Jasper Lyle

Ormsby had laid aside his novel at the approach of the riders, and leaped out of the wagon to hear the news. At the prospect of war he sent up his hat into the air with a shout, and telling May to “up-saddle,” would have mounted his horse, and insisted on at once riding forward to Graham’s Town.

He made no allowance for difficulties; he thought not of swelling rivers, of a lurking enemy, ready to seize upon the horses of unprotected travellers; he would have taken May and one of the wagon-drivers with him, and left Frankfort on the instant; for the latter, though brave, was not rash, and had no idea of such a mad project as leaving the cavalcade behind, and starting headlong on a journey of two hundred miles, with horses quite unfit for it. Besides, he did not expect May to leave both wife and child to the tender mercies of the dogged Piet; and in short, to Ormsby’s infinite disgust, he was told that haste was out of the question: they must make what way they could to Annerley, and there act upon the intelligence with such means as circumstances afforded. If fresh horses could be procured, a couple of armed guides would be sufficient, and the cavalcade of wagons and attendants could, for the present, remain behind; besides which difficulties, Ormsby’s foot was too much inflamed to permit him to ride. On what small hinges do great doors turn!

Evening fell, heavy and gloomy; the atmosphere was loaded with an unpleasant vapour. As night drew on, the exhalations floated above the earth in thin white mist, and as this increased, the travellers could scarcely see a foot in advance. The road, or rather track, was grass-grown, the wheels sunk into the sward, and moved noiselessly along; there was no echo of the horses’ feet upon the turf, and as if the stillness or nature had effect upon the party, not a word was uttered. Altogether, the vehicles, with their white canvass coverings, the impish foreloupers, the attendant guides, and the riders, who kept close to the two foremost wagons for fear of losing their way, all gliding silently through the shroud-like vapour, might have served as an illustration of one of the scenes in that delicious romance of “Undine.” They looked as if they must vanish and melt in the snow-white cloud, wreathing itself closer and closer round them at every step.

May was wide awake; his keen eyes were riveted to the ground, watching the slight undulations made by occasional wanderers in the wilderness, and if his eye failed him, he knelt down, groped about the path, and having found it, led the way beside the foremost forelouper. Poor, patient, honest May! how Ormsby muttered his discontent at thee for being “encumbered” with thy wife and child! How unthinking was he of thy daily aid!

The dwelling for which they were bound, and to which May was so carefully guiding them through the mist, along the almost trackless waste, had been and was, for aught the bushman knew to the contrary, the residence of an Englishman, who had been an officer. If still there, they would ascertain from him, “whose word,” May said, “was true,” the real condition of the country. If war had been openly proclaimed by the English general, Frankfort admitted it would be madness to proceed, and run the risk of being detained upon the banks of those densely-wooded streams.

Ormsby, like all self-opinionated, inexperienced men, would not admit the necessity of bending to circumstances; he was for advancing “in the teeth of the enemy. They would know better than shoot down, like dogs, a couple of English officers. He should like to bag a leash of Kafirs amazingly. He should send home a skull for his old governor’s library. He hoped there would be war with all his heart. He longed to knock over some of those black tinkers.”

Frankfort listened quietly, smiling inwardly at the idea of Ormsby in the bush in the rainy season, sleeping with his head in a pool of water, and breakfasting on a hard biscuit and a cup of muddy coffee, without milk or sugar; but he kept his communings to himself, and was not sorry when he saw lights twinkling through the mist. They looked distant; he put his horse into a canter, and in a few minutes was greeted by the “deep-mouthed welcome” of the dogs of the settlement,

Presently a door opened, but the lights were withdrawn; the butt-end of a musket rang on the stone step, and a gentlemanly voice uttered the words “Who comes here?”

“Friends,” said Frankfort.

“Friends,” repeated the voice aloud; the lights re-appeared, a group of people filled the open doorway, and the owner of the mansion—for it was a substantial building of stone—descended the steps, and advancing to the gate, a Hottentot servant following with a lantern, held out both his hands, saying, “Welcome; excuse our caution, friends and countrymen, but it behaves us to be wary; for although the open plains are stretched before us, we have a suspicious kloof to our right, and a chain of hills to our left, which may contain some objectionable neighbours. The mistiness of the night prevented our discovering the character of your cavalcade, nor could we distinguish the usual crack of wagon-whips.”

And no wonder; for the driver of the foremost vehicle was sound asleep, though sitting bolt-upright upon his box, and to Frankfort’s discomfiture, and May’s terror, Piet had not come up. May had collected the whole party together at a great vley some two miles off, and then finding that Piet would not be foremost in the van, had moved to the front as guide.

As it was supposed, however, that he would arrive ere long, though poor May had certain misgivings on the subject, Frankfort and Ormsby gladly accepted Mr Daveney’s welcome, and followed him through, what appeared to them, a garden, for trees bent over the pathway, and the air was burdened with perfume.

Ascending the steps of the house, their host stood at the threshold, and welcomed them again, ushering them, as he did so, into a large sitting-room, which, though dimly lighted, was evidently furnished with some attention to taste and comfort. “We are cautious, you see, in the wilderness,” said the host, and ringing a small hand-bell, he bade an old Griqua, who answered the summons, bring more light, desiring him further to inform the ladies, that the visitors were friends, and to “send Erasmus for the gentlemen’s saddle-bags.”

Frankfort and Ormsby surveyed their host with that interest which only travellers in the desert can feel on opening communion with a countryman and brother-soldier, for Mr Daveney stood avowed “a soldier every inch of him.” The erect carriage, and the kindly, but decided, tone of voice in which he issued his simple orders, proclaimed his profession at once. Of the middle height, of strong but slender frame, his life had doubtless been one of activity and observation: the high, thoughtful brow was divested of its early curls, but the well-shaped head was still partially adorned with crisp grey locks; the eye was blue as heaven, and shone with an honest light; the teeth were perfect, and of that hue indicating a sound constitution; a grey moustache shaded the upper lip, but, smiling as he spoke, a most agreeable impression was conveyed by the contrast of these white and even teeth with the sunburnt face, marked not so much by care, as with those lines which evince a deep sense of man’s duties to himself and others. The close observer will often recognise the difference between the restless attributes of anxiety and the calm thoughtfulness of a mind sensible of its powers and intent on its responsibilities. He makes the discrimination almost imperceptibly to himself, but is not the less guided by the impulse arising from it; and thus Frankfort took the proffered hand of his host with a feeling of interest he seldom accorded to strangers, and responding to the light of the honest eye and hospitable smile, said, as he lifted his hat with the grace of a soldier and a gentleman, yet with his own frank and unaffected manner, “We are officers of the Eighty —th regiment; this is my friend Ormsby, and I am Captain Frankfort.”

A door leading to an inner apartment opened, and a lady, followed by the Griqua servant, bearing lights, entered, and admitting that she had been somewhat agitated, “not alarmed,” by the unexpected arrival of the party, added, that supper would be served up with as little delay as possible.

There followed soon a young lady—yes, a young lady in the wilderness, and the stamp of a gentlewoman was on her and on her mother. No adventitious ornaments of dress, or the absence of them, can give or take away this stamp; be it in the desert, or the court, the English gentlewoman, in humble garb or courtly robe, needs no herald to proclaim her position.

Mother and daughter, in their simple costume of sober hue, were received by our two wanderers with all the courtesy they would have paid “To high-born dames in old ancestral halls.”

Ormsby was most agreeably surprised. Miss Daveney was of a charming height, had fine hair, a gentle voice and winning manner, with a little dash of coquetry, which in girlhood, as the result of innocence, is so bewitching. She admitted, that her alarm had been great, for the news from the colony was startling; her father, as the magistrate of the district, held a situation of difficulty and responsibility; the Kafirs had long been anxious for war, and within a few days, Mr Daveney had been informed, on good authority, that the Dutch in the upper part of the colony would not respond to the manifesto calling on them to assist in the defence of the colony: “in short,” said she—clasping her pretty hands together, in an attitude of thankfulness, as she lifted her clear eyes, honest as her father’s, to Ormsby—“we really have been in some perplexity, and nothing could be more opportune than your arrival. I confess, I had some dread of remaining in the wilderness—yet, what are we to do? My father must not desert his post; never were visitors more welcome.”

And Ormsby fancied—vain Ormsby!—that though the welcome was intended for both travellers, the smile was especially bestowed on him, and a very piquant smile it was.

But, dear reader, this pretty, animated Marion Daveney is not my heroine; she is a fair, ingenuous creature, with sunny hair, and shining eyes, and fawnlike step; but methinks you will be more interested in Eleanor, who has not yet descended to meet the guests.

Seated at the window of her little bed-room, she had sat looking out upon the misty night, forgetting that she was alone, and that darkness had fallen round her. It suited the mood of her stricken heart, veiled within the shadows that had been cast upon it, and doomed to remain there, as it seemed to her, for ever. Dim visions of childhood free from care, passed bird-like among flowers and sunlight, rose at times, and, like blue specks in a stormy sky, only made the clouds look heavier and nearer for the contrast.

She rose, paced the chamber, re-seated herself strove to gain courage to join the family group—for she loved to please her father—but sunk down at the idea of encountering strange faces.

“The thraldom is over,” said she, “the chain is broken; but the mark of the fetter has burnt in its brand upon the heart. As spots upon the green hills are seared for ever by the lightning’s blast, so is the blight upon my soul. Oh, youth, youth!—in some so verdant and so fair—why has mine been scathed so ruthlessly?”

She heard a step approaching, and, hurrying to the window-sill, appeared to be looking out. The step was her father’s, and, recognising that, she opened the door.

By the light he held, he looked sorrowfully at that young pale face.

“My love,” he said, “strangers have arrived, who will probably be with us some days; do you think you can summon resolution to come among us?”

“My dear father, I will do anything you wish,” said the daughter; but, as she spoke, she burst into a passion of tears.

The father closed the door, and sat down with his arm round his weeping child.

Her youth—she was barely twenty—her sable garb, her beautiful hair bound simply round her head, in token of mourning, instead of falling on her bosom in its natural heavy ringlets—her sobs, emanating from the depths of an aching heart, presented such a picture of desolation as would have moved a stranger. Her father could only take her to his breast, and clasp her there, as though he would say, “Lie here, my stricken one, and be at peace.”

She understood him, for she loved him, she respected him, and she was anxious, as she said, to do anything he wished. The overburdened heart gained relief after this outburst of sorrow, and, rising, she said—

“Give me half an hour, father, and I will be with you. I am not selfish, as you know.”

She kissed him, lit the candle on her dressing-table, and began to make such preparations for her appearance as would prevent any remarks on her agitated face and trembling frame, except in so far as might arise from the arrival of the strangers under circumstances of excitement and alarm.

Some idea of Mrs Daveney’s character in early life may be gathered from a letter written to a friend in England some five or six years after she had settled with her husband at Annerley—so, from certain associations, she had named the residence—which, once but a mere farm, was now a capacious and picturesque dwelling.

“You will remember,” says she in this letter, “my resolution to marry for love; you ignored my principle of matrimonial life being all the happier for mutual struggles, helpfulness one towards another; you laughed at the idea of care and trouble being stronger ties between man and wife than hours linked with flowers. Do you remember quizzing my fanciful notion of the evergreen cypress-wreath and the faded rose-garland? Nay, you often said I was too anxious for distinction, for any kind of éclat, to marry only for love. You know my story, my orphaned state, my dependence—no, not dependence—my reliance for protection on my kind aunt, and my departure from England. Hither I came; I was honest in my first communication to you; I told you that the admiration of the world had charms for me, which every pretty woman must understand. You scoffed at my world, and I—how I laughed at yours!—Lighted rooms, conventional forms, worldly tactics, the same circles revolving and re-revolving—Dinner-parties, where the host and hostess sat revelling, not in the society of friends, but in the display of plate, and cookery, and servants—Morning drives through interminable streets, or between tall hedges, or monotonous parks—Evening visits among crowds, where mothers came anxious to outdo their auctioneering compeers in displaying their daughters tricked out for conquest, and where daughters vied with each other in deceiving the world, by trying to look as if they cared nothing about it; and where men sneered at women, and boasted of being too knowing to be caught even with a gilded hook. My world, I told you, should be where self was not upon the surface, as in yours; where Nature reigned supreme, and where earth was peopled with men and women in whom thought was brought into action by necessity.

“And the opening chapter of my career in Southern Africa! how you laughed at that, though in all good humour, because you were prosperous at the time. Ah, what a brilliant colouring does the rainbow of hope cast on all it falls upon!

“There was no contempt in your gratulations at my success on my first appearance at a colonial fête, got up for my especial presentation. Ah, Emily! I often think of that day. My dear, single-minded aunt, and her husband, who had begun by being soldier, and turned merchant in prosperous times; how pleased were they at introducing their niece, fresh from England, while to me, life in Southern Africa seemed delicious after the thraldom of school in murky old London. Bands of military music, young and gallant gentlemen, all struggling for the ladies’ favour, a horse to ride, the prettiest that money could buy, and Captain Daveney beside me, who would teach me. Ah, what a day that was! I remember it well, Emily—the repast spread on the green-sward beneath a spreading oak; the champagne cooling in a nook, where clear waters rippled over the stones; conversation by the river’s side; then the saddling our steeds by the careful hands of courteous cavaliers; the canter home by moonlight, Daveney keeping his place beside me all the time. We assembled at my uncle’s house, and refreshed ourselves with coffee; then we danced, resting in the verandah, all festooned with vines and roses; then we strolled under the quince hedge in the bright garden, and parted with smiles, gaily anticipating the morrow.

“To you, with the wreath of strawberry-leaves floating before you, how trifling, how shallow did all this appear! and how summarily, Emily, you closed our correspondence with that daring quotation, in reference to my contentment, and that you said I thought it ‘Better to reign in hell than serve in heaven.’

“The Court, the ball, the Opera, jewels, dress, carriages, horses, fine houses, tribes of servants bowing down for hire, hundreds of acquaintances, and no friends—these were your heaven, dear friend. Duchess in perspective though you be, you will own some day that these are but as a sounding brass and a tinkling cymbal.

“I married Daveney—then came the solitary outpost; but love triumphed.

“My English maid left me, to marry a man who now drives a pair of bays, and I was fain to help myself. After this came the bustle and excitement of an anticipated campaign, and we were encamped upon the plains of Africa. Ah, Emily! you never experienced the hearty good-will, the earnest kindness that such circumstances draw forth.

“Fear there was at times, not for myself, but for my husband; but, thank God! war was averted. Still, the idea of our common danger drew us closer to each other, and the child born in that encampment, amid the din of arms and clang of bugles, was dearer to us than others while it lived. It died, poor babe, and I have now two daughters, of whose welfare you shall hear, when you desire.”

Chapter Eight.

The War-Cry in the Mountains

The kind uncle referred to by Mrs Daveney was imprudent enough to speculate, and lost a large sum; but, wiser or better-principled than most men who gamble, he forswore speculation for ever, and retired to England, to live on the residue of his property. It had been his intention to apportion his wife’s niece on winding up his affairs; but ready money in colonial commerce was at that time a dream, and as he had fine available land in one of the most flourishing districts of the colony, he proposed that Captain Daveney should leave the army, and take possession of the land, which was excellent. A magistracy fell vacant at this time, and, by Mr Morland’s influence, was offered to Daveney.

Thus the alternative was offered the soldier, of a plentiful estate, with an excellent house, built indeed on the ashes of a former homestead, and to be held by force of arms, but all preferable, as it appeared to Mr Morland, to life with a regiment at home. The corps was on the eve of embarkation, his wife on the eve of her confinement, and, within a month of the offer, Daveney had “made his book” in his corps, and, with a goodly stock of furniture from the kind merchant’s store, he bade adieu to his brother-officers, and trekked from the town to the wilderness.

He promised his soldier friends he would see them all again before they marched, and so he did, but from a distance. On the morning that the Forty —th were to start from Graham’s Town, he reached the hill overlooking the green parade-ground at Fort England. The men were hurrying from quarters, oxen were yoking to the baggage-wagons—men and officers were fully accoutred—they fell into the ranks—he could see some of them looking up the road—were they watching for him? The regiment formed column, the band struck up “The girl I left behind me,” and Daveney’s old comrades turned their backs upon him.

He sat motionless on his horse, watching, with a swelling heart, the long cavalcade of troops and baggage. He could see it all passing through the wide streets of the great straggling African town. People came running from their houses, waving their hands in token of farewell; Daveney heard the soldiers cheer, and then, with something more like a sob than a sigh, he turned his horse’s head homewards, led it slowly down the steep irregular pathway, let it browse upon the sweet green pasturage, and sat down to shed a flood of tears.

Still he felt he had acted, as far as he could judge, for the best. A career of trust and command was before him. He was to think for others as well as himself. He was in possession of house, land, and cattle. He was to be umpire, in a large district, between the great powers of might and right. He stood with ten talents in his hand, for which he was to be responsible.

A certain spasm shot through his wife’s heart, as well as his own, when the old uniform was laid aside for ever—the sword hung up, the number cut from the forage-cap; but within her mind lay, deeper than in his, the germ and elements of an unrecognised ambition. Had she been born to power at home, she would have exercised it with the same lofty bearing with which, on one occasion, in her husband’s absence on duty, she had set her house in array to receive a troop of savages, who had been seen stalking, brand and assegai in hand, through the passes of the district.

The letter we have quoted was but a girlish effusion. Still, the shrewd woman of the world, the embryo Duchess, read her friend and playmate aright when, on laying down this epistle from a soldier’s wife, she remarked to a friend who had heard its contents, “Africa will suit Eleanor Daveney. In England she could neither be seen nor heard above her compeers. I know her better than she knows herself. She is just one of those who profess self-abnegation in their desire to be placed in a sphere of usefulness, but whose enthusiasm would fall to the ground without the excitement of success or applause.”

“There is some good sense, though, and much good feeling,” observed the other lady, “in all Eleanor says, and, without intending it, she has placed her husband in a pleasant light. I should think he was just the man to appreciate the good sense, and turn the warmth of heart to wise account.”

“Yes, I dare say,” replied Eleanor’s friend, with an absent air, as she walked to the window, overlooking Piccadilly, and watched the restless thoroughfare through her eye-glass. Then a carriage, in most perfect taste, drove up, a portly man, with a hook nose and rubicund visage, descended, and the Duchess-elect forgot Mrs Daveney’s existence for many years, till her cousin Frankfort, by a letter, revived for a short time the old association.

But let future events develop the characters I have faintly sketched. Supper is ready in the eating-room, and Mr Daveney, as we shall for the future style him, having introduced his guests to his tiny dressing-room, where they refreshed themselves with clean water and a slight change of dress, taps at the door and waits to usher them to his hospitable board.

The sportsmen gladly acceded, and followed him to the dining-room, where Mrs Daveney and two daughters awaited them.

Frankfort’s eye rested at once upon the pale face of Eleanor, the elder of these daughters. He recognised the high thoughtful forehead of the father, but the long grey eye, with dark lashes, resembled her mother’s, so did the lip, that had narrowly escaped being scornful; and, though strongly resembling her mother, the features of the youthful face were soft. But much older than that young fair face was the expression it wore,—wore, for it was not natural to it. Was it the result of mournful experiences? Yes, surely so, thought Frankfort, as Mr Daveney took his daughter’s hand, and placing her beside himself, introduced her to his guests.

She looked up, and bending gracefully to both gentlemen, her eyes and Frankfort’s met. Oh, the mysterious charm cast on the traveller from the depths of those earnest, melancholy orbs!

Ormsby soon found that both sisters had been, in Cape Town, Marion within the last twelve months, visiting some friends of her father, who were enjoying the Cape climate after the sultry sun of India. He was fully prepared to admire his fair neighbour’s bright eyes, and at the same time enjoy the repast spread before him; it was plentiful, savoury, and far from inelegant. Before the host was that first-rate Irish dish, a cold shoulder of corned mutton, garnished with fresh, green, crisp parsley; on lifting the cover from the side-dishes, a fragrant steam arose, that warmed a hungry man’s heart as he inhaled it. In one was a fine cucumber, scooped hollow, and then stuffed with seasoned meat, and stewed in rich sauce. In another smoked a famous Dutch plat, called La partje, square inches of mutton, skewered on little sticks, dipped in sauce, made of tomatoes and capsicums and eschalots if none better offers, and toasted over a wood fire. A third contained a pile of rice, white as snow; the next a rechauffé of ox-tail curry; added to these were potatoes, baked with their jackets on in the ashes, roasted meelies (Indian corn), so delicious when young, grated biltongue, excellent butter, some delicious rolls, a household loaf on a trencher, with a knife beside it, whereof the handle was of polished horn from the head of the African gemsbok; then there was such preserved quince, and marmalade, as a Scotchman’s soul would have delighted in, to say nothing of poached eggs, brought in hot after all had sat down. It was all like magic to the travellers, and had they seen the old Malay in the kitchen, with his mysterious contrivances, which no European cook would condescend to understand, they would have been still more astonished. He was an old creature, who had lived with the Morlands, and then followed the Daveneys to the wilderness, where he had his own way, and sent forth all manner of savoury dishes from a huge fireplace, without a grate, before which he was seated all day, issuing his orders to an assistant imp, something like May.