Jasper Lyle Part 16

Note 1. Abati consists of trees with their branches shortened and sharpened at the ends, and they serve as a chevaux-de-frize on an emergency.

CHAPTER TEN.

MYSTERY.

Noontide in Kafirland! what a glow! A bold but popular auth.o.r.ess was severely rated lately for the pa.s.sage, "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 pa.s.sed 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 pa.s.sing.

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. G.o.d 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 embarra.s.sed 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 friends.h.i.+p, 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 s.e.x. 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 s.h.i.+eld 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 pa.s.sed 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 pa.s.sed 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 a.s.suming 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 hara.s.s 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 s.e.x, 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 a.s.sociations 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 guardians.h.i.+p, 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 s.e.x 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 a.s.sistance 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 gla.s.s, brus.h.i.+ng 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 a.s.sisting 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--coa.r.s.e 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 st.i.tched 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 pa.s.s 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.