. Ah, it was the honesty of that face that
made it so handsome! Eleanor was not one to be attracted by mere
statuesque beauty--she had forsworn love for ever--she was anticipating
peace in this abjuration of love, when the kindly eyes and approving
smile of this true-hearted soldier beamed on her with an effect like
sunlight on the hills in Kafirland, scathed by the lightning. There are
patches on which no green grass will ever again grow--desolate spots in
the great oasis; but these are overlooked as the herald of a new day
touches them with his glory, and casts all that is unsightly into shade.
Gems of dew glittered on the mossy bank--flowers, rainbow-hued, were
opening their chalices to the genial influence of day--a magnificent
corallodendrum spread its scarlet-tufted boughs over a low rustic bench,
and they seated themselves together under this fine canopy. Eleanor had
desired a little Fingo boy to follow her with a basket for the cresses--
Frankfort thought he obeyed his mistress much too soon.
She had taken off the large straw hat--Frankfort held it for her; her
fine hair was slightly disordered; there was a light in her eye, a
colour in her cheek, her lover--we must call him such now--had never
seen before. That young face, that candid smile--nay, the smile
sometimes broke into a low musical laugh. Ah! could, the demon of
self-reproach be lurking beneath all this bewitching feminine charm?
Frankfort felt that the time must soon come when he should ask her for
her history. He had resolved to learn it from herself. He longed to
pour balm into the wounded heart; he was growing hourly less _afraid_ of
hearing the truth. He was just, too,--he felt that no offer of
confidence could be made to him till he solicited it.
He would do so now. She sent her little dusky page to the rill and rose
to follow him. She was tying on her hat, when a slender chain
encircling her throat caught in the strings, and she unwittingly drew it
from her bosom. Frankfort saw suspended to it the miniature he had
found in the vineyard.
He felt emboldened,--he ventured to touch it.
She made no remonstrance, but with a deep sigh would have replaced it.
Frankfort held it fast. His hand did not shake, but his heart beat.
How often does a sudden impulse bring to a crisis what has cost us many
hours of forethought! and how often--oh! how often!--does the one great
event of a life hinge upon some trifle unforeseen! A look, a word, an
unexpected meeting, will often remove the doubts and agonies of years,
when but for what we call _accident_, there might have been no meeting,
no blessed exchange of look or word.
Frankfort felt that this was a crisis in his life.
"Eleanor," said he, "whose child was this?"
"Mine, Major Frankfort," she replied, "mine; he died, and--" she broke
into a passion of tears. He drew close to her--she suffered him to take
her hand. All his doubts faded at sight of those fast-falling tears,--
those sobs of agony.
"Not now, not yet," said she; "the bitterness of death is past; but you
have touched a chord which has vibrated through my soul, and I must have
time to recover my trembling senses."
She took the arm offered her; they returned by an open pathway to the
house, the little Fingo following, carrying his basket piled full of
fresh and glittering leaves, and in his arms a quantity of arums, the
large water-lilies of South Africa.
Mrs Daveney and Marion were in the entrance-rooms. Since Ormsby's
avowal of his attachment, Marion was more constantly at her mother's
side. I have shown you how Mr Trail had exerted his influence over
Mrs Daveney for good; how his words, like the dew from heaven, falling
on good seed, had revived her best impulses, and removed the tares of
false pride and self-glorification from her heart. Ah, kind, useful
man, there be many that the world calls "as good as thee;" but there are
_ways_ of ministering God's word, "the small rain upon the tender herb,"
refreshing the soil, not tearing it up and sweeping it away in the
torrent of over-zeal and self-righteousness. It is such as Mr Trail
who pioneer the way for the timid, and keep the ground for the weak.
Verily, it is the meek-spirited who possess the earth; they consider the
evil of their own nature in reproving others, and obtain concessions to
their humility which would be denied to their assumption of supremacy.
How dark and unfathomable are the depths of our own hearts, till the
Day-star from on high sheds its divine ray on our souls, and teaches us
to guide others by conquering ourselves!
But it strikes me you may think me prosy,--too fond of dissecting
people's motives. Pardon me, it is my way, my fault, my habit,--excuse
it if it does not suit you, and pass on.
"Ah!" cries the worldly-minded reader, "by Eleanor's tact and candour, a
very delicate point has been settled; confidence has been established
among all; Ormsby declares he never should have known his own mind if he
had not been brought to the point; he was never so happy in his life."
In a word, you will exclaim, "All's well that ends well." Certainly,
that is one of the secrets of self-gratulation and content in this
work-a-day world.
But do not jump at conclusions--we are not near the end of our story
yet.
Mrs Daveney saw traces of tears in Eleanor's eyes. She glanced at
Frankfort, and observed that his face was fall of serious thought; but,
albeit Marion had always been the favourite, so to speak, the mother had
every confidence in Eleanor. How often mothers _love_ one child best,
but trust another most!
Mr Trail had brought this mother and eldest daughter nearer to each
other than they had been for years; and Mrs Daveney anticipated
Eleanor's confidence ere the morning passed. The latter did not appear
at the breakfast-table, and the kind, anxious father went to satisfy
himself that she was not ill.
There was a shade of anxiety on his brow, and as he passed his wife, on
leaving the table at the call of some farm-servant, he whispered to her
that Eleanor wished to see her.
The result of their conference was the resolution on Eleanor's part,
with the sanction of father and mother, to "tell Major Frankfort the
history of the miniature, and more if he desired it."
Light broke on Eleanor as her mother reminded her of many trifling
incidents, plainly manifesting Frankfort's partiality for her. These,
connected with what had lately passed between the young widow and the
generous, candid soldier, left no doubt an her mind of the nature of his
regard for her. She began to weigh every look; she suddenly remembered
he had addressed her as "Eleanor,"--she had been too much startled by
the unexpected allusion to her lost darting to think of anything but the
revival of the bitter pang.
Then Frankfort's violent emotion was so at variance with his usual
delicacy. She was half-frightened to believe that he loved her. They
had spent three weeks together under the same roof. It might truly be
said that the light of a new day had _dawned_ upon her, so insensibly
had Frankfort's influence stolen over her, and sweetened an existence,
of late so wretched and forlorn.
------------------------------------------------------------------------
To have seen the settlement of Annerley, in the early part of March,
18--, you would have thought, had you known nothing of the terrible
elements gathering silently around, that Mercy and Peace had met
together, that Righteousness and Truth had kissed each other.
"In the deep noontide, in the sunset's hush," the children's voices
chimed together in the busy school; mothers and sisters plied their
needles in the shady, trellised passage; the cattle herds grew careless,
and dozed away the dreamy day; the ladies of the family party suffered
themselves to hope that the dove with the olive branch was winging her
way from the mountain haunts of the unhappy heathen. Ormsby was hourly
profiting by his association with his energetic, intelligent,
active-minded host. The "maxims" he had been accustomed to laugh at as
"Frankfort's platitudes" were household words here. The fresh, innocent
mind of Marion was a new and beautiful study, and he was a little, a
very little, afraid of Mrs Daveney. He was not quite sure that he
liked her--she was evidently inclined to keep him in order, and then she
was "dreadfully clever."
So complete was the quiet reigning in this beautiful wilderness, that
even Mr Daveney began to think the chiefs had held council, and
determined on prolonging the truce, owing to the lateness of the season,
the corn being yet unripe in the districts between the Buffalo and
Keiskama rivers. The two officers were awaiting his expected despatch
to rejoin their regiments, if ordered to do so, as they had considered
it right, on so long and unforeseen detention, to "report" their
whereabouts to their commanding officer.
You will think it all very novel-like and romantic to have brought these
delightful, handsome, intelligent officers into the wilderness, and
established them there with an obliging mamma, and a soldierlike host,
and two charming daughters--you will consider it all perfectly correct
in romance, but not quite so true to nature. Ah! if you had seen the
world at home and abroad as I have done, dear reader, you would have
discovered that romance and reality are much more nearly allied than
untravelled folks imagine. I assure you, the picture of the Annerley
settlement is not exaggerated, though I admit that the family I have
selected to introduce to you is not of common stamp, even in England;
but there is plenty of space for more of them in Southern Africa, and
there is so little room in England, that vice jostles against virtue,
and often has the best of it.
Frankfort and Eleanor were again seated on the rustic bench, beneath the
scarlet-tufted corallodendrum. He could not doubt any longer that he
had at least touched her heart--how deep the impression was, he could
not tell. In her manner to him she was like a child, all joyousness; at
times smiling, almost gay, and occasionally confiding, but as yet not so
in matters connected with herself. Sometimes she would half promise to
"talk of herself" to him; then the time came, and something would
intervene. If he had shrunk from asking her previous history, she
dreaded to tell it. She said so, but added, for his comfort--"Fear not,
dear Major Frankfort; you may pity me as unfortunate, and contemn me as
weak, but you will not have occasion to condemn. I am only a wronged,
deceived, and, for a long time, most unhappy woman; and if you should
despise me for my misfortunes, which you may do"--she put her hand on
his lips, as he was about to interrupt her--"you will not love me less,
though you may not choose me for your wife."
He took her hand in his, and pressed it with a fervency, eloquent but
silent.
"Ah!" said she, shuddering, "it is so long since I was happy, that,
albeit _you_ present the cup, I hold it to my lips, trembling lest it
fall."
She took the miniature of her boy from her bosom. Frankfort bent over
her, and gazed upon the angel face, dimmed with the young mother's
tears; but though she wept, it was not with that passionate anguish he
had witnessed before. He drew her to him--he ventured to kiss away
those slow-falling tears--he had told her that morning that he loved
her.
"Tell me," at last whispered Frankfort, trembling and cold with
suspense, "who was this child's father?"
"I could not nerve myself to tell you my sad story," replied Eleanor.
"I have written it. My father will give it you this evening, I own I
shrunk from this tearing open of the records of the past. There are
some passages from which you will turn perhaps in dismay. You will
discover, what you may have already suspected, that I have loved and
been deceived; but you have yet to decide whether I am a fitting bride
for you. I confess I have no hope."
Frankfort withdrew his hand from Eleanor's. He paced the walk in great
agitation.
She waited till he approached her again. "Pity me," said she, rising.
"Ah! it has been a terrible task to make this revelation to you. Do me
justice--I did not seek to win _you_. I had abjured love for ever; but
you came; you were kind; I listened; a new emotion stirred my heart,
unlike the wild passion which once brought me to the depths of despair,
and now, God help me! _you_, too, may forsake me."
She was weeping. "Tell me," he again whispered, "is there any
self-reproach?--any shame? Ah, Eleanor! I must know--any--"
"Disgrace!" you would say, interrupted Eleanor.
Her lover answered her not a word, but stood waiting her reply. The
strong, tall man shook like an aspen-tree.
"You will learn all," said Eleanor, "in the packet I have left for you
with my father. I leave it to you to decide whether we may meet again."
The light of day was fading. Side by side, they returned towards the
house; but not a word did either speak. They went round by the
vineyard; they stood at the gateway leading to the trellised passage.
Frankfort opened it, and Eleanor would have passed him by.
He drew her back. "Shall we meet again, Eleanor?" said he.
"Alas!" she answered, "I fear _you_ will decide otherwise." And he--his
_heart_ answered her in the spirit, if not in the words, of Moore's
beautiful song:
"I know not and care not if guilt's in that heart,
I but know that I love thee, whatever thou art!"
Ah, reader! you will be glad to know, for I cannot help telling you,
that Eleanor, though _disgraced_, was not _guilty_, save in the act, and
that I do not defend, of marrying one for whom she had no real
affection.
The inmates of Annerley have retired to their rest. The whole household
seems hushed in the deepest repose; but Frankfort is seated with a
packet before him, which he longs, yet dreads, to open.
He tears the seal away, and the sight of Eleanor Lyle's handwriting
makes his heart beat--he can hear it in the silence of the midnight
hour.
But we must first see how sped the convicts.