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<h1>

    SMITH AND THE PHARAOHS<br />

<br />

AND OTHER TALES

</h1><br /><br />

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By [[H. Rider Haggard]]


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<blockquote>

<p class="toc"><big><b>CONTENTS</b></big></p><br />



<p class="toc"><a href="#2H_4_0001">

<big><b>SMITH AND THE PHARAOHS</b></big>

</a></p><br />



<p class="toc"><a href="#2H_4_0002">

<b>MAGEPA THE BUCK</b>

</a></p>

<p class="toc"><a href="#2H_4_0003">

<b>THE BLUE CURTAINS</b>

</a></p>

<p class="toc"><a href="#2H_4_0004">

<b>LITTLE FLOWER</b>

</a></p>

<p class="toc"><a href="#2H_4_0005">

<b>ONLY A DREAM</b>

</a></p><br />



<p class="toc"><a href="#2H_4_0006">

<b>BARBARA WHO CAME BACK</b>

</a></p><br />





<p class="toc"><a href="#2HCH0001">

CHAPTER I

</a></p>

<p class="toc"><a href="#2HCH0002">

CHAPTER II

</a></p>



<p class="toc"><a href="#2HCH0003">

CHAPTER III

</a></p>

<p class="toc"><a href="#2HCH0004">

CHAPTER IV

</a></p>





<p class="toc"><a href="#2HCH0005">

CHAPTER V

</a></p>

<p class="toc"><a href="#2HCH0006">

CHAPTER VI

</a></p>



<p class="toc"><a href="#2HCH0007">

CHAPTER VII

</a></p>

<p class="toc"><a href="#2HCH0008">

CHAPTER VIII

</a></p>

</blockquote>



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<a name="2H_4_0001"><!-- H2 anchor --></a>



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<h2>

    SMITH AND THE PHARAOHS

</h2>

<center>

I

</center>

<p>

Scientists, or some scientists&mdash;for occasionally one learned person

differs from other learned persons&mdash;tell us they know all that is worth

knowing about man, which statement, of course, includes woman. They

trace him from his remotest origin; they show us how his bones changed

and his shape modified, also how, under the influence of his needs and

passions, his intelligence developed from something very humble.

They demonstrate conclusively that there is nothing in man which the

dissecting-table will not explain; that his aspirations towards another

life have their root in the fear of death, or, say others of them, in

that of earthquake or thunder; that his affinities with the past are

merely inherited from remote ancestors who lived in that past, perhaps a

million years ago; and that everything noble about him is but the fruit

of expediency or of a veneer of civilisation, while everything base must

be attributed to the instincts of his dominant and primeval nature. Man,

in short, is an animal who, like every other animal, is finally subdued

by his environment and takes his colour from his surroundings, as cattle

do from the red soil of Devon. Such are the facts, they (or some of

them) declare; all the rest is rubbish.

</p>

<p>

At times we are inclined to agree with these sages, especially after it

has been our privilege to attend a course of lectures by one of them.

Then perhaps something comes within the range of our experience which

gives us pause and causes doubts, the old divine doubts, to arise again

deep in our hearts, and with them a yet diviner hope.

</p>

<p>

Perchance when all is said, so we think to ourselves, man <i>is</i> something

more than an animal. Perchance he has known the past, the far past, and

will know the future, the far, far future. Perchance the dream is true,

and he does indeed possess what for convenience is called an immortal

soul, that may manifest itself in one shape or another; that may sleep

for ages, but, waking or sleeping, still remains itself, indestructible

as the matter of the Universe.

</p>

<p>

An incident in the career of Mr. James Ebenezer Smith might well

occasion such reflections, were any acquainted with its details, which

until this, its setting forth, was not the case. Mr. Smith is a person

who knows when to be silent. Still, undoubtedly it gave cause for

thought to one individual&mdash;namely, to him to whom it happened. Indeed,

James Ebenezer Smith is still thinking over it, thinking very hard

indeed.

</p>

<p>

J. E. Smith was well born and well educated. When he was a good-looking

and able young man at college, but before he had taken his degree,

trouble came to him, the particulars of which do not matter, and he was

thrown penniless, also friendless, upon the rocky bosom of the world.

No, not quite friendless, for he had a godfather, a gentleman connected

with business whose Christian name was Ebenezer. To him, as a last

resource, Smith went, feeling that Ebenezer owed him something in return

for the awful appellation wherewith he had been endowed in baptism.

</p>

<p>

To a certain extent Ebenezer recognised the obligation. He did nothing

heroic, but he found his godson a clerkship in a bank of which he was

one of the directors&mdash;a modest clerkship, no more. Also, when he died a

year later, he left him a hundred pounds to be spent upon some souvenir.

</p>

<p>

Smith, being of a practical turn of mind, instead of adorning himself

with memorial jewellery for which he had no use, invested the hundred

pounds in an exceedingly promising speculation. As it happened, he was

not misinformed, and his talent returned to him multiplied by ten. He

repeated the experiment, and, being in a position to know what he was

doing, with considerable success. By the time that he was thirty he

found himself possessed of a fortune of something over twenty-five

thousand pounds. Then (and this shows the wise and practical nature of

the man) he stopped speculating and put out his money in such a fashion

that it brought him a safe and clear four per cent.

</p>

<p>

By this time Smith, being an excellent man of business, was well up in

the service of his bank&mdash;as yet only a clerk, it is true, but one who

drew his four hundred pounds a year, with prospects. In short, he was in

a position to marry had he wished to do so. As it happened, he did not

wish&mdash;perhaps because, being very friendless, no lady who attracted him

crossed his path; perhaps for other reasons.

</p>

<p>

Shy and reserved in temperament, he confided only in himself. None, not

even his superiors at the bank or the Board of Management, knew how

well off he had become. No one visited him at the flat which he was

understood to occupy somewhere in the neighbourhood of Putney; he

belonged to no club, and possessed not a single intimate. The blow which

the world had dealt him in his early days, the harsh repulses and the

rough treatment he had then experienced, sank so deep into his sensitive

soul that never again did he seek close converse with his kind. In fact,

while still young, he fell into a condition of old-bachelorhood of a

refined type.

</p>

<p>

Soon, however, Smith discovered&mdash;it was after he had given up

speculating&mdash;that a man must have something to occupy his mind. He tried

philanthropy, but found himself too sensitive for a business which

so often resolves itself into rude inquiry as to the affairs of other

people. After a struggle, therefore, he compromised with his conscience

by setting aside a liberal portion of his income for anonymous

distribution among deserving persons and objects.

</p>

<p>

While still in this vacant frame of mind Smith chanced one day, when the

bank was closed, to drift into the British Museum, more to escape the

vile weather that prevailed without than for any other reason. Wandering

hither and thither at hazard, he found himself in the great gallery

devoted to Egyptian stone objects and sculpture. The place bewildered

him somewhat, for he knew nothing of Egyptology; indeed, there remained

upon his mind only a sense of wonderment not unmixed with awe. It must

have been a great people, he thought to himself, that executed these

works, and with the thought came a desire to know more about them. Yet

he was going away when suddenly his eye fell on the sculptured head of a

woman which hung upon the wall.

</p>

<p>

Smith looked at it once, twice, thrice, and at the third look he fell in

love. Needless to say, he was not aware that such was his condition.

He knew only that a change had come over him, and never, never could

he forget the face which that carven mask portrayed. Perhaps it was not

really beautiful save for its wondrous and mystic smile; perhaps the

lips were too thick and the nostrils too broad. Yet to him that face

was Beauty itself, beauty which drew him as with a cart-rope, and awoke

within him all kinds of wonderful imaginings, some of them so strange

and tender that almost they partook of the nature of memories. He stared

at the image, and the image smiled back sweetly at him, as doubtless it,

or rather its original&mdash;for this was but a plaster cast&mdash;had smiled at

nothingness in some tomb or hiding-hole for over thirty centuries, and

as the woman whose likeness it was had once smiled upon the world.

</p>

<p>

A short, stout gentleman bustled up and, in tones of authority,

addressed some workmen who were arranging a base for a neighbouring

statue. It occurred to Smith that he must be someone who knew about

these objects. Overcoming his natural diffidence with an effort, he

raised his hat and asked the gentleman if he could tell him who was the

original of the mask.

</p>

<p>

The official&mdash;who, in fact, was a very great man in the Museum&mdash;glanced

at Smith shrewdly, and, seeing that his interest was genuine, answered&mdash;

</p>

<p>

"I don't know. Nobody knows. She has been given several names, but none

of them have authority. Perhaps one day the rest of the statue may

be found, and then we shall learn&mdash;that is, if it is inscribed. Most

likely, however, it has been burnt for lime long ago."

</p>

<p>

"Then you can't tell me anything about her?" said Smith.

</p>

<p>

"Well, only a little. To begin with, that's a cast. The original is in

the Cairo Museum. Mariette found it, I believe at Karnac, and gave it

a name after his fashion. Probably she was a queen&mdash;of the eighteenth

dynasty, by the work. But you can see her rank for yourself from the

broken <i>uraeus</i>." (Smith did not stop him to explain that he had not

the faintest idea what a <i>uraeus</i> might be, seeing that he was utterly

unfamiliar with the snake-headed crest of Egyptian royalty.) "You should

go to Egypt and study the head for yourself. It is one of the most

beautiful things that ever was found. Well, I must be off. Good day."

</p>

<p>

And he bustled down the long gallery.

</p>

<p>

Smith found his way upstairs and looked at mummies and other things.

Somehow it hurt him to reflect that the owner of yonder sweet, alluring

face must have become a mummy long, long before the Christian era.

Mummies did not strike him as attractive.

</p>

<p>

He returned to the statuary and stared at his plaster cast till one of

the workmen remarked to his fellow that if he were the gent he'd go and

look at "a live'un" for a change.

</p>

<p>

Then Smith retired abashed.

</p>

<p>

On his way home he called at his bookseller's and ordered "all the

best works on Egyptology". When, a day or two later, they arrived in

a packing-case, together with a bill for thirty-eight pounds, he was

somewhat dismayed. Still, he tackled those books like a man, and, being

clever and industrious, within three months had a fair working knowledge

of the subject, and had even picked up a smattering of hieroglyphics.

</p>

<p>

In January&mdash;that was, at the end of those three months&mdash;Smith astonished

his Board of Directors by applying for ten weeks' leave, he who had

hitherto been content with a fortnight in the year. When questioned he

explained that he had been suffering from bronchitis, and was advised to

take a change in Egypt.

</p>

<p>

"A very good idea," said the manager; "but I'm afraid you'll find it

expensive. They fleece one in Egypt."

</p>

<p>

"I know," answered Smith; "but I've saved a little and have only myself

to spend it upon."

</p>

<p>

So Smith went to Egypt and saw the original of the beauteous head and

a thousand other fascinating things. Indeed, he did more. Attaching

himself to some excavators who were glad of his intelligent assistance,

he actually dug for a month in the neighbourhood of ancient Thebes, but

without finding anything in particular.

</p>

<p>

It was not till two years later that he made his great discovery, that

which is known as Smith's Tomb. Here it may be explained that the state

of his health had become such as to necessitate an annual visit to

Egypt, or so his superiors understood.

</p>

<p>

However, as he asked for no summer holiday, and was always ready to do

another man's work or to stop overtime, he found it easy to arrange for

these winter excursions.

</p>

<p>

On this, his third visit to Egypt, Smith obtained from the

Director-General of Antiquities at Cairo a licence to dig upon his

own account. Being already well known in the country as a skilled

Egyptologist, this was granted upon the usual terms&mdash;namely, that the

Department of Antiquities should have a right to take any of the objects

which might be found, or all of them, if it so desired.

</p>

<p>

Such preliminary matters having been arranged by correspondence, Smith,

after a few days spent in the Museum at Cairo, took the night train

to Luxor, where he found his head-man, an ex-dragoman named Mahomet,

waiting for him and his fellaheen labourers already hired. There were

but forty of them, for his was a comparatively small venture. Three

hundred pounds was the amount that he had made up his mind to expend,

and such a sum does not go far in excavations.

</p>

<p>

During his visit of the previous year Smith had marked the place where

he meant to dig. It was in the cemetery of old Thebes, at the wild spot

not far from the temple of Medinet Habu, that is known as the Valley of

the Queens. Here, separated from the resting-places of their royal lords

by the bold mass of the intervening hill, some of the greatest ladies of

Egypt have been laid to rest, and it was their tombs that Smith desired

to investigate. As he knew well, some of these must yet remain to be

discovered. Who could say? Fortune favours the bold. It might be that he

would find the holy grave of that beauteous, unknown Royalty whose face

had haunted him for three long years!

</p>

<p>

For a whole month he dug without the slightest success. The spot that

he selected had proved, indeed, to be the mouth of a tomb. After

twenty-five days of laborious exploration it was at length cleared out,

and he stood in a rude, unfinished cave. The queen for whom it had been

designed must have died quite young and been buried elsewhere; or she

had chosen herself another sepulchre, or mayhap the rock had proved

unsuitable for sculpture.

</p>

<p>

Smith shrugged his shoulders and moved on, sinking trial pits and

trenches here and there, but still finding nothing. Two-thirds of his

time and money had been spent when at last the luck turned. One day,

towards evening, with some half-dozen of his best men he was returning

after a fruitless morning of labour, when something seemed to attract

him towards a little <i>wadi</i>, or bay, in the hillside that was filled

with tumbled rocks and sand. There were scores of such places, and this

one looked no more promising than any of the others had proved to be.

Yet it attracted him. Thoroughly dispirited, he walked past it twenty

paces or more, then turned.

</p>

<p>

"Where go you, sah?" asked his head-man, Mahomet.

</p>

<p>

He pointed to the recess in the cliff.

</p>

<p>

"No good, sah," said Mahomet. "No tomb there. Bed-rock too near top. Too

much water run in there; dead queen like keep dry!"

</p>

<p>

But Smith went on, and the others followed obediently.

</p>

<p>

He walked down the little slope of sand and boulders and examined the

cliff. It was virgin rock; never a tool mark was to be seen. Already the

men were going, when the same strange instinct which had drawn him to

the spot caused him to take a spade from one of them and begin to shovel

away the sand from the face of the cliff&mdash;for here, for some unexplained

reason, were no boulders or <i>debris</i>. Seeing their master, to whom they

were attached, at work, they began to work too, and for twenty minutes

or more dug on cheerfully enough, just to humour him, since all were

sure that here there was no tomb. At length Smith ordered them to

desist, for, although now they were six feet down, the rock remained of

the same virgin character.

</p>

<p>

With an exclamation of disgust he threw out a last shovelful of sand.

The edge of his spade struck on something that projected. He cleared

away a little more sand, and there appeared a rounded ledge which seemed

to be a cornice. Calling back the men, he pointed to it, and without a

word all of them began to dig again. Five minutes more of work made it

clear that it was a cornice, and half an hour later there appeared the

top of the doorway of a tomb.

</p>

<p>

"Old people wall him up," said Mahomet, pointing to the flat stones set

in mud for mortar with which the doorway had been closed, and to the

undecipherable impress upon the mud of the scarab seals of the officials

whose duty it had been to close the last resting-place of the royal dead

for ever.

</p>

<p>

"Perhaps queen all right inside," he went on, receiving no answer to his

remark.

</p>

<p>

"Perhaps," replied Smith, briefly. "Dig, man, dig! Don't waste time in

talking."

</p>

<p>

So they dug on furiously till at length Smith saw something which caused

him to groan aloud. There was a hole in the masonry&mdash;the tomb had been

broken into. Mahomet saw it too, and examined the top of the aperture

with his skilled eye.

</p>

<p>

"Very old thief," he said. "Look, he try build up wall again, but run

away before he have time finish." And he pointed to certain flat stones

which had been roughly and hurriedly replaced.

</p>

<p>

"Dig&mdash;dig!" said Smith.

</p>

<p>

Ten minutes more and the aperture was cleared. It was only just big

enough to admit the body of a man.

</p>

<p>

By now the sun was setting. Swiftly, swiftly it seemed to tumble down

the sky. One minute it was above the rough crests of the western hills

behind them; the next, a great ball of glowing fire, it rested on their

topmost ridge. Then it was gone. For an instant a kind of green spark

shone where it had been. This too went out, and the sudden Egyptian

night was upon them.

</p>

<p>

The fellaheen muttered among themselves, and one or two of them wandered

off on some pretext. The rest threw down their tools and looked at

Smith. "Men say they no like stop here. They afraid of ghost! Too

many <i>afreet</i> live in these tomb. That what they say. Come back finish

to-morrow morning when it light. Very foolish people, these common

fellaheen," remarked Mahomet, in a superior tone.

</p>

<p>

"Quite so," replied Smith, who knew well that nothing that he could

offer would tempt his men to go on with the opening of a tomb after

sunset. "Let them go away. You and I will stop and watch the place till

morning."

</p>

<p>

"Sorry, sah," said Mahomet, "but I not feel quite well inside; think I

got fever. I go to camp and lie down and pray under plenty blanket."

</p>

<p>

"All right, go," said Smith; "but if there is anyone who is not a

coward, let him bring me my big coat, something to eat and drink, and

the lantern that hangs in my tent. I will meet him there in the valley."

</p>

<p>

Mahomet, though rather doubtfully, promised that this should be done,

and, after begging Smith to accompany them, lest the spirit of whoever

slept in the tomb should work him a mischief during the night, they

departed quickly enough.

</p>

<p>

Smith lit his pipe, sat down on the sand, and waited. Half an hour later

he heard a sound of singing, and through the darkness, which was dense,

saw lights coming up the valley.

</p>

<p>

"My brave men," he thought to himself, and scrambled up the slope to

meet them.

</p>

<p>

He was right. These were his men, no less than twenty of them, for with

a fewer number they did not dare to face the ghosts which they believed

haunted the valley after nightfall. Presently the light from the lantern

which one of them carried (not Mahomet, whose sickness had increased too

suddenly to enable him to come) fell upon the tall form of Smith, who,

dressed in his white working clothes, was leaning against a rock. Down

went the lantern, and with a howl of terror the brave company turned and

fled.

</p>

<p>

"Sons of cowards!" roared Smith after them, in his most vigorous Arabic.

"It is I, your master, not an <i>afreet</i>."

</p>

<p>

They heard, and by degrees crept back again. Then he perceived that in

order to account for their number each of them carried some article.

Thus one had the bread, another the lantern, another a tin of sardines,

another the sardine-opener, another a box of matches, another a bottle

of beer, and so on. As even thus there were not enough things to go

round, two of them bore his big coat between them, the first holding it

by the sleeves and the second by the tail as though it were a stretcher.

</p>

<p>

"Put them down," said Smith, and they obeyed. "Now," he added, "run for

your lives; I thought I heard two <i>afreets</i> talking up there just now

of what they would do to any followers of the Prophet who mocked their

gods, if perchance they should meet them in their holy place at night."

</p>

<p>

This kindly counsel was accepted with much eagerness. In another minute

Smith was alone with the stars and the dying desert wind.

</p>

<p>

Collecting his goods, or as many of them as he wanted, he thrust them

into the pockets of the great-coat and returned to the mouth of the

tomb. Here he made his simple meal by the light of the lantern, and

afterwards tried to go to sleep. But sleep he could not. Something

always woke him. First it was a jackal howling amongst the rocks; next

a sand-fly bit him in the ankle so sharply that he thought he must have

been stung by a scorpion. Then, notwithstanding his warm coat, the

cold got hold of him, for the clothes beneath were wet through with

perspiration, and it occurred to him that unless he did something he

would probably contract an internal chill or perhaps fever. He rose and

walked about.

</p>

<p>

By now the moon was up, revealing all the sad, wild scene in its every

detail. The mystery of Egypt entered his soul and oppressed him. How

much dead majesty lay in the hill upon which he stood? Were they all

really dead, he wondered, or were those fellaheen right? Did their

spirits still come forth at night and wander through the land where once

they ruled? Of course that was the Egyptian faith according to which

the <i>Ka</i>, or Double, eternally haunted the place where its earthly

counterpart had been laid to rest. When one came to think of it, beneath

a mass of unintelligible symbolism there was much in the Egyptian faith

which it was hard for a Christian to disbelieve. Salvation through a

Redeemer, for instance, and the resurrection of the body. Had he, Smith,

not already written a treatise upon these points of similarity which he

proposed to publish one day, not under his own name? Well, he would not

think of them now; the occasion seemed scarcely fitting&mdash;they came home

too pointedly to one who was engaged in violating a tomb.

</p>

<p>

His mind, or rather his imagination&mdash;of which he had plenty&mdash;went off at

a tangent. What sights had this place seen thousands of years ago! Once,

thousands of years ago, a procession had wound up along the roadway

which was doubtless buried beneath the sand whereon he stood towards

the dark door of this sepulchre. He could see it as it passed in and

out between the rocks. The priests, shaven-headed and robed in leopards'

skins, or some of them in pure white, bearing the mystic symbols of

their office. The funeral sledge drawn by oxen, and on it the great

rectangular case that contained the outer and the inner coffins, and

within them the mummy of some departed Majesty; in the Egyptian formula,

"the hawk that had spread its wings and flown into the bosom of

Osiris," God of Death. Behind, the mourners, rending the air with their

lamentations. Then those who bore the funeral furniture and offerings.

Then the high officers of State and the first priests of Amen and of

the other gods. Then the sister queens, leading by the hand a wondering

child or two. Then the sons of Pharaoh, young men carrying the emblems

of their rank.

</p>

<p>

Lastly, walking alone, Pharaoh himself in his ceremonial robes, his

apron, his double crown of linen surmounted by the golden snake, his

inlaid bracelets and his heavy, tinkling earrings. Pharaoh, his head

bowed, his feet travelling wearily, and in his heart&mdash;what thoughts?

Sorrow, perhaps, for her who had departed. Yet he had other queens and

fair women without count. Doubtless she was sweet and beautiful, but

sweetness and beauty were not given to her alone. Moreover, was she not

wont to cross his will and to question his divinity? No, surely it

is not only of her that he thinks, her for whom he had prepared this

splendid tomb with all things needful to unite her with the gods. Surely

he thinks also of himself and that other tomb on the farther side of the

hill whereat the artists labour day by day&mdash;yes, and have laboured these

many years; that tomb to which before so very long he too must travel in

just this fashion, to seek his place beyond the doors of Death, who lays

his equal hand on king and queen and slave.

</p>

<p>

The vision passed. It was so real that Smith thought he must have been

dreaming. Well, he was awake now, and colder than ever. Moreover, the

jackals had multiplied. There were a whole pack of them, and not far

away. Look! One crossed in the ring of the lamplight, a slinking, yellow

beast that smelt the remains of dinner. Or perhaps it smelt himself.

Moreover, there were bad characters who haunted these mountains, and he

was alone and quite unarmed. Perhaps he ought to put out the light which

advertised his whereabouts. It would be wise, and yet in this particular

he rejected wisdom. After all, the light was some company.

</p>

<p>

Since sleep seemed to be out of the question, he fell back upon poor

humanity's other anodyne, work, which has the incidental advantage of

generating warmth. Seizing a shovel, he began to dig at the doorway of

the tomb, whilst the jackals howled louder than ever in astonishment.

They were not used to such a sight. For thousands of years, as the old

moon above could have told, no man, or at least no solitary man, had

dared to rob tombs at such an unnatural hour.

</p>

<p>

When Smith had been digging for about twenty minutes something tinkled

on his shovel with a noise which sounded loud in that silence.

</p>

<p>

"A stone which may come in handy for the jackals," he thought to

himself, shaking the sand slowly off the spade until it appeared. There

it was, and not large enough to be of much service. Still, he picked it

up, and rubbed it in his hands to clear off the encrusting dirt. When he

opened them he saw that it was no stone, but a bronze.

</p>

<p>

"Osiris," reflected Smith, "buried in front of the tomb to hallow the

ground. No, an Isis. No, the head of a statuette, and a jolly good

one, too&mdash;at any rate, in moonlight. Seems to have been gilded." And,

reaching out for the lamp, he held it over the object.

</p>

<p>

Another minute, and he found himself sitting at the bottom of the hole,

lamp in one hand and statuette, or rather head, in the other.

</p>

<p>

"The Queen of the Mask!" he gasped. "The same&mdash;the same! By heavens, the

very same!"

</p>

<p>

Oh, he could not be mistaken. There were the identical lips, a little

thick and pouted; the identical nostrils, curved and quivering, but a

little wide; the identical arched eyebrows and dreamy eyes set somewhat

far apart. Above all, there was the identical alluring and mysterious

smile. Only on this masterpiece of ancient art was set a whole crown of

<i>uraei</i> surrounding the entire head. Beneath the crown and pressed back

behind the ears was a full-bottomed wig or royal head-dress, of which

the ends descended to the breasts. The statuette, that, having been

gilt, remained quite perfect and uncorroded, was broken just above the

middle, apparently by a single violent blow, for the fracture was very

clean.

</p>

<p>

At once it occurred to Smith that it had been stolen from the tomb by

a thief who thought it to be gold; that outside of the tomb doubt had

overtaken him and caused him to break it upon a stone or otherwise. The

rest was clear. Finding that it was but gold-washed bronze he had thrown

away the fragments, rather than be at the pains of carrying them. This

was his theory, probably not a correct one, as the sequel seems to show.

</p>

<p>

Smith's first idea was to recover the other portion. He searched quite a

long while, but without success. Neither then nor afterwards could it

be found. He reflected that perhaps this lower half had remained in the

thief's hand, who, in his vexation, had thrown it far away, leaving

the head to lie where it fell. Again Smith examined this head, and more

closely. Now he saw that just beneath the breasts was a delicately cut

cartouche.

</p>

<p>

Being by this time a master of hieroglyphics, he read it without

trouble. It ran: "Ma-Mee, Great Royal Lady. Beloved of &mdash;&mdash;" Here the

cartouche was broken away.

</p>

<p>

"Ma-Me, or it might be Ma-Mi," he reflected. "I never heard of a queen

called Ma-Me, or Ma-Mi, or Ma-Mu. She must be quite new to history. I

wonder of whom she was beloved? Amen, or Horus, or Isis, probably. Of

some god, I have no doubt, at least I hope so!"

</p>

<p>

He stared at the beautiful portrait in his hand, as once he had stared

at the cast on the Museum wall, and the beautiful portrait, emerging

from the dust of ages, smiled back at him there in the solemn moonlight

as once the cast had smiled from the museum wall. Only that had been but

a cast, whereas this was real. This had slept with the dead from whose

features it had been fashioned, the dead who lay, or who had lain,

within.

</p>

<p>

A sudden resolution took hold of Smith. He would explore that tomb, at

once and alone. No one should accompany him on this his first visit;

it would be a sacrilege that anyone save himself should set foot there

until he had looked on what it might contain.

</p>

<p>

Why should he not enter? His lamp, of what is called the "hurricane"

brand, was very good and bright, and would burn for many hours.

Moreover, there had been time for the foul air to escape through the

hole that they had cleared. Lastly, something seemed to call on him to

come and see. He placed the bronze head in his breast-pocket over his

heart, and, thrusting the lamp through the hole, looked down. Here there

was no difficulty, since sand had drifted in to the level of the bottom

of the aperture. Through it he struggled, to find himself upon a bed of

sand that only just left him room to push himself along between it and

the roof. A little farther on the passage was almost filled with mud.

</p>

<p>

Mahomet had been right when, from his knowledge of the bed-rock, he said

that any tomb made in this place must be flooded. It <i>had</i> been flooded

by some ancient rain-storm, and Smith began to fear that he would find

it quite filled with soil caked as hard as iron. So, indeed, it was to

a certain depth, a result that apparently had been anticipated by those

who hollowed it, for this entrance shaft was left quite undecorated.

Indeed, as Smith found afterwards, a hole had been dug beneath the

doorway to allow the mud to enter after the burial was completed. Only a

miscalculation had been made. The natural level of the mud did not quite

reach the roof of the tomb, and therefore still left it open.

</p>

<p>

After crawling for forty feet or so over this caked mud, Smith suddenly

found himself on a rising stair. Then he understood the plan; the tomb

itself was on a higher level.

</p>

<p>

Here began the paintings. Here the Queen Ma-Mee, wearing her crowns and

dressed in diaphanous garments, was presented to god after god. Between

her figure and those of the divinities the wall was covered with

hieroglyphs as fresh to-day as on that when the artist had limned them.

A glance told him that they were extracts from the Book of the Dead.

When the thief of bygone ages had broken into the tomb, probably not

very long after the interment, the mud over which Smith had just crawled

was still wet. This he could tell, since the clay from the rascal's

feet remained upon the stairs, and that upon his fingers had stained the

paintings on the wall against which he had supported himself; indeed,

in one place was an exact impression of his hand, showing its shape and

even the lines of the skin.

</p>

<p>

At the top of the flight of steps ran another passage at a higher

level, which the water had never reached, and to right and left were the

beginnings of unfinished chambers. It was clear to him that this queen

had died young. Her tomb, as she or the king had designed it, was never

finished. A few more paces, and the passage enlarged itself into a hall

about thirty feet square. The ceiling was decorated with vultures, their

wings outspread, the looped Cross of Life hanging from their talons.

On one wall her Majesty Ma-Mee stood expectant while Anubis weighed her

heart against the feather of truth, and Thoth, the Recorder, wrote down

the verdict upon his tablets. All her titles were given to her here,

such as&mdash;"Great Royal Heiress, Royal Sister, Royal Wife, Royal Mother,

Lady of the Two Lands, Palm-branch of Love, Beautiful-exceedingly."

</p>

<p>

Smith read them hurriedly and noted that nowhere could he see the name

of the king who had been her husband. It would almost seem as though

this had been purposely omitted. On the other walls Ma-Mee, accompanied

by her <i>Ka</i>, or Double, made offerings to the various gods, or uttered

propitiatory speeches to the hideous demons of the underworld, declaring

their names to them and forcing them to say: "Pass on. Thou art pure!"

</p>

<p>

Lastly, on the end wall, triumphant, all her trials done, she, the

justified Osiris, or Spirit, was received by the god Osiris, Saviour of

Spirits.

</p>

<p>

All these things Smith noted hurriedly as he swung the lamp to and fro

in that hallowed place. Then he saw something else which filled him with

dismay. On the floor of the chamber where the coffins had been&mdash;for this

was the burial chamber&mdash;lay a heap of black fragments charred with fire.

Instantly he understood. After the thief had done his work he had burned

the mummy-cases, and with them the body of the queen. There could be

no doubt that this was so, for look! among the ashes lay some calcined

human bones, while the roof above was blackened with the smoke and

cracked by the heat of the conflagration. There was nothing left for him

to find!

</p>

<p>

Oppressed with the closeness of the atmosphere, he sat down upon a

little bench or table cut in the rock that evidently had been meant

to receive offerings to the dead. Indeed, on it still lay the scorched

remains of some votive flowers. Here, his lamp between his feet, he

rested a while, staring at those calcined bones. See, yonder was the

lower jaw, and in it some teeth, small, white, regular and but little

worn. Yes, she had died young. Then he turned to go, for disappointment

and the holiness of the place overcame him; he could endure no more of

it that night.

</p>

<p>

Leaving the burial hall, he walked along the painted passage, the lamp

swinging and his eyes fixed upon the floor. He was disheartened, and the

paintings could wait till the morrow. He descended the steps and came to

the foot of the mud slope. Here suddenly he perceived, projecting from

some sand that had drifted down over the mud, what seemed to be the

corner of a reed box or basket. To clear away the sand was easy,

and&mdash;yes, it was a basket, a foot or so in length, such a basket as

the old Egyptians used to contain the funeral figures which are called

<i>ushaptis</i>, or other objects connected with the dead. It looked as

though it had been dropped, for it lay upon its side. Smith opened

it&mdash;not very hopefully, for surely nothing of value would have been

abandoned thus.

</p>

<p>

The first thing that met his eyes was a mummied hand, broken off at the

wrist, a woman's little hand, most delicately shaped. It was withered

and paper-white, but the contours still remained; the long fingers were

perfect, and the almond-shaped nails had been stained with henna, as was

the embalmers' fashion. On the hand were two gold rings, and for those

rings it had been stolen. Smith looked at it for a long while, and his

heart swelled within him, for here was the hand of that royal lady of

his dreams.

</p>

<p>

Indeed, he did more than look; he kissed it, and as his lips touched

the holy relic it seemed to him as though a wind, cold but scented, blew

upon his brow. Then, growing fearful of the thoughts that arose within

him, he hurried his mind back to the world, or rather to the examination

of the basket.

</p>

<p>

Here he found other objects roughly wrapped in fragments of mummy-cloth

that had been torn from the body of the queen. These it is needless to

describe, for are they not to be seen in the gold room of the Museum,

labelled "Bijouterie de la Reine Ma-Me, XVIIIeme Dynastie. Thebes

(Smith's Tomb)"? It may be mentioned, however, that the set was

incomplete. For instance, there was but one of the great gold ceremonial

ear-rings fashioned like a group of pomegranate blooms, and the most

beautiful of the necklaces had been torn in two&mdash;half of it was missing.

</p>

<p>

It was clear to Smith that only a portion of the precious objects which

were buried with the mummy had been placed in this basket. Why had these

been left where he found them? A little reflection made that clear also.

Something had prompted the thief to destroy the desecrated body and its

coffin with fire, probably in the hope of hiding his evil handiwork.

Then he fled with his spoil. But he had forgotten how fiercely mummies

and their trappings can burn. Or perhaps the thing was an accident. He

must have had a lamp, and if its flame chanced to touch this bituminous

tinder!

</p>

<p>

At any rate, the smoke overtook the man in that narrow place as he began

to climb the slippery slope of clay. In his haste he dropped the basket,

and dared not return to search for it. It could wait till the morrow,

when the fire would be out and the air pure. Only for this desecrator of

the royal dead that morrow never came, as was discovered afterwards.

</p>

<p>

When at length Smith struggled into the open air the stars were paling

before the dawn. An hour later, after the sky was well up, Mahomet

(recovered from his sickness) and his myrmidons arrived.

</p>

<p>

"I have been busy while you slept," said Smith, showing them the mummied

hand (but not the rings which he had removed from the shrunk fingers),

and the broken bronze, but not the priceless jewellery which was hidden

in his pockets.

</p>

<p>

For the next ten days they dug till the tomb and its approach were quite

clear. In the sand, at the head of a flight of steps which led down to

the doorway, they found the skeleton of a man, who evidently had been

buried there in a hurried fashion. His skull was shattered by the blow

of an axe, and the shaven scalp that still clung to it suggested that he

might have been a priest.

</p>

<p>

Mahomet thought, and Smith agreed with him, that this was the person who

had violated the tomb. As he was escaping from it the guards of the holy

place surprised him after he had covered up the hole by which he had

entered and purposed to return. There they executed him without trial

and divided up the plunder, thinking that no more was to be found. Or

perhaps his confederates killed him.

</p>

<p>

Such at least were the theories advanced by Mahomet. Whether they were

right or wrong none will ever know. For instance, the skeleton may not

have been that of the thief, though probability appears to point the

other way.

</p>

<p>

Nothing more was found in the tomb, not even a scarab or a mummy-bead.

Smith spent the remainder of his time in photographing the pictures

and copying the inscriptions, which for various reasons proved to be of

extraordinary interest. Then, having reverently buried the charred bones

of the queen in a secret place of the sepulchre, he handed it over to

the care of the local Guardian of Antiquities, paid off Mahomet and the

fellaheen, and departed for Cairo. With him went the wonderful jewels

of which he had breathed no word, and another relic to him yet more

precious&mdash;the hand of her Majesty Ma-Mee, Palm-branch of Love.

</p>

<p>

And now follows the strange sequel of this story of Smith and the queen

Ma-Mee.

</p>

<center>

II

</center>

<p>

Smith was seated in the sanctum of the distinguished Director-General

of Antiquities at the new Cairo Museum. It was a very interesting room.

Books piled upon the floor; objects from tombs awaiting examination,

lying here and there; a hoard of Ptolemaic silver coins, just dug up at

Alexandria, standing on a table in the pot that had hidden them for two

thousand years; in the corner the mummy of a royal child, aged six or

seven, not long ago discovered, with some inscription scrawled upon

the wrappings (brought here to be deciphered by the Master), and the

withered lotus-bloom, love's last offering, thrust beneath one of the

pink retaining bands.

</p>

<p>

"A touching object," thought Smith to himself. "Really, they might have

left the dear little girl in peace."

</p>

<p>

Smith had a tender heart, but even as he reflected he became aware

that some of the jewellery hidden in an inner pocket of his waistcoat

(designed for bank-notes) was fretting his skin. He had a tender

conscience also.

</p>

<p>

Just then the Director, a French savant, bustled in, alert, vigorous,

full of interest.

</p>

<p>

"Ah, my dear Mr. Smith!" he said, in his excellent English. "I am indeed

glad to see you back again, especially as I understand that you are come

rejoicing and bringing your sheaves with you. They tell me you have been

extraordinarily successful. What do you say is the name of this queen

whose tomb you have found&mdash;Ma-Mee? A very unusual name. How do you

get the extra vowel? Is it for euphony, eh? Did I not know how good a

scholar you are, I should be tempted to believe that you had misread

it. Me-Mee, Ma-Mee! That would be pretty in French, would it not? <i>Ma

mie</i>&mdash;my darling! Well, I dare say she was somebody's <i>mie</i> in her time.

But tell me the story."

</p>

<p>

Smith told him shortly and clearly; also he produced his photographs and

copies of inscriptions.

</p>

<p>

"This is interesting&mdash;interesting truly," said the Director, when he had

glanced through them. "You must leave them with me to study. Also you

will publish them, is it not so? Perhaps one of the Societies would

help you with the cost, for it should be done in facsimile. Look at this

vignette! Most unusual. Oh, what a pity that scoundrelly priest got off

with the jewellery and burnt her Majesty's body!"

</p>

<p>

"He didn't get off with all of it."

</p>

<p>

"What, Mr. Smith? Our inspector reported to me that you found nothing."

</p>

<p>

"I dare say, sir; but your inspector did not know what I found."

</p>

<p>

"Ah, you are a discreet man! Well, let us see."

</p>

<p>

Slowly Smith unbuttoned his waistcoat. From its inner pocket and

elsewhere about his person he extracted the jewels wrapped in

mummy-cloth as he had found them. First he produced a sceptre-head of

gold, in the shape of a pomegranate fruit and engraved with the throne

name and titles of Ma-Mee.

</p>

<p>

"What a beautiful object!" said the Director. "Look! the handle was of

ivory, and that <i>sacre</i> thief of a priest smashed it out at the socket.

It was fresh ivory then; the robbery must have taken place not long

after the burial. See, this magnifying-glass shows it. Is that all?"

</p>

<p>

Smith handed him the surviving half of the marvellous necklace that had

been torn in two.

</p>

<p>

"I have re-threaded it," he muttered, "but every bead is in its place."

</p>

<p>

"Oh, heavens! How lovely! Note the cutting of those cornelian heads of

Hathor and the gold lotus-blooms between&mdash;yes, and the enamelled flies

beneath. We have nothing like it in the Museum."

</p>

<p>

So it went on.

</p>

<p>

"Is that all?" gasped the Director at last, when every object from the

basket glittered before them on the table.

</p>

<p>

"Yes," said Smith. "That is&mdash;no. I found a broken statuette hidden in

the sand outside the tomb. It is of the queen, but I thought perhaps you

would allow me to keep this."

</p>

<p>

"But certainly, Mr. Smith; it is yours indeed. We are not niggards here.

Still, if I might see it&mdash;&mdash;"

</p>

<p>

From yet another pocket Smith produced the head. The Director gazed at

it, then he spoke with feeling.

</p>

<p>

"I said just now that you were discreet, Mr. Smith, and I have been

reflecting that you are honest. But now I must add that you are very

clever. If you had not made me promise that this bronze should be yours

before you showed it me&mdash;well, it would never have gone into that

pocket again. And, in the public interest, won't you release me from the

promise?"

</p>

<p>

"<i>No</i>," said Smith.

</p>

<p>

"You are perhaps not aware," went on the Director, with a groan, "that

this is a portrait of Mariette's unknown queen whom we are thus able to

identify. It seems a pity that the two should be separated; a replica we

could let you have."

</p>

<p>

"I am quite aware," said Smith, "and I will be sure to send <i>you</i> a

replica, with photographs. Also I promise to leave the original to some

museum by will."

</p>

<p>

The Director clasped the image tenderly, and, holding it to the light,

read the broken cartouche beneath the breasts.

</p>

<p>

"'Ma-Me, Great Royal Lady. Beloved of &mdash;&mdash;' Beloved of whom? Well, of

Smith, for one. Take it, monsieur, and hide it away at once, lest soon

there should be another mummy in this collection, a modern mummy called

Smith; and, in the name of Justice, let the museum which inherits it be

not the British, but that of Cairo, for this queen belongs to Egypt.

By the way, I have been told that you are delicate in the lungs. How is

your health now? Our cold winds are very trying. Quite good? Ah, that

is excellent! I suppose that you have no more articles that you can show

me?"

</p>

<p>

"I have nothing more except a mummied hand, which I found in the basket

with the jewels. The two rings off it lie there. Doubtless it was

removed to get at that bracelet. I suppose you will not mind my keeping

the hand&mdash;&mdash;"

</p>

<p>

"Of the beloved of Smith," interrupted the Director drolly. "No, I

suppose not, though for my part I should prefer one that was not quite

so old. Still, perhaps <i>you</i> will not mind my seeing it. That pocket of

yours still looks a little bulky; I thought that it contained books!"

</p>

<p>

Smith produced a cigar-box; in it was the hand wrapped in cotton wool.

</p>

<p>

"Ah," said the Director, "a pretty, well-bred hand. No doubt this

Ma-Mee was the real heiress to the throne, as she describes herself.

The Pharaoh was somebody of inferior birth, half-brother&mdash;she is called

'Royal Sister,' you remember&mdash;son of one of the Pharaoh's slave-women,

perhaps. Odd that she never mentioned him in the tomb. It looks as

though they didn't get on in life, and that she was determined to have

done with him in death. Those were the rings upon that hand, were they

not?"

</p>

<p>

He replaced them on the fingers, then took off one, a royal signet in a

cartouche, and read the inscription on the other: "'Bes Ank, Ank Bes.'

'Bes the Living, the Living Bes.'

</p>

<p>

"Your Ma-Mee had some human vanity about her," he added. "Bes, among

other things, as you know, was the god of beauty and of the adornments

of women. She wore that ring that she might remain beautiful, and that

her dresses might always fit, and her rouge never cake when she was

dancing before the gods. Also it fixes her period pretty closely, but

then so do other things. It seems a pity to rob Ma-Mee of her pet ring,

does it not? The royal signet will be enough for us."

</p>

<p>

With a little bow he gave the hand back to Smith, leaving the Bes ring

on the finger that had worn it for more than three thousand years. At

least, Smith was so sure it was the Bes ring that at the time he did not

look at it again.

</p>

<p>

Then they parted, Smith promising to return upon the morrow, which,

owing to events to be described, he did not do.

</p>

<p>

"Ah!" said the Master to himself, as the door closed behind his visitor.

"He's in a hurry to be gone. He has fear lest I should change my mind

about that ring. Also there is the bronze. Monsieur Smith was <i>ruse</i>

there. It is worth a thousand pounds, that bronze. Yet I do not believe

he was thinking of the money. I believe he is in love with that Ma-Mee

and wants to keep her picture. <i>Mon Dieu!</i> A well-established affection.

At least he is what the English call an odd fish, one whom I could never

make out, and of whom no one seems to know anything. Still, honest, I

am sure&mdash;quite honest. Why, he might have kept every one of those jewels

and no one have been the wiser. And what things! What a find! <i>Ciel!</i>

what a find! There has been nothing like it for years. Benedictions on

the head of Odd-fish Smith!"

</p>

<p>

Then he collected the precious objects, thrust them into an inner

compartment of his safe, which he locked and double-locked, and, as

it was nearly five o'clock, departed from the Museum to his private

residence in the grounds, there to study Smith's copies and photographs,

and to tell some friends of the great things that had happened.

</p>

<p>

When Smith found himself outside the sacred door, and had presented its

venerable guardian with a baksheesh of five piastres, he walked a few

paces to the right and paused a while to watch some native labourers

who were dragging a huge sarcophagus upon an improvised tramway. As they

dragged they sang an echoing rhythmic song, whereof each line ended with

an invocation to Allah.

</p>

<p>

Just so, reflected Smith, had their forefathers sung when, millenniums

ago, they dragged that very sarcophagus from the quarries to the Nile,

and from the Nile to the tomb whence it reappeared to-day, or when they

slid the casing blocks of the pyramids up the great causeway and smooth

slope of sand, and laid them in their dizzy resting-places. Only then

each line of the immemorial chant of toil ended with an invocation to

Amen, now transformed to Allah. The East may change its masters and

its gods, but its customs never change, and if to-day Allah wore the

feathers of Amen one wonders whether the worshippers would find the

difference so very great.

</p>

<p>

Thus thought Smith as he hurried away from the sarcophagus and those

blue-robed, dark-skinned fellaheen, down the long gallery that is filled

with a thousand sculptures. For a moment he paused before the wonderful

white statue of Queen Amenartas, then, remembering that his time was

short, hastened on to a certain room, one of those which opened out of

the gallery.

</p>

<p>

In a corner of this room, upon the wall, amongst many other beautiful

objects, stood that head which Mariette had found, whereof in past years

the cast had fascinated him in London. Now he knew whose head it was;

to him it had been given to find the tomb of her who had sat for that

statue. Her very hand was in his pocket&mdash;yes, the hand that had touched

yonder marble, pointing out its defects to the sculptor, or perhaps

swearing that he flattered her. Smith wondered who that sculptor was;

surely he must have been a happy man. Also he wondered whether the

statuette was also this master's work. He thought so, but he wished to

make sure.

</p>

<p>

Near to the end of the room he stopped and looked about him like a

thief. He was alone in the place; not a single student or tourist could

be seen, and its guardian was somewhere else. He drew out the box

that contained the hand. From the hand he slipped the ring which the

Director-General had left there as a gift to himself. He would much have

preferred the other with the signet, but how could he say so, especially

after the episode of the statuette?

</p>

<p>

Replacing the hand in his pocket without looking at the ring&mdash;for his

eyes were watching to see whether he was observed&mdash;he set it upon his

little finger, which it exactly fitted. (Ma-Mee had worn both of them

upon the third finger of her left hand, the Bes ring as a guard to the

signet.) He had the fancy to approach the effigy of Ma-Mee wearing a

ring which she had worn and that came straight from her finger to his

own.

</p>

<p>

Smith found the head in its accustomed place. Weeks had gone by since he

looked upon it, and now, to his eyes, it had grown more beautiful

than ever, and its smile was more mystical and living. He drew out the

statuette and began to compare them point by point. Oh, no doubt was

possible! Both were likenesses of the same woman, though the statuette

might have been executed two or three years later than the statue. To

him the face of it looked a little older and more spiritual. Perhaps

illness, or some premonition of her end had then thrown its shadow on

the queen. He compared and compared. He made some rough measurements

and sketches in his pocket-book, and set himself to work out a canon of

proportions.

</p>

<p>

So hard and earnestly did he work, so lost was his mind that he never

heard the accustomed warning sound which announces that the Museum

is about to close. Hidden behind an altar as he was, in his distant,

shadowed corner, the guardian of the room never saw him as he cast

a last perfunctory glance about the place before departing till the

Saturday morning; for the morrow was Friday, the Mohammedan Sabbath,

on which the Museum remains shut, and he would not be called upon to

attend. So he went. Everybody went. The great doors clanged, were locked

and bolted, and, save for a watchman outside, no one was left in all

that vast place except Smith in his corner, engaged in sketching and in

measurements.

</p>

<p>

The difficulty of seeing, owing to the increase of shadow, first called

his attention to the fact that time was slipping away. He glanced at his

watch and saw that it was ten minutes to the hour.

</p>

<p>

"Soon be time to go," he thought to himself, and resumed his work.

</p>

<p>

How strangely silent the place seemed! Not a footstep to be heard or the

sound of a human voice. He looked at his watch again, and saw that

it was six o'clock, not five, or so the thing said. But that was

impossible, for the Museum shut at five; evidently the desert sand had

got into the works. The room in which he stood was that known as Room

I, and he had noticed that its Arab custodian often frequented Room K or

the gallery outside. He would find him and ask what was the real time.

</p>

<p>

Passing round the effigy of the wonderful Hathor cow, perhaps the finest

example of an ancient sculpture of a beast in the whole world, Smith

came to the doorway and looked up and down the gallery. Not a soul to

be seen. He ran to Room K, to Room H, and others. Still not a soul to be

seen. Then he made his way as fast as he could go to the great entrance.

The doors were locked and bolted.

</p>

<p>

"Watch must be right after all. I'm shut in," he said to himself.

"However, there's sure to be someone about somewhere. Probably the

<i>salle des ventes</i> is still open. Shops don't shut till they are

obliged."

</p>

<p>

Thither he went, to find its door as firmly closed as a door can be. He

knocked on it, but a sepulchral echo was the only answer.

</p>

<p>

"I know," he reflected. "The Director must still be in his room. It will

take him a long while to examine all that jewellery and put it away."

</p>

<p>

So for the room he headed, and, after losing his path twice, found it

by help of the sarcophagus that the Arabs had been dragging, which now

stood as deserted as it had done in the tomb, a lonesome and impressive

object in the gathering shadows. The Director's door was shut, and again

his knockings produced nothing but an echo. He started on a tour round

the Museum, and, having searched the ground floors, ascended to the

upper galleries by the great stairway.

</p>

<p>

Presently he found himself in that devoted to the royal mummies, and,

being tired, rested there a while. Opposite to him, in a glass case in

the middle of the gallery, reposed Rameses II. Near to, on shelves in

a side case, were Rameses' son, Meneptah, and above, his son, Seti

II, while in other cases were the mortal remains of many more of the

royalties of Egypt. He looked at the proud face of Rameses and at the

little fringe of white locks turned yellow by the embalmer's spices,

also at the raised left arm. He remembered how the Director had told

him that when they were unrolling this mighty monarch they went away

to lunch, and that presently the man who had been left in charge of the

body rushed into the room with his hair on end, and said that the dead

king had lifted his arm and pointed at him.

</p>

<p>

Back they went, and there, true enough, was the arm lifted; nor were

they ever able to get it quite into its place again. The explanation

given was that the warmth of the sun had contracted the withered

muscles, a very natural and correct explanation.

</p>

<p>

Still, Smith wished that he had not recollected the story just at this

moment, especially as the arm seemed to move while he contemplated it

&mdash;a very little, but still to move.

</p>

<p>

He turned round and gazed at Meneptah, whose hollow eyes stared at him

from between the wrappings carelessly thrown across the parchment-like

and ashen face. There, probably, lay the countenance that had frowned

on Moses. There was the heart which God had hardened. Well, it was

hard enough now, for the doctors said he died of ossification of the

arteries, and that the vessels of the heart were full of lime!

</p>

<p>

Smith stood upon a chair and peeped at Seti II. above. His weaker

countenance was very peaceful, but it seemed to wear an air of reproach.

In getting down Smith managed to upset the heavy chair. The noise it

made was terrific. He would not have thought it possible that the fall

of such an article could produce so much sound. Satisfied with his

inspection of these particular kings, who somehow looked quite different

now from what they had ever done before&mdash;more real and imminent, so to

speak&mdash;he renewed his search for a living man.

</p>

<p>

On he went, mummies to his right, mummies to his left, of every style

and period, till he began to feel as though he never wished to see

another dried remnant of mortality. He peeped into the room where lay

the relics of Iouiya and Touiyou, the father and mother of the great

Queen Taia. Cloths had been drawn over these, and really they looked

worse and more suggestive thus draped than in their frigid and unadorned

blackness. He came to the coffins of the priest-kings of the twentieth

dynasty, formidable painted coffins with human faces. There seemed to be

a vast number of these priest-kings, but perhaps they were better

than the gold masks of the great Ptolemaic ladies which glinted at him

through the gathering gloom.

</p>

<p>

Really, he had seen enough of the upper floors. The statues downstairs

were better than all these dead, although it was true that, according to

the Egyptian faith, every one of those statues was haunted eternally by

the <i>Ka</i>, or Double, of the person whom it represented. He descended

the great stairway. Was it fancy, or did something run across the bottom

step in front of him&mdash;an animal of some kind, followed by a swift-moving

and indefinite shadow? If so, it must have been the Museum cat hunting

a Museum mouse. Only then what on earth was that very peculiar and

unpleasant shadow?

</p>

<p>

He called, "Puss! puss! puss!" for he would have been quite glad of its

company; but there came no friendly "miau" in response. Perhaps it was

only the <i>Ka</i> of a cat and the shadow was&mdash;oh! never mind what. The

Egyptians worshipped cats, and there were plenty of their mummies about

on the shelves. But the shadow!

</p>

<p>

Once he shouted in the hope of attracting attention, for there were no

windows to which he could climb. He did not repeat the experiment, for

it seemed as though a thousand voices were answering him from every

corner and roof of the gigantic edifice.

</p>

<p>

Well, he must face the thing out. He was shut in a museum, and the

question was in what part of it he should camp for the night. Moreover,

as it was growing rapidly dark, the problem must be solved at once. He

thought with affection of the lavatory, where, before going to see

the Director, only that afternoon he had washed his hands with the

assistance of a kindly Arab who watched the door and gracefully accepted

a piastre. But there was no Arab there now, and the door, like every

other in this confounded place, was locked. He marched on to the

entrance.

</p>

<p>

Here, opposite to each other, stood the red sarcophagi of the great

Queen Hatshepu and her brother and husband, Thotmes III. He looked at

them. Why should not one of these afford him a night's lodging? They

were deep and quiet, and would fit the human frame very nicely. For a

while Smith wondered which of these monarchs would be the more likely

to take offence at such a use of a private sarcophagus, and, acting on

general principles, concluded that he would rather throw himself on the

mercy of the lady.

</p>

<p>

Already one of his legs was over the edge of that solemn coffer, and he

was squeezing his body beneath the massive lid that was propped above

it on blocks of wood, when he remembered a little, naked, withered

thing with long hair that he had seen in a side chamber of the tomb

of Amenhotep II. in the Valley of Kings at Thebes. This caricature of

humanity many thought, and he agreed with them, to be the actual body of

the mighty Hatshepu as it appeared after the robbers had done with it.

</p>

<p>

Supposing now, that when he was lying at the bottom of that sarcophagus,

sleeping the sleep of the just, this little personage should peep over

its edge and ask him what he was doing there! Of course the idea was

absurd; he was tired, and his nerves were a little shaken. Still, the

fact remained that for centuries the hallowed dust of Queen Hatshepu had

slept where he, a modern man, was proposing to sleep.

</p>

<p>

He scrambled down from the sarcophagus and looked round him in despair.

Opposite to the main entrance was the huge central hall of the Museum.

Now the cement roof of this hall had, he knew, gone wrong, with the

result that very extensive repairs had become necessary. So extensive

were they, indeed, that the Director-General had informed him that they

would take several years to complete. Therefore this hall was boarded

up, only a little doorway being left by which the workmen could enter.

Certain statues, of Seti II. and others, too large to be moved, were

also roughly boarded over, as were some great funeral boats on either

side of the entrance. The rest of the place, which might be two hundred

feet long with a proportionate breadth, was empty save for the colossi

of Amenhotep III. and his queen Taia that stood beneath the gallery at

its farther end.

</p>

<p>

It was an appalling place in which to sleep, but better, reflected

Smith, than a sarcophagus or those mummy chambers. If, for instance,

he could creep behind the deal boards that enclosed one of the funeral

boats he would be quite comfortable there. Lifting the curtain, he

slipped into the hall, where the gloom of evening had already settled.

Only the skylights and the outline of the towering colossi at the far

end remained visible. Close to him were the two funeral boats which he

had noted when he looked into the hall earlier on that day, standing at

the head of a flight of steps which led to the sunk floor of the centre.

He groped his way to that on the right. As he expected, the projecting

planks were not quite joined at the bow. He crept in between them and

the boat and laid himself down.

</p>

<p>

Presumably, being altogether tired out, Smith did ultimately fall

asleep, for how long he never knew. At any rate, it is certain that, if

so, he woke up again. He could not tell the time, because his watch

was not a repeater, and the place was as black as the pit. He had some

matches in his pocket, and might have struck one and even have lit his

pipe. To his credit be it said, however, he remembered that he was the

sole tenant of one of the most valuable museums in the world, and his

responsibilities with reference to fire. So he refrained from striking

that match under the keel of a boat which had become very dry in the

course of five thousand years.

</p>

<p>

Smith found himself very wide awake indeed. Never in all his life did he

remember being more so, not even in the hour of its great catastrophe,

or when his godfather, Ebenezer, after much hesitation, had promised him

a clerkship in the bank of which he was a director. His nerves seemed

strung tight as harp-strings, and his every sense was painfully acute.

Thus he could even smell the odour of mummies that floated down from the

upper galleries and the earthy scent of the boat which had been buried

for thousands of years in sand at the foot of the pyramid of one of the

fifth dynasty kings.

</p>

<p>

Moreover, he could hear all sorts of strange sounds, faint and far-away

sounds which at first he thought must emanate from Cairo without. Soon,

however, he grew sure that their origin was more local. Doubtless the

cement work and the cases in the galleries were cracking audibly, as is

the unpleasant habit of such things at night.

</p>

<p>

Yet why should these common manifestations be so universal and affect

him so strangely? Really, it seemed as though people were stirring all

about him. More, he could have sworn that the great funeral boat beneath

which he lay had become re-peopled with the crew that once it bore.

</p>

<p>

He heard them at their business above him. There were trampings and a

sound as though something heavy were being laid on the deck, such, for

instance, as must have been made when the mummy of Pharaoh was set there

for its last journey to the western bank of the Nile. Yes, and now he

could have sworn again that the priestly crew were getting out the oars.

</p>

<p>

Smith began to meditate flight from the neighbourhood of that place when

something occurred which determined him to stop where he was.

</p>

<p>

The huge hall was growing light, but not, as at first he hoped, with the

rays of dawn. This light was pale and ghostly, though very penetrating.

Also it had a blue tinge, unlike any other he had ever seen. At first

it arose in a kind of fan or fountain at the far end of the hall,

illumining the steps there and the two noble colossi which sat above.

</p>

<p>

But what was this that stood at the head of the steps, radiating glory?

By heavens! it was Osiris himself or the image of Osiris, god of the

Dead, the Egyptian saviour of the world!

</p>

<p>

There he stood, in his mummy-cloths, wearing the feathered crown, and

holding in his hands, which projected from an opening in the wrappings,

the crook and the scourge of power. Was he alive, or was he dead? Smith

could not tell, since he never moved, only stood there, splendid and

fearful, his calm, benignant face staring into nothingness.

</p>

<p>

Smith became aware that the darkness between him and the vision of

this god was peopled; that a great congregation was gathering, or had

gathered there. The blue light began to grow; long tongues of it shot

forward, which joined themselves together, illumining all that huge

hall.

</p>

<p>

Now, too, he saw the congregation. Before him, rank upon rank of them,

stood the kings and queens of Egypt. As though at a given signal, they

bowed themselves to the Osiris, and ere the tinkling of their ornaments

had died away, lo! Osiris was gone. But in his place stood another,

Isis, the Mother of Mystery, her deep eyes looking forth from beneath

the jewelled vulture-cap. Again the congregation bowed, and, lo! she was

gone. But in her place stood yet another, a radiant, lovely being, who

held in her hand the Sign of Life, and wore upon her head the symbol of

the shining disc&mdash;Hathor, Goddess of Love. A third time the congregation

bowed, and she, too, was gone; nor did any other appear in her place.

</p>

<p>

The Pharaohs and their queens began to move about and speak to each

other; their voices came to his ears in one low, sweet murmur.

</p>

<p>

In his amaze Smith had forgotten fear. From his hiding-place he watched

them intently. Some of them he knew by their faces. There, for instance,

was the long-necked Khu-en-aten, talking somewhat angrily to the

imperial Rameses II. Smith could understand what he said, for this power

seemed to have been given to him. He was complaining in a high, weak

voice that on this, the one night of the year when they might meet,

the gods, or the magic images of the gods who were put up for them to

worship, should not include <i>his</i> god, symbolized by the "Aten," or the

sun's disc.

</p>

<p>

"I have heard of your Majesty's god," replied Rameses; "the priests used

to tell me of him, also that he did not last long after your Majesty

flew to heaven. The Fathers of Amen gave you a bad name; they called you

'the heretic' and hammered out your cartouches. They were quite rare in

my time. Oh, do not let your Majesty be angry! So many of us have

been heretics. My grandson, Seti, there"&mdash;and he pointed to a mild,

thoughtful-faced man&mdash;"for example. I am told that he really worshipped

the god of those Hebrew slaves whom I used to press to build my cities.

Look at that lady with him. Beautiful, isn't she? Observe her large,

violet eyes! Well, she was the one who did the mischief, a Hebrew

herself. At least, they tell me so."

</p>

<p>

"I will talk with him," answered Khu-en-aten. "It is more than possible

that we may agree on certain points. Meanwhile, let me explain to your

Majesty&mdash;&mdash;"

</p>

<p>

"Oh, I pray you, not now. There is my wife."

</p>

<p>

"Your wife?" said Khu-en-aten, drawing himself up. "Which wife? I am

told that your Majesty had many and left a large family; indeed, I

see some hundreds of them here to-night. Now, I&mdash;but let me introduce

Nefertiti to your Majesty. I may explain that she was my <i>only</i> wife."

</p>

<p>

"So I have understood. Your Majesty was rather an invalid, were you not?

Of course, in those circumstances, one prefers the nurse whom one can

trust. Oh, pray, no offence! Nefertari, my love&mdash;oh, I beg pardon!

&mdash;Astnefert&mdash;Nefertari has gone to speak to some of her children&mdash;let

me introduce you to your predecessor, the Queen Nefertiti, wife of

Amenhotep IV.&mdash;I mean Khu-en-aten (he changed his name, you know,

because half of it was that of the father of the gods). She is

interested in the question of plural marriage. Good-bye! I wish to have

a word with my grandfather, Rameses I. He was fond of me as a little

boy."

</p>

<p>

At this moment Smith's interest in that queer conversation died away,

for of a sudden he beheld none other than the queen of his dreams,

Ma-Mee. Oh! there she stood, without a doubt, only ten times more

beautiful than he had ever pictured her. She was tall and somewhat

fair-complexioned, with slumbrous, dark eyes, and on her face gleamed

the mystic smile he loved. She wore a robe of simple white and a

purple-broidered apron, a crown of golden <i>uraei</i> with turquoise eyes

was set upon her dark hair as in her statue, and on her breast and arms

were the very necklace and bracelets that he had taken from her tomb.

She appeared to be somewhat moody, or rather thoughtful, for she leaned

by herself against a balustrade, watching the throng without much

interest.

</p>

<p>

Presently a Pharaoh, a black-browed, vigorous man with thick lips, drew

near.

</p>

<p>

"I greet your Majesty," he said.

</p>

<p>

She started, and answered: "Oh, it is you! I make my obeisance to your

Majesty," and she curtsied to him, humbly enough, but with a suggestion

of mockery in her movements.

</p>

<p>

"Well, you do not seem to have been very anxious to find me, Ma-Mee,

which, considering that we meet so seldom&mdash;&mdash;"

</p>

<p>

"I saw that your Majesty was engaged with my sister queens," she

interrupted, in a rich, low voice, "and with some other ladies in the

gallery there, whose faces I seem to remember, but who I think were

<i>not</i> queens. Unless, indeed, you married them after I was drawn away."

</p>

<p>

"One must talk to one's relations," replied the Pharaoh.

</p>

<p>

"Quite so. But, you see, I have no relations&mdash;at least, none whom I know

well. My parents, you will remember, died when I was young, leaving me

Egypt's heiress, and they are still vexed at the marriage which I made

on the advice of my counsellors. But, is it not annoying? I have lost

one of my rings, that which had the god Bes on it. Some dweller on the

earth must be wearing it to-day, and that is why I cannot get it back

from him."

</p>

<p>

"Him! Why 'him'? Hush; the business is about to begin."

</p>

<p>

"What business, my lord?"

</p>

<p>

"Oh, the question of the violation of our tombs, I believe."

</p>

<p>

"Indeed! That is a large subject, and not a very profitable one, I

should say. Tell me, who is that?" And she pointed to a lady who had

stepped forward, a very splendid person, magnificently arrayed.

</p>

<p>

"Cleopatra the Greek," he answered, "the last of Egypt's Sovereigns, one

of the Ptolemys. You can always know her by that Roman who walks about

after her."

</p>

<p>

"Which?" asked Ma-Mee. "I see several&mdash;also other men. She was the

wretch who rolled Egypt in the dirt and betrayed her. Oh, if it were not

for the law of peace by which we must abide when we meet thus!"

</p>

<p>

"You mean that she would be torn to shreds, Ma-Mee, and her very soul

scattered like the limbs of Osiris? Well, if it were not for that law of

peace, so perhaps would many of us, for never have I heard a single king

among these hundreds speak altogether well of those who went before or

followed after him."

</p>

<p>

"Especially of those who went before if they happen to have hammered out

their cartouches and usurped their monuments," said the queen, dryly,

and looking him in the eyes.

</p>

<p>

At this home-thrust the Pharaoh seemed to wince. Making no answer, he

pointed to the royal woman who had mounted the steps at the end of the

hall.

</p>

<p>

Queen Cleopatra lifted her hand and stood thus for a while. Very

splendid she was, and Smith, on his hands and knees behind the boarding

of the boat, thanked his stars that alone among modern men it had been

his lot to look upon her rich and living loveliness. There she shone,

she who had changed the fortunes of the world, she who, whatever she did

amiss, at least had known how to die.

</p>

<p>

Silence fell upon that glittering galaxy of kings and queens and upon

all the hundreds of their offspring, their women, and their great

officers who crowded the double tier of galleries around the hall.

</p>

<p>

"Royalties of Egypt," she began, in a sweet, clear voice which

penetrated to the farthest recesses of the place, "I, Cleopatra, the

sixth of that name and the last monarch who ruled over the Upper and the

Lower Lands before Egypt became a home of slaves, have a word to say

to your Majesties, who, in your mortal days, all of you more worthily

filled the throne on which once I sat. I do not speak of Egypt and its

fate, or of our sins&mdash;whereof mine were not the least&mdash;that brought her

to the dust. Those sins I and others expiate elsewhere, and of them,

from age to age, we hear enough. But on this one night of the year, that

of the feast of him whom we call Osiris, but whom other nations have

known and know by different names, it is given to us once more to be

mortal for an hour, and, though we be but shadows, to renew the loves

and hates of our long-perished flesh. Here for an hour we strut in our

forgotten pomp; the crowns that were ours still adorn our brows, and

once more we seem to listen to our people's praise. Our hopes are the

hopes of mortal life, our foes are the foes we feared, our gods grow

real again, and our lovers whisper in our ears. Moreover, this joy is

given to us&mdash;to see each other as we are, to know as the gods know, and

therefore to forgive, even where we despise and hate. Now I have done,

and I, the youngest of the rulers of ancient Egypt, call upon him who

was the first of her kings to take my place."

</p>

<p>

She bowed, and the audience bowed back to her. Then she descended the

steps and was lost in the throng. Where she had been appeared an old

man, simply-clad, long-bearded, wise-faced, and wearing on his grey hair

no crown save a plain band of gold, from the centre of which rose the

snake-headed <i>uraeus</i> crest.

</p>

<p>

"Your Majesties who came after me," said the old man, "I am Menes, the

first of the accepted Pharaohs of Egypt, although many of those who went

before me were more truly kings than I. Yet as the first who joined

the Upper and the Lower Lands, and took the royal style and titles, and

ruled as well as I could rule, it is given to me to talk with you for

a while this night whereon our spirits are permitted to gather from the

uttermost parts of the uttermost worlds and see each other face to face.

First, in darkness and in secret, let us speak of the mystery of the

gods and of its meanings. Next, in darkness and in secret, let us speak

of the mystery of our lives, of whence they come, of where they tarry by

the road, and whither they go at last. And afterwards, let us speak of

other matters face to face in light and openness, as we were wont to do

when we were men. Then hence to Thebes, there to celebrate our yearly

festival. Is such your will?"

</p>

<p>

"Such is our will," they answered.

</p>

<p>

It seemed to Smith that dense darkness fell upon the place, and with

it a silence that was awful. For a time that he could not reckon, that

might have been years or might have been moments, he sat there in the

utter darkness and the utter silence.

</p>

<p>

At length the light came again, first as a blue spark, then in upward

pouring rays, and lastly pervading all. There stood Menes on the steps,

and there in front of him was gathered the same royal throng.

</p>

<p>

"The mysteries are finished," said the old king. "Now, if any have aught

to say, let it be said openly."

</p>

<p>

A young man dressed in the robes and ornaments of an early dynasty came

forward and stood upon the steps between the Pharaoh Menes and all those

who had reigned after him. His face seemed familiar to Smith, as was

the side lock that hung down behind his right ear in token of his youth.

Where had he seen him? Ah, he remembered. Only a few hours ago lying in

one of the cases of the Museum, together with the bones of the Pharaoh

Unas.

</p>

<p>

"Your Majesties," he began, "I am the King Metesuphis. The matter that

I wish to lay before you is that of the violation of our sepulchres by

those men who now live upon the earth. The mortal bodies of many who are

gathered here to-night lie in this place to be stared at and mocked

by the curious. I myself am one of them, jawless, broken, hideous to

behold. Yonder, day by day, must my <i>Ka</i> sit watching my desecrated

flesh, torn from the pyramid that, with cost and labour, I raised up to

be an eternal house wherein I might hide till the hour of resurrection.

Others of us lie in far lands. Thus, as he can tell you, my predecessor,

Man-kau-ra, he who built the third of the great pyramids, the Pyramid of

Her, sleeps, or rather wakes in a dark city, called London, across the

seas, a place of murk where no sun shines. Others have been burnt with

fire, others are scattered in small dust. The ornaments that were ours

are stole away and sold to the greedy; our sacred writings and our

symbols are their jest. Soon there will not be one holy grave in Egypt

that remains undefiled."

</p>

<p>

"That is so," said a voice from the company. "But four months gone the

deep, deep pit was opened that I had dug in the shadow of the Pyramid of

Cephren, who begat me in the world. There in my chamber I slept alone,

two handfuls of white bones, since when I died they did not preserve

the body with wrappings and with spices. Now I see those bones of mine,

beside which my Double has watched for these five thousand years, hid in

the blackness of a great ship and tossing on a sea that is strewn with

ice."

</p>

<p>

"It is so," echoed a hundred other voices.

</p>

<p>

"Then," went on the young king, turning to Menes, "I ask of your Majesty

whether there is no means whereby we may be avenged on those who do us

this foul wrong."

</p>

<p>

"Let him who has wisdom speak," said the old Pharaoh.

</p>

<p>

A man of middle age, short in stature and of a thoughtful brow, who held

in his hand a wand and wore the feathers and insignia of the heir to the

throne of Egypt and of a high priest of Amen, moved to the steps. Smith

knew him at once from his statues. He was Khaemuas, son of Rameses the

Great, the mightiest magician that ever was in Egypt, who of his own

will withdrew himself from earth before the time came that he should sit

upon the throne.

</p>

<p>

"I have wisdom, your Majesties, and I will answer," he said. "The time

draws on when, in the land of Death which is Life, the land that we

call Amenti, it will be given to us to lay our wrongs as to this matter

before Those who judge, knowing that they will be avenged. On this night

of the year also, when we resume the shapes we were, we have certain

powers of vengeance, or rather of executing justice. But our time is

short, and there is much to say and do before the sun-god Ra arises

and we depart each to his place. Therefore it seems best that we should

leave these wicked ones in their wickedness till we meet them face to

face beyond the world."

</p>

<p>

Smith, who had been following the words of Khaemuas with the closest

attention and considerable anxiety, breathed again, thanking Heaven

that the engagements of these departed monarchs were so numerous and

pressing. Still, as a matter of precaution, he drew the cigar-box which

contained Ma-Mee's hand from his pocket, and pushed it as far away from

him as he could. It was a most unlucky act. Perhaps the cigar-box grated

on the floor, or perhaps the fact of his touching the relic put him into

psychic communication with all these spirits. At any rate, he became

aware that the eyes of that dreadful magician were fixed upon him, and

that a bone had a better chance of escaping the search of a Rontgen ray

than he of hiding himself from their baleful glare.

</p>

<p>

"As it happens, however," went on Khaemuas, in a cold voice, "I now

perceive that there is hidden in this place, and spying on us, one of

the worst of these vile thieves. I say to your Majesties that I see him

crouched beneath yonder funeral barge, and that he has with him at this

moment the hand of one of your Majesties, stolen by him from her tomb at

Thebes."

</p>

<p>

Now every queen in the company became visibly agitated (Smith, who was

watching Ma-Mee, saw her hold up her hands and look at them), while all

the Pharaohs pointed with their fingers and exclaimed together, in a

voice that rolled round the hall like thunder:

</p>

<p>

"Let him be brought forth to judgment!"

</p>

<p>

Khaemuas raised his wand and, holding it towards the boat where Smith

was hidden, said:

</p>

<p>

"Draw near, Vile One, bringing with thee that thou hast stolen."

</p>

<p>

Smith tried hard to remain where he was. He sat himself down and set

his heels against the floor. As the reader knows, he was always shy and

retiring by disposition, and never had these weaknesses oppressed him

more than they did just then. When a child his favourite nightmare had

been that the foreman of a jury was in the act of proclaiming him

guilty of some dreadful but unstated crime. Now he understood what that

nightmare foreshadowed. He was about to be convicted in a court of

which all the kings and queens of Egypt were the jury, Menes was

Chief Justice, and the magician Khaemuas played the <i>role</i> of

Attorney-General.

</p>

<p>

In vain did he sit down and hold fast. Some power took possession of him

which forced him first to stretch out his arm and pick up the cigar-box

containing the hand of Ma-Mee, and next drew him from the friendly

shelter of the deal boards that were about the boat.

</p>

<p>

Now he was on his feet and walking down the flight of steps opposite to

those on which Menes stood far away. Now he was among all that throng

of ghosts, which parted to let him pass, looking at him as he went with

cold and wondering eyes. They were very majestic ghosts; the ages that

had gone by since they laid down their sceptres had taken nothing from

their royal dignity. Moreover, save one, none of them seemed to have any

pity for his plight. She was a little princess who stood by her mother,

that same little princess whose mummy he had seen and pitied in the

Director's room with a lotus flower thrust beneath her bandages. As he

passed Smith heard her say:

</p>

<p>

"This Vile One is frightened. Be brave, Vile One!"

</p>

<p>

Smith understood, and pride came to his aid. He, a gentleman of the

modern world, would not show the white feather before a crowd of ancient

Egyptian ghosts. Turning to the child, he smiled at her, then drew

himself to his full height and walked on quietly. Here it may be

stated that Smith was a tall man, still comparatively young, and very

good-looking, straight and spare in frame, with dark, pleasant eyes and

a little black beard.

</p>

<p>

"At least he is a well-favoured thief," said one of the queens to

another.

</p>

<p>

"Yes," answered she who had been addressed. "I wonder that a man with

such a noble air should find pleasure in disturbing graves and stealing

the offerings of the dead," words that gave Smith much cause for

thought. He had never considered the matter in this light.

</p>

<p>

Now he came to the place where Ma-Mee stood, the black-browed Pharaoh

who had been her husband at her side. On his left hand which held the

cigar-box was the gold Bes ring, and that box he felt constrained to

carry pressed against him just over his heart.

</p>

<p>

As he went by he turned his head, and his eyes met those of Ma-Mee. She

started violently. Then she saw the ring upon his hand and again started

still more violently.

</p>

<p>

"What ails your Majesty?" asked the Pharaoh.

</p>

<p>

"Oh, naught," she answered. "Yet does this earth-dweller remind you of

anyone?"

</p>

<p>

"Yes, he does," answered the Pharaoh. "He reminds me very much of that

accursed sculptor about whom we had words."

</p>

<p>

"Do you mean a certain Horu, the Court artist; he who worked the image

that was buried with me, and whom you sent to carve your statues in the

deserts of Kush, until he died of fevers&mdash;or was it poison?"

</p>

<p>

"Aye; Horu and no other, may Set take and keep him!" growled the

Pharaoh.

</p>

<p>

Then Smith passed on and heard no more. Now he stood before the

venerable Menes. Some instinct caused him to bow to this Pharaoh, who

bowed back to him. Then he turned and bowed to the royal company, and

they also bowed back to him, coldly, but very gravely and courteously.

</p>

<p>

"Dweller on the world where once we had our place, and therefore brother

of us, the dead," began Menes, "this divine priest and magician"&mdash;and

he pointed to Khaemuas&mdash;"declares that you are one of those who foully

violate our sepulchres and desecrate our ashes. He declares, moreover,

that at this very moment you have with you a portion of the mortal flesh

of a certain Majesty whose spirit is present here. Say, now, are these

things true?"

</p>

<p>

To his astonishment Smith found that he had not the slightest difficulty

in answering in the same sweet tongue.

</p>

<p>

"O King, they are true, and not true. Hear me, rulers of Egypt. It is

true that I have searched in your graves, because my heart has been

drawn towards you, and I would learn all that I could concerning you,

for it comes to me <i>now</i> that once I was one of you&mdash;no king, indeed,

yet perchance of the blood of kings. Also&mdash;for I would hide nothing even

if I could&mdash;I searched for one tomb above all others."

</p>

<p>

"Why, O man?" asked the Judge.

</p>

<p>

"Because a face drew me, a lovely face that was cut in stone."

</p>

<p>

Now all that great audience turned their eyes towards him and listened

as though his words moved them.

</p>

<p>

"Did you find that holy tomb?" asked Menes. "If so, what did you find

therein?"

</p>

<p>

"Aye, Pharaoh, and in it I found these," and he took from the box the

withered hand, from his pocket the broken bronze, and from his finger

the ring.

</p>

<p>

"Also I found other things which I delivered to the keeper of this

place, articles of jewellery that I seem to see to-night upon one who is

present here among you."

</p>

<p>

"Is the face of this figure the face you sought?" asked the Judge.

</p>

<p>

"It is the lovely face," he answered.

</p>

<p>

Menes took the effigy in his hand and read the cartouche that was

engraved beneath its breast.

</p>

<p>

"If there be here among us," he said, presently, "one who long after

my day ruled as queen in Egypt, one who was named Ma-Me, let her draw

near."

</p>

<p>

Now from where she stood glided Ma-Mee and took her place opposite to

Smith.

</p>

<p>

"Say, O Queen," asked Menes, "do you know aught of this matter?"

</p>

<p>

"I know that hand; it was my own hand," she answered. "I know that ring;

it was my ring. I know that image in bronze; it was my image. Look on

me and judge for yourselves whether this be so. A certain sculptor

fashioned it, the son of a king's son, who was named Horu, the first

of sculptors and the head artist of my Court. There, clad in strange

garments, he stands before you. Horu, or the Double of Horu, he who cut

the image when I ruled in Egypt, is he who found the image and the man

who stands before you; or, mayhap, his Double cast in the same mould."

</p>

<p>

The Pharaoh Menes turned to the magician Khaemuas and said:&mdash;

</p>

<p>

"Are these things so, O Seer?"

</p>

<p>

"They are so," answered Khaemuas. "This dweller on the earth is he who,

long ago, was the sculptor Horu. But what shall that avail? He, once

more a living man, is a violator of the hallowed dead. I say, therefore,

that judgment should be executed on his flesh, so that when the light

comes here to-morrow he himself will again be gathered to the dead."

</p>

<p>

Menes bent his head upon his breast and pondered. Smith said nothing. To

him the whole play was so curious that he had no wish to interfere with

its development. If these ghosts wished to make him of their number, let

them do so. He had no ties on earth, and now when he knew full surely

that there was a life beyond this of earth he was quite prepared to

explore its mysteries. So he folded his arms upon his breast and awaited

the sentence.

</p>

<p>

But Ma-Mee did not wait. She raised her hand so swiftly that the

bracelets jingled on her wrists, and spoke out with boldness.

</p>

<p>

"Royal Khaemuas, prince and magician," she said, "hearken to one who,

like you, was Egypt's heir centuries before you were born, one also who

ruled over the Two Lands, and not so ill&mdash;which, Prince, never was your

lot. Answer me! Is all wisdom centred in your breast? Answer me! Do you

alone know the mysteries of Life and Death? Answer me! Did your god Amen

teach you that vengeance went before mercy? Answer me! Did he teach

you that men should be judged unheard? That they should be hurried by

violence to Osiris ere their time, and thereby separated from the dead

ones whom they loved and forced to return to live again upon this evil

Earth?

</p>

<p>

"Listen: when the last moon was near her full my spirit sat in my tomb

in the burying-place of queens. My spirit saw this man enter into my

tomb, and what he did there. With bowed head he looked upon my bones

that a thief of the priesthood had robbed and burnt within twenty years

of their burial, in which he himself had taken part. And what did this

man with those bones, he who was once Horu? I tell you that he hid them

away there in the tomb where he thought they could not be found again.

Who, then, was the thief and the violator? He who robbed and burnt my

bones, or he who buried them with reverence? Again, he found the jewels

that the priest of your brotherhood had dropped in his flight, when the

smoke of the burning flesh and spices overpowered him, and with them the

hand which that wicked one had broken off from the body of my Majesty.

What did this man then? He took the jewels. Would you have had him leave

them to be stolen by some peasant? And the hand? I tell you that he

kissed that poor dead hand which once had been part of the body of my

Majesty, and that now he treasures it as a holy relic. My spirit saw

him do these things and made report thereof to me. I ask you, therefore,

Prince, I ask you all, Royalties of Egypt&mdash;whether for such deeds this

man should die?"

</p>

<p>

Now Khaemuas, the advocate of vengeance, shrugged his shoulders and

smiled meaningly, but the congregation of kings and queens thundered an

answer, and it was:&mdash;

</p>

<p>

"<i>No!</i>"

</p>

<p>

Ma-Mee looked to Menes to give judgment. Before he could speak the

dark-browed Pharaoh who had named her wife strode forward and addressed

them.

</p>

<p>

"Her Majesty, Heiress of Egypt, Royal Wife, Lady of the Two Lands, has

spoken," he cried. "Now let me speak who was the husband of her Majesty.

Whether this man was once Horu the sculptor I know not. If so he was

also an evil-doer who, by my decree, died in banishment in the land

of Kush. Whatever be the truth as to that matter, he admits that he

violated the tomb of her Majesty and stole what the old thieves had

left. Her Majesty says also&mdash;and he does not deny it&mdash;that he dared to

kiss her hand, and for a man to kiss the hand of a wedded Queen of Egypt

the punishment is death. I claim that this man should die to the World

before his time, that in a day to come again he may live and suffer in

the World. Judge, O Menes."

</p>

<p>

Menes lifted his head and spoke, saying:&mdash;

</p>

<p>

"Repeat to me the law, O Pharaoh, under which a living man must die

for the kissing of a dead hand. In my day and in that of those who went

before me there was no such law in Egypt. If a living man, who was not

her husband, or of her kin, kissed the living hand of a wedded Queen of

Egypt, save in ceremony, then perchance he might be called upon to die.

Perchance for such a reason a certain Horu once was called upon to die.

But in the grave there is no marriage, and therefore even if he had

found her alive within the tomb and kissed her hand, or even her lips,

why should he die for the crime of love?

</p>

<p>

"Hear me, all; this is my judgment in the matter. Let the soul of that

priest who first violated the tomb of the royal Ma-Mee be hunted down

and given to the jaws of the Destroyer, that he may know the last depths

of Death, if so the gods declare. But let this man go from among us

unharmed, since what he did he did in reverent ignorance and because

Hathor, Goddess of Love, guided him from of old. Love rules this world

wherein we meet to-night, with all the worlds whence we have gathered

or whither we still must go. Who can defy its power? Who can refuse its

rites? Now hence to Thebes!"

</p>

<p>

There was a rushing sound as of a thousand wings, and all were gone.

</p>

<p>

No, not all, since Smith yet stood before the draped colossi and the

empty steps, and beside him, glorious, unearthly, gleamed the vision of

Ma-Mee.

</p>

<p>

"I, too, must away," she whispered; "yet ere I go a word with you who

once were a sculptor in Egypt. You loved me then, and that love cost you

your life, you who once dared to kiss this hand of mine that again you

kissed in yonder tomb. For I was Pharaoh's wife in name only; understand

me well, in name only; since that title of Royal Mother which they gave

me is but a graven lie. Horu, I never was a wife, and when you died,

swiftly I followed you to the grave. Oh, you forget, but I remember!

I remember many things. You think that the priestly thief broke this

figure of me which you found in the sand outside my tomb. Not so. <i>I</i>

broke it, because, daring greatly, you had written thereon, 'Beloved,'

not 'of <i>Horus</i> the God,' as you should have done, but 'of <i>Horu</i> the

Man.' So when I came to be buried, Pharaoh, knowing all, took the image

from my wrappings and hurled it away. I remember, too, the casting of

that image, and how you threw a gold chain I had given you into the

crucible with the bronze, saying that gold alone was fit to fashion me.

And this signet that I bear&mdash;it was you who cut it. Take it, take it,

Horu, and in its place give me back that which is on your hand, the Bes

ring that I also wore. Take it and wear it ever till you die again, and

let it go to the grave with you as once it went to the grave with me.

</p>

<p>

"Now hearken. When Ra the great sun arises again and you awake you will

think that you have dreamed a dream. You will think that in this dream

you saw and spoke with a lady of Egypt who died more than three thousand

years ago, but whose beauty, carved in stone and bronze, has charmed

your heart to-day. So let it be, yet know, O man, who once was named

Horu, that such dreams are oft-times a shadow of the truth. Know that

this Glory which shines before you is mine indeed in the land that is

both far and near, the land wherein I dwell eternally, and that what is

mine has been, is, and shall be yours for ever. Gods may change their

kingdoms and their names; men may live and die, and live again once more

to die; empires may fall and those who ruled them be turned to forgotten

dust. Yet true love endures immortal as the souls in which it was

conceived, and from it for you and me, the night of woe and separation

done, at the daybreak which draws on, there shall be born the splendour

and the peace of union. Till that hour foredoomed seek me no more,

though I be ever near you, as I have ever been. Till that most blessed

hour, Horu, farewell."

</p>

<p>

She bent towards him; her sweet lips touched his brow; the perfume

from her breath and hair beat upon him; the light of her wondrous eyes

searched out his very soul, reading the answer that was written there.

</p>

<p>

He stretched out his arms to clasp her, and lo! she was gone.

</p>

<p>

It was a very cold and a very stiff Smith who awoke on the following

morning, to find himself exactly where he had lain down&mdash;namely, on a

cement floor beneath the keel of a funeral boat in the central hall of

the Cairo Museum. He crept from his shelter shivering, and looked at

this hall, to find it quite as empty as it had been on the previous

evening. Not a sign or a token was there of Pharaoh Menes and all those

kings and queens of whom he had dreamed so vividly.

</p>

<p>

Reflecting on the strange phantasies that weariness and excited nerves

can summon to the mind in sleep, Smith made his way to the great doors

and waited in the shadow, praying earnestly that, although it was the

Mohammedan Sabbath, someone might visit the Museum to see that all was

well.

</p>

<p>

As a matter of fact, someone did, and before he had been there a

minute&mdash;a watchman going about his business. He unlocked the place

carelessly, looking over his shoulder at a kite fighting with two

nesting crows. In an instant Smith, who was not minded to stop and

answer questions, had slipped past him and was gliding down the portico,

from monument to monument, like a snake between boulders, still keeping

in the shadow as he headed for the gates.

</p>

<p>

The attendant caught sight of him and uttered a yell of fear; then,

since it is not good to look upon an <i>afreet</i>, appearing from whence no

mortal man could be, he turned his head away. When he looked again Smith

was through those gates and had mingled with the crowd in the street

beyond.

</p>

<p>

The sunshine was very pleasant to one who was conscious of having

contracted a chill of the worst Egyptian order from long contact with a

damp stone floor. Smith walked on through it towards his hotel&mdash;it was

Shepheard's, and more than a mile away&mdash;making up a story as he went

to tell the hall-porter of how he had gone to dine at Mena House by the

Pyramids, missed the last tram, and stopped the night there.

</p>

<p>

Whilst he was thus engaged his left hand struck somewhat sharply against

the corner of the cigar-box in his pocket, that which contained the

relic of the queen Ma-Mee. The pain caused him to glance at his fingers

to see if they were injured, and to perceive on one of them the ring he

wore. Surely, surely it was not the same that the Director-General had

given him! <i>That</i> ring was engraved with the image of the god Bes.

On <i>this</i> was cut the cartouche of her Majesty Ma-mee! And he had

dreamed&mdash;oh, he had dreamed&mdash;&mdash;!

</p>

<p>

To this day Smith is wondering whether, in the hurry of the moment, he

made a mistake as to which of those rings the Director-General had given

him as part of his share of the spoil of the royal tomb he discovered

in the Valley of Queens. Afterwards Smith wrote to ask, but the

Director-General could only remember that he gave him one of the two

rings, and assured him that that inscribed "<i>Bes Ank, Ank Bes</i>," was

with Ma-Mee's other jewels in the Gold Room of the Museum.

</p>

<p>

Also Smith is wondering whether any other bronze figure of an old

Egyptian royalty shows so high a percentage of gold as, on analysis, the

broken image of Ma-Mee was proved to do. For had she not seemed to tell

him a tale of the melting of a golden chain when that effigy was cast?

</p>

<p>

Was it all only a dream, or was it&mdash;something more&mdash;by day and by night

he asks of Nothingness?

</p>

<p>

But, be she near or far, no answer comes from the Queen Ma-Mee, whose

proud titles were "Her Majesty the Good God, the justified Dweller in

Osiris; Daughter of Amen, Royal Heiress, Royal Sister, Royal Wife, Royal

Mother; Lady of the Two Lands; Wearer of the Double Crown; of the White

Crown, of the Red Crown; Sweet Flower of Love, Beautiful Eternally."

</p>

<p>

So, like the rest of us, Smith must wait to learn the truth concerning

many things, and more particularly as to which of those two circles of

ancient gold the Director-General gave him yonder at Cairo.

</p>

<p>

It seems but a little matter, yet it is more than all the worlds to him!

</p>

<p>

To the astonishment of his colleagues in antiquarian research, Smith has

never returned to Egypt. He explains to them that his health is quite

restored, and that he no longer needs this annual change to a more

temperate clime.

</p>

<p>

Now, <i>which</i> of the two royal rings did the Director-General return to

Smith on the mummied hand of her late Majesty Ma-Mee?

</p>

<a name="2H_4_0002"><!-- H2 anchor --></a>



<div style="height: 4em;"><br><br><br><br></div>



<h2>

    MAGEPA THE BUCK

</h2>

<p>

In a preface to a story of the early life of the late Allan Quatermain,

known in Africa as Macumazahn, which has been published under the name

of "Marie," Mr. Curtis, the brother of Sir Henry Curtis, tells of how

he found a number of manuscripts that were left by Mr. Quatermain in his

house in Yorkshire. Of these "Marie" was one, but in addition to it and

sundry other completed records I, the Editor to whom it was directed

that these manuscripts should be handed for publication, have found

a quantity of unclassified notes and papers. Some of these deal with

matters that have to do with sport and game, or with historical events,

and some are memoranda of incidents connected with the career of the

writer, or with remarkable occurrences that he had witnessed of which he

does not speak elsewhere.

</p>

<p>

One of these notes&mdash;it is contained in a book much soiled and worn that

evidently its owner had carried about with him for years&mdash;reminds me of

a conversation that I had with Mr. Quatermain long ago when I was his

guest in Yorkshire. The note itself is short; I think that he must have

jotted it down within an hour or two of the event to which it refers. It

runs thus:&mdash;

</p>

<p>

"I wonder whether in the 'Land Beyond' any recognition is granted

for acts of great courage and unselfish devotion&mdash;a kind of spiritual

Victoria Cross. If so I think it ought to be accorded to that poor old

savage, Magepa, as it would be if I had any voice in the matter. Upon my

word he has made me feel proud of humanity. And yet he was nothing but a

'nigger,' as so many call the Kaffirs."

</p>

<p>

For a while I, the Editor, wondered to what this entry could allude.

Then of a sudden it all came back to me. I saw myself, as a young man,

seated in the hall of Quatermain's house one evening after dinner. With

me were Sir Henry Curtis and Captain Good. We were smoking, and the

conversation had turned upon deeds of heroism. Each of us detailed such

acts as he could remember which had made the most impression on him.

When we had finished, old Allan said:&mdash;

</p>

<p>

"With your leave I'll tell you a story of what I think was one of the

bravest things I ever saw. It happened at the beginning of the Zulu War,

when the troops were marching into Zululand. Now at that time, as you

know, I was turning an honest penny transport-riding for the Government,

or rather for the military authorities. I hired them three wagons with

the necessary voorloopers and drivers, sixteen good salted oxen to each

wagon, and myself in charge of the lot. They paid me, well, never mind

how much&mdash;I am rather ashamed to mention the amount. The truth is that

the Imperial officers bought in a dear market during that Zulu War;

moreover, things were not always straight. I could tell you stories of

folk, not all of them Colonials, who got rich quicker than they ought,

commissions and that kind of thing. But perhaps these are better

forgotten. As for me, I asked a good price for my wagons, or rather for

the hire of them, of a very well-satisfied young gentleman in uniform

who had been exactly three weeks in the country, and to my surprise,

got it. But when I went to those in command and warned them what would

happen if they persisted in their way of advance, then in their pride

they would not listen to the old hunter and transport-rider, but

politely bowed me out. If they had, there would have been no Isandhlwana

disaster."

</p>

<p>

He brooded awhile, for, as I knew, this was a sore subject with him, one

on which he would rarely talk. Although he escaped himself, Quatermain

had lost friends on that fatal field. He went on:&mdash;

</p>

<p>

"To return to old Magepa. I had known him for many years. The first time

we met was in the battle of the Tugela. I was fighting for the king's

son, Umbelazi the Handsome, in the ranks of the Tulwana regiment&mdash;I mean

to write all that story, for it should not be lost. Well, as I have told

you before, the Tulwana were wiped out; of the three thousand or so of

them I think only about fifty remained alive after they had annihilated

the three of Cetewayo's regiments that set upon them. But as it chanced

Magepa was one who survived.

</p>

<p>

"I met him afterwards at old King Panda's kraal and recognised him

as having fought by my side. Whilst I was talking to him the Prince

Cetewayo came by; to me he was civil enough, for he knew how I chanced

to be in the battle, but he glared at Magepa, and said:

</p>

<p>

"'Why, Macumazahn, is not this man one of the dogs with which you tried

to bite me by the Tugela not long ago? He must be a cunning dog also,

one who can run fast, for how comes it that he lives to snarl when so

many will never bark again? <i>Ow!</i> if I had my way I would find a strip

of hide to fit his neck.'

</p>

<p>

"'Not so,' I answered, 'he has the King's peace and he is a brave man

&mdash;braver than I am, anyway, Prince, seeing that I ran from the ranks of

the Tulwana, while he stood where he was.'

</p>

<p>

"'You mean that your horse ran, Macumazahn. Well, since you like this

dog, I will not hurt him,' and with a shrug he went his way.

</p>

<p>

"'Yet soon or late he <i>will</i> hurt me,' said Magepa, when the Prince had

gone. 'U'Cetewayo has a memory long as the shadow thrown by a tree at

sunset. Moreover, as he knows well, it is true that I ran, Macumazahn,

though not till all was finished and I could do no more by standing

still. You remember how, after we had eaten up the first of Cetewayo's

regiments, the second charged us and we ate that up also. Well, in that

fight I got a tap on the head from a kerry. It struck me on my man's

ring which I had just put on, for I think I was the youngest soldier in

that regiment of veterans. The ring saved me; still, for a while I lost

my mind and lay like one dead. When I found it again the fight was over

and Cetewayo's people were searching for our wounded that they might

kill them. Presently they found me and saw that there was no hurt on me.

</p>

<p>

"'"Here is one who shams dead like a stink-cat," said a big fellow,

lifting his spear.

</p>

<p>

"'Then it was that I sprang up and ran, who was but just married and

desired to live. He struck at me, but I jumped over the spear, and

the others that they threw missed me. Then they began to hunt me, but,

Macumazahn, I who am named "The Buck," because I am swifter of foot than

any man in Zululand, outpaced them all and got away safe.'

</p>

<p>

"'Well done, Magepa,' I said. 'Still, remember the saying of your

people, "At last the strong swimmer goes with the stream and the swift

runner is run down."'

</p>

<p>

"'I know it, Macumazahn,' he answered, with a nod, 'and perhaps in a day

to come I shall know it better.'

</p>

<p>

"I took little heed of his words at the time, but more than thirty years

afterwards I remembered them.

</p>

<p>

"Such was my first acquaintance with Magepa. Now, friends, I will tell

you how it was renewed at the time of the Zulu War.

</p>

<p>

"As you know, I was attached to the centre column that advanced into

Zululand by Rorke's Drift on the Buffalo River. Before war was declared,

or at any rate before the advance began, while it might have been and

many thought it would be averted, I was employed transport-riding

goods to the little Rorke's Drift Station, that which became so famous

afterwards, and incidentally in collecting what information I could of

Cetewayo's intentions. Hearing that there was a kraal a mile or so

the other side of the river, of which the people were said to be very

friendly to the English, I determined to visit it. You may think this

was rash, but I was so well known in Zululand, where for many years,

by special leave of the king, I was allowed to go whither I would quite

unmolested and, indeed, under the royal protection, that I felt no fear

for myself so long as I went alone.

</p>

<p>

"Accordingly one evening I crossed the drift and headed for a kloof in

which I was told the kraal stood. Ten minutes' ride brought me in sight

of it. It was not a large kraal; there may have been six or eight huts

and a cattle enclosure surrounded by the usual fence. The situation,

however, was very pretty, a knoll of rising ground backed by the wooded

slopes of the kloof. As I approached, I saw women and children running

to the kraal to hide, and when I reached the gateway for some time

no one would come out to meet me. At length a small boy appeared who

informed me that the kraal was 'empty as a gourd.'

</p>

<p>

"'Quite so,' I answered; 'still, go and tell the headman that Macumazahn

wishes to speak with him.'

</p>

<p>

"The boy departed, and presently I saw a face that seemed familiar to

me peeping round the edge of the gateway. After a careful inspection its

owner emerged.

</p>

<p>

"He was a tall, thin man of indefinite age, perhaps between sixty and

seventy, with a finely-cut face, a little grey beard, kind eyes and very

well-shaped hands and feet, the fingers, which twitched incessantly,

being remarkably long.

</p>

<p>

"'Greeting, Macumazahn,' he said, 'I see you do not remember me. Well,

think of the battle of the Tugela, and of the last stand of the Tulwana,

and of a certain talk at the kraal of our Father-who-is-dead' (that is

King Panda), 'and of how he who sits in his place' (he meant Cetewayo),

'told you that if he had his way he would find a hide rope to fit the

neck of a certain one.'

</p>

<p>

"'Ah!' I said, 'I know you now, you are Magepa the Buck. So the Runner

has not yet been run down.'

</p>

<p>

"'No, Macumazahn, not yet, but there is still time. I think that many

swift feet will be at work ere long.'

</p>

<p>

"'How have you prospered?' I asked him.

</p>

<p>

"'Well enough, Macumazahn, in all ways except one. I have three wives,

but my children have been few and are dead, except one daughter, who is

married and lives with me, for her husband, too, is dead. He was killed

by a buffalo, and she has not yet married again. But enter and see.'

</p>

<p>

"So I went in and saw Magepa's wives, old women all of them. Also, at

his bidding, his daughter, whose name was Gita, brought me some <i>maas</i>,

or curdled milk, to drink. She was a well-formed woman, very like

her father, but sad-faced, perhaps with a prescience of evil to come.

Clinging to her finger was a beautiful boy of something under two years

of age, who, when he saw Magepa, ran to him and threw his little arms

about his legs. The old man lifted the child and kissed him tenderly,

saying:

</p>

<p>

"'It is well that this toddler and I should love one another,

Macumazahn, seeing that he is the last of my race. All the other

children here are those of the people who have come to live in my

shadow.'

</p>

<p>

"'Where are their fathers?' I asked, patting the little boy who, his

mother told me, was named Sinala upon the cheek, an attention that he

resented.

</p>

<p>

"'They have been called away on duty,' answered Magepa shortly; and I

changed the subject.

</p>

<p>

"Then we began to talk about old times, and I asked him if he had any

oxen to sell, saying that this was my reason for visiting the kraal.

</p>

<p>

"'Nay, Macumazahn,' he answered in a meaning voice. 'This year all the

cattle are the king's.'

</p>

<p>

"I nodded and replied that, as it was so, I had better be going,

whereon, as I half expected, Magepa announced that he would see me safe

to the drift. So I bade farewell to the wives and the widowed daughter,

and we started.

</p>

<p>

"As soon as we were clear of the kraal Magepa began to open his heart to

me.

</p>

<p>

"'Macumazahn,' he said, looking up at me earnestly, for I was mounted,

and he walked beside my horse, 'there is to be war. Cetewayo will not

consent to the demands of the great White Chief from the Cape,'&mdash;he

meant Sir Bartle Frere&mdash;'he will fight with the English; only he will

let them begin the fighting. He will draw them on into Zululand and then

overwhelm them with his impis and stamp them flat, and eat them up; and

I, who love the English, am very sorry. Yes, it makes my heart bleed.

If it were the Boers now, I should be glad, for we Zulus hate the Boers;

but the English we do not hate; even Cetewayo likes them; still, he will

eat them up if they attack him.'

</p>

<p>

"'Indeed,' I answered; and then as in duty bound I proceeded to get what

I could out of him, and that was not a little. Of course, however, I did

not swallow it all, since that I suspected that Magepa was feeding me

with news that he had been ordered to disseminate.

</p>

<p>

"Presently we came to the mouth of the kloof in which the kraal stood,

and here, for greater convenience of conversation, we halted, for I

thought it as well that we should not be seen in close talk on the open

plain beyond. The path here, I should add, ran past a clump of green

bushes; I remember they bore a white flower that smelt sweet, and were

backed by some tall grass, elephant-grass I think it was, among which

grew mimosa trees.

</p>

<p>

"'Magepa,' I said, 'if in truth there is to be fighting, why don't you

move over the river one night with your people and cattle, and get into

Natal?'

</p>

<p>

"'I would if I could, Macumazahn, who have no stomach for this war

against the English. But there I should not be safe, since presently the

king will come into Natal too, or send thirty thousand assegais as his

messengers. Then what will happen to those who have left him?'

</p>

<p>

"'Oh! if you think that,' I answered, laughing, 'you had better stay

where you are.'

</p>

<p>

"'Also, Macumazahn, the husbands of those women at my kraal have been

called up to their regiments and if their wives fled to the English they

would be killed. Again, the king has sent for nearly all our cattle "to

keep them safe." He fears lest we Border Zulus might join our people in

Natal, and that is why he is keeping our cattle "safe."'

</p>

<p>

"'Life is more than cattle, Magepa. At least you might come.'

</p>

<p>

"'What! And leave my people to be killed? Macumazahn, you did not use

to talk so. Still, hearken. Macumazahn, will you do me a service? I will

pay you well for it. I would get my daughter Gita and my little grandson

Sinala into safety. If I and my wives are wiped out it does not matter,

for we are old. But her I would save, and the boy I would save, so

that one may live who will remember my name. Now if I were to send them

across the drift, say at the dawn, not to-morrow and not the next day,

but the day after, would you receive them into your wagon and deliver

them safe to some place in Natal? I have money hidden, fifty pieces of

gold, and you may take half of these and also half of the cattle if ever

I live to get them back out of the keeping of the king.'

</p>

<p>

"'Never mind about the money, and we will speak of the cattle

afterwards,' I said. 'I understand that you wish to send your daughter

and your little grandson out of danger; and I think you wise, very wise.

When once the advance begins, if there is an advance, who knows what may

happen? War is a rough game, Magepa. It is not the custom of you black

people to spare women and children; and there will be Zulus fighting on

our side as well as on yours; do you understand?'

</p>

<p>

"'<i>Ow!</i> I understand, Macumazahn. I have known the face of war and seen

many a little one like my grandson Sinala assegaied upon his mother's

back.'

</p>

<p>

"'Very good. But if I do this for you, you must do something for me.

Say, Magepa, does Cetewayo <i>really</i> mean to fight, and if so, how? Oh

yes, I know all you have been telling me, but I want not words but truth

from the heart?'

</p>

<p>

"'You ask secrets,' said the old fellow, peering about him into the

gathering gloom. 'Still, "a spear for a spear and a shield for a

shield," as our saying runs. I have spoken no lie. The king <i>does</i> mean

to fight, not because he wants to, but because the regiments swear that

they will wash their assegais; they who have never seen blood since that

battle of the Tugela in which we two played a part, and if he will not

suffer it, well, there are more of his race! Also he means to fight

thus,' and he gave me some very useful information, that is, information

which would have been useful if those in authority had deigned to pay

any attention to it when I passed it on.

</p>

<p>

"Just as he had finished speaking I thought that I heard a sound in the

dense green bush behind us. It reminded me of the noise a man makes

when he tries to stifle a cough, and frightened me. For if we had been

overheard by a spy, Magepa was as good as dead, and the sooner I was

across the river the better.

</p>

<p>

"'What's that?' I asked.

</p>

<p>

"'A bush buck, Macumazahn. There are lots of them about here.'

</p>

<p>

"Not being satisfied, though it is true that buck do cough like this,

I turned my horse to the bush, seeking an opening. Thereon something

crashed away and vanished into the long grass. In those shadows, of

course, I could not see what it was, but such light as remained glinted

on what might have been the polished tip of the horn of an antelope

or&mdash;an assegai.

</p>

<p>

"'I told you it was a buck, Macumazahn,' said Magepa. 'Still, if you

smell danger, let us come away from the bush, though the orders are that

no white man is to be touched as yet.'

</p>

<p>

"Then, while we walked on towards the ford, he set out with great

detail, as Kaffirs do, the exact arrangements that he proposed to make

for the handing over of his daughter and her child into my care. I

remember that I asked him why he would not send her on the following

morning, instead of two mornings later. He answered because he expected

an outpost of scouts from one of the regiments at his kraal that night,

who would probably remain there over the morrow and perhaps longer.

While they were in the place it would be difficult, if not impossible,

for him to send away Gita and her son without exciting suspicion.

</p>

<p>

"Near the drift we parted, and I returned to our provisional camp and

wrote a beautiful report of all that I had learned, of which report, I

may add, no one took the slightest notice.

</p>

<p>

"I think it was the morning before that whereon I had arranged to meet

Gita and the little boy at the drift that just about dawn I went down to

the river for a wash. Having taken my dip, I climbed on to a flat rock

to dress myself, and looked at the billows of beautiful, pearly mist

which hid the face of the water, and considered&mdash;I almost said listened

to&mdash;the great silence, for as yet no live thing was stirring.

</p>

<p>

"Ah! if I had known of the hideous sights and sounds that were destined

to be heard ere long in this same haunt of perfect peace! Indeed, at

that moment there came a kind of hint or premonition of them, since

suddenly through the utter quiet broke the blood-curdling wail of

a woman. It was followed by other wails and shouts, distant and yet

distinct. Then the silence fell again.

</p>

<p>

"Now, I thought to myself, that noise might very well have come from old

Magepa's kraal; luckily, however, sounds are deceptive in mist.

</p>

<p>

"Well, the end of it was that I waited there till the sun rose. The

first thing on which its bright beams struck was a mighty column of

smoke rising to heaven from where Magepa's kraal had stood!

</p>

<p>

"I went back to my wagons very sad&mdash;so sad that I could scarcely eat my

breakfast. While I walked I wondered hard whether the light had glinted

upon the tip of a buck's horn in that patch of green bush with the

sweet-smelling white flowers a night or two ago. Or had it perchance

fallen upon the point of the assegai of some spy who was watching my

movements! In that event yonder column of smoke and the horrible cries

that preceded it were easy to explain. For had not Magepa and I talked

secrets together, and in Zulu?

</p>

<p>

"On the following morning at dawn I attended at the drift in the faint

hope that Gita and her boy might arrive there as arranged. But nobody

came, which was not wonderful, seeing that Gita lay dead, stabbed

through and through, as I saw afterwards, (she made a good fight for

the child), and that her spirit had gone to wherever go the souls of the

brave-hearted, be they white or black. Only on the farther bank of the

river I saw some Zulu scouts who seemed to know my errand, for they

called to me, asking mockingly where was the pretty woman I had come to

meet?

</p>

<p>

"After that I tried to put the matter out of my head, which indeed was

full enough of other things, since now definite orders had arrived as to

the advance, and with these many troops and officers.

</p>

<p>

"It was just then that the Zulus began to fire across the river at such

of our people as they saw upon the bank. At these they took aim, and,

as a result, hit nobody. A raw Kaffir with a rifle, in my experience, is

only dangerous when he aims at nothing, for then the bullet looks after

itself and may catch you. To put a stop to this nuisance a regiment of

the friendly natives&mdash;there may have been several hundred of them&mdash;was

directed to cross the river and clear the kloofs and rocks of the Zulu

skirmishers who were hidden among them. I watched them go off in fine

style, and in the course of the afternoon heard a good deal of shouting

and banging of guns on the farther side of the river.

</p>

<p>

"Towards evening someone told me that our <i>impi</i>, as he called it

grandiloquently, was returning victorious. Having at the moment nothing

else to do, I walked down to the river at a point where the water was

deep and the banks were high. Here I climbed to the top of a pile of

boulders, whence with my field-glasses I could sweep a great extent of

plain which stretched away on the Zululand side till at length it merged

into hills and bush.

</p>

<p>

"Presently I saw some of our natives marching homewards in a scattered

and disorganised fashion, but evidently very proud of themselves, for

they were waving their assegais and singing scraps of war-songs. A few

minutes later, a mile or more away, I caught sight of a man running.

</p>

<p>

"Watching him through the glasses I noted three things: First, that

he was tall; secondly, that he ran with extraordinary swiftness; and,

thirdly, that he had something tied upon his back. It was evident,

further, that he had good reason to run, since he was being hunted by

a number of our Kaffirs, of whom more and more continually joined the

chase. From every side they poured down upon him, trying to cut him off

and kill him, for as they got nearer I could see the assegais which they

threw at him flash in the sunlight.

</p>

<p>

"Very soon I understood that the man was running with a definite object

and to a definite point; he was trying to reach the river. I thought the

sight very pitiful, this one poor creature being hunted to death by so

many. Also I wondered why he did not free himself from the bundle on

his back, and came to the conclusion that he must be a witch-doctor, and

that the bundle contained his precious charms or medicines.

</p>

<p>

"This was while he was yet a long way off, but when he came nearer,

within three or four hundred yards, of a sudden I caught the outline of

his face against a good background, and knew it for that of Magepa.

</p>

<p>

"'My God!' I said to myself, 'it is old Magepa the Buck, and the bundle

in the mat will be his grandson, Sinala!'

</p>

<p>

"Yes, even then I felt certain that he was carrying the child upon his

back.

</p>

<p>

"What was I to do? It was impossible for me to cross the river at

that place, and long before I could get round by the ford all would be

finished. I stood up on my rock and shouted to those brutes of Kaffirs

to let the man alone. They were so excited that they did not hear

my words; at least, they swore afterwards that they thought I was

encouraging them to hunt him down.

</p>

<p>

"But Magepa heard me. At the moment he seemed to be failing, but the

sight of me appeared to give him fresh strength. He gathered himself

together and leapt forward at a really surprising speed. Now the river

was not more than three hundred yards away from him, and for the first

two hundred of these he quite outdistanced his pursuers, although they

were most of them young men and comparatively fresh. Then once more his

strength began to fail.

</p>

<p>

"Watching through the glasses, I could see that his mouth was wide open,

and that there was red foam upon his lips. The burden on his back was

dragging him down. Once he lifted his hands as though to loose it; then

with a wild gesture let them fall again.

</p>

<p>

"Two of the pursuers who had outpaced the others crept up to him&mdash;lank,

lean men of not more than thirty years of age. They had stabbing spears

in their hands, such as are used at close quarters, and these of course

they did not throw. One of them gained a little on the other.

</p>

<p>

"Now Magepa was not more than fifty yards from the bank, with the first

hunter about ten paces behind him and coming up rapidly. Magepa glanced

over his shoulder and saw, then put out his last strength. For forty

yards he went like an arrow, running straight away from his pursuers,

until he was within a few feet of the bank, when he stumbled and fell.

</p>

<p>

"'He's done,' I said, and, upon my word, if I had had a rifle in my hand

I think I would have stopped one or both of those bloodhounds and taken

the consequences.

</p>

<p>

"But no! Just as the first man lifted his broad spear to stab him

through the back on which the bundle lay, Magepa leapt up and wheeled

round to take the thrust in the chest. Evidently he did not wish to be

speared in the back&mdash;for a certain reason. He took it sure enough, for

the assegai was wrenched out of the hand of the striker. Still, as he

was reeling backwards, it did not go through Magepa, or perhaps it hit a

bone. He drew out the spear and threw it at the man, wounding him. Then

he staggered on, back and back, to the edge of the little cliff.

</p>

<p>

"It was reached at last. With a cry of 'Help me, Macumazahn!' Magepa

turned, and before the other man could spear him, leapt straight into

the deep water. He rose. Yes, the brave old fellow rose and struck out

for the other bank, leaving a little line of red behind him.

</p>

<p>

"I rushed, or rather sprang and rolled down to the edge of the stream to

where a point of shingle ran out into the water. Along this I clambered,

and beyond it up to my middle. Now Magepa was being swept past me. I

caught his outstretched hand and pulled him ashore.

</p>

<p>

"'The boy!' he gasped; 'the boy! Is he dead?'

</p>

<p>

"I severed the lashings of the mat that had cut right into the old

fellow's shoulders. Inside of it was little Sinala, spluttering out

water, but very evidently alive and unhurt, for presently he set up a

yell.

</p>

<p>

"'No,' I said, 'he lives, and will live.'

</p>

<p>

"'Then all is well, Macumazahn.' (<i>A pause</i>.) 'It <i>was</i> a spy in the

bush, not a buck. He overheard our talk. The King's slayers came. Gita

held the door of the hut while I took the child, cut a hole through the

straw with my assegai, and crept out at the back. She was full of spears

before she died, but I got away with the boy. Till your Kaffirs found

me I lay hid in the bush, hoping to escape to Natal. Then I ran for the

river, and saw you on the farther bank. <i>I</i> might have got away, but

that child is heavy.' (<i>A pause</i>.) 'Give him food, Macumazahn, he must

be hungry.' (<i>A pause</i>.) 'Farewell. That was a good saying of yours&mdash;the

swift runner is outrun at last. Ah! yet I did not run in vain.'

(<i>Another pause, the last</i>.) Then he lifted himself upon one arm and

with the other saluted, first the boy Sinala and next me, muttering,

'Remember your promise, Macumazahn.'

</p>

<p>

"That is how Magepa the Buck died. I never saw anyone carrying weight

who could run quite so well as he," and Quatermain turned his head away

as though the memory of this incident affected him somewhat.

</p>

<p>

"What became of the child Sinala?" I asked presently.

</p>

<p>

"Oh! I sent him to an institution in Natal, and afterwards was able

to get some of his property back for him. I believe that he is being

trained as an interpreter."

</p>

<a name="2H_4_0003"><!-- H2 anchor --></a>



<div style="height: 4em;"><br><br><br><br></div>



<h2>

    THE BLUE CURTAINS

</h2>

<center>

I

</center>

<p>

In his regiment familiarly they called him "Bottles," nobody quite knew

why. It was, however, rumoured that he had been called "Bottles" at

Harrow on account of the shape of his nose. Not that his nose was

particularly like a bottle, but at the end of it was round and large and

thick. In reality, however, the sobriquet was more ancient than that,

for it had belonged to the hero of this story from babyhood. Now, when

a man has a nickname, it generally implies two things: first, that he is

good-tempered, and, secondly, that he is a good fellow. Bottles, <i>alias</i>

John George Peritt, of a regiment it is unnecessary to name, amply

justified both these definitions, for a kindlier-tempered or better

fellow never breathed. But unless a thick round nose, a pair of small

light-coloured eyes, set under bushy brows, and a large but not badly

shaped mouth can be said to constitute beauty, he was not beautiful.

On the other hand, however, he was big and well-formed, and a

pleasant-mannered if a rather silent companion.

</p>

<p>

Many years ago Bottles was in love; all the regiment knew it, he was so

very palpably and completely in love. Over his bed in his tidy quarters

hung the photograph of a young lady who was known to be <i>the</i> young

lady; which, when the regiment, individually and collectively, happened

to see it, left no doubt in its mind as to their comrade's taste. It

was evident even from that badly-coloured photograph that Miss Madeline

Spenser had the makings of a lovely figure and a pair of wonderful eyes.

It was said, however, that she had not a sixpence; and as our hero had

but very few, the married ladies of the battalion used frequently to

speculate how Mr. Peritt would "manage" when it came to matrimony.

</p>

<p>

At this date the regiment was quartered in Maritzburg, Natal, but its

term of foreign service had expired, and it expected to be ordered home

immediately.

</p>

<p>

One morning Bottles had been out buck hunting with the scratch pack kept

in those days by the garrison at Maritzburg. The run had been a good

one, and after a seven or eight-mile gallop over the open country they

had actually killed their buck&mdash;a beautiful Oribe. This was a thing that

did not often happen, and Bottles returned filled with joy and pride

with the buck fastened behind his saddle, for he was whip to the pack.

The hounds had met at dawn, and it was nine o'clock or so, when, as he

was riding hot and tired up the shadier side of broad and dusty Church

Street, a gun fired at the Fort beyond Government House announced the

arrival of the English mail.

</p>

<p>

With a beaming smile&mdash;for to him the English mail meant one if not two

letters from Madeline, and possibly the glad news of sailing orders&mdash;he

pushed on to his quarters, tubbed and dressed, and then went down to the

mess-house for breakfast, expecting to find the letters delivered. But

the mail was a heavy one, and he had ample time to eat his breakfast,

also to sit and smoke a pipe upon the pleasant verandah under the shade

of the bamboos and camellia bushes before the orderly arrived with the

bag. Bottles went at once into the room that opened on to the veranda

and stood by calmly, not being given to betraying his emotions, while

slowly and clumsily the mess sergeant sorted the letters. At last he

got his packet&mdash;it only consisted of some newspapers and a single

letter&mdash;and went away back to his seat on the veranda, feeling rather

disappointed, for he had expected to hear from his only brother as well

as from his lady-love. Having relit his pipe&mdash;for he was of a slow

and deliberate mind, and it rather enhances a pleasure to defer it a

little&mdash;and settled himself in the big chair opposite the camellia bush

just now covered with sealing-wax-like blooms, he opened his letter and

read:&mdash;

</p>

<p>

"My dear George&mdash;&mdash;"

</p>

<p>

"Good heavens!" he thought to himself, "what can be the matter? She

always calls me 'Darling Bottles!'"

</p>

<p>

"My dear George," he began again, "I hardly know how to begin this

letter&mdash;I can scarcely see the paper for crying, and when I think of you

reading it out in that horrid country it makes me cry more than ever.

There! I may as well get it out at once, for it does not improve by

keeping&mdash;it is all over between you and me, my dear, dear old Bottles."

</p>

<p>

"All over!" he gasped to himself.

</p>

<p>

"I hardly know how to tell the miserable story," went on the letter,

"but as it must be told I suppose I had better begin from the beginning.

A month ago I went with my father and my aunt to the Hunt Ball at

Atherton, and there I met Sir Alfred Croston, a middle-aged gentleman,

who danced with me several times. I did not care about him much, but

he made himself very agreeable, and when I got home aunt&mdash;you know her

nasty way&mdash;congratulated me on my conquest. Well, next day he came

to call, and papa asked him to stop to dinner, and he took me in, and

before he went away he told me that he was coming to stop at the George

Inn to fish for trout in the lake. After that he came here every day,

and whenever I went out walking he always met me, and really was kind

and nice. At last one day he asked me to marry him, and I was very angry

and told him that I was engaged to a gentleman in the army, who was in

South Africa. He laughed, and said South Africa was a long way off, and

I hated him for it. That evening papa and aunt set on me&mdash;you know they

neither of them liked our engagement&mdash;and told me that our affair was

perfectly silly, and that I must be mad to refuse such an offer. And so

it went on, for he would not take 'no' for an answer; and at last, dear,

I had to give in, for they gave me no peace, and papa implored me to

consent for his sake. He said the marriage would be the making of him,

and now I suppose I am engaged. Dear, dear George, don't be angry with

me, for it is not my fault, and I suppose after all we could not have

got married, for we have so little money. I do love you, but I can't

help myself. I hope you won't forget me, or marry anybody else&mdash;at

least, not just at present&mdash;for I cannot bear to think about it. Write

to me and tell me you won't forget me, and that you are not angry

with me. Do you want your letters back? If you burn mine that will do.

Good-bye, dear! If you only knew what I suffer! It is all very well to

talk like aunt does about settlements and diamonds, but they can't make

up to me for you. Good-bye, dear, I cannot write any more because my

head aches so.&mdash;Ever yours,

</p>

<p>

"Madeline Spenser."

</p>

<p>

When George Peritt, <i>alias</i> Bottles, had finished reading and re-reading

this letter, he folded it up neatly and put it, after his methodical

fashion, into his pocket. Then he sat and stared at the red camellia

blooms before him, that somehow looked as indistinct and misty as though

they were fifty yards off instead of so many inches.

</p>

<p>

"It is a great blow," he said to himself. "Poor Madeline! How she must

suffer!"

</p>

<p>

Presently he rose and walked&mdash;rather unsteadily, for he felt much

upset&mdash;to his quarters, and, taking a sheet of notepaper, wrote the

following letter to catch the outgoing mail:&mdash;

</p>

<p>

"My dear Madeline,&mdash;I have got your letter putting an end to our

engagement. I don't want to dwell on myself when you must have so much

to suffer, but I must say that it has been, and is, a great blow to me.

I have loved you for so many years, ever since we were babies, I think;

it does seem hard to lose you now after all. I thought that when we got

home I might get the adjutancy of a militia regiment, and that we might

have been married. I think we might have managed on five hundred a year,

though perhaps I have no right to expect you to give up comforts and

luxuries to which you are accustomed; but I am afraid that when one is

in love one is apt to be selfish. However, all that is done with now,

as, of course, putting everything else aside, I could not think of

standing in your way in life. I love you much too well for that, dear

Madeline, and you are too beautiful and delicate to be the wife of a

poor subaltern with little beside his pay. I can honestly say that I

hope you will be happy. I don't ask you to think of me too often, as

that might make you less so, but perhaps sometimes when you are quiet

you will spare your old lover a thought or two, because I am sure nobody

could care for you more than I do. You need not be afraid that I shall

forget you or marry anybody else. I shall do neither the one nor the

other. I must close this now to catch the mail; I don't know that there

is anything more to say. It is a hard trial&mdash;very; but it is no good

being weak and giving way, and it consoles me to think that you are

'bettering yourself' as the servants say. Good-bye, dear Madeline. May

God bless you, is now and ever my earnest prayer.

</p>

<p>

"J. G. Peritt."

</p>

<p>

Scarcely was this letter finished and hastily dispatched when a loud

voice was heard calling, "Bottles, Bottles, my boy, come rejoice with

me; the orders have come&mdash;we sail in a fortnight;" followed by the owner

of the voice, another subaltern, and our hero's bosom friend. "Why,

you don't seem very elated," said he of the voice, noting his friend's

dejected and somewhat dazed appearance.

</p>

<p>

"No&mdash;that is, not particularly. So you sail in a fortnight, do you?"

</p>

<p>

"'You sail?' What do you mean? Why, we <i>all</i> sail, of course, from the

colonel down to the drummer-boy."

</p>

<p>

"I don't think that I&mdash;I am going to sail, Jack," was the hesitating

answer.

</p>

<p>

"Look here, old fellow, are you off your head, or have you been

liquoring up, or what?"

</p>

<p>

"No&mdash;that is, I don't think so; certainly not the first&mdash;the second, I

mean."

</p>

<p>

"Then what do you mean?"

</p>

<p>

"I mean that, in short, I am sending in my papers. I like this climate

&mdash;I, in short, am going to take to farming."

</p>

<p>

"Sending in your papers! Going to take to farming! And in this

God-forsaken hole, too. You <i>must</i> be screwed."

</p>

<p>

"No, indeed. It is only ten o'clock."

</p>

<p>

"And how about getting married, and the girl you are engaged to, and

whom you are looking forward so much to seeing. Is she going to take to

farming?"

</p>

<p>

Bottles winced visibly.

</p>

<p>

"No, you see&mdash;in short, we have put an end to that. I am not engaged

now."

</p>

<p>

"Oh, indeed," said the friend, and awkwardly departed.

</p>

<center>

II

</center>

<p>

Twelve years have passed since Bottles sent in his papers, and in twelve

years many things happen. Amongst them recently it had happened that our

hero's only and elder brother had, owing to an unexpected development

of consumption among the expectant heirs, tumbled into a baronetcy and

eight thousand a year, and Bottles himself into a modest but to him most

ample fortune of as many hundred. When the news reached him he was the

captain of a volunteer corps engaged in one of the numerous Basuto wars

in the Cape Colony. He served the campaign out, and then, in obedience

to his brother's entreaties and a natural craving to see his native

land, after an absence of nearly fourteen years, resigned his commission

and returned to England.

</p>

<p>

Thus it came to pass that the next scene of this little history opens,

not upon the South African veld, or in a whitewashed house in some

half-grown, hobbledehoy colonial town, but in a set of the most

comfortable chambers in the Albany, the local and appropriate habitation

of the bachelor brother aforesaid, Sir Eustace Peritt.

</p>

<p>

In a very comfortable arm-chair in front of a warm fire (for the month

is November) sits the Bottles of old days&mdash;bigger, uglier, shyer than

ever, and in addition, disfigured by an assegai wound through the cheek.

Opposite to him, and peering at him occasionally with fond curiosity

through an eyeglass, is his brother, a very different stamp of man.

Sir Eustace Peritt is a well-preserved, London-looking gentleman, of

apparently any age between thirty and fifty. His eye is so bright, his

figure so well preserved, that to judge from appearances alone you would

put him down to the former age. But when you come to know him so as to

be able to measure his consummate knowledge of the world, and to

have the opportunity of reflecting upon the good-natured but profound

cynicism which pleasantly pervades his talk as absolutely as the flavour

of lemon pervades rum punch, you would be inclined to assign his natal

day to a much earlier date. In reality he was forty, neither more nor

less, and had both preserved his youthful appearance and gained the

mellowness of his experience by a judicious use of the opportunities of

life.

</p>

<p>

"Well, my dear George," said Sir Eustace, addressing his

brother&mdash;determined to take this occasion of meeting after so long a

time to be rid of the nickname "Bottles," which he hated&mdash;"I haven't had

such a pleasure for years."

</p>

<p>

"As&mdash;as what?"

</p>

<p>

"As meeting you again, of course. When I saw you on the vessel I knew

you at once. You have not changed at all, unless expansion can be called

a change."

</p>

<p>

"Nor have you, Eustace, unless contraction can be called a change. Your

waist used to be bigger, you know."

</p>

<p>

"Ah, George, I drank beer in those days; it is one of things of which I

have lived to see the folly. In fact, there are not many things of which

I have not lived to see the folly."

</p>

<p>

"Except living itself, I suppose?"

</p>

<p>

"Exactly&mdash;except living. I have no wish to follow the example of our

poor cousins," he answered with a sigh, "to whose considerate behaviour,

however," he added, brightening, "we owe our present improved position."

Then came a pause.

</p>

<p>

"Fourteen years is a long time, George; you must have had a rough time

of it."

</p>

<p>

"Yes, pretty rough. I have seen a good deal of irregular service, you

know."

</p>

<p>

"And never got anything out of it, I suppose?"

</p>

<p>

"Oh, yes; I have got my bread and butter, which is all I am worth."

</p>

<p>

Sir Eustace looked at his brother doubtfully through his eyeglass. "You

are modest," he said; "that does not do. You must have a better opinion

of yourself if you want to get on in the world."

</p>

<p>

"I don't want to get on. I am quite content to earn a living, and I am

modest because I have seen so many better men fare worse."

</p>

<p>

"But now you need not earn a living any more. What do you propose to do?

Live in town? I can set you going in a very good lot. You will be quite

a lion with that hole in your cheek&mdash;by the way, you must tell me the

story. And then, you see, if anything happens to me you stand in for the

title and estates. That will be quite enough to float you."

</p>

<p>

Bottles writhed uneasily in his chair. "Thank you, Eustace; but really

I must ask you&mdash;in short, I don't want to be floated or anything of the

sort. I would rather go back to South Africa and my volunteer corps. I

would indeed. I hate strangers, and society, and all that sort of thing.

I'm not fit for it like you."

</p>

<p>

"Then what do you mean to do&mdash;get married and live in the country?"

</p>

<p>

Bottles coloured a little through his sun-tanned skin&mdash;a fact that did

not escape the eyeglass of his observant brother. "No, I am not going to

get married, certainly not."

</p>

<p>

"By the way," said Sir Eustace carelessly, "I saw your old flame, Lady

Croston, yesterday, and told her you were coming home. She makes a

charming widow."

</p>

<p>

"<i>What!</i>" ejaculated his brother, slowly raising himself out of his

chair in astonishment. "Is her husband dead?"

</p>

<p>

"Dead? Yes, died a year ago, and a good riddance too. He appointed me

one of his executors; I am sure I don't know why, for we never liked

each other. I think he was the most disagreeable fellow I ever knew.

They say he gave his wife a roughish time of it occasionally. Serve her

right, too."

</p>

<p>

"Why did it serve her right?"

</p>

<p>

Sir Eustace shrugged his shoulders.

</p>

<p>

"When a heartless girl jilts the fellow she is engaged to in order to

sell herself to an elderly beast, I think she deserves all she gets.

This one did not get half enough; indeed, she has made a good thing of

it&mdash;better than she expected."

</p>

<p>

His brother sat down again before he answered in a constrained voice,

"Don't you think you are rather hard on her, Eustace?"

</p>

<p>

"Hard on her? No, not a bit of it. Of all the worthless women that

I know, I think Madeline Croston is the most worthless. Look how she

treated you."

</p>

<p>

"Eustace," broke in his brother almost sharply, "if you don't mind, I

wish you would not talk of her like that to me. I can't&mdash;in short, I

don't like it."

</p>

<p>

Sir Eustace's eyeglass dropped out of Sir Eustace's eye&mdash;he had

opened it so wide to stare at his brother. "Why, my dear fellow," he

ejaculated, "you don't mean to tell me you still care for that woman?"

</p>

<p>

His brother twisted his great form about uncomfortably in the low chair

as he answered, "I don't know, I'm sure, about caring for her, but I

don't like to hear you say such things about her."

</p>

<p>

Sir Eustace whistled softly. "I am sorry if I offended you, old fellow,"

he said. "I had no idea that it was still a sore point with you. You

must be a faithful people in South Africa. Here the 'holy feelings of

the heart' are shorter lived. We wear out several generations of them in

twelve years."

</p>

<center>

III

</center>

<p>

Bottles did not go to bed till late that night. Long after Sir Eustace

&mdash;who, always careful of his health, never stopped up late if he could

avoid it&mdash;had vanished, yawning, his brother sat smoking pipe after pipe

and thinking. He had sat many times in the same way on a wagon-box in

the African veld, or up where the moonlight turned the falls of the

Zambesi into a rushing cataract of silver, or alone in his tent when all

the camp was sleeping round him. It was a habit of this queer, silent

man to sit and think for hours at night, and arose to a great

extent from an incapacity to sleep, that was the weak point in his

constitution.

</p>

<p>

As for his meditations, they were various, but mostly the outcome of a

curious speculative side to his nature, which he never revealed to the

outside world. Dreams of a happiness of which heretofore his hard life

had given him no glimpse; semi-mystical, religious meditations upon

the great unknown around us; and grand schemes for the regeneration of

mankind&mdash;all formed part of them.

</p>

<p>

But there was one central thought, the fixed star of his mind, round

which all the others continually revolved, taking their light and colour

from it, and that was the thought of Madeline Croston, the woman to whom

he had been engaged. Years and years had passed since he had seen

her face, and yet it was always present to him. Beyond the occasional

mention of her name in some society paper&mdash;several of which, by the

way, he took in for years and conscientiously searched on the chance

of finding it&mdash;till this evening he had never even seen it or heard

it spoken; and yet with all the tenacity of his strong, deep nature he

clung to her dear memory. That she had left him to marry another man

weighed as nothing in the balance of his love. Once she had loved

him, and thereby he was repaid for the devotion of his life. He had

no ambitions. Madeline had been his great ambition; and when that had

fallen, all the others had fallen with it, even to the dust. He simply

did his duty, whatever it might be, as well as in him lay, without fear

of blame or hope of praise&mdash;shunning men, and never, if he could avoid

it, speaking to a woman, content to earn his livelihood, and for the

rest rendered colourless by his secret and pathetic passion.

</p>

<p>

And now it appeared that Madeline was a widow, which meant&mdash;and his

heart beat fast at the thought&mdash;that she was a free woman. Madeline was

a free woman, and he was within a few minutes' walk of her. No thousands

of miles of ocean rolled between them now. He rose, went to the table,

and consulted a Red book that lay on it. There was the address&mdash;a house

in Grosvenor Street. Overcome by an uncontrollable impulse, he went out

of the room. Going to his own he found his mackintosh and a round hat,

and softly left the house. It was then past two in the morning, pouring

with rain, and blowing hard.

</p>

<p>

He had been a little in London as a lad and remembered the main

thoroughfares, so had no great difficulty in finding his way up

Piccadilly till he came to Park Lane, into which the Red book told him

Grosvenor Square opened. But to find Grosvenor Street itself was a more

difficult matter, and at such a time on such a night there was naturally

nobody to ask&mdash;least of all a policeman. At last he found it, and

hurried on down the street with a quickening pulse. What he was hurrying

to he could not tell, but that over-mastering impulse forced him on

quicker and quicker yet.

</p>

<p>

Suddenly he halted, and examined the number of one of the houses by the

faint and struggling light from the nearest lamp. It was <i>her</i> house;

now there was nothing between them but a few feet of space and fourteen

inches of brickwork. He crossed over to the other side of the street,

and looked up at the house, but could scarcely make it out through the

driving rain. There was no light in the house, and no sign of life about

the street. But there were both light and life in the heart of this

watcher. All the pulses of his blood were astir, keeping time with the

commotion of his mind. He stood there in the shadow, gazing at the murky

house, heedless of the bitter wind and pelting rain, and felt his life

and spirit pass out of his control into an unknown dominion. The storm

that raged around him was nothing to the convulsion of his inner self in

that hour of madness, which was yet happiness. Yet as it had arisen thus

suddenly, so with equal swiftness it died away, and left him standing

there with a chill sense of folly in his mind and of the bitter weather

in his body; for on such a night a mackintosh and a dress coat were not

adapted to keep the most ardent lover warm. He shivered, and turning,

made his way back to Albany, feeling heartily ashamed of himself and

his midnight expedition, and heartily glad that no one knew of it except

himself.

</p>

<p>

On the following day Bottles&mdash;for convenience' sake we still call him

by his old nickname&mdash;was obliged to see a lawyer with reference to the

money which he had inherited, and to search for a box which had gone

astray aboard the steamer; also to buy a tall hat, such as he had not

worn for fourteen years; so that between one thing and another it was

half-past four before he got back to the Albany. Here he donned the new

hat, which did not fit very well, and a new black coat which fitted

so well that it seemed to cut into his large frame in every possible

direction, and departed, furiously struggling with a pair of gloves,

also new, for Grosvenor Street.

</p>

<p>

A quarter of an hour's walk, for he knew the road this time, brought him

to the house. Glancing for a while at the spot where he had stood on the

previous night, he walked up the steps and pulled the bell. Though

he looked bold enough outwardly&mdash;indeed, rather imposing than

otherwise&mdash;with his broad shoulders and the great scar on his bronzed

face, his breast was full of terrors. In these, however, he had not

much time to indulge, for a footman, still decked in the trappings of

vicarious grief, opened the door with the most startling promptitude,

and he was ushered upstairs into a small but richly furnished room.

</p>

<p>

Madeline was not in the room, though to judge from the lace handkerchief

lying on the floor by a low chair, and the open novel on a little wicker

table alongside, she had not left it long. The footman departed, saying,

in a magnificent undertone, that "her ladyship" should be informed, and

left our hero to enjoy his sensations. Being one of those people whom

suspense of any sort makes fidgety, he employed himself in looking at

the pictures and china, even going so far as to walk to a pair of very

heavy blue velvet curtains that apparently communicated with another

room, and peep through them at a much larger apartment of which the

furniture was done up in ghostly-looking bags.

</p>

<p>

Retreating from this melancholy sight, finally he took up a position

on the hearthrug and waited. Would she be angry with him for coming? he

wondered. Would it recall things she had rather forget? But perhaps she

had already forgotten them&mdash;it was so long ago. Would she be very much

changed? Perhaps he should not know her. Perhaps&mdash;but here he happened

to lift his eyes, and there, standing between the two blue velvet

curtains, was Madeline, now a woman in the full splendour of a

remarkable beauty, and showing as yet, at any rate in that dull November

twilight, no traces of her years. There she stood, her large dark eyes

fixed upon him with a look of wistful curiosity, her shapely lips just

parted to speak, and her bosom gently heaving, as though with trouble.

</p>

<p>

Poor Bottles! One look was enough. There was no chance of his attaining

the blessed haven of disillusionment. In five seconds he was farther

out to sea than ever. When she knew that he had seen her she dropped her

eyes a little&mdash;he saw the long curved lashes appear against her cheek,

and moved forward.

</p>

<p>

"How do you do?" she said softly, extending her slim, cool hand.

</p>

<p>

He took the hand and shook it, but for the life of him could think of

nothing to say. Not one of the little speeches he had prepared would

come into his mind. Yet the desperate necessity of saying something

forced itself upon him.

</p>

<p>

"How do you do?" he ejaculated with a jerk. "It&mdash;it's very cold, isn't

it?"

</p>

<p>

This remark was such an utter and ludicrous <i>fiasco</i> that Lady Croston

could not choose but laugh a little.

</p>

<p>

"I see," she said, "that you have not got over your shyness."

</p>

<p>

"It is a long while since we met," he blurted out.

</p>

<p>

"I am very glad to see you," was her simple answer. "Now sit down and

talk to me; tell me all about yourself. Stop; before you begin&mdash;how

very curious it is! Do you know I dreamed about you last night&mdash;such a

curious, painful dream. I dreamed that I was asleep in my room&mdash;which

indeed I was&mdash;and that it was blowing a gale and raining in

torrents&mdash;which I believe it was also&mdash;so there is nothing very

wonderful about that. But now comes the odd part. I dreamed that you

were standing out in the rain and wind and yet looking at me as though

you saw me. I could not see your face because you were in the dark,

but I knew it was you. Then I woke up with a start. It was a most vivid

dream. And now to-day you have come to see me after all these years."

</p>

<p>

He shifted his legs uneasily. Considering the facts of the case, her

dream frightened him, which was not strange. Fortunately, at that moment

the impressive footman arrived with the tea-things and asked whether he

should light the lamps.

</p>

<p>

"No," said Lady Croston; "put some wood on the fire." She knew that she

looked her very best in those half-lights.

</p>

<p>

Then, when she had given him his tea, delighting him by remembering that

he did not like sugar, she fell to drawing him out about the wild life

he had been leading.

</p>

<p>

"By the way," she said presently, "perhaps you can tell me&mdash;a few days

ago I bought a book for my boy"&mdash;she had two children&mdash;"all about brave

deeds and that sort of thing, and in it there was a story of a volunteer

officer in South Africa (the name was not mentioned) which interested

me very much. Did you ever hear of it? It was this: The officer was in

command of a fort containing a force that was operating against a native

chief. While he was away the chief sent a flag of truce down to the

fort, which was fired on by some of the volunteers in the fort, because

there was a man among the truce party against whom they had a spite.

Just afterwards the officer returned, and was very angry that such a

thing had been done by Englishmen, whose duty it was, he said, to teach

all the world what honour meant.

</p>

<p>

"Now comes the brave part of the story. Without saying any more,

and notwithstanding the entreaties of his men, who knew that in all

probability he was going to a death by torture, for he was so brave that

the natives had set a great price upon him, wishing to kill him and use

his body for medicine, which they thought would make them as brave as

he was, that officer rode out far away into the mountains with only

an interpreter and a white handkerchief, till he came to the chief's

stronghold. But when the natives saw him coming, holding up his white

handkerchief, they did not fire at him as his men had fired at them,

because they were so astonished at his bravery that they thought he

must be mad or inspired. So he came straight on to the walls of the

stronghold, called to the chief and begged his pardon for what had

happened, and then rode away again unharmed. Shortly afterwards, the

chief, having captured some of the officer's volunteers, whom in the

ordinary course of affairs he would have tortured to death, sent them

back again untouched, with a message to the effect that he would show

the English officer that he was not the only man who could behave 'like

a gentleman.' I should like to know that man. Do you know who he was?"

</p>

<p>

Bottles looked uncomfortable, as well he might, for it was an incident

in his own career; but her praise and enthusiasm sent a flush of pride

into his face.

</p>

<p>

"I believe it was some fellow in the Basuto War," he said, prevaricating

with peculiar awkwardness.

</p>

<p>

"Oh, then it <i>is</i> a true story?"

</p>

<p>

"Yes&mdash;that is, it is partially true. There was nothing heroic about it.

It was a necessary act if our honour as fair opponents was to continue

to be worth anything."

</p>

<p>

"But who was the man?" she asked, fixing her dark eyes on him

suspiciously.

</p>

<p>

"The man!" he stammered. "Oh, the man&mdash;well, in short&mdash;&mdash;" and he

stopped.

</p>

<p>

"In short, <i>George</i>," she put in, for the first time calling him by his

Christian name, "that man was <i>you</i>, and I am so proud of you, George."

</p>

<p>

It was very hateful to him in a way, for he loathed that kind of

personal adulation, even from her. He was so intensely modest he had

never even reported the incident in question; it had come out in some

roundabout way. Yet he could not but feel happy that she had found him

out. It was a great deal to him to have moved her, and her sparkling

eyes and heaving bosom showed that she was somewhat moved.

</p>

<p>

He looked up and his eyes caught hers; the room was nearly dark now, but

the bright flame from the wood the servant had put on the fire played

upon her face. His eyes caught hers, and there was a look in them from

which he could not escape, even if he had wished to do so. She had

thrown her head back so that the coronet of her glossy hair rested upon

the back of her low seat, and thus, without strain, could look straight

up into his face. He had risen, and was standing by the mantelpiece. A

slow, sweet smile grew upon the perfect face, and the dark eyes became

soft and luminous as though they shone through tears.

</p>

<p>

In another second it had ended, as she thought that it would end and had

intended that it should end. The great strong man was down&mdash;yes, down

on his knees before her, one trembling hand catching at the arm of

her chair, and the other clasping her tapering fingers. There was no

hesitation or awkwardness about him now, the greatness of his long-pent

passion inspired him, and he told her all without let or stop&mdash;all that

he had suffered for her sake throughout those lonely years, all his

wretched hopelessness, keeping nothing back.

</p>

<p>

Much she did not understand; such a passion as this was too deep to

be fathomed by her shallow lines, too soaring for her to net in her

world-straitened imagination. Once or twice even his exalted notions

made her smile: it seemed ridiculous, knowing the world as she did, that

any man should think thus of <i>any</i> woman. Nor, when at length he had

finished, did she attempt an answer, feeling that her strength lay in

silence, for she had a poor case. At least, the only argument that she

used was a purely feminine one, but perfectly effective. She bent her

beautiful face towards him, and he kissed it again and again.

</p>

<center>

IV

</center>

<p>

The revulsion of feeling experienced by Bottles as he hurried back to

the Albany to dress for dinner&mdash;for he was to dine with his brother at

one of his clubs that night&mdash;was so extraordinary and overwhelming that

it took him, figuratively speaking, off his legs. As yet his mind, so

long accustomed to perpetual misfortune in this, the ruling passion of

his life, could not quite grasp his luck. That he should, after all,

have won back his lost Madeline seemed altogether too good to be true.

</p>

<p>

As it happened, Sir Eustace had asked one or two men to meet him,

amongst them an Under-Secretary for the Colonies, who, having to prepare

for a severe cross-examination in the House upon South African affairs,

had jumped at the opportunity of sucking the brains of a man thoroughly

acquainted with the subject. But the expectant Under-Secretary was

destined to meet with a grievous disappointment, for out of Bottles

came no good thing. For the most part of the dinner he sat silent, only

speaking when directly addressed, and then answering so much at random

that the Under-Secretary quickly came to the conclusion that Sir

Eustace's brother was either a fool or that he had drunk too much.

</p>

<p>

Sir Eustace himself saw that his brother's taciturnity had spoilt his

little dinner, and his temper was not improved thereby. He was not

accustomed to have his dinners spoiled, and felt that, so far as the

Under-Secretary was concerned, he had put himself into a false position.

</p>

<p>

"My dear George," he said in a tone of bland exasperation when they had

got back to the Albany, "I wonder what can be the matter with you? I

told Atherleigh that you would be able to post him up thoroughly about

all this Bechuana mess, and he could not get a word out of you."

</p>

<p>

His brother absently filled his pipe before he answered:

</p>

<p>

"The Bechuanas? Oh, yes, I know all about them. I lived among them for a

year."

</p>

<p>

"Then why on earth didn't you tell him what you knew? You put me in

rather a false position."

</p>

<p>

"I am very sorry, Eustace," he answered humbly. "I will go and see him

if you like, and explain the thing to him to-morrow. The fact of the

matter is, I was thinking of something else."

</p>

<p>

Sir Eustace interrogated him with a look.

</p>

<p>

"I was thinking," he went on slowly, "about Mad&mdash;about Lady Croston."

</p>

<p>

"Oh!"

</p>

<p>

"I went to see her this afternoon, and I think, I hope, that I am going

to marry her."

</p>

<p>

If Bottles expected that this great news would be received by his

elder brother as such news ought to be received&mdash;with congratulatory

rejoicing&mdash;he was destined to be disappointed.

</p>

<p>

"Good heavens!" ejaculated Sir Eustace shortly, letting his eyeglass

drop.

</p>

<p>

"Why do you say that, Eustace?" Bottles asked uneasily.

</p>

<p>

"Because&mdash;because," answered his brother in the emphatic tone which was

his equivalent for strong language, "you must be mad to think of such a

thing."

</p>

<p>

"Why must I be mad?"

</p>

<p>

"Because you, still a young man, with all your life before you,

deliberately propose to tie yourself up to a middle-aged and <i>passee</i>

woman&mdash;she is extremely <i>passee</i> by daylight, let me tell you&mdash;who

has already treated you like a dog, and is burdened with a couple of

children, and who, if she marries again, will bring you very little

except her luxurious tastes. But I expected this. I thought she would

try to catch you with those languishing black eyes of hers. You are not

the first; I know her of old."

</p>

<p>

"If," said his brother, rising in dudgeon, "you are going to abuse

Madeline to me, I think I had better say good night, for we shall

quarrel&mdash;which I would not do for anything."

</p>

<p>

Sir Eustace shrugged his shoulders. "Those whom the gods wish to destroy

they first make mad," he muttered, as he lit his hand candle. "This is

what comes of a course of South Africa."

</p>

<p>

But Sir Eustace was an amenable man. His favourite motto was "Live and

let live"; and having given the matter his best consideration during the

lengthy process of shaving himself on the following morning, he came to

the conclusion, reluctantly enough it must be owned, that it was evident

that his brother meant to have his own way, and therefore the best thing

to be done was to fall in with his views and trust to the chapter

of accidents to bring the thing to naught. Sir Eustace, for all his

apparent worldliness and cynicism, was a good fellow at heart, and

cherished a warm affection for his awkward, taciturn brother. He

also cherished a great dislike for Lady Croston, whose character he

thoroughly understood. He saw a good deal of her, it is true, because he

happened to be one of the executors of her husband's will; and since he

had come into the baronetcy it had struck him that she had developed a

considerable partiality for his society.

</p>

<p>

The idea of a marriage between his brother and his brother's old flame

was in every way distasteful to him. In the first place, under her

husband's will, Madeline would bring, comparatively speaking, relatively

little with her should she marry again. That was one objection. Another,

and still more forcible one from Sir Eustace's point of view, was that

at her time of life she was not likely to present the house of Peritt

with an heir. Now, Sir Eustace had not the slightest intention of

marrying. Matrimony was, he considered, an excellent institution, and

necessary to the carrying on of the world in a respectable manner, but

it was not one with which he was anxious to identify himself. Therefore,

if his brother married at all, it was his earnest desire that the union

should bring children to inherit the title and estates. Prominent above

both these excellent reasons, stood his intense distrust and dislike of

the lady.

</p>

<p>

Needs must, however, when the devil (by whom he understood Madeline)

drives. He was not going to quarrel with his only brother and

presumptive heir because he chose to marry a woman who was not to his

taste. So he shrugged his shoulders&mdash;having finished his shaving and his

reflections together&mdash;and determined to put the best possible face on

his disappointment.

</p>

<p>

"Well, George," he said to his brother at breakfast, "so you are going

to marry Lady Croston?"

</p>

<p>

Bottles looked up surprised. "Yes, Eustace," he answered, "if she will

marry me."

</p>

<p>

Sir Eustace glanced at him. "I thought the affair was settled," he said.

</p>

<p>

Bottles rubbed his big nose reflectively as he answered, "Well, no.

I don't think that marriage was mentioned. But I suppose she means to

marry me. In short, I don't see how she could mean anything else."

</p>

<p>

Sir Eustace breathed more freely, guessing what had taken place. So

there was as yet no actual engagement.

</p>

<p>

"When are you going to see her again?"

</p>

<p>

"To-morrow. She is engaged all to-day."

</p>

<p>

His brother took out a pocket-book and consulted it. "Then I am more

fortunate than you are," he said; "I have an appointment with Lady

Croston this evening after dinner. Don't look jealous, old fellow, it is

only about some executor's business. I think I told you that I am one

of her husband's executors, blessings on his memory. She is a peculiar

woman, your <i>inamorata</i>, and swears that she won't trust her lawyers, so

I have to do all the dirty work myself, worse luck. You had better come

too."

</p>

<p>

"Shan't I be in the way?" asked Bottles doubtfully, struggling feebly

against the bribe.

</p>

<p>

"It is evident, my dear fellow, that you cannot be <i>de trop</i>. I shall

present my papers for signature and vanish. You ought to be infinitely

obliged to me for giving you such a chance. We will consider that

settled. We will dine together, and go round to Grosvenor Street

afterwards."

</p>

<p>

Bottles agreed. Could he have seen the little scheme that was dawning in

his brother's brain, perhaps he would not have assented so readily.

</p>

<p>

When her old lover went away reluctantly to dress for dinner on the

previous day, Madeline Croston sat down to have a good think, and the

result was not entirely satisfactory. It had been very pleasant to

see him, and his passionate declaration of enduring love thrilled her

through and through, and even woke an echo in her own breast. It made

her proud to think that this man, who, notwithstanding his ugliness and

awkwardness, was yet, her instinct told her, worth half a dozen smart

London fashionables, still loved her and had never ceased to love her.

Poor Bottles! she had been very fond of him once. They had grown up

together, and it really gave her some cruel hours when a sense of what

she owed to herself and her family had forced her to discard him.

</p>

<p>

She remembered, as she sat there this evening, how at the time she had

wondered if it was worth it&mdash;if life would not be brighter and happier

if she made up her mind to fight through it by her honest lover's side.

Well, she could answer that question now. It had been well worth it. She

had not liked her husband, it is true; but on the whole she had enjoyed

a good time and plenty of money, and the power that money brings. The

wisdom of her later days had confirmed the judgment of her youth. As

regards Bottles himself, she had soon got over that fancy; for years

she had scarcely thought of him, till Sir Eustace told her that he was

coming home, and she had that curious dream about him. Now he had come

and made love to her, not in a civilised, philandering sort of a way,

such as she was accustomed to, but with a passion and a fire and an

utter self-abandonment which, while it thrilled her nerves with a

curious sensation of mingled pleasure and pain, not unlike that she once

experienced at a Spanish bull-fight when she saw a man tossed, was yet

extremely awkward to deal with and rather alarming.

</p>

<p>

Now, too, the old question had come up again, and what was to be done?

She had sheered him off the question that afternoon, but he would want

to marry her, she felt sure of that. If she consented, what were they to

live on? Her own juncture, in the event of her re-marriage, would be cut

down to a thousand a year&mdash;she had four now, and was pinched on that;

and as for Bottles, she knew what he had&mdash;eight hundred, for Sir Eustace

had told her. He was next heir to the baronetcy, it was true, but Sir

Eustace looked as though he would live for ever, and besides, he might

marry after all.

</p>

<p>

For a few minutes Lady Croston contemplated the possibility of existing

on eighteen hundred a year, and what Chancery would give her as guardian

of her children in a poky house somewhere down at Kensington. Soon she

realised that the thing was not to be done.

</p>

<p>

"Unless Sir Eustace will do something for him, it is very clear that we

cannot be married," she said to herself with a sigh. "However, I need

not tell him that just yet, or he will be rushing back to South Africa

or something."

</p>

<center>

V

</center>

<p>

Sir Eustace and his brother carried out their programme. They dined

together, and about half-past nine drove round to Grosvenor Street.

Here they were shown into the drawing-room by the solemn footman, who

informed Sir Eustace that her ladyship was upstairs in the nursery and

had left a message for him that she would be down presently.

</p>

<p>

"All right; there is no hurry," said Sir Eustace absently, and the man

went downstairs.

</p>

<p>

Bottles, being nervous, was fidgeting round the room as usual, and his

brother, being very much at ease, was standing with his back to the

fire, and staring about him. Presently his glance lit upon the blue

velvet curtains which shut off the room they were in from the larger

saloon that had not been used since Lady Croston's widowhood, and an

idea which had been floating about in his brain suddenly took definite

shape and form. He was a prompt man, and in another second he had acted

up to that idea.

</p>

<p>

"George," he said in a quick, low voice, "listen to me, and for Heaven's

sake don't interrupt for a minute. You know that I do not like the idea

of your marrying Lady Croston. You know that I think her worthless&mdash;no,

wait a minute, don't interrupt&mdash;I am only saying what I think. You

believe in her; you believe that she is in love with you and will marry

you, and have good reason to believe it, have you not?"

</p>

<p>

Bottles nodded.

</p>

<p>

"Very well. Supposing that I can show you within half an hour that she

is perfectly ready to marry somebody else&mdash;myself, for instance&mdash;would

you still believe in her?"

</p>

<p>

Bottles turned pale. "The thing is impossible," he said.

</p>

<p>

"That is not the question. Would you still believe in her, and would you

still marry her?"

</p>

<p>

"Great heavens! no."

</p>

<p>

"Good. Then I tell you what I will do for you, and it will perhaps

give you some idea of how deeply I feel in the matter; I will sacrifice

myself."

</p>

<p>

"Sacrifice yourself?"

</p>

<p>

"Yes. I mean that I will this very evening propose to Madeline Croston

under your nose, and I bet you five pounds she accepts me."

</p>

<p>

"Impossible," said Bottles again. "Besides, if she did you don't want to

marry her."

</p>

<p>

"Marry her! No, indeed. <i>I</i> am not mad. I shall have to get out of the

scrape as best I can&mdash;always supposing my view of the lady is correct."

</p>

<p>

"Excuse me," said Bottles with a gasp, "but I must ask you&mdash;in short,

have <i>you</i> ever been on affectionate terms with Madeline?"

</p>

<p>

"Never, on my honour."

</p>

<p>

"And yet you think she will marry you if you ask her, even after what

took place with me yesterday?"

</p>

<p>

"Yes, I do."

</p>

<p>

"Why?"

</p>

<p>

"Because, my boy," replied Sir Eustace with a cynical smile, "I have

eight thousand a year and you have eight hundred&mdash;because I have a title

and you have none. That you may happen to be the better fellow of the

two will, I fear, not make up for those deficiencies."

</p>

<p>

Bottles with a motion of his hand waved his brother's courtly compliment

away, as it were, and turned on him with a set white face.

</p>

<p>

"I do not believe you, Eustace," he said. "Do you understand what you

make out this lady to be when you say that she could kiss me and tell me

that she loved me&mdash;for she did both yesterday&mdash;and promise to marry you

to-day?"

</p>

<p>

Sir Eustace shrugged his shoulders. "I think that the lady in question

has done something like that before, George."

</p>

<p>

"That was years ago and under pressure. Now, Eustace, you have made this

charge; you have upset my faith in Madeline, whom I hope to marry, and I

say, prove it&mdash;prove it if you can. I will stake my life you cannot."

</p>

<p>

"Don't agitate yourself, my dear fellow; and as to betting, I would not

risk more than a fiver. Now oblige me by stepping behind those velvet

curtains&mdash;<i>a la</i> 'School for Scandal'&mdash;and listening in perfect silence

to my conversation with Lady Croston. She does not know that you are

here, so she will not miss you. You can escape when you have had enough

of it, for there is a door through on to the landing, and as we came up

I noticed that it was ajar. Or if you like you can appear from between

the curtains like an infuriated husband on the stage and play whatever

<i>role</i> occasion may demand. Really the situation has a laughable side.

I should enjoy it immensely if <i>I</i> were behind the curtain too. Come, in

you go."

</p>

<p>

Bottles hesitated. "I can't hide," he said.

</p>

<p>

"Nonsense; remember how much depends on it. All is fair in love or war.

Quick; here she comes."

</p>

<p>

Bottles grew flurried and yielded, scarcely knowing what he did. In

another second he was in the darkened room behind the curtains, through

the crack in which he could command the lighted scene before him, and

Sir Eustace was back at his place before the fire, reflecting that in

his ardour to extricate his brother from what he considered a suicidal

engagement he had let himself in for a very pretty undertaking. Suppose

she accepted him, his brother would be furious, and he would probably

have to go abroad to get out of the lady's way; and suppose she refused

him, he would look a fool.

</p>

<p>

Meanwhile the sweep, sweep of Madeline's dress as she passed down the

stairs was drawing nearer, and in another instant she was in the room.

She was beautifully dressed in silver-grey silk, plentifully trimmed

with black lace, and cut square back and front so as to show her rounded

shoulders. She wore no ornaments, being one of the few women who are

able to dispense with them, unless indeed a red camellia pinned in the

front of her dress can be called an ornament. Bottles, shivering with

shame and doubt behind his curtain, marked that red camellia, and

wondered of what it reminded him.

</p>

<p>

Then in a flash it all came back, the scene of years and years ago&mdash;the

verandah in far-away Natal, with himself sitting on it, an open letter

in his hand and staring with all his eyes at the camellia bush covered

with bloom before him. It seemed a bad omen to him&mdash;that camellia in

Madeline's bosom. Next second she was speaking.

</p>

<p>

"Oh, Sir Eustace, I owe you a thousand apologies. You must have been

here for quite ten minutes, for I heard the front door bang when you

came. But my poor little girl Effie is ill with a sore throat which has

made her feverish, and she absolutely refused to go to sleep unless she

had my hand to hold."

</p>

<p>

"Lucky Effie," said Sir Eustace, with his politest bow; "I am sure I can

understand her fancy."

</p>

<p>

At the moment he was holding Madeline's hand himself, and gave emphasis

to his words by communicating the gentlest possible pressure to it as

he let it fall. But knowing his habits, she did not take much notice.

Comparative strangers when Sir Eustace shook hands with them were

sometimes in doubt whether he was about to propose to them or to make a

remark upon the weather. Alas! it had always been the weather.

</p>

<p>

"I come as a man of business besides, and men of business are accustomed

to being kept waiting," he went on.

</p>

<p>

"You are really very good, Sir Eustace, to take so much trouble about my

affairs."

</p>

<p>

"It is a pleasure, Lady Croston."

</p>

<p>

"Ah, Sir Eustace, you do not expect me to believe that," laughed

the radiant creature at his side. "But if you only knew how I detest

lawyers, and what you spare me by the trouble you take, I am sure you

would not grudge me your time."

</p>

<p>

"Do not talk of it, Lady Croston. I would do a great deal more than that

for you; in fact," here he dropped his voice a little, "there are few

things that I would not do for you, <i>Madeline</i>."

</p>

<p>

She raised her delicate eyebrows till they looked like notes of

interrogation, and blushed a little. This was quite a new style for Sir

Eustace. Was he in earnest? she wondered. Impossible!

</p>

<p>

"And now for business," he continued; "not that there is much business;

as I understand it, you have only to sign this document, which I have

already witnessed, and the stock can be transferred."

</p>

<p>

She signed the paper which he had brought in a big envelope almost

without looking at it, for she was thinking of Sir Eustace's remark, and

he put it back in the envelope.

</p>

<p>

"Is that all the business, Sir Eustace?" she asked.

</p>

<p>

"Yes; quite all. Now I suppose that as I have done my duty I had better

go away."

</p>

<p>

"I wish to Heaven he would!" groaned Bottles to himself behind the

curtains. He did not like his brother's affectionate little ways or

Madeline's tolerance of them.

</p>

<p>

"Indeed, no; you had better sit down and talk to me&mdash;that is, if you

have got nothing pleasanter to do."

</p>

<p>

We can guess Sir Eustace's prompt reply and Madeline's smiling reception

of the compliment, as she seated herself in a low chair&mdash;that same low

chair she had occupied the day before.

</p>

<p>

"Now for it," said Sir Eustace to himself. "I wonder how George is

getting on?"

</p>

<p>

"My brother tells me that he came to see you yesterday," he began.

</p>

<p>

"Yes," she answered, smiling again, but wondering in her heart how much

he had told him.

</p>

<p>

"Do you find him much changed?"

</p>

<p>

"Not much."

</p>

<p>

"You used to be very fond of each other once, if I remember right?" said

he.

</p>

<p>

"Yes, once."

</p>

<p>

"I often think how curious it is," went on Sir Eustace in a reflective

tone, "to watch the various changes time brings about, especially where

the affections are concerned. One sees children at the seaside making

little mounds of sand, and they think, if they are very young children,

that they will find them there to-morrow. But they reckon without their

tide. To-morrow the sands will have swept as level as ever, and the

little boys will have to begin again. It is like that with our youthful

love affairs, is it not? The tide of time comes up and sweeps them away,

fortunately for ourselves. Now in your case, for instance, it is, I

think, a happy thing for both of you that your sandhouse did not last.

Is it not?"

</p>

<p>

Madeline sighed softly. "Yes, I suppose so," she answered.

</p>

<p>

Bottles, behind the curtains, rapidly reviewed the past, and came to a

different conclusion.

</p>

<p>

"Well, that is all done with," said Sir Eustace cheerfully.

</p>

<p>

Madeline did not contradict him; she did not see her way to doing so

just at present.

</p>

<p>

Then came a pause.

</p>

<p>

"Madeline," said Sir Eustace presently, in a changed voice, "I have

something to say to you."

</p>

<p>

"Indeed, Sir Eustace," she answered, lifting her eyebrows again in her

note of interrogation manner, "what is it?"

</p>

<p>

"It is this, Madeline&mdash;I want to ask you to be my wife."

</p>

<p>

The blue velvet curtains suddenly gave a jump as though they were

assisting at at spiritualistic <i>seance</i>.

</p>

<p>

Sir Eustace looked at the curtains with warning in his eye.

</p>

<p>

Madeline saw nothing.

</p>

<p>

"Really, Sir Eustace!"

</p>

<p>

"I dare say I surprise you," went on this ardent lover; "my suit may

seem a sudden one, but in truth it is nothing of the sort."

</p>

<p>

"O Lord, what a lie!" groaned the distracted Bottles.

</p>

<p>

"I thought, Sir Eustace," murmured Madeline in her sweet low voice,

"that you told me not very long ago that you never meant to marry."

</p>

<p>

"Nor did I, Madeline, because I thought there was no chance of my

marrying you" ("which I am sure I hope there isn't," he added to

himself). "But&mdash;but, Madeline, I love you." ("Heaven forgive me for

that!") "Listen to me, Madeline, before you answer," and he drew his

chair closer to her own. "I feel the loneliness of my position, and I

want to get married. I think that we should suit each other very well.

At our age, now that our youth is past" (he could not resist this dig,

at which Madeline winced), "probably neither of us would wish to marry

anybody much our junior. I have had many opportunities lately, Madeline,

of seeing the beauty of your character, and to the beauties of your

person no man could be blind. I can offer you a good position, a good

fortune, and myself, such as I am. Will you take me?" and he laid his

hand upon hers and gazed earnestly into her eyes.

</p>

<p>

"Really, Sir Eustace," she murmured, "this is so very unexpected and

sudden."

</p>

<p>

"Yes, Madeline, I know it is. I have no right to take you by storm

in this way, but I trust you will not allow my precipitancy to weight

against me. Take a little time to think it over&mdash;a week say" ("by which

time," he reflected, "I hope to be in Algiers.") "Only, if you can,

Madeline, tell me that I may hope."

</p>

<p>

She made no immediate answer, but, letting her hands fall idly in her

lap, looked straight before her, her beautiful eyes fixed upon vacancy,

and her mind amply occupied in considering the pros and cons of the

situation. Then Sir Eustace took heart of grace; bending down, he kissed

the Madonna-like face. Still there was no response. Only very gently she

pushed him from her, whispering:

</p>

<p>

"Yes, Eustace, I think I shall be able to tell you that you may hope."

</p>

<p>

Bottles waited to see no more. With set teeth and flaming eyes he crept,

a broken man, through the door that led on to the landing, crept down

the stairs and into the hall. On the pegs were his hat and coat; he took

them and passed into the street.

</p>

<p>

"I have done a disgraceful thing," he thought, "and I have paid for it."

</p>

<p>

Softly as the door closed Sir Eustace heard it; and then he too left the

room, murmuring, "I shall soon come for my answer, Madeline."

</p>

<p>

When he reached the street his brother was gone.

</p>

<center>

VI

</center>

<p>

Sir Eustace did not go straight back to the Albany, but, calling a

hansom, drove down to his club.

</p>

<p>

"Well," he thought to himself, "I have played a good many curious parts

in my time, but I never had to do with anything like this before. I only

hope George is not much cut up. His eyes ought to be opened now. What a

woman&mdash;&mdash;" but we will not repeat Sir Eustace's comments upon the lady

to whom he was nominally half engaged.

</p>

<p>

At the club Sir Eustace met his friend the Under-Secretary, who had

just escaped from the House. Thanks to information furnished to him

that morning by Bottles, who had been despatched by Sir Eustace, in a

penitent mood, to the Colonial Office to see him, he had just succeeded

in confusing, if not absolutely in defeating, the impertinent people who

"wanted to know." Accordingly he was jubilant, and greeted Sir Eustace

with enthusiasm, and they sat talking together for an hour or more.

</p>

<p>

Then Sir Eustace, being, as has been said, of early habits, made his way

home.

</p>

<p>

In his sitting-room he found his brother smoking and contemplating the

fire.

</p>

<p>

"Hullo, old fellow!" he said, "I wish you had come to the club with me.

Atherleigh was there, and is delighted with you. What you told him this

morning enabled him to smash up his enemies, and as the smashing lately

has been rather the other way he is jubilant. He wants you to go to see

him again to-morrow. Oh, by the way, you made your escape all right. I

only hope I may be as lucky. Well, what do you think of your lady-love

now?"

</p>

<p>

"I think," said Bottles slowly&mdash;"that I had rather not say what I do

think."

</p>

<p>

"Well, you are not going to marry her now, I suppose?"

</p>

<p>

"No, I shall not marry her."

</p>

<p>

"That is all right; but I expect that it will take <i>me</i> all I know to

get clear of her. However, there are some occasions in life when one is

bound to sacrifice one's own convenience, and this is one of them. After

all, she is really very pretty in the evening, so it might have been

worse."

</p>

<p>

Bottles winced, and Sir Eustace took a cigarette.

</p>

<p>

"By the way, old fellow," he said, as he settled himself in his chair

again, "I hope you are not put out with me over this. Believe me, you

have no cause to be jealous; she does not care a hang about me, it

is only the title and the money. If a fellow who was a lord and had a

thousand a year more proposed to her to-morrow she would chuck me up and

take him."

</p>

<p>

"No; I am not angry with you," said Bottles; "you meant kindly, but I am

angry with myself. It was not honourable to&mdash;in short, play the spy upon

a woman's weakness."

</p>

<p>

"You are very scrupulous," yawned Sir Eustace; "all means are fair to

catch a snake. Dear me, I nearly exploded once or twice; it was better

than [yawn] any [yawn] play," and Sir Eustace went to sleep.

</p>

<p>

Bottles sat still and stared at the fire.

</p>

<p>

Presently his brother woke up with a start. "Oh, you are there, are you,

Bottles?" (it was the first time he had called him by that name since

his return.) "Odd thing; but do you know that I was dreaming that we

were boys again, and trout-fishing in the old Cantlebrook stream. I

dreamt that I hooked a big fish, and you were so excited that you jumped

right into the river after it&mdash;you did once, you remember&mdash;and the river

swept you away and left me on the bank; most unpleasant dream. Well,

good night, old boy. I vote we go down and have some trout-fishing

together in the spring. God bless you!"

</p>

<p>

"Good night," said Bottles, gazing affectionately after his brother's

departing form.

</p>

<p>

Then he too rose and went to his bedroom. On a table stood a battered

old tin despatch-box&mdash;the companion of all his wanderings. He opened it

and took from it first a little bottle of chloral.

</p>

<p>

"Ah," he said, "I shall want you if I am to sleep again." Setting the

bottle down, he extracted from a dirty envelope one or two letters and a

faded photograph. It was the same that used to hang over his bed in his

quarters at Maritzburg. These he destroyed, tearing them into small bits

with his strong brown fingers.

</p>

<p>

Then he shut the box and sat down at the table to think, opening the

sluice-gates of his mind and letting the sea of misery flow in, as it

were.

</p>

<p>

This, then, was the woman whom he had forgiven and loved and honoured

for all these years. This was the end and this the reward of all his

devotion and of all his hopes. And he smiled in bitterness of his pain

and self-contempt.

</p>

<p>

What was he to do? Go back to South Africa? He had not the heart for it.

Live here? He could not. His existence had been wasted. He had lost his

delusion&mdash;the beautiful delusion of his life&mdash;and he felt as though it

would drive him mad, as the man whose shadow left him went mad.

</p>

<p>

He rose from the chair, opened the window, and looked out. It was a

clear frosty night, and the stars shone brightly. For some while he

stood looking at them; then he undressed himself. Generally, for he was

different to most men, he said his prayers. For years, indeed, he had

not missed doing so, any more than he had missed praying Providence in

them to watch over and bless his beloved Madeline. But to-night he said

no prayers. He could not pray. The three angels, Faith, Hope, and Love,

whose whisperings heretofore had been ever in his ears, had taken wing,

and left him as he played the eavesdropper behind those blue velvet

curtains.

</p>

<p>

So he swallowed his sleeping-draught and laid himself down to rest.

</p>

<hr>

<p>

When Madeline Croston heard the news at a dinner-party on the following

evening she was much shocked, and made up her mind to go home early. To

this day she tells the story as a frightful warning against the careless

use of chloral.

</p>

<a name="2H_4_0004"><!-- H2 anchor --></a>



<div style="height: 4em;"><br><br><br><br></div>



<h2>

    LITTLE FLOWER

</h2>

<center>

I

</center>

<p>

The Rev. Thomas Bull was a man of rock-like character with no more

imagination than a rock. Of good birth, good abilities, good principles

and good repute, really he ought to have been named not Thomas but John

Bull, being as he was a typical representative of the British middle

class. By nature a really religious man and, owing to the balance of his

mind, not subject to most of the weaknesses which often afflict others,

very early in his career he determined that things spiritual were of far

greater importance than things temporal, and that as Eternity is much

longer than Time, it was wise to devote himself to the spiritual and

leave the temporal to look after itself. There are quite a number

of good people, earnest believers in the doctrine of rewards and

punishments, who take that practical view. With such

</p>

<p>

"Repaid a thousand-fold shall be,"

</p>

<p>

is a favourite line of a favourite hymn.

</p>

<p>

It is true that his idea of the spiritual was limited. Perhaps it would

be more accurate to say that it was unlimited, since he accepted without

doubt or question everything that was to be found within the four

corners of what he had been taught. As a boy he had been noted for his

prowess in swallowing the largest pills.

</p>

<p>

"Don't think," he would say to his weaker brothers and sisters,

especially one of the latter whose throat seemed to be so constituted

that she was obliged to cut up these boluses with a pair of scissors,

"Don't think, but gulp 'em down!"

</p>

<p>

So it was with everything else in life; Thomas did not think, he gulped

it down. Thus in these matters of faith, if other young folk ventured to

talk of "allegory" or even to cast unhallowed doubts upon such points

as those of the exact method of the appearance on this earth of their

Mother Eve, or whether the sun actually did stand still at the bidding

of Joshua, or the ark, filled with countless pairs of living creatures,

floated to the top of Ararat, or Jonah, defying digestive juices, in

fact abode three days in the interior of a whale, Thomas looked on them

with a pitying smile and remarked that what had been written by Moses

and other accepted prophets was enough for him.

</p>

<p>

Indeed a story was told of him when he was a boy at school which well

exemplified this attitude. By way of lightening their labours a very

noted geologist who had the art of interesting youthful audiences and

making the rocks of the earth tell their own secular story, was brought

to lecture to his House. This eminent man lectured extremely well. He

showed how beyond a doubt the globe we inhabit, one speck of matter,

floating in the sea of space, had existed for millions upon millions of

years, and how by the evolutionary changes of countless ages it had

at length become fitted to be the habitation of men, who probably

themselves had lived and moved and had their being there for at least a

million of years, perhaps much longer.

</p>

<p>

At the conclusion of the entrancing story the boys were invited to ask

questions. Thomas Bull, a large, beetle-browed youth, rose at once

and inquired of their titled and aged visitor, a man of world-wide

reputation, why he thought it funny to tell them fairy tales. The old

gentleman, greatly interested, put on his spectacles, and while the rest

of the school gasped and the head master and other pedagogues stared

amazed, studied this strange lad, then said:

</p>

<p>

"I am outspoken myself, and I like those who speak out when they do so

from conviction; but, my young friend, why do you consider that I&mdash;well,

exaggerate?"

</p>

<p>

"Because the Bible says so," replied Thomas unabashed. "The Bible tells

us that the world was made in six days, not in millions of years, and

that the sun and the moon and the stars were put in the sky to light it;

also that man was created four thousand years B.C. Therefore, either you

are wrong, sir, or the Bible is, and <i>I</i> prefer the Bible."

</p>

<p>

The eminent scientist took off his spectacles and carefully put them

away, remarking:

</p>

<p>

"Most logical and conclusive. Pray, young gentleman, do not allow

any humble deductions of my own or others to interfere with your

convictions. Only I believe it was Archbishop Ussher, not the Bible, who

said that the world began about 4,000 B.C. I think that one day you may

become a great man&mdash;in your own way. Meanwhile I might suggest that a

certain sugaring of manners sweetens controversy."

</p>

<p>

After this no more questions were asked, and the meeting broke up in

confusion.

</p>

<p>

From all of which it will be gathered that since none of us is perfect,

even in Thomas there were weak points. For instance, he had what is

known as a "temper," also he was blessed with a good idea of himself and

his own abilities, and had a share of that intolerance by which this is

so often accompanied.

</p>

<p>

In due course Thomas Bull became a theological student. Rarely was there

such a student. He turned neither to left nor right, worked eight hours

a day when he did not work ten, and took the highest possible degrees on

every subject. Then he was ordained. About this time he chanced to hear

a series of sermons by a Colonial bishop that directed his mind towards

the mission-field. This was after he had served as a deacon in an East

End parish and become acquainted with savagery in its western form.

</p>

<p>

He consulted with his friends and his superiors as to whether his true

call were not to the far parts of the earth. Unanimously they answered

that they thought so; so unanimously that a mild fellow-labourer whom

he bullied was stung to the uncharitable remark that almost it looked as

though they wanted to be rid of him. Perhaps they did; perhaps they held

that for energy so gigantic there was no fitting outlet in this narrow

land.

</p>

<p>

But as it chanced there was another to be consulted, for by this time

the Rev. Thomas Bull had become engaged to the only daughter of a

deceased London trader&mdash;in fact, he had been a shop-keeper upon a large

scale. This worthy citizen had re-married late in life, choosing, or

being chosen by a handsome and rather fashionable lady of a somewhat

higher class than his own, who was herself a widow. By her he had no

issue, his daughter, Dorcas, being the child of his first marriage. Mr.

Humphreys, for that was his name, made a somewhat peculiar will, leaving

all his fortune, which was considerable, to his young widow, charged,

however, with an annuity of 300 pounds settled on his daughter Dorcas.

</p>

<p>

On the day before his death, however, he added a codicil which angered

Mrs. Humphreys very much when she saw it, to the effect that if she

re-married, three-fourths of the fortune were to pass to Dorcas at once,

and that she or her heirs were ultimately to receive it all upon the

decease of his wife.

</p>

<p>

The result of these testamentary dispositions was that one house,

although it chanced to be large, proved too small to hold Mrs. Humphreys

and her stepdaughter, Dorcas. The latter was a mild and timid little

creature with a turned-up nose, light-coloured fluffy hair and

an indeterminate mouth. Still there was a degree of annoyance and

fashionable scorn at which her spirit rose. The end of it was that she

went to live on her three hundred a year and to practise good works in

the East End, being laudably determined to make a career for herself,

which she was not in the least fitted to do.

</p>

<p>

Thus it was that Dorcas came into contact with the Rev. Thomas Bull.

From the first time she saw her future husband he dominated and

fascinated her. He was in the pulpit and really looked very handsome

there with his burly form, his large black eyes and his determined,

clean-shaven face. Moreover, he preached well in his own vigorous

fashion.

</p>

<p>

On this occasion he was engaged in denouncing the vices and pettiness of

modern woman&mdash;upper-class modern woman&mdash;of whom he knew nothing at

all, a topic that appealed to an East End congregation. He showed how

worthless was this luxurious stamp of females, what a deal they thought

of dress and of other more evil delights. He compared them to the

Florentines whom Savonarola (in his heart Thomas saw resemblances

between himself and that great if narrow man) scourged till they wept in

repentance and piled up their jewels and fripperies to be burned.

</p>

<p>

What do they do with their lives, he asked. Is there one in ten thousand

of them who would abandon her luxuries and go forth to spread the light

in the dark places of earth, or would even pinch herself to support

others who did? And so on for thirty minutes.

</p>

<p>

Dorcas, listening and, reflecting on her stepmother, thought how

marvellously true it all was. Had he known her personally, which so far

as she was aware was not the case, the preacher could not have described

her better. Also it was certain that Mrs. Humphreys and her friends had

not the slightest intention of spreading any kind of light, unless it

were that of their own eyes and jewels, or of going anywhere to do so,

except perhaps to Monte Carlo in the spring.

</p>

<p>

How noble too was the picture he painted of the life of self-sacrifice

and high endeavour that lay open to her sex. She would like to lead

that higher life, being in truth a good-hearted little thing full of

righteous impulses; only unfortunately she did not know how, for her

present mild and tentative efforts had been somewhat disappointing in

their fruits.

</p>

<p>

Then an inspiration seized her; she would consult Mr. Bull.

</p>

<p>

She did so, with results that might have been anticipated. Within three

months she and her mentor were engaged and within six married.

</p>

<p>

It was during those fervid weeks of engagement that the pair agreed, not

without a little hesitation upon the part of Dorcas, that in due course

he would become a missionary and set forth to convert the heathen in

what he called "Blackest Africa." First, however, there was much to be

done; he must go through a long course of training; he must acquaint

himself with various savage languages, such as Swahili and Zulu, and so

must she.

</p>

<p>

Oh! how poor Dorcas, who was not very clever and had no gift of tongues

came to loathe those barbaric dialects. Still she worked away at them

like a heroine, confining herself ultimately, with a wise and practical

prescience, to learning words and sentences that dealt with domestic

affairs, as as "Light the fire." "Put the kettle on to boil." "Sister,

have you chopped the wood?" "Cease making so much noise in the

kitchen-hut." "Wake me if you hear the lion eating our cow." And so

forth.

</p>

<p>

For more than a year after their marriage these preliminaries continued

while Thomas worked like a horse, though it is true that Dorcas

slackened her attention to Swahili and Zulu grammar in the pressure of

more immediate affairs. Especially was this so after the baby was born,

a girl, flaxen-haired like her mother, whom Thomas christened by the

name of Tabitha, and who in after years became the "Little Flower" of

this history. Then as the time of departure drew near another thing

happened. Her stepmother, Mrs. Humphreys, insisted upon going to a ball

in Lent, where she caught a chill that developed into inflammation of

the lungs and killed her.

</p>

<p>

The result of this visitation of Providence, as Thomas called it, was

that Dorcas suddenly found herself a rich woman with an income of quite

2000 pounds a year, for her father had been wealthier than she knew.

Now temptation took hold of her. Why, she asked herself, should Thomas

depart to Africa to teach black people, when with his gifts and her

means he could stop at home comfortably and before very long become a

bishop, or at the least a dean?

</p>

<p>

Greatly daring, she propounded this matter to her husband, only to find

that she might better have tried to knock down a stone wall with

her head than induce him to change his plans. He listened to her

patiently&mdash;unless over-irritated, a perfectly exasperating patience was

one of his gifts&mdash;then said in a cold voice that he was astonished at

her.

</p>

<p>

"When you were poor," he went on, "you vowed yourself to this service,

and now because we are rich you wish to turn traitor and become a seeker

after the fleshpots of Egypt. Never let me hear you mention the matter

again."

</p>

<p>

"But there is the baby," she exclaimed. "Africa is hot and might not

agree with her."

</p>

<p>

"Heaven will look after the baby," he answered.

</p>

<p>

"That's just what I am afraid of," wailed Dorcas.

</p>

<p>

Then they had their first quarrel, in the course of which, be it

admitted, she said one or two spiteful things. For instance, she

suggested that the real reason he wished to go abroad was because he was

so unpopular with his brother clergymen at home, and especially with his

superiors, to whom he was fond of administering lectures and reproofs.

</p>

<p>

It ended, of course, in her being crushed as flat as is a broken-winged

butterfly that comes in the path of a garden roller. He stood up and

towered over her.

</p>

<p>

"Dorcas," he said, "do what you will. Stay here if you wish, and enjoy

your money and your luxuries. I sail on the first of next month for

Africa. Because you are weak, do I cease to be strong?"

</p>

<p>

"I think not," she replied, sobbing, and gave in.

</p>

<p>

So they sailed, first class&mdash;this was a concession, for he had intended

to go third&mdash;but without a nurse; on that point he stood firm.

</p>

<p>

"You must learn to look after your own children," he said, a remark at

which she made a little face that meant more than he knew.

</p>

<center>

II

</center>

<p>

The career of Mr. and Mrs. Bull during the next eight years calls for

but little comment. Partly because Tabitha was delicate at first and

must be within reach of doctors, they lived for the most part at various

coast cities in Africa, where Thomas worked with his usual fervour

and earnestness, acquiring languages which he learned to speak with

considerable perfection, though Dorcas never did, and acquainting

himself thoroughly with the local conditions in so far as they affected

missionary enterprise.

</p>

<p>

He took no interest in anything else, not even in the history of the

natives, or their peculiar forms of culture, since for the most part

they have a secret culture of their own. All that was done with, he

said, a turned page of the black and barbarous past; it was his business

to write new things upon a new sheet. Perhaps it was for this reason

that Thomas Bull never really came to understand or enter into the heart

of a Zulu, or a Basuto, or a Swahili, or indeed of any dark-skinned man,

woman, or child. To him they were but brands to be snatched from the

burning, desperate and disagreeable sinners who must be saved, and he

set to work to save them with fearful vigour.

</p>

<p>

His wife, although her vocabulary was still extremely limited and much

eked out with English or Dutch words, got on much better with them.

</p>

<p>

"You know, Thomas," she would say, "they have all sorts of fine ideas

which we don't understand, and are not so bad in their way, only you

must find out what their way is."

</p>

<p>

"I have found out," he said grimly; "it is a very evil way, the way of

destruction. I wish you would not make such a friend of that sly black

nurse-girl who tells me a lie once out of every three times she opens

her mouth."

</p>

<p>

For the rest Dorcas was fairly comfortable, as with their means she

was always able to have a nice house in whatever town they might be

stationed, where she could give tennis parties and even little lunches

and dinners, that is if her husband chanced to be away, as often he

was visiting up-country districts, or taking the duty there for another

missionary who was sick or on leave. Indeed, in these conditions she

came to like Africa fairly well, for she was a chilly little thing who

loved its ample, all-pervading sunshine, and made a good many friends,

especially among young men, to whom her helplessness and rather forlorn

little face appealed.

</p>

<p>

The women, too, liked her, for she was kindly and always ready to help

in case of poverty or other distresses. Luckily, in a way, she was her

own mistress, since her fortune came to her unfettered by any marriage

settlements; moreover, it was in the hands of trustees, so that the

principal could not be alienated. Therefore she had her own account and

her own cheque-book and used her spare money as she liked. More than one

poor missionary's wife knew this and called her blessed, as through her

bounty they once again looked upon the shores of England or were able

to send a sick child home for treatment. But of these good deeds Dorcas

never talked, least of all to her husband. If he suspected them, after

one encounter upon some such matter, in which she developed a hidden

strength and purpose, he had the sense to remain silent.

</p>

<p>

So things went on for years, not unhappily on the whole, for as they

rolled by the child Tabitha grew acclimatised and much stronger. By this

time, although Dorcas loved her husband as all wives should, obeying him

in all, or at any rate in most things, she had come to recognise that he

and she were very differently constituted. Of course, she knew that

he was infinitely her superior, and indeed that of most people. Like

everybody else she admired his uprightness, his fixity of purpose and

his devouring energy and believed him to be destined to great things.

Still, to tell the truth, which she often confessed with penitence

upon her knees, on the whole she felt happier, or at any rate more

comfortable, during his occasional absences to which allusion has been

made, when she could have her friends to tea and indulge in human gossip

without being called "worldly."

</p>

<p>

It only remains to add that her little girl Tabitha, a name she

shortened into Tabbie, was her constant joy, especially as she had no

other children. Tabbie was a bright, fair-haired little thing, clever,

too, with resource and a will of her own, an improved edition of

herself, but in every way utterly unlike her father, a fact that

secretly annoyed him. Everybody loved Tabitha, and Tabitha loved

everybody, not excepting the natives, who adored her. Between the

Kaffirs and Tabitha there was some strong natural bond of sympathy. They

understood one another.

</p>

<p>

At length came the blow.

</p>

<p>

It happened thus. Not far from the borders of Zululand but in the

country that is vaguely known as Portuguese Territory, was a certain

tribe of mixed Zulu and Basuto blood who were called the Ama-Sisa, that

is, the People of the Sisa. Now "Sisa" in the Zulu tongue has a peculiar

meaning which may be translated as "Sent Away." It is said that they

acquired this name because the Zulu kings when they exercised dominion

over all that district were in the habit of despatching large herds of

the royal cattle to be looked after by these people, or in their own

idiom to be <i>sisa'd</i>, i.e. agisted, as we say in English of stock that

are entrusted to another to graze at a distance from the owner's home.

</p>

<p>

Some, however, gave another reason. In the territory of this tribe was

a certain spot of which we shall hear more later, where these same

Zulu kings were in the habit of causing offenders against their law or

customs to be executed. Such also, like the cattle, were "sent away,"

and from one of these two causes, whichever it may have been, or perhaps

from both, the tribe originally derived its name.

</p>

<p>

It was not a large tribe, perhaps there were three hundred and fifty

heads of families in it, or say something under two thousand souls in

all, descendants, probably, of a mild, peace-loving, industrious Basuto

stock on to which had been grafted a certain number of the dominant,

warlike Zulus who perhaps had killed out the men and possessed

themselves of the Basuto women and their cattle. The result was that

among this small people there were two strains, one of the bellicose

type, who practically remained Zulus, and the other of the milder and

more progressive Basuto stamp, who were in the majority.

</p>

<p>

Among these Sisas missionaries had been at work for a number of years,

with results that on the whole were satisfactory. More than half of

them had been baptised and were Christians of a sort; a church had been

built; a more or less modern system of agriculture had been introduced,

and the most of the population wore trousers or skirts, according to

sex. Recently, however, trouble had arisen over the old question of

polygamy. The missionaries would not tolerate more than one wife, while

the Zulu section of the tribe insisted upon the old prerogative of

plural marriage.

</p>

<p>

The dispute had ended in something like actual fighting, in the course

of which the church and the school were burnt, also the missionary's

house. Because of these troubles this excellent man was forced to camp

out in the wet, for it was the rainy season, and catching a chill, died

suddenly of heart-failure following rheumatic fever just after he had

moved into his new habitation, which consisted of some rather glorified

native huts.

</p>

<p>

Subsequently to these events there came a petition from the chief of the

tribe, a man called Kosa, whose name probably derived from the Zulu word

Koos, which means chief or captain, addressed to the Church authorities

and asking that a new Teacher might be sent to take the place of him who

had died, also to rebuild the church and the school. If this were not

done, said the messengers, the tribe would relapse into heathenism,

since the Zulu and anti-Christian party headed by an old witch-doctor,

named Menzi, was strong and gaining ground.

</p>

<p>

This was an appeal that could not be neglected, since hitherto the Sisa

had been a spot of light in a dark place, as most of the surrounding

peoples, who were of the old Zulu stock, remained heathen. If that light

went out the chances were that they would continue to be so, whereas if

it went on burning another result might be hoped, since from a spark a

great fire may come. Therefore earnest search was made for a suitable

person to deal with so difficult and delicate a situation, with the

result that the lot fell upon the Rev. Thomas Bull.

</p>

<p>

Once his name was mentioned, it was acclaimed by all. He was the very

man, they said, bold, determined, filled with a Jesuit's fiery zeal

(although it need scarcely be explained that he hated Jesuits as a cat

does mustard), one whom no witch-doctors would daunt, one, moreover,

who being blessed with this world's goods would ask no pay, but on the

contrary would perhaps contribute a handsome sum towards the re-building

of the church. This, it may be explained, as the Mission itself scarcely

possessed a spare penny with which to bless itself, was a point that

could not be overlooked.

</p>

<p>

So Thomas was sent for and offered the post, after its difficulties and

drawbacks had been fairly but diplomatically explained to him. He did

not hesitate a minute, or at any rate five minutes; he took it at once,

feeling that his call had come; also that it was the very thing for

which he had been seeking. Up in that secluded spot in Portuguese

Territory he would, he reflected, be entirely on his own, a sort of

little bishop with no one to interfere with him, and able to have his

own way about everything, which in more civilised regions he found he

could not do. Here a set of older gentlemen, who were always appealing

to their experience of natives, continually put a spoke into his wheel,

bringing his boldest plans to naught. There it would be different.

He would fashion his own wheel and grind the witch-doctor with his

following to dust beneath its iron rim. He said that he would go at

once, and what is more, he promised a donation of 1,000 pounds towards

the rebuilding of the church and other burnt-out edifices.

</p>

<p>

"That is very generous of Bull," remarked the Dean when he had left the

room.

</p>

<p>

"Yes," said another dignitary, "only I think that the undertaking

must be looked upon as conditional. I understand, well, that the money

belongs to Mrs. Bull."

</p>

<p>

"Probably she will endorse the bond as she is a liberal little woman,"

said the Dean, "and in any case our brother Bull, if I may be pardoned

a vulgarism, will knock the stuffing out of that pestilent Menzi and his

crowd."

</p>

<p>

"Do you think so?" asked the other. "I am not so certain. I have met old

Menzi, and he is a tough nut to crack. He may 'knock the stuffing' out

of him. Bull, sound as he is, and splendid as he is in many ways, does

not, it seems to me, quite understand natives, or that it is easier to

lead them than to drive them."

</p>

<p>

"Perhaps not," said the Dean, "but in the case of these Sisas it is

rather a matter of Hobson's choice, isn't it?"

</p>

<p>

So this affair was settled, and in due course Thomas received his letter

of appointment as priest-in-charge of the Sisa station.

</p>

<p>

On his arrival home a few days later, where he was not expected till the

following week, Thomas was so pre-occupied that he scarcely seemed to

notice his wife's affectionate greeting; even the fact that both she

and Tabitha were arrayed in smart and unmissionary-like garments escaped

him. Dorcas also looked pre-occupied, the truth being that she had

asked a few young people, officers and maidens of the place (alas! as

it chanced, among them were no clergy or their wives and daughters), to

play tennis that afternoon and some of them to stop to supper. Now she

was wondering how her austere spouse would take the news. He might

be cross and lecture her; when he was both cross and lectured the

combination was not agreeable.

</p>

<p>

A few formal enquiries as to health and a certain sick person were made

and answered. Dorcas assured him that they were both quite well, Tabitha

especially, and that she had visited the afflicted woman as directed.

</p>

<p>

"And how was she, dear?" he asked.

</p>

<p>

"I don't know, dear," she answered. "You see, when I got to the house

I met Mrs. Tomley, the Rector's wife, at the door, and she said, rather

pointedly I thought, that she and her husband were looking after the

case, and though grateful for the kind assistance you had rendered, felt

that they need not trouble us any more, as the patient was a parishioner

of theirs."

</p>

<p>

"Did they?" said Thomas with a frown. "Considering all things&mdash;well, let

it be."

</p>

<p>

Dorcas was quite content to do so, for she was aware that her husband's

good-heartedness was apt to be interpreted as poaching by some who

should have known better, and that in fact the ground was dangerous.

</p>

<p>

"I have something to tell you," she began nervously, "about an

arrangement I have made for this afternoon."

</p>

<p>

Mr. Bull, who was drinking a tumbler of water&mdash;he was a teetotaller

and non-smoker, and one of his grievances was that his wife found it

desirable to take a little wine for the Pauline reason&mdash;set it down and

said:

</p>

<p>

"Never mind your afternoon arrangements, my dear; they are generally

of a sort that can be altered, for <i>I</i> have something to tell <i>you</i>,

something very important. My call has come."

</p>

<p>

"Your call, dear. What call? I did not know that you expected

anyone&mdash;and, by the way&mdash;&mdash;"

</p>

<p>

She got no further, for her husband interrupted.

</p>

<p>

"Do not be ridiculous, Dorcas. I said call&mdash;not caller, and I use the

word in its higher sense."

</p>

<p>

"Oh! I understand, forgive me for being so stupid. Have they made you a

bishop?"

</p>

<p>

"A bishop&mdash;&mdash;"

</p>

<p>

"I mean a dean, or an archdeacon, or something!" she went on confusedly.

</p>

<p>

"No, Dorcas, they have not. I could scarcely expect promotion as yet,

though it is true that I thought&mdash;but never mind, others no doubt have

better claims and longer service. I have, however, been honoured with a

most responsible duty."

</p>

<p>

"Indeed, dear. What duty?"

</p>

<p>

"I have been nominated priest-in-charge of the Sisa Station."

</p>

<p>

"O-oh! and where is that? Is it anywhere near Durban, or perhaps

Maritzburg?"

</p>

<p>

"I don't exactly know at present, though I understand that it is

about six days' trek from Eshowe in Zululand, but over the border in

Portuguese territory. Indeed, I am not sure that one can trek all the

way, at least when the rivers are in flood. Then it is necessary to

cross one of them in a basket slung upon a rope, or if the river is not

too full, in a punt. At this season the basket is most used."

</p>

<p>

"Great Heavens, Thomas! do you propose to put me and Tabbie in a basket,

like St. Paul, and did you remember that we have just taken on this

house for another year?"

</p>

<p>

"Of course I do. The families of missionaries must expect to face

hardships, from which it is true circumstances have relieved you up to

the present. It is therefore only right that they should begin now, when

Tabitha has become as strong as any child of her age that I know. As for

the house, I had forgotten all about it. It must be relet, or failing

that we must bear the loss, which fortunately we can well afford."

</p>

<p>

Dorcas looked at him and said nothing because words failed her, so he

went on hurriedly.

</p>

<p>

"By the way, love, I have taken a slight liberty with your name. It

appears that the church at Sisa, which I understand was quite a nice one

built with subscriptions obtained in England by one of my predecessors

who chanced to have influence or connections at home, has been recently

burnt down together with the mission-house. Now the house can wait,

since, of course, we can make shift for a year or two in some native

huts, but obviously we must have a church, and as the Society is

overdrawn it cannot help in the matter. Under these circumstances I

ventured to promise a gift of 1,000 pounds, which it is estimated will

cover the re-erection of both church and house."

</p>

<p>

He paused awaiting a reply, but as Dorcas still said nothing, continued.

</p>

<p>

"You will remember that you told me quite recently that you found you

had 1,500 pounds to your credit, therefore I felt quite sure that

you would not grudge 1,000 pounds of it to enable me to fulfil this

duty&mdash;this semi-divine duty."

</p>

<p>

"Oh!" said Dorcas. "As a matter of fact I intended to spend that 1,000

pounds, or much of it, otherwise. There are some people here whom I

wanted to help, but fortunately I had not mentioned this to them, so

they will have to do without the money and their holiday; also the

children cannot be sent to school. And, by the way, how is Tabbie to be

educated in this far-away place?"

</p>

<p>

"I am sorry, dear, but after all private luxuries, including that of

benevolence, must give way to sacred needs, so I will write to the Dean

that the money will be forthcoming when it is needed. As for Tabitha's

education, of course we will undertake it between us, at any rate for

the next few years."

</p>

<p>

"Yes, Thomas, since you have passed your word, or rather my word, the

money will be forthcoming. But meanwhile, if you can spare me the odd

500 pounds, I suggest that I should stay here with Tabbie, who could

continue to attend the college as a day-scholar, while you get us some

place ready to live in among these savages, the Sneezers, or whatever

they are called."

</p>

<p>

"My dear," answered Thomas, "consider what you ask. You are in perfect

health and so is our child. Would it not, then, be a downright scandal

that you should stop here in luxury while your husband went out to

confront grave difficulties among the Sisas&mdash;not the Sneezers&mdash;for I may

tell you at once that the difficulties are very grave? There is a noted

witch-doctor amongst this people named Menzi, who, I understand, is

suspected of having burned down the mission-house, and probably the

church also, because he said that it was ridiculous that an unmarried

man like the late priest should have so large a dwelling to live alone.

This, of course, was but a cunning excuse for his savage malevolence,

but if another apparent celibate arrives, he might repeat the argument

and its application. Also often these barbarians consider that a man who

is not married <i>must</i> be insane! Therefore it is absolutely necessary

that you and the child should be present with me from the first."

</p>

<p>

"Oh! is it?" said Dorcas, turning very pink. "Well, I am sorry to say

that just now it is absolutely necessary that I should be absent from

you, since I have a tennis party this afternoon&mdash;the officers of the

garrison are coming and about half a dozen girls&mdash;and I must go to

arrange about the tea."

</p>

<p>

"A tennis party! A tennis party to those godless officers and probably

equally godless girls," exclaimed her husband. "I am ashamed of you,

Dorcas, you should be occupied with higher things."

</p>

<p>

Then at last the worm turned.

</p>

<p>

"Do you know, Thomas," she answered, springing up, "that I am inclined

to be ashamed of you too, who I think should be occupied in keeping your

temper. You have accepted some strange mission without consulting me,

you have promised 1,000 pounds of my money without consulting me, and

now you scold me because I have a few young people to play tennis and

stop to supper. It is unchristian, it is uncharitable, it is&mdash;too bad!"

and sitting down again she burst into tears.

</p>

<p>

The Rev. Thomas who by now was in a really regal rage, not knowing what

to say or do, glared about him. By ill-luck his eye fell upon a box of

cigarettes that stood upon the mantelpiece.

</p>

<p>

"What are those things doing here?" he asked. "I do not smoke, so they

cannot be for me. Is our money&mdash;I beg pardon&mdash;your money which is

so much needed in other directions to be wasted in providing such

unnecessaries&mdash;for officers and&mdash;idle girls? Oh&mdash;bless it all," and

seizing the offending cigarettes he hurled them through the open window,

a scattered shower of white tubes which some Kaffirs outside instantly

proceeded to collect.

</p>

<p>

Then he rushed from the house, and Dorcas went to get ready for her

party. But first she sent a servant to buy another box of cigarettes. It

was her first act of rebellion against the iron rule of the Rev. Thomas

Bull.

</p>

<center>

III

</center>

<p>

In the end, as may be guessed, Dorcas, who was a good and faithful

little soul, accompanied her husband to the Sisa country. Tabitha went

also, rejoicing, having learned that in this happy land there was no

school. Dorcas found the journey awful, but really, had she but known

it, it was most fortunate, indeed ideal. Her husband, who was a little

anxious on the point, had made the best arrangements that were possible

on such an expedition.

</p>

<p>

The wagon in which they trekked was good and comfortable, and although

it was still the rainy season, fortune favoured them in the matter

of weather, so that when they came to the formidable river, they were

actually able to trek across it with the help of some oxen borrowed

from a missionary in that neighbourhood, without having recourse to the

dreaded rope-slung basket, or even to the punt.

</p>

<p>

Beyond the river they were met by some Christian Kaffirs of the Sisa

tribe, who were sent by the Chief Kosa to guide them through the hundred

miles or so of difficult country which still lay between them and their

goal. These men were pleasant-spoken but rather depressed folk, clad in

much-worn European clothes that somehow became them very ill. They gave

a melancholy account of the spiritual condition of the Sisas, who since

the death of their last pastor, they said, were relapsing rapidly into

heathenism under the pernicious influence of Menzi, the witch-doctor.

Therefore Kosa sent his greetings and prayed the new Teacher to hurry to

their aid and put a stop to this state of things.

</p>

<p>

"Fear nothing," said Thomas in a loud voice, speaking in Zulu, which by

now he knew very well. "I <i>will</i> put a stop to it."

</p>

<p>

Then they asked him his name. He replied that it was Thomas Bull, which

after the native fashion, having found out what bull meant in English,

they translated into a long appellation which, strictly rendered, meant

<i>Roaring-Leader-of-the-holy-Herd</i>. When he found this out, Thomas flatly

declined any such unchristian title, with the result that, anxious to

oblige, they christened him "Tombool," and as "Tombool" thenceforward

he was known. (Dorcas objected to this name, but Tabitha remarked sagely

that at any rate it was better than "Tomfool.")

</p>

<p>

This was to his face, but behind his back they called him <i>Inkunzi</i>,

which means bull, and in order to keep up the idea, designated poor

Dorcas <i>Isidanda</i>, that being interpreted signified a gentle-natured

cow. To Tabitha they gave a prettier name, calling her <i>Imba</i> or Little

Flower.

</p>

<p>

At first Dorcas was quite pleased with her title, which sounded nice,

but when she came to learn what it meant it was otherwise.

</p>

<p>

"How can you expect me, Thomas, to live among a people who call me 'a

mild cow'?" she asked indignantly.

</p>

<p>

"Never mind, my dear," he answered. "In their symbolical way they

are only signifying that you will feed them with the milk of human

kindness," a reply which did not soothe her at all. In fact, of the

three the child alone was pleased, because she said that "Opening

Flower" was a prettier name than Tabbie, which reminded her of cats.

</p>

<p>

Thenceforward, following a track, for it could not be called a road,

they advanced slowly, first over a mountain pass on the farther side of

which the wagon nearly upset, and then across a great bush-clad plain

where there was much game and the lions roared round them at night,

necessitating great fires to frighten them away. These lions terrified

Dorcas, a town-bred woman who had never seen one of them except in the

Zoo, so much that she could scarcely sleep, but oddly enough Tabitha was

not disturbed by them.

</p>

<p>

"God will not let us be eaten by a lion, will He, Father?" she asked in

her simple faith.

</p>

<p>

"Certainly not," he answered, "and if the brute tries to do so I shall

shoot it."

</p>

<p>

"I'd rather trust to God, Father, because you know you can never hit

anything," replied Tabitha.

</p>

<p>

Fortunately, however, it never became necessary for Thomas to show his

skill as a marksman, for when they got through the bushveld there were

no more lions.

</p>

<p>

On the fourth day after they left the river they found themselves upon

gentle sloping veld that by degrees led them upwards to high land where

it was cold and healthy and there were no mosquitoes. For two days they

trekked over these high lands, which seemed to be quite uninhabited save

by herds of feeding buck, till at length they attained their crest, and

below them saw a beautiful mimosa-clad plain which the guides told them

was the Sisa Country.

</p>

<p>

"The Promised Land at last! It makes me feel like another Moses," said

Thomas, waving his arm.

</p>

<p>

"Oh, isn't it lovely!" exclaimed Tabitha.

</p>

<p>

"Yes, dear," answered her mother, "but&mdash;but I don't see any town."

</p>

<p>

This indeed was the case because there was none, the Sisa kraal, for it

could not be dignified by any other name, being round a projecting

ridge and out of sight. For the rest the prospect was very fair, being

park-like in character, with dotted clumps of trees among which ran,

or rather wound, a silver stream that seemed to issue from between two

rocky koppies in the distance.

</p>

<p>

These koppies, the guides told them, were the gates of Sisa Town. They

neglected to add that it lay in a hot and unhealthy hill-ringed hollow

beyond them, the site having originally been chosen because it was

difficult to attack, being only approachable through certain passes.

Therefore it was a very suitable place in which to kraal the cattle

of the Zulu kings in times of danger. That day they travelled down the

declivity into the plain, where they camped. By the following afternoon

they came to the koppies through which the river ran, and asked its

name. The answer was <i>Ukufa</i>.

</p>

<p>

"<i>Ukufa?</i>" said Thomas. "Why, that means Death."

</p>

<p>

"Yes," was the reply, "because in the old days this river was the River

of Death where evil-doers were sent to be slain."

</p>

<p>

"How horrible!" said Dorcas, for unfortunately she had overheard and

understood this conversation.

</p>

<p>

By the side of the river was a kind of shelf of rock that was used as a

road, and over this they bumped in their wagon, till presently they were

past the koppies and could see their future home beyond. It was a plain

some miles across, and entirely surrounded by precipitous hills, the

river entering it through a gorge to the north. In the centre of this

plain was another large koppie of which the river <i>Ukufa</i>, or Death,

washed one side. Around this koppie, amid a certain area of cultivated

land, stood the "town" of the Christian branch of the Sisa. It consisted

of groups of huts, ten or a dozen groups in all, set on low ground near

the river, which suggested that the population might number anything

between seven hundred and a thousand souls.

</p>

<p>

At the time that our party first saw it the sun was sinking, and had

disappeared behind the western portion of the barricade of hills.

Therefore the valley, if it may be so called, was plunged in a gloom

that seemed almost unnatural when compared with the brilliant sky above,

across which the radiant lights of an African sunset already sped like

arrows, or rather like red and ominous spears of flame.

</p>

<p>

"What a dreadful place!" exclaimed Dorcas. "Is our home to be here?"

</p>

<p>

"I suppose so," answered Thomas, who to tell the truth for once was

himself somewhat dismayed. "It does look a little gloomy, but after

all it is very sheltered, and home is what one makes it," he added

sententiously.

</p>

<p>

Here the conversation was interrupted by the arrival of the Chief and

some of the Christian portion of the Sisa tribe, who having been warned

of its approach by messenger, to the number of a hundred and fifty or so

had advanced to meet the party.

</p>

<p>

They were a motley crowd clad in every kind of garment, ranging from a

moth-eaten General's tunic to practically nothing at all. Indeed, one

tall, thin fellow sported only a battered helmet of rusty steel that

had drifted here from some European army, a <i>moocha</i> or waistbelt of

catskins, and a pair of decayed tennis-shoes through which his toes

appeared. With them came what were evidently the remains of the church

choir, when there was a church, for they wore dirty fragments of

surplices and sang what seemed to be a hymn tune to the strains of a

decadent accordion.

</p>

<p>

The tune was long and ended in a kind of howl like to that of a

disappointed jackal. When at length it was finished the Chief Kosa

appeared. He was a middle-aged man, become prematurely old because he

had lived too fast in his pre-Christian days, or so report said. Now he

had a somewhat imbecile appearance, for his fingers twitched and when he

spoke his mouth jerked up at the corners; also he kept looking over his

shoulder as though he were afraid of something behind him. Altogether he

inspired Thomas with no confidence. Whatever else he might be, clearly

he was not a staff for a crusader to lean upon.

</p>

<p>

Still he came forward and made a very nice speech, as a high-bred

native noble, such as he was, can almost invariably do. With many pious

expressions he welcomed the new Teacher, saying that he and his people,

that is those of them who were Christians, would do their best to make

him happy.

</p>

<p>

Thomas thanked him in appropriate language, adding that he on his part

would do his best to promote their welfare and to save their souls.

</p>

<p>

Kosa replied that he was glad to hear it, because these needed saving,

since most of the Sisa people were now servants of the devil. Since the

last <i>Umfundisi</i>, or Teacher died, they had been walking the road

to hell at a very great pace, marrying many wives, drinking gin and

practising all kinds of witchcraft under the guidance of the <i>Isanusi</i>

or doctor, Menzi. This man, he added, had burned down the church and the

mission-house by his magic, though these had seemed to be destroyed by

lightning.

</p>

<p>

With a proud gesture Thomas announced that he would soon settle Menzi

and all his works, and that meanwhile, as the darkness was coming on,

he would be glad if Kosa would lead them to the place where they were to

sleep.

</p>

<p>

So they started, the accordion-man, playing execrably, leading the way,

and trekked for about a mile and a half till they came to the koppie in

the centre of the plain, reaching it by following the left bank of the

river that washed its western face.

</p>

<p>

Passing between a number of tumbled walls built of loose stones, that

once in bygone generations had sheltered the cattle of Chaka and other

Zulu kings, they reached a bay in the side of the koppie that may

have covered four acres of ground. Here by the edge of the river, but

standing a little above it, were the burnt-out ruins of a building that

by its shape had evidently been a church, and near to it other ruins of

a school and of a house which once was the mission-station.

</p>

<p>

As they approached they heard swelling from within those cracked and

melancholy walls the sound of a fierce, defiant chant which Thomas

guessed must be some ancient Zulu war-song, as indeed it was. It was

a very impressive song, chanted by many people, which informed the

listeners that those who sung it were the King's oxen, born to kill

the King's enemies, and to be killed for the King, and so forth; a

deep-noted, savage song that thrilled the blood, at the first sound of

which the accordion gave a feeble wail and metaphorically expired.

</p>

<p>

"Isn't that beautiful music, Father. I never heard anything like that

before," exclaimed Tabitha.

</p>

<p>

Before Thomas could answer, out from the ruined doorway of the Church

issued a band of men&mdash;there might have been a hundred of them&mdash;clad in

all the magnificent panoply of old-time Zulu warriors, with tall plumes

upon their heads, large shields upon their arms, kilts about their

middles, and fringes of oxtails hanging from their knees and elbows.

They formed into a double line and advanced, waving broad-bladed

assegais. Then at a signal they halted by the wagon and uttered a

deep-throated salute.

</p>

<p>

In front of their lines was a little withered old fellow who carried

neither shield nor spear, but only a black rod to which was bound the

tail of a <i>wildebeeste</i>. Except for his <i>moocha</i> he was almost naked,

and into his grey hair was woven a polished ring of black gum, from

which hung several little bladders. Upon his scraggy neck was a necklace

of baboon's teeth and amulets, whilst above the <i>moocha</i> was twisted a

snake that might have been either alive or stuffed.

</p>

<p>

His face, though aged and shrunken, was fine-featured and full of

breeding, while his hands and feet were very small; his eyes were

brooding, the eyes of a mystic, but when his interest was excited their

glance was as sharp as a bradawl. Just now it was fixed on Thomas, who

felt as if it were piercing him through and through. The owner of the

eyes, as Thomas guessed at once, was Menzi, a witch-doctor very famous

in those parts.

</p>

<p>

"Why are these men armed with spears? It is against the law for Kaffirs

to carry spears," he said to the Chief.

</p>

<p>

"This is Portuguese Territory; there is no law in Portuguese Territory,"

answered Kosa with a vacant stare.

</p>

<p>

"Then we might be all murdered here and no notice taken," exclaimed

Thomas.

</p>

<p>

"Yes, Teacher. Many people have been murdered here: my father was

murdered, and I dare say I shall be."

</p>

<p>

"Who by?"

</p>

<p>

Kosa made no answer, but his vacant eyes rested for a little while on

Menzi.

</p>

<p>

"Good God! what a country," said Thomas to himself, looking at Dorcas

who was frightened. Then he turned to meet Menzi, who was advancing

towards them.

</p>

<p>

Casting a glance of contempt at Kosa, of whom he took no further notice,

Menzi saluted the new-comers by lifting his hand above his head. Then

with the utmost politeness he drew a snuff-box fashioned from the tip of

a buffalo-horn out of a slit in the lobe of his left ear, extracted the

wooden stopper and offered Thomas some snuff.

</p>

<p>

"Thank you, but I do not take that nastiness," said Thomas.

</p>

<p>

Menzi sighed as though in disappointment, and having helped himself to

a little, re-stoppered the horn and thrust it back into the lobe of his

ear. Next he said, speaking in a gentle and refined voice:

</p>

<p>

"Greeting, Teacher, who, the messengers tell us, are called Tombool in

your own language and in ours <i>Inkunzi</i>. A good name, for in truth you

look like a bull. I am glad to see that you are made much more robust

than was the last Teacher, and therefore will live longer in this place

than he did. Though as for the lady-teacher&mdash;&mdash;" and he glanced at the

delicate-looking Dorcas.

</p>

<p>

Thomas stared at this man, to whom already he had taken a strong

dislike. Then moved thereto either by a very natural outburst of temper,

or perchance by a flash of inspiration, he replied:

</p>

<p>

"Yes, I shall live longer than did my brother, who died here and has

gone to Heaven, and longer I think than you will."

</p>

<p>

This personal remark seemed to take Menzi aback; indeed for a moment he

looked frightened. Recovering himself, however, he said:

</p>

<p>

"I perceive, Teacher Tombool, that like myself you are a witch-doctor

and a prophet. At present I do not know which of us will live the

longer, but I will consult my Spirits and tell you afterwards."

</p>

<p>

"Pray do not trouble to do so on my account, for I do not believe in

your Spirits."

</p>

<p>

"Of course you do not, Teacher. No doctor believes in another doctor's

Spirits, since each has his own, and there are more Spirits than there

are doctors. Teacher Tombool, I greet you and tell you at once that we

are at war over this matter of Spirits. This tribe, Teacher, is a cleft

log, yes, it is split into two. The Chief there, Kosa, sits on one half

of the log with his Christians; I sit on the other half with the rest,

who are as our fathers were. So if you wish to fight I shall fight with

such weapons as I have. No, do not look at the spears&mdash;not with spears.

But, if you leave me and my following alone, we shall leave you alone.

If you are wise I think that you will do well to walk your own road and

suffer us to walk ours."

</p>

<p>

"On the contrary," answered Thomas, "I intend that all the Sisa people

shall walk one road, the road that leads to Heaven."

</p>

<p>

"Is it so, Teacher?" Menzi replied with a mysterious smile.

</p>

<p>

Then he turned his head and looked at the darkling river that just here,

where it ran beneath an overhanging ledge of the koppie, was very deep

and still. Thomas felt that there was a world of meaning in his look,

though what it might be he did not know. Suddenly he remembered that

this river was named Death.

</p>

<p>

After Menzi had looked quite a long while, once more he saluted as

though in farewell, searching the faces of the three white people,

especially Tabitha's, with his dreamy eyes and, letting them fall,

searching the ground also. Near to where he stood grew a number of veld

flowers, such as appear in their glory after the rains in Africa. Among

these was a rare and beautiful white lily. This lily Menzi plucked, and

stepping forward, presented it to Tabitha, saying:

</p>

<p>

"A flower for the Flower! A gift to a child from one who is childless!"

</p>

<p>

Her father saw and meditated interference. But he was too late; Tabitha

had already taken the lily and was thanking Menzi in his own tongue,

which she knew well enough, having been brought up by Zulu nurses. He

smiled at her, saying:

</p>

<p>

"All Spirits, black or white, love flowers."

</p>

<p>

Then for a third time he saluted, not the others, but Tabitha, with more

heartiness than before, and turning, departed, followed by his spearmen,

who also saluted Tabitha as they filed in front of her.

</p>

<p>

It was a strange sight to see these great plumed men lifting their broad

spears to the beautiful bright-haired child who stood there holding the

tall white lily in her hand as though it were a sceptre.

</p>

<center>

IV

</center>

<p>

When Menzi and his company had departed, vanishing round the corner of

the koppie, Thomas again asked the Chief where they were to sleep, an

urgent matter as darkness was now approaching.

</p>

<p>

Kosa answered with his usual vagueness that he supposed in the hut where

the late Teacher had died after the mission-house was burnt down. So

they trekked on a little way, passing beneath the shelf of rock that has

been mentioned as projecting from that side of the koppie which overhung

the stream, where there was just room for a wagon to travel between the

cliff and the water.

</p>

<p>

"What a dark road," said Dorcas, and one of the Christian natives

who understood some English, having been the body-servant of the late

missionary&mdash;it was he with the accordion&mdash;replied in Zulu:

</p>

<p>

"Yes, Lady; this rock is called the Rock of Evildoers, because once

those accused of witchcraft and others were thrown from it by the order

of the King, to be eaten by the crocodiles in that pool. But," he added,

brightening up, "do not be afraid, for there are no more Zulu kings and

we have hunted away the crocodiles, though it is true that there are

still plenty of wizards who ought to be thrown from the rock," and he

looked over his shoulder in the direction Menzi had taken, adding in a

low voice, "You have just seen the greatest of them, Lady."

</p>

<p>

"How horrible!" said Dorcas for the second time.

</p>

<p>

A few yards farther on they emerged from this tunnel-like roadway and

found themselves travelling along the northern face of the koppie. Here,

surrounded by a fence, stood the Chief's kraal, and just outside of it

a large, thatched hut with one or two smaller huts at its back. It was

a good hut of its sort, being built after the Basuto fashion with a

projecting roof and a doorway, and having a kind of verandah floored

with beaten lime.

</p>

<p>

"This was the Teacher's house," said Kosa as the wagon halted.

</p>

<p>

"I should like to look inside it at once," remarked Dorcas doubtfully,

adding, "Why, what's that?" and she pointed to a suspicious-looking,

oblong mound that was covered with weeds, over which she had almost

stumbled.

</p>

<p>

"That is the grave of the late Teacher, Lady. We buried him here because

Menzi's people took up the bones of those who were in the churchyard and

threw them into the river," explained Kosa.

</p>

<p>

Dorcas looked as though she were going to faint, but Thomas, rising to

the occasion, remarked:

</p>

<p>

"Come on, dear. The dead are always with us, and what better company

could we have than the dust of our sainted predecessor."

</p>

<p>

"I would rather have his room," murmured Dorcas, and gathering herself

together, proceeded to the hut.

</p>

<p>

Somebody opened the door with difficulty, and as it seemed to be very

dark within Thomas struck a match, by the light of which Dorcas peered

into the interior. Next second she fell back into his arms with a little

scream.

</p>

<p>

"Take me away!" she said. "The place is full of rats."

</p>

<p>

He stared; it was quite true. There, sitting up upon the dead

missionary's bed, was a singularly large rat that did not seem in the

least frightened by their appearance, whilst other creatures of the same

tribe scuttled about the floor and up the walls.

</p>

<p>

Dorcas slept, or did not sleep, that night in the wagon with Tabitha,

while Thomas took his rest beneath it as well as a drizzling rain that

was falling would allow.

</p>

<p>

Such was the beginning of the life of the Bull family in Sisa-Land,

not an encouraging beginning, it will be admitted, though no worse and

perhaps much better than that which many missionaries and their families

are called upon to face in various regions of the earth. What horror is

there that missionaries have not been called upon to endure? St. Paul

tells us of his trials, but they are paralleled, if not surpassed, even

in the present day.

</p>

<p>

Missionaries, however good, may not always be wise folk; the reader

might even think the Rev. Thomas Bull to be no perfect embodiment of

wisdom, sympathy or perhaps manners, but taking them as a class they are

certainly heroic folks, who endure many things for small reward, as we

reckon reward. In nothing perhaps do they show their heroism and faith

more greatly than in their persistent habit of conveying women and young

children into the most impossible places of the earth, there to suffer

many things, not exclusive, occasionally, of martyrdom. At least the

Protestant section of their calling does this; the Roman Catholics are

wiser. In renouncing marriage these save themselves from many agonies,

and having only their own lives and health at stake, are perhaps better

fitted to face rough work in rough places.

</p>

<p>

Even Thomas Bull, not a particularly sensitive person, was tempted more

than once to arrive at similar conclusions during his period of service

in Sisa-land, although neither he nor his wife or child was called upon

to face the awful extremities that have confronted others of his cloth;

for instance, another Thomas, one Owen, who was a missionary in Zululand

at the time when Dingaan, the King, massacred Retief and his Boers

beneath his eyes.

</p>

<p>

On the following morning Thomas crept out from beneath his wagon, not

refreshed, it is true, but filled with a renewed and even more fiery

zeal. During those damp hours of unrest he had reflected much and

brought the whole position into perspective, a clear if a narrow

perspective. The Chief with whom he had to deal evidently was a fool, if

not an imbecile, and the Christians who remained after a generation of

teaching were for the most part poor creatures, the weak-kneed amongst

this mixed-blood tribe, probably those of the milder Basuto origin.

</p>

<p>

Such strength as remained in the people, who were, after all, but a

dwindling handful marooned in a distant spot, was to be found among

those of the old Zulu stock. They were descendants of the men sent

by the Kings Chaka and Dingaan to keep an eye upon the humble Basuto

slaves, whose duty it was to herd the royal cattle, the men, too, to

whom was entrusted the proud but hateful business of carrying out

the execution of persons that, for one reason or another, it was not

desirable to kill at home.

</p>

<p>

The individuals detailed for these duties were for the most part of high

blood, inconvenient persons, perhaps, whom it was desired to move to

a distance. Thus, as Thomas Bull soon learned, Menzi was said to be

no less a man than the grandson of the King Dingaan himself, one whose

father had developed troublesome ambitions, but whose life had been

spared because his mother was a favourite with the King.

</p>

<p>

Hence some of the grandson's pride, which was enhanced by the fact that

in his youth he had been trained in medicine and magic by a certain

Zikali, alias "Opener-of-Roads," who was said to have been the greatest

witch-doctor that ever lived in Zululand, and through him had acquired,

or perhaps developed inherent psychic gifts, that were in any case

considerable.

</p>

<p>

In the end, however, he had returned to his petty tribe, neglecting

larger opportunities, as Thomas learned, because of some woman to whom

he was attached at home. It seemed, however, that he might as well have

stayed away, since on his arrival he found that this woman had become

one of the Chief's wives, for which reason he afterwards killed that

Chief, Kosa's father, and possessed himself of the woman, who died

immediately afterwards, as Menzi suspected by poisoning. It was

principally for this reason that he hated Kosa, his enemy's son, and all

who clung to him; and partly because of that hatred and the fear that it

engendered Kosa and his people had turned Christian, hoping to protect

themselves thus against Menzi and his wizardries. Also for this dead

woman's sake, Menzi had never married again.

</p>

<p>

Thomas did not learn all these details, and others that need not be

mentioned, at once, but by the time he crept out from under that wagon

he had guessed enough to show that he was face to face with a very tough

proposition, and being the man he was, he girded his loins to meet it,

vowing that he would conquer Menzi or die in the attempt.

</p>

<p>

That very morning he called a council of the Christians and set to work

with a will. The first thing to do was to make the late missionary's

huts habitable, which did not take long, and the next to commence the

rebuilding of the church. Thomas, true to his principles, insisted on

beginning with the church and letting the mission-house stand over,

although Dorcas, small blame to her, complained at being obliged to live

for an indefinite time in a hut like a Kaffir woman. However, as usual,

she was obliged to give way.

</p>

<p>

As it chanced, here there was little difficulty about building

operations, for stone and wood and <i>tambuki</i> grass for thatching were

all at hand in plenty. Also the Basuto section of the Sisa, as is common

among that race, were clever masons and carpenters, some of them having

followed those trades in Natal and the more settled places in Zululand,

where dwellings had to be erected. Moreover, they possessed wagons, and

now that the dry season was approaching were able to fetch stores of

every kind from the borders of Natal. Lastly, thanks to Dorcas's banking

account, money was by comparison no object, an unusual circumstance

where missionaries are concerned.

</p>

<p>

So all the week Thomas laboured at these matters and at making himself

acquainted with his congregation, and all Sunday he held open-air

services or taught in the ruins of the old church.

</p>

<p>

Thus in the midst of so many new interests matters went on not

uncomfortably, and Dorcas became more or less reconciled to her life.

Still she could never get over her loathing of the place which she

believed to be ill-omened, perhaps because of its gloomy aspect, coupled

with the name of the river and the uses to which it had been put, after

all not so very long ago. Naturally, also, this distaste was accentuated

by the unlucky circumstances of their arrival.

</p>

<p>

Tabitha, too, was really happy, since she loved this wild free life, and

having been brought up amongst Kaffirs and talking their language almost

as well as she did her own, soon she made many friends.

</p>

<p>

Perhaps it was a sense that the information would not be well received

by her father that prevented her from mentioning that the greatest of

those friends was the old witch-doctor, Menzi, whom she often met when

she was rambling about the place. Or it may have been pure accident,

since Thomas was too busy to bother about such trifles, while her

mother, who of course knew, kept her own counsel. The truth is that

though he was a heathen witch-doctor, Dorcas liked old Menzi better than

any other native in the district, because she said, quite truly, that he

was a gentleman, however sinful and hard-hearted he might be. Moreover,

with a woman's perception she felt that if only he were a friend, at a

pinch he might be worth all the others put together, while if he were an

enemy, conversely the same applied.

</p>

<p>

So it came about that in the end there arose a very strange state of

affairs. Menzi hated Thomas and did all he could to thwart him. He liked

Dorcas and did all he could to help her, while the child Tabitha he came

to worship, for some reason he never revealed, which was hidden in the

depths of his secret soul; indeed ere long had she been his own daughter

he could not have loved her more. It was he who amongst many other

things gave her the pretty carved walking-stick of black and white

<i>umzimbeet</i> wood, also the two young blue cranes and the kid that

afterwards were such pets of hers, and with them the beautiful white

feathers of a cock ostrich that had been killed on the veld. In the same

way it was he who sent milk and eggs to Dorcas when she was at her wits'

end for both, which more than once were found mysteriously at the door

of their hut, and not any of his Christian flock, as Thomas fondly

imagined.

</p>

<p>

Thus things went on for a while.

</p>

<p>

Meanwhile Thomas found this same Menzi a stumbling-block and a rock

of offence. Whenever he tried to convert man, woman, or child he was

confronted with Menzi or the shadow of Menzi. Thus those with whom he

was arguing would ask him why he could not work miracles like Menzi. Let

him show them pictures in the fire, or tell them who had stolen their

goods or where they would find their strayed cattle, and perhaps they

would believe him. And so forth.

</p>

<p>

At length Thomas grew exasperated and announced publicly that he

credited nothing of this magic, and that Menzi was only a common cheat

who threw dust into their eyes. If Menzi could perform marvels, let

him show these marvels to him, Thomas, and to his wife, that they might

judge of them for themselves.

</p>

<p>

Apparently this challenge was repeated to the witch-doctor. At least one

morning a few days later, when Thomas went out accompanied by Dorcas

and Tabitha, to meet the Chief Kosa and others and to discuss with them

whether ultimately the mission-house should be rebuilt upon the old site

or elsewhere, he found a great concourse of people, all or nearly all

the tribe indeed, assembled on a level place where in the old days stood

one of the great kraals designed to hold the king's cattle. Out of the

crowd emerged Kosa, looking rather sillier than usual, and of him Thomas

inquired why it was gathered. Was it to consult with him about the

mission-house?

</p>

<p>

"No, Teacher," answered the Chief, "Menzi has heard that you call him a

cheat, and has come to show that he is none, assembling all the people

that they may judge between you and him."

</p>

<p>

"I do not want to see his tricks," said Thomas angrily. "Tell him to go

away."

</p>

<p>

"Oh, Teacher!" replied Kosa, "that would not be wise, for then everyone

would believe that Menzi's magic is so great that you are afraid even to

look upon it. It is better to let him try. Perhaps if you pray hard he

will fail, for his spirits will not always come when he calls them."

</p>

<p>

Thomas hesitated, then, being bold by nature, determined that he would

see the thing through. After all, Menzi was an impostor and nothing

else, and could work no more magic than he could himself. Here was a

providential opportunity to expose him. So followed by the others he

advanced into the crowd, which made way for him.

</p>

<p>

In an open space in its centre, sat Menzi wearing all his witch-doctor's

trappings, bladders in his hair, snakeskins tied about him, and

the rest, but even in this grotesque attire still managing to look

dignified. With him were several acolytes or attendants, one of them an

old woman, also peculiarly arrayed and carrying hide bags that contained

their master's medicines. He rose as they came, saluted Thomas and

smiled at Dorcas and Tabitha, very sweetly at the latter.

</p>

<p>

"O Teacher," he said, "my ears hear that you say that I am a liar and a

cheat who have no wonders at my command; to whom the Spirits never speak

and who deceives the people. Now, Teacher, I have come here that it may

be seen whether you are right or I am right. If your magic is greater

than mine, then I can do nothing and I will eat the dust before you.

But if mine prevails, then perhaps all these will say that you are the

cheat, not I. Also it is true that I am not a great magician as was my

master, Zikali, the Opener-of-Roads, and cannot show you things worthy

to be seen. Nor will I smell out evil-doers, witches and wizards, since

then the people might kill them, and I think that there are some here

who deserve to die in the ancient fashion. No, I will not do this, since

it is not right that those with you," here he glanced at Dorcas and

Tabitha, "should look upon the sight of blood, even in this land where

the White-man's law has no power. Still there are little things that

may serve to amuse you for an hour and hurt no one. Have any of you lost

anything, for instance?"

</p>

<p>

"Yes, I have," said Tabitha with a laugh.

</p>

<p>

"Is it so, Little Flower? Then be silent and do not say what you have

lost. Have you told any what you have lost?"

</p>

<p>

"No," answered Tabitha, "because I was afraid I should be scolded."

</p>

<p>

"There, <i>Imba</i>, there, Little Flower, even that is too much, because you

see the old cheat might guess something from your words. Yes, he might

guess that it is something of value that you have lost, such as a

bracelet of gold, or the thing that ticks, on which you white people

read the time. Nay, be silent and do not let your face move lest I

should read it. Now let us see what it is that you have lost."

</p>

<p>

Then he turned to his confederates, as Thomas called them, and began to

ask them questions which need not be set out in detail. Was it an animal

that the Little Flower had lost? No, it was not an animal, the Spirits

told him that it was not. Was it an article of dress? No, they did not

think it was an article of dress, yet the Spirits seemed to suggest that

it had something to do with dress. Was it a shoe? Was it scissors? Was

it a comb? Was it a needle? No, but it was something that had to do with

needles. What had to do with needles? Thread. Was it thread? No, but

something that had to do with thread. Was it a silver shield which

pushed the needle that drew the thread?

</p>

<p>

Here Tabitha could contain herself no longer, but clapped her hands and

cried out delightedly:

</p>

<p>

"Yes, that's it. It's my thimble."

</p>

<p>

"Oh! very well," said Menzi, "but it is easy to discover what is lost

and hard to find it."

</p>

<p>

Then followed another long examination of the assessors or acolytes, or

witch-doctor's chorus, by which it was established at length that the

thimble had been lost three days before, when Tabitha was sitting on a

stone sewing, that she believed it had fallen into a crevice of rocks,

and so forth.

</p>

<p>

After this the chorus was silent and Menzi himself took up the game,

apparently asking questions of the sky and putting his ear to the ground

for an answer.

</p>

<p>

At length he announced: (1) That the thimble was not among the rocks;

(2) That it was not lost at all.

</p>

<p>

"But it is, it is, you silly old man," cried Tabitha excitedly. "I have

hunted everywhere, and I cried about it because I haven't got another,

and can't buy one here, and the needle hurts my finger."

</p>

<p>

Menzi contemplated her gravely as though he were looking her through and

through.

</p>

<p>

"It is <i>not</i> lost, Little Flower. I see it; you have it now. Put your

hand into the pocket of your dress. What do you find there?"

</p>

<p>

"Nothing," said Tabitha. "That is, nothing except a hole."

</p>

<p>

"Feel at the bottom of your dress, there on the right. No, a little more

to the front. What do you feel there?"

</p>

<p>

"Something hard," said Tabitha.

</p>

<p>

"Take this knife and cut the lining of your dress where you feel the

hard thing. Ah! there is the silver shield which you have been carrying

about with you all these days."

</p>

<p>

The crowd murmured approval. Dorcas exclaimed: "Well, I never!" and

Thomas looked first puzzled, then angry, then suspicious.

</p>

<p>

"Does the Teacher think that the Floweret and the old doctor have made

a plot together?" asked Menzi. "Can a sweet Flower make plots and tell

lies like the old doctor? Well, well, it is nothing. Now let us try

something better. My bags, my bags."

</p>

<p>

Thomas made as though he would go away, but Menzi stopped him, saying:

</p>

<p>

"No, doubters must stay to see the end of their doubts. What shall I do?

Ah! I have it."

</p>

<p>

Then from one of the bags he drew out a number of crooked black sticks

that looked like bent ebony rulers, and built them up criss-cross in a

little pile upon the ground. Next he found some bundles of fine dried

grass, which he thrust into the interstices between the sticks, as he

did so bidding one of his servants to run to the nearest hut and bring a

coal of fire upon a sherd.

</p>

<p>

"A match will not do," he said. "White men have touched it."

</p>

<p>

Presently the burning ember arrived, and muttering something, Menzi blew

upon it as though to keep it alight.

</p>

<p>

"Now, White Teacher," he said in a voice that had suddenly become

commanding, "think of something. Think of what you will, and I will show

it to you."

</p>

<p>

"Indeed," said Thomas with a smile. "I have thought of something; now

make good your words."

</p>

<p>

Menzi thrust the ember into the haylike fibres and blew. They caught and

blazed up fiercely, making an extraordinarily large flame considering

the small amount of the kindling. The ebony-like sticks also began to

blaze. Menzi grew excited.

</p>

<p>

"My Spirit, come to me; my Spirit, come to me!" he cried. "O my Spirit,

show this White Teacher Tombool that I am not a cheat!"

</p>

<p>

He ran round and round the fire; he leapt into the air, then suddenly

shouted: "My Spirit has entered into me; my Snake is in my breast!"

</p>

<p>

All his excitement went; he grew quite calm, almost cataleptic. Holding

his thin hands over the fire, slowly he let them fall, and as he did so

the fierce flames died down.

</p>

<p>

"It's going out," said Tabitha.

</p>

<p>

Menzi smiled at her and lifted his hands again. Lo! the fire that seemed

to be dead leapt up after them in a fierce blaze. Again he dropped his

hands and the fire died away. Then he moved his arms to and fro and it

came back, following the motions of his arms as though he drew it by a

string.

</p>

<p>

"Have you thought, White Teacher? Have you thought?" he asked. "Good!

Arise, smoke!"

</p>

<p>

Behold, instead of the clear flame appeared a fan-shaped column of dense

white smoke, behind which Menzi vanished, all except his outstretched

hands.

</p>

<p>

"Look on to the smoke, White people, and do you, Little Flower, tell me

what you see there," he called from behind this vaporous veil.

</p>

<p>

Tabitha stared, they all stared. Then she cried out:

</p>

<p>

"I see a room, I see an old man in a clergyman's coat reading a letter.

Why, it is the Dean whom we used to know in Natal. There's the wart on

his nose and the tuft of hair that hangs down over his eye, and he's

reading a letter written by Father. I know the writing. It begins, 'My

dear Dean, Providence has appointed me to a strange place'&mdash;&mdash;"

</p>

<p>

"Is that what you see also, Teacher?" asked Menzi. "And if so, is it

what you pictured in your thought?"

</p>

<p>

Thomas turned away and uttered something like a groan, for indeed he

had thought of the Dean and of the letter he had written to him a month

before.

</p>

<p>

"The Teacher is not satisfied," said Menzi. "If he had seen all he

thought of, being so good and honest, he would tell us. There is some

mistake. My Spirit must have deceived me. Think of something else,

Teacher, and tell the lady, and the child Imba, and Kosa, and another,

what it is you are thinking of. Go aside and tell them where I cannot

hear."

</p>

<p>

Thomas did so&mdash;in some way he felt compelled to do so.

</p>

<p>

"I am going to think of the church as I propose it shall be when

finished according to the plans I have made," he said hoarsely. "I am

going to think of it with a belfry spire roofed with red tiles and a

clock in the tower, and I am going to think of the clock as pointing

to the exact hour of noon. Do you all understand? It is impossible that

this man should know of how I mean to build that spire and about the

clock, because until this moment no one knew except myself. If he

can show me that, I shall begin to believe that he is inspired by his

master, the devil. Do you all understand?"

</p>

<p>

They said they did, and Menzi called out:

</p>

<p>

"Be quick, White Teacher. Be quick, I grow tired. My Spirit grows tired.

The smoke grows tired. Come, come, come!"

</p>

<p>

They returned and stood in front of the fire, and in obedience to

Menzi's motions once more the fan of smoke arose. On it grew something

nebulous, something uncertain that by degrees took the form of a church.

It was not very clear, perhaps because Thomas found it difficult to

conceive the exact shape of the church as it would be when it was

finished, or only conceived it bit by bit. One thing, however, was very

distinct in his mind, and that was the proposed spire and the clock. As

a result, there was the spire standing at the end of the shadowy church

vivid and distinct. And there was the clock with its two copper hands

exactly on the stroke of noon!

</p>

<p>

"Tell me what you see, Little Flower," said Menzi in a hollow voice.

</p>

<p>

"I see what Father told me he would think of, a church and the spire of

the church, and the clock pointing to twelve."

</p>

<p>

"Do you all see that," asked Menzi, "and is it what the Teacher said he

would think about?"

</p>

<p>

"Yes, Doctor," they answered.

</p>

<p>

"Then look once more, for <i>I</i> will think of something. I will think of

that church falling. Look once more."

</p>

<p>

They looked, and behold the shadowy fabric began to totter, then it

seemed to collapse, and last of all down went the spire and vanished in

the smoke.

</p>

<p>

"Have you seen anything, O people?" said Menzi, "for standing behind

this smoke I can see nothing. Mark that it is thick, since through it I

am invisible to you."

</p>

<p>

This was true, since they could only perceive the tips of his

outstretched fingers appearing upon each side of the smoke-fan.

</p>

<p>

"Yes," they answered, "we have seen a church fall down and vanish."

</p>

<p>

"That was my thought," said Menzi; "have I not told you that was the

thought my Spirit gave me?"

</p>

<p>

"This is black magic, and you are a fiend!" shouted Thomas, and was

silent.

</p>

<p>

"Not so, Tombool, though it is true that I have gifts which you clever

White people do not understand," answered Menzi.

</p>

<p>

By degrees the smoke melted away, and there on the ground were the ten

or twelve crooked pieces of ebony that they had seen consumed, now to

all appearance quite untouched by the flame. There too on their farther

side lay Menzi, shining with perspiration, and in a swoon or sleeping.

</p>

<p>

"Come away," said Thomas shortly, and they turned to go, but at this

moment something happened.

</p>

<p>

Menzi, it will be remembered, had given Tabitha a kid of a long-haired

variety of goat peculiar to these parts. This little creature had

already grown attached to its mistress and walked about after her, in

the way which pet goats have. It had followed her that morning, but not

being interested in tricks or magic, engaged itself in devouring herbs

that grew amongst the tumbled stones of the old kraal.

</p>

<p>

Suddenly Menzi recovered from his faint or seizure and, looking up,

directed his attendants to return the magical ebony rods which burned

without being consumed to one of the hide bags that contained his

medicines. The assembly began to break up amidst a babel of excited

talk.

</p>

<p>

Tabitha looked round for her goat, and perceiving it at a little

distance, ran to fetch it, since the creature, being engaged in eating

something to its taste, would not come at her call. She seized it by the

neck to drag it away, with the result that its fore-feet, obstinately

set upon the wall, overturned a large stone, revealing a great puff

adder that was sleeping there.

</p>

<p>

The reptile thus disturbed instantly struck backwards after the fashion

of its species, so that its fangs, just missing Tabitha's hands,

sank deep into the kid's neck. She screamed and there was a great

disturbance. A native ran forward and pinned down the puff-adder with

his walking-stick of which the top was forked. The kid immediately fell

on to its side, and lay there bleeding and bleating. Tabitha began to

weep, calling out, "My goat is killed," between her sobs.

</p>

<p>

Menzi, distinguishing her voice amid the tumult, asked what was the

matter. Someone told him, whereon he commanded that the kid should be

brought to him and the snake also. This was done, Tabitha following her

dying pet with her mother, for by now Thomas had departed, taking no

heed of these events, which perhaps he was too disturbed to notice.

</p>

<p>

"Save my goat! Save my goat, O Menzi!" implored Tabitha.

</p>

<p>

The old witch-doctor looked at the animal, also at the hideous

puff-adder that had been dragged along the ground in the fork of the

stick.

</p>

<p>

"It will be hard, Little Flower," he said, "seeing that the goat is

bitten in the neck and this snake is very poisonous. Still for your

sake I will try, although I fear that it may prove but a waste of good

medicine."

</p>

<p>

Then he took one of his bags and from it selected a certain packet

wrapped in a dried leaf, out of which he shook some grey powder. Seizing

the kid, which seemed to be almost dead, he made an incision in its

throat over the wound, and into it rubbed some of this powder. Next he

spat upon more of the powder, thus turning it into a paste, and opening

the kid's mouth, thrust it down its throat, at the same time muttering

an invocation or spell.

</p>

<p>

"Now we must wait," he said, letting the kid fall upon the ground, where

it lay to all appearance dead.

</p>

<p>

"Is that powder any good?" asked Dorcas rather aimlessly.

</p>

<p>

"Yes, it is very good, Lady; a medicine of power of which I alone

have the secret, a magic medicine. See, I will show you. Except the

<i>immamba</i>, the ring-snake that puffs out its head, this one is the most

deadly in our country. Yet I do not fear it. Look!"

</p>

<p>

Leaning forward, he seized the puff-adder, and drawing it from beneath

the fork, suffered it to strike him upon the breast, after which he

deliberately killed it with a stone. Then he took some of the grey

powder and rubbed it into the punctures; also put more of it into his

mouth, which he swallowed.

</p>

<p>

"Oh!" exclaimed Dorcas, "he will die," and some of the Christian Kaffirs

echoed her remark.

</p>

<p>

But Menzi did not die at all. On the contrary, after shivering a few

times he was quite himself, and, indeed, seemed rather brighter than

before, like a jaded business man who has drunk a cocktail.

</p>

<p>

"No, Wife of Tombool," he said, "I shall not die; every year I doctor

myself with this magic medicine that is called <i>Dawa</i>, after which all

the snakes in Sisa-Land&mdash;remember that they are many, Little Flower&mdash;may

bite me if they like."

</p>

<p>

"Is it your magic or is it the medicine that protects you?" asked

Dorcas.

</p>

<p>

"Both, Lady. The medicine <i>Dawa</i> is of no use without the magic words,

and the magic words are of no use without the medicine. Therefore alone

in all the land I can cure snake bites, who have both medicine and

magic. Look at your goat, Little Flower. Look at your goat!"

</p>

<p>

Tabitha looked, as did everyone else. The kid was rising to its feet.

It rose, it baa'd and presently began to frisk about its mistress, like

Menzi apparently rather brighter than before.

</p>

<center>

V

</center>

<p>

A year had gone by, during which time, by the most heroic exertions,

Thomas Bull had at length succeeded in rebuilding the church. There

it stood, a very nice mission-church, constructed of sun-dried bricks

neatly plastered over, cool and spacious within, for the thatched roof

was lofty, beautifully furnished (the font and the pulpit had been

imported from England), and finished off with the spire and clock of his

dreams, the latter also imported from England and especially adjusted

for a hot climate.

</p>

<p>

Moreover, there was a sweet and loud-throated bell upon which the clock

struck, with space allowed for the addition of others that must

wait till Thomas could make up his mind to approach Dorcas as to the

provision of the necessary funds. Yes, the church was finished, and the

Bishop of those parts had made a special journey to consecrate it at

the hottest season of the year, and as a reward for his energy had

contracted fever and nearly been washed away in a flooded river.

</p>

<p>

Only one thing was lacking, a sufficient congregation to fill this fine

church, which secretly the Bishop, who was a sensible man, thought would

have been of greater value had it been erected in any of several

other localities that he could have suggested. For alas! the Christian

community of Sisa-Land did not increase. Occasionally Thomas succeeded

in converting one of Menzi's followers, and occasionally Menzi snatched

a lamb from the flock of Thomas, with the result that the scales

remained even neither going up nor down.

</p>

<p>

The truth was, of course, that the matter was chiefly one of race; those

of the Sisas in whom the Basuto blood preponderated became Christian,

while those who were of the stubborn Zulu stock, strengthened and

inspired by their prophet Menzi, remained unblushingly heathen.

</p>

<p>

Still Thomas did not despair. One day, he told himself, there would be a

great change, a veritable landslide, and he would see that church filled

with every Zulu in the district. Needless to say, he wished him no ill,

but Menzi was an old man, and before long it might please Providence to

gather that accursed wizard to his fathers. For that he was a wizard of

some sort Thomas no longer doubted, a person directly descended from the

Witch of Endor, or from some others of her company who were mentioned

in the Bible. There was ample authority for wizards, and if they existed

then why should they they not continue to do so? Since he could not

explain it, Thomas swallowed the magic, much as in his boyhood he used

to swallow the pills.

</p>

<p>

Yes, if only Menzi were removed by the will of Heaven, which really,

thought Thomas, must be outraged by such proceedings, his opportunity

would come, and "Menzi's herd," as the heathens were called in

Sisa-land, would be added to his own. The Bishop, it is true, was not

equally sanguine, but said nothing to discourage zeal so laudable and so

uncommon.

</p>

<p>

It was while his Lordship was recovering from the sharp bout of fever

which he had developed in a new and mosquito-haunted hut with a damp

floor that had been especially erected for his accommodation, that at

last the question of the re-building of the mission-house came to a

head, which it could not do while all the available local labour, to say

nothing of some hired from afar, was employed upon the church.

</p>

<p>

Thomas, it was true, wished to postpone it further, pointing out that

a school was most necessary, and that after all they had grown quite

accustomed to the huts and were fairly comfortable in them.

</p>

<p>

On this point, however, Dorcas was firm; indeed, it would not be too

much to say that, having already been disappointed once, she struck with

all the vigour of a trade-unionist. She explained that the situation of

the huts on the brink of the river was low and most unhealthy, and that

in them she was becoming a victim to recurrent attacks of fever. He,

Thomas, might be fever-proof, as indeed she thought he was. It was true

also that Tabitha had been extraordinarily well and grown much ever

since she came to Sisa-Land, which puzzled her, inasmuch as the place

was notoriously unhealthy for children, even if they were of native

blood. Indeed, in her agitation she added an unwise remark to the

effect that she could only explain their daughter's peculiar health

by supposing that Menzi had laid a "good charm" upon her, as all the

natives believed, and he announced publicly that he had done.

</p>

<p>

This made Thomas very angry, admittedly not without cause. Forgetting

his conversation to a belief in the reality of Menzi's magic, he talked

in a loud voice about the disgrace of being infected with vile, heathen

superstitions, such as he had never thought to hear uttered by his

wife's Christian lips. Dorcas, however, stuck to her point, and enforced

it by a domestic example, adding that the creatures which in polite

society are called "bed-pests," that haunted the straw of the huts,

tormented her while Tabitha never had so much as a single bite.

</p>

<p>

The end of it was that the matter of mission-house <i>versus</i> huts was

referred to the Bishop for his opinion. As the teeth of his Lordship

were chattering with ague resulting, he knew full well, from the fever

he had contracted in the said huts, Dorcas found in him a most valuable

ally. He agreed that a mission-house ought to be built before the school

or anything else, and suggested that it should be placed in a higher

and better situation, above the mists that rose from the river and the

height to which mosquitoes fly.

</p>

<p>

Bowing to the judgment of his superior, which really he heard with

gratitude, although in his zeal and unselfishness he would have

postponed his own comfort and that of his family till other duties had

been fulfilled, Thomas replied that he knew only one such place which

would be near enough to the Chief's town. It was on the koppie itself,

about fifty feet above the level of and overhanging the river, where he

had noted there was always a breeze, even on the hottest day, since the

conformation of this hill seemed to induce an unceasing draught of air.

He added that if his Lordship were well enough, they might go to look at

the site.

</p>

<p>

So they went, all of them. Ascending a sloping, ancient path that was

never precipitous, they came to the place, a flat tableland that perhaps

measured an acre and a half, which by some freak of nature had been

scooped out of the side of the koppie, and was backed by a precipitous

cliff in which were caves. The front part of this plateau, that which

approached to and overhung the river, was of virgin rock, but the

acre or so behind was filled with very rich soil that in the course of

centuries had been washed down from the sides of the koppie, or resulted

from the decomposition of its material.

</p>

<p>

"The very place," said the Bishop. "The access is easy. The house would

stand here&mdash;no need to dig deep foundations in this stone, and behind,

when those trees have been cleared away, you could have a beautiful and

fertile garden where anything will grow. Also, look, there is a stream

of pure water running from some spring above. It is an ideal site for a

house, not more than three minutes' walk from the church below, the best

I should say in the whole valley. And then, consider the view."

</p>

<p>

Everyone agreed, and they were leaving the place in high spirits,

Dorcas, who had household matters to attend, having already departed,

when whom should they encounter but Menzi seated on a stone just where

the path began to descend. Thomas would have passed him without notice

as one with whom he was not on speaking terms, but the Bishop, having

been informed by Tabitha who he was, was moved by curiosity to stop and

interchange some words with him, as knowing his tongue perfectly, he

could do.

</p>

<p>

"<i>Sakubona</i>" (that is, "good day"), he said politely.

</p>

<p>

Menzi rose and saluted with his habitual courtesy, first the Bishop,

then the others, as usual reserving his sweetest smile for Tabitha.

</p>

<p>

"Great Priest," he said at once, "I understand that the Teacher Tombool

intends to build his house upon this place."

</p>

<p>

The Bishop wondered how on earth the man knew that, since the matter had

only just been decided by people talking in English, but answered that

perhaps he might do so.

</p>

<p>

"Great Priest," went on Menzi in an earnest voice, "I pray you to forbid

the Teacher Tombool from doing anything of the sort."

</p>

<p>

"Why, friend?" asked the Bishop.

</p>

<p>

"Because, Great Priest, this place is haunted by the spirits of the

dead, and those who live here will be haunted also. Hearken. I myself

when I was young have seen evil-doers brought from Zululand and hurled

from that rock, blinded and broken-armed, by order of the King. I say

that scores have been thrown thence to be devoured by the crocodiles in

the pool below. Will such a sight as this be pleasant for white eyes to

look upon, and will such cries as those of the evil-doers who have 'gone

down' be nice for white ears to hear in the silence of the night?"

</p>

<p>

"But, my good man," said the Bishop, "what you say is nonsense. These

poor creatures are dead, 'gone down' as you say, and do not return. We

Christians have no belief in ghosts, or if they exist we are protected

from them."

</p>

<p>

"None at all," interposed Thomas boldly and speaking in Zulu. "This man,

my Lord, is at his old tricks. For reasons of his own he is trying

to frighten us; for my part I will not be frightened by a native

witch-doctor and his rubbish, even if he does deal with Satan. With your

permission I shall certainly build the mission-house here."

</p>

<p>

"Quite right, of course, quite right," said the Bishop, though within

himself he reflected that evidently the associations of the spot were

disagreeable, and that were he personally concerned, perhaps he should

be inclined to consider an alternative site. However, it was a matter

for Mr. Bull to decide.

</p>

<p>

"I hear that Tombool will not be turned from his purpose. I hear that he

will still build his house upon this rock. So be it. Let him do so and

see. But this I say, that Imba, the Floweret, shall not be haunted by

the <i>Isitunzi</i> (the ghosts of the dead) who wail in the night," said

Menzi.

</p>

<p>

He advanced to Tabitha, and holding his hands over her he cried out:

</p>

<p>

"Sweet eyes, be blind to the <i>Isitunzi</i>. Little ears, do not hear their

groans. Spirits, build a garden fence about this flower and keep her

safe from all night-prowling evil things. Imba, little Flower, sleep

softly while others lie awake and tremble."

</p>

<p>

Then he turned and departed swiftly.

</p>

<p>

"Dear me!" said the Bishop. "A strange man, a very strange man. I don't

know quite what to make of him."

</p>

<p>

"I do," answered Thomas, "he is a black-hearted villain who is in league

with the devil."

</p>

<p>

"Yes, I dare say&mdash;I mean as to his being a villain, that is according

to our standards&mdash;but does your daughter&mdash;a clever and most attractive

little girl, by the way&mdash;think so? She seemed to look on him with

affection&mdash;one learns to read children's eyes, you know. A very strange

man, I repeat. If we could see all his heart we should know lots of

things and understand more about these people than we do at present. Has

it ever struck you, Mr. Bull, how little we white people <i>do</i> understand

of the black man's soul? Perhaps a child can see farther into it than

we can. What is the saying&mdash;'a little child shall lead them,' is it

not? Perhaps we do not make enough allowances. 'Faith, Hope and Charity,

these three, but the greatest of these is charity'&mdash;or love, which is

the same thing. However, of course you are quite right not to have been

frightened by his silly talk about the <i>Isitunzi</i>, it would never do to

show fear or hesitation. Still, I am glad that Mrs. Bull did not hear

it; you may have noticed that she had gone on ahead, and if I were you

I should not repeat it to her, since ladies are so nervous. Tabitha, my

dear, don't tell your mother anything of all this."

</p>

<p>

"No, Bishop," answered Tabitha, "I never tell her all the queer things

that Menzi says to me when I meet him, or at least not many of them."

</p>

<p>

"I wish I had asked him if he had a cure for your local fever," said the

Bishop with a laugh, "for against it, although I have taken so much that

my ears buzz, quinine cannot prevail."

</p>

<p>

"He has given me one in a gourd, Bishop," replied Tabitha

confidentially, "but I have never taken any, because you see I have had

no fever, and I haven't told mother, for if I did she would tell father"

(Thomas had stridden ahead, and was out of hearing), "and he might be

angry because he doesn't like Menzi, though I do. Will you have some,

Bishop? It is well corked up with clay, and Menzi said it would keep for

years."

</p>

<p>

"Well, my dear," answered the Bishop, "I don't quite know. There may be

all sorts of queer things in Mr. Menzi's medicine. Still, he told you to

drink it if necessary, and I am absolutely certain that he does not

wish to poison <i>you</i>. So perhaps I might have a try, for really I feel

uncommonly ill."

</p>

<p>

So later on, with much secrecy, the gourd was produced, and the Bishop

had "a try." By some strange coincidence he felt so much better after it

that he begged for the rest of the stuff to comfort him on his homeward

journey, which ultimately he accomplished in the best of health.

</p>

<p>

That most admirable and wide-minded prelate departed, and so far as

history records was no more seen in Sisa-Land. But Thomas remained,

and set about the building of the house with his usual vigour. Upon the

Death Rock, as it was called, in course of time he erected an excellent

and most serviceable dwelling, not too large but large enough, having

every comfort and convenience that his local experience could suggest

and money could supply, since in this matter the cheque-book of the

suffering Dorcas was entirely at his service.

</p>

<p>

At length the house was finished, and with much rejoicing the Bull

family, deserting their squalid huts, moved into it at the commencement

of the hot season. After the first agitations of the change and of the

arrangement of the furniture newly-arrived by wagon, they settled down

very comfortably, directing all their energies towards the development

of the garden, which had already been brought into some rough order

during the building of the house.

</p>

<p>

One difficulty, however, arose at once. For some mysterious reason they

found that not a single native servant would sleep in the place, no, not

even Tabitha's personal attendant, who adored her. Every soul of them

suddenly developed a sick mother or other relative who would instantly

expire if deprived of the comfort of their society after dark. Or else

they themselves became ailing at that hour, saying they could not sleep

upon a cliff like a rock-rabbit.

</p>

<p>

At any rate, for one cause or another off they went the very moment that

the sun vanished behind the western hills, nor did they re-appear until

it was well up above those that faced towards the east.

</p>

<p>

At least this happened for one night. On the following day, however, a

pleasant-looking woman named Ivana, whom they knew to be of good

repute, though of doubtful religion, as sometimes she came to church

and sometimes she did not, appeared and offered her services as

"night-dog"&mdash;that is what she called it&mdash;to Tabitha, saying that she did

not mind sleeping on a height. Since it was inconvenient to have no one

about the place from dark to dawn, and Dorcas did not approve of Tabitha

being left to sleep alone, the woman, whose character was guaranteed

by the Chief Kosa and the elders of the church, was taken on at an

indefinite wage. To the matter of pecuniary reward, indeed, she seemed

to be entirely indifferent.

</p>

<p>

For the rest she rolled herself in blankets, native fashion, and slept

across Tabitha's door, keeping so good a watch that once when her father

wished to enter the room to fetch something after the child was sleep,

she would not allow even him to do so. When he tried to force a way past

her, suddenly Ivana became so threatening that he thought she was about

to spring at him. After this he wanted to dismiss her, but Dorcas said

it only showed that she was faithful, and that she had better be left

where she was, especially as there was no one to take her place.

</p>

<p>

So things went on till the day of full moon. On that night Ivana

appeared to be much agitated, and insisted that Tabitha should go to bed

earlier than was usual. Also after she was asleep Dorcas noticed that

Ivana walked continually to and fro in front of the door of the child's

room and up and down the veranda on to which its windows opened, droning

some strange song and waving a wand.

</p>

<p>

However, at the appointed hour, having said their prayers, Dorcas and

her husband went to bed.

</p>

<p>

"I wonder if there is anything strange about this place," remarked

Dorcas. "It is so very odd that no native will stop here at night except

that half-wild Ivana."

</p>

<p>

"Oh! I don't know," replied Thomas with a yawn, real or feigned. "These

people get all sorts of ideas into their silly heads. Do stop twisting

about and go to sleep."

</p>

<p>

At last Dorcas did go to sleep, only to wake up again suddenly and with

great completeness just as the church clock below struck three,

the sound of which she supposed must have roused her. The brilliant

moonlight flooded the room, and as for some reason she felt creepy and

disturbed, Dorcas tried to occupy her mind by reflecting how comfortable

it looked with its new, imported furnishings, very different from that

horrible hut in which they had lived so long.

</p>

<p>

Then her thoughts drifted to more general matters. She was heartily

tired of Sisa-Land, and wished earnestly that her husband could get

a change of station, which the Bishop had hinted to her would not be

impossible&mdash;somewhere nearer to civilisation. Alas! he was so obstinate

that she feared nothing would move him, at any rate until he had

converted "Menzi's herd," who were also obstinate, and remained as

heathen as ever. Indeed why, with their ample means, should they be

condemned to perpetual exile in these barbarous places? Was there not

plenty of work to be done at home, where they might make friends and

live decently?

</p>

<p>

Putting herself and her own wishes aside, this existence was not fair to

Tabitha, who, as she saw, watching her with a mother's eye, was becoming

impregnated with the native atmosphere. She who ought to be at a

Christian school now talked more Zulu than she did English, and was

beginning to look at things from the Zulu point of view and to use their

idioms and metaphors even when speaking her own tongue. She had become

a kind of little chieftainess among these folk, also, Christian and

heathen alike. Indeed, now most of them spoke of her as the Maiden

<i>Inkosikazi</i>, or Chieftainess, and accepted her slightest wish or order

as law, which was by no means the case where Dorcas herself and even

Thomas were concerned.

</p>

<p>

In fact, one or twice they had been driven to make a request through

the child, notably upon an important occasion that had to do with the

transport-riding of their furniture, to avoid its being left for a

couple of months on the farther side of a flooded river. The details

do not matter, but what happened was that when Tabitha intervened

that which had been declared to be impossible proved possible, and the

furniture arrived with wonderful celerity. Moreover, Tabitha made no

request; as Dorcas knew, though she hid it from Thomas, she sent for the

headmen, and when they were seated on the ground before her after their

fashion, Menzi among them, issued an order, saying:

</p>

<p>

"What! Are my parents and I to live like dogs without a kennel or cattle

that lack a winter kraal, because you are idle? Inspan the wagons and

fetch the things or I shall be angry. <i>Hamba</i>&mdash;Go!"

</p>

<p>

Thereon they rose and went without argument, only lifting their

right hands above their heads and murmuring, "<i>Ikosikaas! Umame!</i>

(Chieftainess! Mother!) we hear you." Yes, they called Tabitha "Mother!"

</p>

<p>

It was all very wrong, thought Dorcas, but she supposed, being a pious

little person, that she must bear her burden and trust to Providence to

free her from it, and she closed her eyes to wipe away a tear.

</p>

<p>

When Dorcas opened them again something very strange seemed to have

happened. She felt wide awake, and yet knew that she must be dreaming

because the room had disappeared. There was nothing in sight except the

bare rock upon which the house stood. For instance, she could see the

gorge behind as it used to be before they made it into a garden, for she

recognised some of the very trees that they had cut down. Moreover,

from one of the caves at the end of it issued a procession, a horrible

procession of fierce-looking, savage warriors, with spears and

knobkerries, who between them half dragged, half carried a young woman

and an elderly man.

</p>

<p>

They advanced. They passed within a few feet of her, and observing

the condition of the woman and the man, she saw that these must be led

because for a certain reason they could not see where to go,&mdash;oh! never

mind what she saw.

</p>

<p>

The procession reached the edge of the rock where the railing was, only

now the railing had gone like the house. Then for the first time Dorcas

heard, for hitherto all had seemed to happen in silence.

</p>

<p>

"Die, <i>Umtakati!</i> Die, you wizard, as the King commands, and feed the

river-dwellers," said a deep voice.

</p>

<p>

There followed a struggle, a horrible twisting of shapes, and the

elderly man vanished over the cliff, while a moment later from below

came the noise of a great splash.

</p>

<p>

Next the girl was haled forward, and the words of doom were repeated.

She seemed to break from her murderers and stagger to the edge of the

precipice, crying out:

</p>

<p>

"O Father, I come!"

</p>

<p>

Then, with one blood-curdling shriek, she vanished also, and again

there followed the sound of a great splash that slowly echoed itself to

silence.

</p>

<p>

All had passed away, leaving Dorcas paralysed with terror, and wet with

its dew, so that her night-gear clung to her body. The room was just

as it had been, filled with the soft moonlight and looking very

comfortable.

</p>

<p>

"Thomas!" gasped his wife, "wake up."

</p>

<p>

"I <i>am</i> awake," he answered in his deep voice, which shook a little. "I

have had a bad dream."

</p>

<p>

"What did you dream? Did you see two people thrown from the cliff?"

</p>

<p>

"Something of that sort."

</p>

<p>

"Oh! Thomas, Thomas, I have been in hell. This place is haunted. Don't

talk to me of dreams. Tabitha will have seen and heard too. She will be

driven mad. Come to her."

</p>

<p>

"I think not," answered Thomas.

</p>

<p>

Still he came.

</p>

<p>

At the door of Tabitha's room they found the woman Ivana, wide-eyed,

solemn, silent.

</p>

<p>

"Have you seen or heard anything, Ivana?" asked Thomas.

</p>

<p>

"Yes, Teacher," she answered, "I have seen what I expected to see and

heard what I expected to hear on this night of full moon, but I am

guarded and do not fear."

</p>

<p>

"The child! The child!" said Dorcas.

</p>

<p>

"The <i>Inkosikazi</i> Imba sleeps. Disturb her not."

</p>

<p>

Taking no heed, they thrust past her into the room. There on her little

white bed lay Tabitha fast asleep, and looking like an angel in her

sleep, for a sweet smile played about her mouth, and while they watched

she laughed in her dreams. Then they looked at each other and went back

to their own chamber to spend the rest of the night as may be imagined.

</p>

<p>

Next morning when they emerged, very shaken and upset, the first person

they met was Ivana, who was waiting for them with their coffee.

</p>

<p>

"I have a message for you, Teacher and Lady. Never mind who sends it, I

have a message for you to which you will do well to give heed. Sleep no

more in this house on the night of full moon, though all other nights

will be good for you. Only the little Chieftainess Imba ought to sleep

in this house on the night of full moon."

</p>

<p>

So indeed it proved to be. No suburban villa could have been more

commonplace and less disturbed than was their dwelling for twenty-seven

nights of every month, but on the twenty-eighth they found a change of

air desirable. Once it is true the stalwart Thomas, like Ajax, defied

the lightning, or rather other things that come from above&mdash;or from

below. But before morning he appeared at the hut beneath the koppie

announcing that he had come to see how they were getting on, and shaking

as though he had a bout of fever.

</p>

<p>

Dorcas asked him no questions (afterwards she gathered that he had

been favoured with quite a new and very varied midnight programme); but

Tabitha smiled in her slow way. For Tabitha knew all about this business

as she knew everything that passed in Sisa-Land. Moreover, she laughed

at them a little, and said that <i>she</i> was not afraid to sleep in the

mission-house on the night of full moon.

</p>

<p>

What is more, she did so, which was naughty of her, for on one such

occasion she slipped back to the house when her parents were asleep,

followed only by her "night-dog," the watchful Ivana, and returned

at dawn just as they had discovered that she was missing, singing and

laughing and jumping from stone to stone with the agility of her own pet

goat.

</p>

<p>

"I slept beautifully," she cried, "and dreamed I was in heaven all

night."

</p>

<p>

Thomas was furious and rated her till she wept. Then suddenly Ivana

became furious too and rated him.

</p>

<p>

Should he be wrath with the Little Chieftainess Imba, she asked him,

because the <i>Isitunzis</i>, the spirits of the dead, loved her as did

everything else? Did they not understand that the Floweret was unlike

them, one adored of dead and living, one to be cherished even in her

dreams, one whom "Heaven Above," together with those who had "gone

below," built round with a wall of spells?&mdash;and more of such talk,

which Thomas thought so horrible and blasphemous that he fled before its

torrent.

</p>

<p>

But when he came back calmer he said no more to Tabitha about her

escapade.

</p>

<p>

It was a long while afterwards, at the beginning of the great drought,

that another terrible thing happened. On a certain calm and beautiful

day Tabitha, who still grew and flourished, had taken some of the

Christian children to a spot on the farther side of the koppie, where

stood an old fortification originally built for purposes of defence.

Here, among the ancient walls, with the assistance of the natives, she

had made a kind of summer-house as children love to do, and in this

house, like some learned eastern pundit in a cell, a very pretty pundit

crowned with a wreath of flowers, she sat upon the ground and instructed

the infant mind of Sisa-Land.

</p>

<p>

She was supposed to be telling them Bible stories to prepare them

for their Sunday School examination, which, indeed, she did with

embellishments and in their own poetic and metaphorical fashion. The

particular tale upon which she was engaged, by a strange coincidence,

was that from the Acts which narrates how St. Paul was bitten by a viper

upon the Island of Melita, and how he shook it off into the fire and

took no hurt.

</p>

<p>

"He must have been like Menzi," said Ivana, who was present, whereon

Tabitha's other attendant, who was also with her as it was daytime,

started an argument, for being a Christian she was no friend to Menzi,

whom she called a "dirty old witch-doctor."

</p>

<p>

Tabitha, who was used to these disputations, listened smiling, and while

she listened amused herself by trying to thrust a stone into a hole in

the side of her summer-house, which was formed by one of the original

walls of the old kraal.

</p>

<p>

Presently she uttered a scream, and snatched her arm out of the hole. To

it, or rather to her hand, was hanging a great hooded snake of the cobra

variety such as the Boers call <i>ringhals</i>. She shook it off, and the

reptile, after sitting up, spitting, hissing and expanding its hood,

glided back into the wall. Tabitha sat still, staring at her lacerated

finger, which Ivana seized and sucked.

</p>

<p>

Then, bidding one of the oldest of the children to take her place

and continue sucking, Ivana ran to a high rock a few yards away which

overlooked Menzi's kraal, that lay upon a plain at a distance of about a

quarter of a mile, and called out in the low, ringing voice that Kaffirs

can command, which carries to an enormous distance.

</p>

<p>

"Awake, O Menzi! Come, O Doctor, and bring with you your <i>Dawa</i>. The

little Chieftainess is bitten in the finger by a hooded snake. The

Floweret withers! Imba dies!"

</p>

<p>

Almost instantly there was a disturbance in the kraal and Menzi

appeared, following by a man carrying a bag. He cried back in the same

strange voice:

</p>

<p>

"I hear. I come. Tie string or grass round the lady Imba's finger below

the bite. Tie it hard till she screams with pain."

</p>

<p>

Meanwhile the Christian nurse had rushed off over the crest of the

koppie to fetch Thomas and Dorcas, or either of them. As it chanced she

met them both walking to join Tabitha in her bower, and thus it came

about that they reached the place at the same moment as did old Menzi

bounding up the rocks like a <i>klipspringer</i> buck, or a mountain sheep.

Hearing him, Thomas turned in the narrow gateway of the kraal and asked

wildly:

</p>

<p>

"What has happened, Witch-doctor?"

</p>

<p>

"This has happened, White-man," answered Menzi, "the Floweret has been

bitten by a hooded snake and is about to die. Look at her," and he

pointed to Tabitha, who notwithstanding the venom sucking and the grass

tied round her blackened finger, sat huddled-up, shivering and half

comatose.

</p>

<p>

"Let me pass, White-man, that I may save her if I can," he went on.

</p>

<p>

"Get back," said Thomas, "I will have none of your black magic practised

on my daughter. If she is to live God will save her."

</p>

<p>

"What medicines have you, White-man?" asked Menzi.

</p>

<p>

"None, at least not here. Faith is my medicine."

</p>

<p>

Dorcas looked at Tabitha. She was turning blue and her teeth were

chattering.

</p>

<p>

"Let the man do his best," she said to Thomas. "There is no other hope."

</p>

<p>

"He shan't touch her," replied her husband obstinately.

</p>

<p>

Then Dorcas fired up, meek-natured though she was and accustomed though

she was to obey her husband's will.

</p>

<p>

"I say that he shall," she cried. "I know what he can do. Don't you

remember the goat? I will not see my child die as a sacrifice to your

pride."

</p>

<p>

"I have made up my mind," answered Thomas. "If she dies it is so

decreed, and the spells and filth of a heathen cannot save her."

</p>

<p>

Dorcas tried to thrust him aside with her feeble strength, but big and

burly, he stood in the path like a rock, blocking the way, with the

stone entrance walls of the little pleasure-house on either side of him.

</p>

<p>

Suddenly the old Zulu, Menzi, became rather terrible; he drew himself

up; he seemed to swell in size; his thin face grew set and fierce.

</p>

<p>

"Out of the path, White-man!" he said, "or by Chaka's head I will kill

you," and from somewhere he produced a long, thin-bladed knife of native

iron fixed on a buck's horn.

</p>

<p>

"Kill on, Wizard," shouted Thomas. "Kill if you can."

</p>

<p>

"Listen," said Dorcas. "If our daughter dies because of you, then I have

done with you. We part for ever. Do you understand?"

</p>

<p>

"Yes, I understand," he answered heavily. "So be it."

</p>

<p>

Tabitha behind them made some convulsive noise. Thomas turned and looked

at her; she was slowly sinking down upon her side. His face changed. All

the rage and obstinacy went out of it.

</p>

<p>

"My child! Oh, my child!" he cried, "I cannot bear this. Love is

stronger than all. When I come up for judgment, may it be remembered

that love is stronger than all!"

</p>

<p>

Then he stepped out of the gateway, and sat down upon a stone hiding his

eyes with his hand.

</p>

<p>

Menzi threw down the knife and leapt in, followed by his servant who

bore his medicines, and the woman Ivana. He did his office; he uttered

his spells and invocations, he rubbed <i>Dawa</i> into the wound, and prising

open the child's clenched teeth, thrust more of it, a great deal more,

down her throat, while all three of them rubbed her cold limbs.

</p>

<p>

About half an hour afterwards he came out of the place followed by

Ivana, who carried Tabitha in her strong arms; Tabitha was very weak,

but smiling, and with the colour returning to her cheeks. Of Thomas he

took no notice, but to Dorcas he said:

</p>

<p>

"Lady, I give you back your daughter. She is saved. Let her drink milk

and sleep."

</p>

<p>

Then Thomas, whose judgment and charity were shaken for a while, spoke,

saying:

</p>

<p>

"As a man and a father I thank you, Witch-doctor, but know that as a

priest I swear that I will never have more to do with you, who, I am

sure, by your arts, can command these reptiles to work your will and

have planned all this to shame me. No, not even if you lay dying would I

come to visit you."

</p>

<p>

Thus stormed Thomas in his wrath and humiliation, believing that he had

been the victim of a plot and not knowing that he would live bitterly to

regret his words.

</p>

<p>

"I see that you hate me, Teacher," said Menzi, "and though here I do not

find the gentleness you preach, I do not wonder; it is quite

natural. Were I you I should do the same. But you are Little Flower's

father&mdash;strange that she should have grown from such a seed&mdash;and though

we fight, for that reason I cannot hate you. Be not disturbed. Perhaps

it was the sucking of the wound and the grass tied round her finger

which saved her, not my spells and medicine. No, no, I cannot hate you,

although we fight for mastery, and you pelt me with vile words, saying

that I charmed a deadly <i>immamba</i> to bite Little Flower whom I love,

that I might cure her and make a mock of you. Yet I do hate that snake

which bit the maiden Imba of its own wickedness, the hooded <i>immamba</i>

that you believe to be my familiar, and it shall die. Man," here he

turned to his servant, "and you, Ivana and the others, pull down that

wall."

</p>

<p>

They leapt to do his bidding, and presently discovered the <i>ringhals</i> in

its hole. Heedless of its fangs and writhings, Menzi sprang at it with

a Zulu curse, and seizing it, proceeded to kill it in a very slow and

cruel fashion.

</p>

<center>

VI

</center>

<p>

The great drought fell upon Sisa-Land like a curse from Heaven. For

month after month the sun beat fiercely, the sky was as brass, and no

rain fell. Even the dews seemed to depart. The springs dried up. The

river Ukufa, the river called Death, ceased to flow, so that water

could only be found in its deepest hollows. The pool beneath the Rock

of Evildoers, the Death Rock, sank till the bones of those who had been

murdered there many years before appeared as the crocodiles had left

them. Cattle died because there was no grass; cows ceased to give their

milk even where they could be partially fed and watered, so that the

little children died also. Even in the dampest situations the crops

withered, till at last it became certain that unless rain fell within a

month, before another cold season had gone by there would be starvation

everywhere. For the drought was widespread, and therefore corn could not

be sent from other districts, even if there were cattle to draw it.

</p>

<p>

Every day Thomas put up prayers for rain in the church, and on two

occasions held special services for this purpose. These were better

attended than any others had ever been, because his congregation felt

that the matter was extremely urgent, affecting them all, and that now

was the time when, whatever happened to the heathen, good Christians

like themselves should be rewarded.

</p>

<p>

However this did not chance, since the drought went on as fiercely as

before.

</p>

<p>

Menzi was, of course, a rain-doctor, a "Heaven-herd" of the highest

distinction; one who, it was reputed, could by his magic cause the

most brazen sky to melt in tears. His services had been called in by

neighbouring tribes, with the result, it was rumoured, that those tribes

had been rewarded with partial showers. Also with great ceremony he had

gone through his rites for the benefit of the heathen section of the

Sisa people. Behold! by some curious accident on the following day

a thunderstorm had come up, and with it a short deluge of rain which

sufficed to make it certain that the crops in those fields on which it

fell would keep alive, at any rate for a while.

</p>

<p>

But mark what happened. As is not uncommon in the case of thunder

showers, this rain fell upon the lands which the heathen cultivated on

one side of the koppie, whereas those that belonged to the Christian

section upon the other side received not a single drop. The unjust were

bedewed, the just were left dry as bones. All that they received was the

lightning, which killed an old man, one of the best Christians in the

place. The limits of the torrent might have been marked off with a line.

When it had passed, to the heathen right stood pools of water; to the

Christian left there was nothing but blowing dust.

</p>

<p>

Now these Christians, weak-kneed some of them, began to murmur,

especially those who, having passed through a similar experience in

their youth, remembered what starvation meant in that country. Religion,

they reflected, was all very well, but without mealies they could

not live, and without Kaffir corn there would be no beer. Indeed,

metaphorically, before long they passed from murmurs to shouting,

and their shouts said this: Menzi must be invited to celebrate a

rain-service in his own fashion for the benefit of the entire tribe.

</p>

<p>

Thomas argued in vain. He grew angry; he called them names which

doubtless they deserved; he said that they were spiritual outcasts. By

this time, being frantic, his flock did not care what he said. Either

Menzi must come, they explained, or they would turn heathen. The Great

One in the sky could work as well through Menzi as through him, Tombool

or anybody else. Menzi <i>must</i> come.

</p>

<p>

Thomas threatened to excommunicate them all, a menace which did not

amount to much as they were already excommunicating themselves, and when

they remained obstinate, told them that he would have nothing to do with

this rain-making business, which was unholy and repugnant to him. He

told them, moreover, that he was certain that their wickedness would

bring some judgment upon them, in which he proved to be right.

</p>

<p>

The end of it was that Menzi was summoned, and arrived with a triumphant

smile, saying that he was certain he could put everything in order, and

that soon they would have plenty of rain, that is, if they all attended

his invocations and made him presents suitable to so great an occasion.

</p>

<p>

The result was that they did attend them, man, woman and child, seated

in a circle in that same old kraal where the witch-doctor had so

marvellously shown pictures upon the smoke. Each of them also brought

his gift in his hand, or, if it were a living thing, drove it before

him.

</p>

<p>

Thomas went down and addressed them in the midst of a sullen silence,

calling them wicked and repeating his belief that they would bring a

judgment on their own heads, they who were worshipping Baal and making

offerings to his priest.

</p>

<p>

After he had talked himself hoarse, Menzi said mildly that if the

Teacher Tombool had finished he would get to business. Why should the

Teacher be angry because he, Menzi, offered to do what the Teacher could

not&mdash;save the land from starving? And as for the gifts to himself, did

not White Teachers also receive pay and offerings at certain feasts?

</p>

<p>

Then, making a gesture of despair, Thomas returned to his house, and

with Dorcas and Tabitha watched the savage ceremony from the edge of

the cliff that overhung the river, or rather what had been the river.

He could not see much of it because they were too far away, but he

perceived those apostate Christians prostrating themselves at Menzi's

order, probably, he reflected, to make prayers to the devil. In fact

they were not doing this, but only repeating Menzi's magical chants with

appropriate gestures, as for countless ages their forefathers had done

upon similar occasions.

</p>

<p>

Next an unfortunate black goat was dragged forward by the horns, a very

thin black goat, and its throat was cut over a little fire, a sacrifice

that suggested necromancy of the most Satanic sort.

</p>

<p>

After this Thomas and his family went back into the house and shut the

windows, that they might not hear the unholy shoutings of the misguided

mob. When they went out again Menzi had departed, and so had the others.

The place was empty.

</p>

<p>

The following day was Sunday, and Thomas locked the church on the

inner side, and read the service with Dorcas and Tabitha for sole

congregation. It was a melancholy business, for some sense of evil

seemed to hang over all three of them, also over everybody else, for the

Christians went about with dejected looks and not one person spoke to

them. Only Ivana came at night as usual to sleep with Tabitha, though

even she said nothing.

</p>

<p>

Next morning they woke up to find the heavens black with clouds, heavy,

ominous clouds; the truth being that the drought was drawing to its

natural end. Thomas noted this, and reflected bitterly how hard it was

that this end should not have come twenty-four hours earlier. But so

events had been decreed and he was helpless.

</p>

<p>

By midday it began to rain, lightly at first, and from his rock he could

see the people, looking unnatural and distorted in that strange gloom,

for the clouds had descended almost to the earth, rushing about, holding

out their hands as though to clasp the blessed moisture and talking

excitedly one to the other. Soon they were driven into their huts, for

the rain turned into a kind of waterspout. Never had such rain been

known in Sisa-Land.

</p>

<p>

All that afternoon it poured, and all the night with ever-increasing

violence; yes, and all the following morning, so that by noon

Thomas's rain-gauge showed that over twelve inches had fallen in about

twenty-four hours, and it was still raining. Water rushed down from the

koppie; even their well-built house could not keep out the wet, and, to

the despair of Dorcas, several of the rooms were flooded and some of

the new furniture was spoiled. The river beneath had become a raging

torrent, and was rising every hour. Already it was over its banks, and

the water had got into the huts of the Chief's kraal and the village

round it, so that their occupants were obliged to seek safety upon the

lower rocks of the koppie, where they sat shivering in the wet.

</p>

<p>

Night came at last, and through the darkness they heard cries as of

people in distress. The long hours wore away till dawn, a melancholy

dawn, for still it rained, though more lightly now, and no sun could be

seen.

</p>

<p>

"Father," cried Tabitha, who, clad in oilskins, had gone a little way

down the road, "come here and look."

</p>

<p>

He went. The child pointed to the village below, or rather what had

been the village, for now there was none. It had gone and with it Kosa's

kraal; the site was a pool, the huts had vanished, all of them, and some

of the roofs lay upon the sides of the koppie, looking like overturned

coracles. Only the church and the graveyard remained, for those stood on

slightly higher ground by the banks of the river.

</p>

<p>

A little while later a miserable and dejected crowd arrived at the

mission-house, wrapped up in blankets or anything else that they had

managed to save.

</p>

<p>

"What do you want?" asked Thomas.

</p>

<p>

"Teacher," replied the Chief Kosa, with twitching face and rolling eyes,

"we want you to come down to the church and pray for us. Our houses are

gone, our fields are washed away. We want you to come to pray for us,

for more rain is gathering on the hills and we are afraid."

</p>

<p>

"You mean that you are cold and wish to take refuge in the church, of

which I have the key. You have sought rain and now you have got rain,

such rain as you deserve. Why do you complain? Go to your witch-doctor

and ask him to save you."

</p>

<p>

"Teacher, come down to the church and pray for us," they wailed.

</p>

<p>

In the end Thomas went, for his heart was moved to pity, and Dorcas and

Tabitha went with him.

</p>

<p>

They entered the church, wading to it through several inches of water,

and the service of intercession began, attended by every Christian

in the place&mdash;except a few who were drowned&mdash;a miserable and heartily

repentant crowd.

</p>

<p>

While it was still in progress suddenly there was a commotion, and

Menzi himself rushed into the church. It was the first time he had ever

entered there.

</p>

<p>

"Come forth!" he cried. "Come forth if you would save your lives. The

water has eaten away the ground underneath this Heaven-house. It falls!

I say it falls!"

</p>

<p>

Then he peered about him in the shadowed place till he found Tabitha.

Leaping at her, he threw his long thin arms round her and bore her from

the church. The others began to follow swiftly, and as Menzi passed the

door carrying Tabitha, there came a dreadful rending sound, and one of

the walls opened, letting in the light.

</p>

<p>

All fled forth, Thomas still in his surplice and his soul filled with

bitterness, for as he went it came into his mind that this must be a

farewell to that cherished church reared with so much love, cost and

labour.

</p>

<p>

Outside the building on a patch of higher land, an upthrown plateau of

rock, where presently all gathered beyond the reach of the waters, stood

Menzi and Tabitha. Thomas looked at him and said:

</p>

<p>

"Doubtless you think that your spells have worked well, Witch-doctor,

for see the ruin about us. Yet I hold otherwise, and say, 'Wait till the

end!' To set a rock rolling down a hill is easy for those who have the

strength. But who knows on whom it will fall at last?"

</p>

<p>

"You speak foolishly, Teacher," answered Menzi. "I do not think that my

spells have worked well, for something stronger than I am has spoiled

them. Mayhap it is you, Teacher, or the <i>Great-Great</i> whom you serve in

your own fashion. I do not know, but I pray you to remember that long

since on the smoke of my magic fire I showed you what would come about

if you re-built the Heaven-house upon this place. But you said I was a

cheat and would not be warned. Therefore things have gone as the Spirits

appointed that they should go. Your Christians made me gifts and asked

me to bring rain and it has come in plenty, and with it other things,

more than you asked. Look," and he pointed downwards.

</p>

<p>

The church was falling. Its last foundations were washed away. Down it

came with a mighty crash, to melt into the flood that presently filled

the place where it had been. Its collapse and the noise of it were

terrible, so terrible that the Christians gathered on the rock uttered

a heart-rending wail of woe. The spire, being built upon a deeper bed

because of its weight, stood longer than the rest of the fabric, but

presently it went also.

</p>

<p>

Thrice it seemed to bow towards them, then it fell like a child's

castle. Reckoning its height with his eye, Thomas saw that it could not

reach them where they stood, and so did the others, therefore no one

stirred. As the tower collapsed the clock sounded the first stroke of

the hour, then suddenly became silent for ever and vanished beneath the

waters, a mass of broken metal.

</p>

<p>

But the bell on which it had struck was hurled forward by the sway of

the fall like a stone from a sling. It sped towards them through the

air, a great dark object. Men ran this way and that, so that it fell

upon the rock where none stood. It fell; it flew to pieces like an

exploding shell, and its fragments hurtled over them with a screaming

sound. Yet as it chanced the tongue or clapper of it took a lower

course, perhaps because it was heavier, and rushing onwards like a

thrown spear, struck Menzi full upon the chest, crushing in his breast

bone.

</p>

<p>

They bore him up to the mission-house, since there was nowhere else

whither he could be taken. Here they laid him on a bed, leaving the

woman, Ivana, to watch him, for they had no skill to deal with such

injuries as his. Indeed, they thought him dead.

</p>

<p>

For a long while Menzi lay senseless, but after night had fallen his

mind returned to him and he bade Ivana bring Tabitha to him, Tabitha and

no one else. If she could not or would not come, then Ivana must bring

no one else, for if she did he would curse her and die at once.

</p>

<p>

There were discussions and remonstrances, but in the end Tabitha was

allowed to go, for after all a fellow-creature was dying, and this was

his last wish. She came, and Menzi received her smiling. Yes, he smiled

and saluted her with shaking but uplifted arm, naming her <i>Inkosikazi</i>

and <i>Umame</i>, or Mother.

</p>

<p>

"Welcome, Maiden Imba. Welcome, Little Flower," he said. "I wish to say

good-bye to you and to bless you; also to endow you with my Spirit, that

it may guard you throughout your life till you are as I am. I have hated

some of the others, but I have always loved you, Little Flower."

</p>

<p>

"And I have loved you too, Menzi," said Tabitha, with a sob.

</p>

<p>

"I know, I know! We witch-doctors read hearts. But do not weep, Little

Flower. Why should you for such as I, a black man, a mere savage cheat,

as your father named me? Yet I have not been altogether a cheat, O Imba,

though sometimes I used tricks like other doctors, for I have a strength

of my own which your white people will never understand, because they

are too young to understand. It only comes to the old folk who have

been since the beginning of the world, and remain as they were at the

beginning. I have been wicked, Little Flower, according to your white

law. I have killed men and done many other things that are according to

the law of my own people, and by that law I look for judgment. Yet, O

Imba, I will say this&mdash;that I believe your law to be higher and better

than my law. Has it not been shown to-day, since of all that were

gathered on the rock yonder I alone was struck down and in the hour of

my victory? The strongest law must be the best law, is it not so? Tell

me, Little Flower, would it please you if I died a Christian?"

</p>

<p>

"Yes, very much," said Tabitha, fixing upon this point at once and by

instinct avoiding all the other very doubtful disputations. "I will

bring my father."

</p>

<p>

"Nay, nay, Little Flower. Your father, the Teacher Tombool, swore in his

wrath that he would not come to visit me even if I lay dying, and now

that I am dying he shall keep his oath and repent of it day by day till

he too is dying. If I am to die a Christian, you must make me one this

moment; <i>you</i> and no other. Otherwise I go hence a heathen as I have

lived. If you bring your father here I will die at once before he can

touch me, as I have power to do."

</p>

<p>

Then Tabitha, who although so young had strength and understanding and

knew, if she thwarted him, that Menzi would do as he threatened, took

water and made a certain Sign upon the brow of that old witch-doctor,

uttering also certain words that she had often heard used in church at

baptisms.

</p>

<p>

Perhaps she was wrong; perhaps she transgressed and took too much upon

her. Still, being by nature courageous, she ran the risk and did these

things as afterwards Ivana testified to the followers of Menzi.

</p>

<p>

"Thank you, Little Flower," said Menzi. "I do not suppose that this

Christian magic will do me any good, but that you wished it is enough.

It will be a rope to tie us together, Little Flower. Also I have another

thought. When it is known that I became a Christian at the last then, if

<i>you</i> bid them, Little Flower, the 'heathen-herd' will follow where the

bull Menzi went before them. They are but broken sherds and scorched

sticks" (i.e. rubbish) "but they will follow and that will please you,

Little Flower, and your father also."

</p>

<p>

Here Menzi's breath failed, but recovering it, he continued:

</p>

<p>

"Hearken! O Imba! I give my people into your hand; now let your hand

bend the twig as you would have it grow. Make them Christian if you

will, or leave them heathen if you will; I care nothing. They are yours

to drive upon whatever path you choose to set their feet, <i>yours</i>, O

Imba, not Tombool's. Also, I, who lack heirs, give you my cattle, all of

them. Ivana, make known my words, and with them the curse of Menzi, the

King's child, the <i>Umazisi</i>, the Seer, on any who dare to disobey. Say

to those of my House and to my people that henceforth the Maiden Imba is

their lady and their mother."

</p>

<p>

Again he paused a little, then went on:

</p>

<p>

"Now I charge my Spirit to watch over you, Little Flower, till you die

and we come to talk over these matters otherwhere, and my Spirit as it

departs tells me that it will watch well, and that you will be a very

happy woman, Little Flower."

</p>

<p>

He shut his eyes and lay still a while. Then he opened them again and

said:

</p>

<p>

"O Imba, tell your father, the Teacher Tombool, from me that he does not

understand us black people, whom he thinks so common, as you understand

us, Little Flower, and that he would be wise to go to minister to white

ones."

</p>

<p>

After this, once more he smiled at Tabitha and then shut his eyes again

for the last time, and that was the end of the witch-doctor Menzi.

</p>

<p>

It may be added that after he had rebuilt the church for the second

time, and numbered all the "Menzi-herd" among his congregation, which he

did now that "the bull of the herd" was dead, as Menzi had foretold that

he would, if Tabitha, whom he had "wrapped with his blanket," decreed

it, Thomas took the sage advice of his departed enemy.

</p>

<p>

Now, in the after years, he is the must respected if somewhat feared

bishop of white settlers in a remote Dominion of the Crown.

</p>

<p>

Thomas to-day knows more than he used to know, but one thing he has

never learned, namely that it was the hand of a maid, yes, the little

hidden hand of Tabitha, that drove all "Menzi's herd" into the gates of

the "Heavenly Kraal," as some of them named his church.

</p>

<p>

For Tabitha knew when to be silent. Perhaps the Kaffirs, whose minds she

could read as an open book, taught her this; or perhaps it was one of

the best gifts to her of old Menzi's "Spirit," into whose care he passed

her with so much formality.

</p>

<p>

This is the story of the great fight between Thomas Bull the missionary

and Menzi the witch-doctor, who was led by his love of a little child

whither he never wished to go; not for his own soul's sake, but just

because of that little child.

</p>

<p>

Menzi did not care about his soul, but, being so strange a man, for some

reason that he never explained, for Tabitha, his "Little Flower," he

cared very much indeed. That was why he became a Christian at the last,

since in his darkened, spell-bound heart he believed that if he did not,

when she too "went down" he would never find her again.

</p>

<a name="2H_4_0005"><!-- H2 anchor --></a>



<div style="height: 4em;"><br><br><br><br></div>



<h2>

    ONLY A DREAM

</h2>

<p>

Footprints&mdash;footprints&mdash;the footprints of one dead. How ghastly they

look as they fall before me! Up and down the long hall they go, and I

follow them. <i>Pit, pat</i> they fall, those unearthly steps, and beneath

them starts up that awful impress. I can see it grow upon the marble, a

damp and dreadful thing.

</p>

<p>

Tread them down; tread them out; follow after them with muddy shoes,

and cover them up. In vain. See how they rise through the mire! Who can

tread out the footprints of the dead?

</p>

<p>

And so on, up and down the dim vista of the past, following the sound of

the dead feet that wander so restlessly, stamping upon the impress that

will not be stamped out. Rave on, wild wind, eternal voice of human

misery; fall, dead footsteps, eternal echo of human memory; stamp, miry

feet; stamp into forgetfulness that which will not be forgotten.

</p>

<p>

And so on, on to the end.

</p>

<p>

Pretty ideas these for a man about to be married, especially when they

float into his brain at night like ominous clouds into a summer sky, and

he is going to be married to-morrow. There is no mistake about it&mdash;the

wedding, I mean. To be plain and matter-of-fact, why there stand the

presents, or some of them, and very handsome presents they are, ranged

in solemn rows upon the long table. It is a remarkable thing to observe

when one is about to make a really satisfactory marriage how scores of

unsuspected or forgotten friends crop up and send little tokens of their

esteem. It was very different when I married my first wife, I remember,

but then that match was not satisfactory&mdash;just a love-match, no more.

</p>

<p>

There they stand in solemn rows, as I have said, and inspire me with

beautiful thoughts about the innate kindness of human nature, especially

the human nature of our distant cousins. It is possible to grow almost

poetical over a silver teapot when one is going to be married to-morrow.

On how many future mornings shall I be confronted with that tea-pot?

Probably for all my life; and on the other side of the teapot will be

the cream jug, and the electro-plated urn will hiss away behind them

both. Also the chased sugar basin will be in front, full of sugar, and

behind everything will be my second wife.

</p>

<p>

"My dear," she will say, "will you have another cup of tea?" and

probably I shall have another cup.

</p>

<p>

Well, it is very curious to notice what ideas will come into a man's

head sometimes. Sometimes something waves a magic wand over his

being, and from the recesses of his soul dim things arise and walk. At

unexpected moments they come, and he grows aware of the issues of

his mysterious life, and his heart shakes and shivers like a

lightning-shattered tree. In that drear light all earthly things seem

far, and all unseen things draw near and take shape and awe him, and he

knows not what is true and what is false, neither can he trace the edge

that marks off the Spirit from the Life. Then it is that the footsteps

echo, and the ghostly footprints will not be stamped out.

</p>

<p>

Pretty thoughts again! and how persistently they come! It is one o'clock

and I will go to bed. The rain is falling in sheets outside. I can hear

it lashing against the window panes, and the wind wails through the tall

wet elms at the end of the garden. I could tell the voice of those elms

anywhere; I know it as well as the voice of a friend. What a night it

is; we sometimes get them in this part of England in October. It was

just such a night when my first wife died, and that is three years ago.

I remember how she sat up in her bed.

</p>

<p>

"Ah! those horrible elms," she said; "I wish you would have them cut

down, Frank; they cry like a woman," and I said I would, and just after

that she died, poor dear. And so the old elms stand, and I like their

music. It is a strange thing; I was half broken-hearted, for I loved her

dearly, and she loved me with all her life and strength, and now&mdash;I am

going to be married again.

</p>

<p>

"Frank, Frank, don't forget me!" Those were my wife's last words; and,

indeed, though I am going to be married again to-morrow, I have not

forgotten her. Nor shall I forget how Annie Guthrie (whom I am going to

marry now) came to see her the day before she died. I know that Annie

always liked me more or less, and I think that my dear wife guessed it.

After she had kissed Annie and bid her a last good-bye, and the door had

closed, she spoke quite suddenly: "There goes your future wife, Frank,"

she said; "you should have married her at first instead of me; she is

very handsome and very good, and she has two thousand a year; <i>she</i>

would never have died of a nervous illness." And she laughed a little,

and then added:

</p>

<p>

"Oh, Frank dear, I wonder if you will think of me before you marry Annie

Guthrie. Wherever I am I shall be thinking of you."

</p>

<p>

And now that time which she foresaw has come, and Heaven knows that I

have thought of her, poor dear. Ah! those footsteps of one dead that

will echo through our lives, those woman's footprints on the marble

flooring which will not be stamped out. Most of us have heard and

seen them at some time or other, and I hear and see them very plainly

to-night. Poor dead wife, I wonder if there are any doors in the land

where you have gone through which you can creep out to look at me

to-night? I hope that there are none. Death must indeed be a hell if the

dead can see and feel and take measure of the forgetful faithlessness of

their beloved. Well, I will go to bed and try to get a little rest. I

am not so young or so strong as I was, and this wedding wears me out. I

wish that the whole thing were done or had never been begun.

</p>

<p>

What was that? It was not the wind, for it never makes that sound here,

and it was not the rain, since the rain has ceased its surging for a

moment; nor was it the howling of a dog, for I keep none. It was more

like the crying of a woman's voice; but what woman can be abroad on such

a night or at such an hour&mdash;half-past one in the morning?

</p>

<p>

There it is again&mdash;a dreadful sound; it makes the blood turn chill, and

yet has something familiar about it. It is a woman's voice calling round

the house. There, she is at the window now, and rattling it, and, great

heavens! she is calling me.

</p>

<p>

"Frank! Frank! Frank!" she calls.

</p>

<p>

I strive to stir and unshutter that window, but before I can get there

she is knocking and calling at another.

</p>

<p>

Gone again, with her dreadful wail of "Frank! Frank!" Now I hear her at

the front door, and, half mad with a horrible fear, I run down the long,

dark hall and unbar it. There is nothing there&mdash;nothing but the wild

rush of the wind and the drip of the rain from the portico. But I

can hear the wailing voice going round the house, past the patch of

shrubbery. I close the door and listen. There, she has got through the

little yard, and is at the back door now. Whoever it is, she must know

the way about the house. Along the hall I go again, through a swing

door, through the servants' hall, stumbling down some steps into the

kitchen, where the embers of the fire are still alive in the grate,

diffusing a little warmth and light into the dense gloom.

</p>

<p>

Whoever it is at the door is knocking now with her clenched hand against

the hard wood, and it is wonderful, though she knocks so low, how the

sound echoes through the empty kitchens.

</p>

<hr>

<p>

There I stood and hesitated, trembling in every limb; I dared not open

the door. No words of mine can convey the sense of utter desolation that

overpowered me. I felt as though I were the only living man in the whole

world.

</p>

<p>

"<i>Frank! Frank!</i>" cries the voice with the dreadful familiar ring in it.

"Open the door; I am so cold. I have so little time."

</p>

<p>

My heart stood still, and yet my hands were constrained to obey. Slowly,

slowly I lifted the latch and unbarred the door, and, as I did so, a

great rush of air snatched it from my hands and swept it wide. The black

clouds had broken a little overhead, and there was a patch of blue,

rain-washed sky with just a star or two glimmering in it fitfully. For

a moment I could only see this bit of sky, but by degrees I made out the

accustomed outline of the great trees swinging furiously against it,

and the rigid line of the coping of the garden wall beneath them. Then a

whirling leaf hit me smartly on the face, and instinctively I dropped

my eyes on to something that as yet I could not distinguish&mdash;something

small and black and wet.

</p>

<p>

"What are you?" I gasped. Somehow I seemed to feel that it was not a

person&mdash;I could not say, <i>Who</i> are you?

</p>

<p>

"Don't you know me?" wailed the voice, with the far-off familiar ring

about it. "And I mayn't come in and show myself. I haven't the time. You

were so long opening the door, Frank, and I am so cold&mdash;oh, so bitterly

cold! Look there, the moon is coming out, and you will be able to see

me. I suppose that you long to see me, as I have longed to see you."

</p>

<p>

As the figure spoke, or rather wailed, a moonbeam struggled through the

watery air and fell on it. It was short and shrunken, the figure of a

tiny woman. Also it was dressed in black and wore a black covering over

the whole head, shrouding it, after the fashion of a bridal veil. From

every part of this veil and dress the water fell in heavy drops.

</p>

<p>

The figure bore a small basket on her left arm, and her hand&mdash;such a

poor thin little hand&mdash;gleamed white in the moonlight. I noticed that

on the third finger was a red line, showing that a wedding-ring had

once been there. The other hand was stretched towards me as though in

entreaty.

</p>

<p>

All this I saw in an instant, as it were, and as I saw it, horror seemed

to grip me by the throat as though it were a living thing, for as the

voice had been familiar, so was the form familiar, though the churchyard

had received it long years ago. I could not speak&mdash;I could not even

move.

</p>

<p>

"Oh, don't you know me yet?" wailed the voice; "and I have come from so

far to see you, and I cannot stop. Look, look," and she began to pluck

feverishly with her poor thin hand at the black veil that enshrouded

her. At last it came off, and, as in a dream, I saw what in a dim frozen

way I had expected to see&mdash;the white face and pale yellow hair of my

dead wife. Unable to speak or to stir, I gazed and gazed. There was no

mistake about it, it was she, ay, even as I had last seen her, white

with the whiteness of death, with purple circles round her eyes and the

grave-cloth yet beneath her chin. Only her eyes were wide open and fixed

upon my face; and a lock of the soft yellow hair had broken loose, and

the wind tossed it.

</p>

<p>

"You know me now, Frank&mdash;don't you, Frank? It has been so hard to come

to see you, and so cold! But you are going to be married to-morrow,

Frank; and I promised&mdash;oh, a long time ago&mdash;to think of you when you

were going to be married wherever I was, and I have kept my promise, and

I have come from where I am and brought a present with me. It was bitter

to die so young! I was so young to die and leave you, but I had to go.

Take it&mdash;take it; be quick, I cannot stay any longer. <i>I could not give

you my life, Frank, so I have brought you my death&mdash;take it!</i>"

</p>

<p>

The figure thrust the basket into my hand, and as it did so the rain

came up again, and began to obscure the moonlight.

</p>

<p>

"I must go, I must go," went on the dreadful, familiar voice, in a cry

of despair. "Oh, why were you so long opening the door? I wanted to

talk to you before you married Annie; and now I shall never see you

again&mdash;never! never! <i>never!</i> I have lost you for ever! ever! <i>ever!</i>"

</p>

<p>

As the last wailing notes died away the wind came down with a rush and

a whirl and the sweep as of a thousand wings, and threw me back into the

house, bringing the door to with a crash after me.

</p>

<p>

I staggered into the kitchen, the basket in my hand, and set it on the

table. Just then some embers of the fire fell in, and a faint little

flame rose and glimmered on the bright dishes on the dresser, even

revealing a tin candlestick, with a box of matches by it. I was

well-nigh mad with the darkness and fear, and, seizing the matches,

I struck one, and held it to the candle. Presently it caught, and I

glanced round the room. It was just as usual, just as the servants

had left it, and above the mantelpiece the eight-day clock ticked away

solemnly. While I looked at it it struck two, and in a dim fashion I was

thankful for its friendly sound.

</p>

<p>

Then I looked at the basket. It was of very fine white plaited work with

black bands running up it, and a chequered black-and-white handle. I

knew it well. I have never seen another like it. I bought it years

ago at Madeira, and gave it to my poor wife. Ultimately it was washed

overboard in a gale in the Irish Channel. I remember that it was full of

newspapers and library books, and I had to pay for them. Many and many

is the time that I have seen that identical basket standing there on

that very kitchen table, for my dear wife always used it to put flowers

in, and the shortest cut from that part of the garden where her roses

grew was through the kitchen. She used to gather the flowers, and then

come in and place her basket on the table, just where it stood now, and

order the dinner.

</p>

<p>

All this passed through my mind in a few seconds as I stood there with

the candle in my hand, feeling indeed half dead, and yet with my mind

painfully alive. I began to wonder if I had gone asleep, and was

the victim of a nightmare. No such thing. I wish it had only been a

nightmare. A mouse ran out along the dresser and jumped on to the floor,

making quite a crash in the silence.

</p>

<p>

What was in the basket? I feared to look, and yet some power within

me forced me to it. I drew near to the table and stood for a moment

listening to the sound of my own heart. Then I stretched out my hand and

slowly raised the lid of the basket.

</p>

<p>

"I could not give you my life, so I have brought you my death!" Those

were her words. What could she mean&mdash;what could it all mean? I must know

or I would go mad. There it lay, whatever it was, wrapped up in linen.

</p>

<p>

Ah, heaven help me! It was a small bleached human skull!

</p>

<p>

A dream! After all, only a dream by the fire, but what a dream! And I am

to be married to-morrow.

</p>

<p>

<i>Can</i> I be married to-morrow?

</p>

<a name="2H_4_0006"><!-- H2 anchor --></a>



<div style="height: 4em;"><br><br><br><br></div>



<h2>

    BARBARA WHO CAME BACK

</h2>

<a name="2HCH0001"><!-- H2 anchor --></a>



<div style="height: 4em;"><br><br><br><br></div>



<h2>

    CHAPTER I

</h2>

<h3>

    THE RECTORY BLIND

</h3>

<p>

This is the tale of Barbara, Barbara who came back to save a soul alive.

</p>

<p>

The Reverend Septimus Walrond was returning from a professional visit to

a distant cottage of his remote and straggling parish upon the coast of

East Anglia. His errand had been sad, to baptise the dying infant of a

fisherman, which just as the rate was finished wailed once feebly and

expired in his arms. The Reverend Septimus was weeping over the sorrows

of the world. Tears ran down his white but rounded face, for he was

stout of habit, and fell upon his clerical coat that was green with age

and threadbare with use. Although the evening was so cold he held his

broad-brimmed hat in his hand, and the wind from the moaning sea tossed

his snow-white hair. He was talking to himself, as was his fashion on

these lonely walks.

</p>

<p>

"I think that fresh milk would have saved that child," he said, "but

how was poor Thomas to buy fresh milk at fourpence a quart? Laid up for

three months as he has been and with six children, how was he to buy

fresh milk? I ought to have given it to him. I could have done without

these new boots till spring, damp feet don't matter to an old man. But I

thought of my own comfort&mdash;the son that doth so easily beset me&mdash;and so

many to clothe and feed at home and poor Barbara, my darling Barbara,

hanging between life and death."

</p>

<p>

He sobbed and wiped away his tears with the back of his hand, then began

to pray, still aloud.

</p>

<p>

"O God of pity, in the name of the loving and merciful Christ, help me

and poor Thomas in our troubles."

</p>

<p>

"I ought to have put Thomas's name first&mdash;my selfishness again," he

ejaculated, then went on:

</p>

<p>

"Give consolation to Thomas who loved his baby, and if it pleases Thee

in Thy infinite wisdom and foresight, spare my dearest Barbara's life,

that she may live out her days upon the earth and perhaps in her turn

give life to others. I know I should not ask it; I know it is better

that she should go and be with Thee in the immortal home Thou hast

prepared for us unhappy, suffering creatures. Yet&mdash;pity my poor human

weakness&mdash;I do ask it. Or if Thou decreest otherwise, then take me also,

O God, for I can bear no more. Four children gone! I can bear no more, O

God."

</p>

<p>

He sobbed again and wiped away another tear, then muttered:

</p>

<p>

"My selfishness, always my selfishness! With six remaining to be looked

after, that is counting Barbara if she still lives, I dare to ask to

be relieved of the burdens of the flesh! Pitiful Christ, visit not my

wickedness on me or on others, and O Thou that didst raise the daughter

of Jairus, save my sweet Barbara and comfort the heart of poor Thomas. I

will have faith. I <i>will</i> have faith."

</p>

<p>

He thrust his hat upon his head, pulling it down over his ears because

of the rough wind, and walked forward quite jauntily for a few yards.

</p>

<p>

"What a comfort these new boots are," he said. "If I had stepped into

that pool with the old ones my left foot would be wet through now. Let

me thank God for these new boots. Oh! how can I, when I remember that

the price of them should have been spent in milk for the poor baby? If

I were really a Christian I ought to take them off and walk barefoot,

as the old pilgrims used to do. They say it is healthy, and I tried

to think so because it is cheap, though I am sure that this was

the beginning of poor little Cicely's last illness. With her broken

chilblains she could not stand the snow; at any rate, the chill struck

upwards. Well, she has been in bliss three years, three whole years, and

how thankful I ought to be for that. How glad she will be to see Barbara

too, if it pleases God in His mercy to take Barbara; she always was her

favourite sister. I ought to remember that; I ought to remember that

what I lose here I gain there, that my store is always growing in

Heaven. But I can't, for I am a man still. Oh! curse it all! I can't,

and like Job I wish I'd never been born. Job got a new family and

was content, but that's their Eastern way. It's different with us

Englishmen."

</p>

<p>

He stumbled on for a hundred yards or more, vacuously, almost drunkenly,

for the hideous agony that he was enduring half paralysed his brain, and

by its very excess was bringing him some temporary relief. He looked at

the raging sea to his right, and in a vague fashion wished that it had

swallowed him. He looked at the kind earth of the ploughed field to his

left, and wished vividly, for the idea was more familiar, that six feet

of it lay above him. Then he remembered that just beyond that sand-heap

he had found a plover's nest with two eggs in it fifty years ago when

he was a boy, and had taken one egg and left the other, or rather had

restored it because the old bird screamed so pitifully about him. In

some strange manner that little, long-forgotten act of righteousness

brought a glow of comfort to his tormented spirit. Perhaps God would

deal so by him.

</p>

<p>

In its way the evening was very beautiful. The cold November day was

dying into night. Clear, clear was the sky save for some black and heavy

snow clouds that floated on it driven before the easterly wind that

piped through the sere grasses and blew the plovers over him as though

they were dead leaves. Where the sun had vanished long bars of purple

lay above the horizon; to his excited fancy they looked like the gateway

of another and a better world, set, as the old Egyptians dreamed, above

the uttermost pylons of the West. What lay there beyond the sun? Oh!

what lay beyond the sun? Perhaps, even now, Barbara knew!

</p>

<p>

A figure appeared standing upon a sand dune between the pathway and the

sea. Septimus was short-sighted and could not tell who it was, but in

this place at this hour doubtless it must be a parishioner, perhaps

one waiting to see him upon some important matter. He must forget his

private griefs. He must strive to steady his shaken mind and attend to

his duties. He drew himself together and walked on briskly.

</p>

<p>

"I wish I had not been obliged to give away Jack," he said. "He was a

great companion, and somehow I always met people with more confidence

when he was with me; he seemed to take away my shyness. But the license

was seven-and-sixpence, and I haven't got seven-and-sixpence; also he

has an excellent home with that stuffy old woman, if a dull one, for he

must miss his walk. Oh! it's you, Anthony. What are you doing here at

this time of night? Your father told me you had a bad cold and there's

so much sickness about. You should be careful, Anthony, you know

you're not too strong, none of you Arnotts are. Well, I suppose you are

shooting, and most young men will risk a great deal in order to kill

God's other creatures."

</p>

<p>

The person addressed, a tall, broad-shouldered, rather pale young man

of about twenty-one, remarkable for his large brown eyes and a certain

sweet expression which contrasted somewhat oddly with the general

manliness of his appearance, lifted his cap and answered:

</p>

<p>

"No, Mr. Walrond, I am not shooting to-night. In fact, I was waiting

here to meet you."

</p>

<p>

"What for, Anthony? Nothing wrong up at the Hall, I hope."

</p>

<p>

"No, Mr. Walrond; why should there be anything wrong there?"

</p>

<p>

"I don't know, I am sure, only as a rule people don't wait for the

parson unless there is something amiss, and there seems to be so much

misfortune in this parish just now. Well, what is it, my boy?"

</p>

<p>

"I want to know about Barbara, Mr. Walrond. They tell me she is very

bad, but I can't get anything definite from the others, I mean from her

sisters. They don't seem to be sure, and the doctor wouldn't say when I

asked him."

</p>

<p>

The Reverend Septimus looked at Anthony and Anthony looked at the

Reverend Septimus, and in that look they learned to understand each

other. The agony that was eating out this poor father's heart was not

peculiar to him; another shared it. In what he would have called his

"wicked selfishness" the Reverend Septimus felt almost grateful for this

sudden revelation. If it is a comfort to share our joys, it is a still

greater comfort to share our torments.

</p>

<p>

"Walk on with me, Anthony," he said. "I must hurry, I have every reason

to hurry. Had it not been a matter of duty I would not have left the

house, but, so to speak, a clergyman has many children; he cannot prefer

one before the other."

</p>

<p>

"Yes, yes," said Anthony, "but what about Barbara? Oh! please tell me at

once."

</p>

<p>

"I can't tell you, Anthony, because I don't know. From here to the crest

of Gunter's Hill," and he pointed to an eminence in front of them, "is a

mile and a quarter. When we get to the crest of Gunter's Hill perhaps

we shall know. I left home two hours ago, and then Barbara lay almost at

the point of death; insensible."

</p>

<p>

"Insensible," muttered Anthony. "Oh! my God, insensible."

</p>

<p>

"Yes," went on the clergyman in a voice of patient resignation. "I don't

understand much about such things, but the inflammation appears to have

culminated that way. Now either she will never wake again, or if she

wakes she may live. At least that is what they tell me, but they may be

wrong. I have so often known doctors to be wrong."

</p>

<p>

They walked on together in silence twenty yards or more. Then he added

as though speaking to himself:

</p>

<p>

"When we reach the top of Gunter's Hill perhaps we shall learn. We can

see her window from there, and if she had passed away I bade them pull

the blind down; if she was about the same, to pull it half down, and if

she were really better, to leave it quite up. I have done that for two

nights now, so that I might have a little time to prepare myself. It is

a good plan, though very trying to a father's heart. Yesterday I stood

for quite a while with my eyes fixed upon the ground, not daring to look

and learn the truth."

</p>

<p>

Anthony groaned, and once more the old man went on:

</p>

<p>

"She is a very unselfish girl, Barbara, or perhaps I should say

was, perhaps I should say was. That is how she caught this horrible

inflammation. Three weeks ago she and her sister Janey went for a long

walk to the Ness, to&mdash;to&mdash;oh! I forget why they went. Well, it came on

to pour with rain; and just as they had started for home, fortunately,

or rather unfortunately, old Stevens the farmer overtook them on his

way back from market and offered them a lift. They got into the cart

and Barbara took off the mackintosh that her aunt gave her last

Christmas&mdash;it is the only one in the house, since such things are too

costly for me to buy&mdash;and put it over Janey, who had a cold. It was

quite unnecessary, for Janey was warmly wrapped up, while Barbara had

nothing under the mackintosh except a summer dress. That is how she

caught the chill."

</p>

<p>

Anthony made no comment, and again they walked forward without speaking,

perhaps for a quarter of a mile. Then the horror of the suspense became

intolerable to him. Without a word he dashed forward, sped down the

slope and up that of the opposing Gunter's Hill, more swiftly perhaps

than he had ever run before, although he was a very quick runner.

</p>

<p>

"He's gone," murmured Septimus. "I wonder why! I suppose that I walk too

slowly for him. I cannot walk so fast as I used to do, and he felt the

wind cold."

</p>

<p>

Then he dismissed the matter from his half-dazed mind and stumbled on

wearily, muttering his disjointed prayers.

</p>

<p>

Thus in due course he began to climb the little slope of Gunter's Hill.

The sun had set, but there was still a red glow in the sky, and against

this glow he perceived the tall figure of Anthony standing quite still.

When he was about a hundred yards away the figure suddenly collapsed,

as a man does if he is shot. The Reverend Septimus put his hand to his

heart and caught his breath.

</p>

<p>

"I know what that means," he said. "He was watching the window, and they

have just pulled down the blind. I suppose he must be fond of her and

it&mdash;affects him. Oh! if I were younger I think this would kill me, but,

thank God! as one draws near the end of the road the feet harden; one

does not feel the thorns so much. 'The Lord gave and the Lord hath taken

away, bl&mdash;bl&mdash;yes, I <i>will</i> say it&mdash;blessed be the Name of the Lord.' I

should remember that she is so much better where she is; that this is

a very hard world; indeed, sometimes I think it is not a world, but a

hell. Oh! Barbara, my sweet Barbara!" and he struggled forward blindly

beating at the rough wind with his hands as though it were a visible

foe, and so at last came to the crest of the hill where Anthony Arnott

lay prone upon his face.

</p>

<p>

So sure was Septimus of the cause of his collapse that he did not even

trouble to look at the Rectory windows in the hollow near the church two

hundred yards or so away. He only looked at Anthony, saying:

</p>

<p>

"Poor lad, poor lad! I wonder how I shall get him home; I must fetch

some help."

</p>

<p>

As he spoke, Anthony sat up and said, "You see, you see!"

</p>

<p>

"See what?"

</p>

<p>

"The blind; <i>it is quite up</i>. When I got here it was half down, then

someone pulled it up. That's what finished me. I felt as though I had

been hit on the head with a stick."

</p>

<p>

The Reverend Septimus stared, then suddenly sank to his knees and

returned thanks in his simple fashion.

</p>

<p>

"Don't let us be too certain, Anthony," he exclaimed at length. "There

may be a mistake, or perhaps this is only a respite which will prolong

the suspense. Often such things happen to torment us; I mean that they

are God's way of trying and purifying our poor sinful hearts."

</p>

<a name="2HCH0002"><!-- H2 anchor --></a>



<div style="height: 4em;"><br><br><br><br></div>



<h2>

    CHAPTER II

</h2>

<h3>

    THE NEW YEAR FEAST

</h3>

<p>

Barbara did not die. On the contrary, Barbara got quite well again, but

her recovery was so slow that Anthony only saw her once before he was

obliged to return to college. This was on New Year's Day, when Mr.

Walrond asked him to dinner to meet Barbara, who was coming down for the

first time. Needless to say he went, taking with him a large bunch

of violets which he had grown in a frame at the Hall especially for

Barbara. Indeed, she had already received many of those violets through

the agency of her numerous younger sisters.

</p>

<p>

The Rectory dinner was at one o'clock, and the feast could not be

called sumptuous. It consisted of a piece of beef, that known as the

"aitch-bone," which is perhaps the cheapest that the butcher supplies

when the amount of eating is taken into consideration; one roast duck,

a large Pekin, the Near Year offering of the farmer Stevens; and a plum

pudding somewhat pallid in appearance. These dainties with late apples

and plenty of cold water made up the best dinner that the Walrond family

had eaten for many a day.

</p>

<p>

The Rectory dining-room was a long, narrow chamber of dilapidated

appearance, since between meals it served as a schoolroom also. A deal

bookcase in the corner held some tattered educational works and the

walls that once had been painted blue, but now were faded in patches

to a sickly green, were adorned only with four texts illuminated by

Barbara. These texts had evidently served as targets for moistened paper

pellets, some of which still stuck upon their surface.

</p>

<p>

Anthony arrived a little late, since the picking of the violets had

taken longer than he anticipated, and as there was no one to open the

front door, walked straight into the dining-room. In the doorway

he collided with the little maid-of-all-work, a red-elbowed girl of

singularly plain appearance, who having deposited the beef upon the

table, was rushing back for the duck, accompanied by two of the young

Walronds who were assisting with the vegetables. The maid, recoiling,

sat down with a bump on one of the wooden chairs, and the Walrond girls,

a merry, good-looking, unkempt crew (no boy had put in an appearance

in all that family), burst into screams of laughter. Anthony apologised

profusely; the maid, ejaculating that she didn't mind, not she, jumped

up and ran for the duck; and the Reverend Septimus, a very different

Septimus to him whom we met a month or so before, seizing his hand,

shook it warmly, calling out:

</p>

<p>

"Julia, my dear, never mind that beef. I haven't said grace yet. Here's

Anthony."

</p>

<p>

"Glad to see him, I am sure," said Mrs. Walrond, her eyes still fixed

upon the beef, which was obviously burnt at one corner. Then with a

shrug, for she was accustomed to such accidents, she rose to greet him.

</p>

<p>

Mrs. Walrond was a tall and extremely good-looking lady of about

fifty-five, dark-eyed and bright complexioned, whose chestnut hair

was scarcely touched with grey. Notwithstanding all the troubles and

hardships that she had endured, her countenance was serene and even

happy, for she was blessed with a good heart, a lively faith in

Providence, and a well-regulated mind. Looking at her, it was easy to

see whence Barbara and her other daughters inherited their beauty and

air of breeding.

</p>

<p>

"How are you, Anthony?" she went on, one eye still fixed upon the burnt

beef. "It is good of you to come, though you are late, which I suppose

is why the girl has burnt the meat."

</p>

<p>

"Not a bit," called out one of the children, it was Janey, "it is very

good of us to have him when there's only one duck. Anthony, you mustn't

eat duck, as we don't often get one and you have hundreds."

</p>

<p>

"Not I, dear, I hate ducks," he relied automatically, for his eyes were

seeking the face of Barbara.

</p>

<p>

Barbara was seated in the wooden armchair with a cushion on it, near the

fire of driftwood, advantages that were accorded to her in honour of

her still being an invalid. Even to a stranger she would have looked

extraordinarily sweet with her large and rather plaintive violet eyes

over which the long black lashes curved, her waving chestnut hair parted

in the middle and growing somewhat low upon her forehead, her tall

figure, very thin just now, and her lovely shell-like complexion

heightened by a blush.

</p>

<p>

To Anthony she seemed a very angel, an angel returned from the shores

of death for his adoration and delight. Oh! if things had gone the other

way&mdash;if there had been no sweet Barbara seated in that wooden chair!

The thought gripped his heart with a hand of ice; he felt as he had felt

when he looked at the window-place from the crest of Gunter's Hill. But

she <i>had</i> come back, and he was sure that they were each other's for

life. And yet, and yet, life must end one day and then, what? Once more

that hand of ice dragged at his heart strings.

</p>

<p>

In a moment it was all over and Mr. Walrond was speaking.

</p>

<p>

"Why don't you bid Barbara good-day, Anthony?" he asked. "Don't you

think she looks well, considering? We do, better than you, in fact," he

added, glancing at his face, which had suddenly grown pale, almost grey.

</p>

<p>

"He's going to give Barbara the violets and doesn't know how to do it,"

piped the irrepressible Janey. "Anthony, why don't you ever bring <i>us</i>

violets, even when we have the whooping cough?"

</p>

<p>

"Because the smell of them is bad for delicate throats," he answered,

and without a word handed the sweet-scented flowers to Barbara.

</p>

<p>

She took them, also without a word, but not without a look, pinned a few

to her dress, and reaching a cracked vase from the mantelpiece, disposed

of the rest of them there till she could remove them to her own room.

Then Mr. Walrond began to say grace and the difficulties of that meeting

were over.

</p>

<p>

Anthony sat by Barbara. His chair was rickety, one of the legs being

much in need of repair; the driftwood fire that burned brightly about

two feet away grilled his spine, for no screen was available, and he

nearly choked himself with a piece of very hot and hard potato. Yet to

tell the truth never before did he share in such a delightful meal. For

soon, when the clamour of "the girls" swelled loud and long, and the

attention of Mr. and Mrs. Walrond was entirely occupied with the burnt

beef and the large duck that absolutely refused to part with its limbs,

he found himself almost as much alone with Barbara as though they had

been together on the wide seashore.

</p>

<p>

"You are really getting quite well?" he asked.

</p>

<p>

"Yes, I think so." Then, after a pause and with a glance from the violet

eyes, "Are you glad?"

</p>

<p>

"You know I am glad. You know that if you had&mdash;died, I should have died

too."

</p>

<p>

"Nonsense," said the curved lips, but they trembled and the violet eyes

were a-swim with tears. Then a little catch of the throat, and, almost

in a whisper, "Anthony, father told me about you and the window-blind

and&mdash;oh! I don't know how to thank you. But I want to say something,

if you won't laugh. Just at that time I seemed to come up out of some

blackness and began to dream of you. I dreamed that I was sinking back

into the blackness, but you caught me by the hand and lifted me quite

out of it. Then we floated away together for ever and for ever and for

ever, for though sometimes I lost you we always met again. Then I woke

up and knew that I wasn't going to die, that's all."

</p>

<p>

"What a beautiful dream," began Anthony, but at that moment, pausing

from her labours at the beef, Mrs. Walrond said:

</p>

<p>

"Barbara, eat your duck before it grows cold. You know the doctor said

you must take plenty of nourishment."

</p>

<p>

"I am going to, mother," answered Barbara, "I feel dreadfully hungry,"

and really she did; her gentle heart having fed full, of a sudden her

body seemed to need no nourishment.

</p>

<p>

"Dear me!" said Mr. Walrond, pausing from his labours and viewing the

remains of the duck disconsolately, for he did not see what portion of

its gaunt skeleton was going to furnish him with dinner, and duck was

one of his weaknesses, "dear me, there's a dreadful smell of burning in

this room. Do you think it can be the beef, my love?"

</p>

<p>

"Of course it is not the beef," replied Mrs. Walrond rather sharply.

"The beef is beautifully done."

</p>

<p>

"Oh!" ejaculated one of the girls who had got the calcined bit, "why,

mother, you said it was burnt yourself."

</p>

<p>

"Never mind what I said," replied Mrs. Walrond severely, "especially as

I was mistaken. It is very rude of your father to make remarks about the

meat."

</p>

<p>

"Well, something <i>is</i> burning, my love."

</p>

<p>

Janey, who was sitting next to Anthony, paused from her meal to sniff,

then exclaimed in a voice of delight:

</p>

<p>

"Oh! it is Anthony's coat tails. Just look, they are turning quite

brown. Why, Anthony, you must be as beautifully done as the beef. If you

can sit there and say nothing, you are a Christian martyr wasted, that's

all."

</p>

<p>

Anthony sprang up, murmuring that he thought there was something wrong

behind, which on examination there proved to be. The end of it was that

the chairs were all pushed downwards, with the result that for the rest

of that meal there was a fiery gulf fixed between him and Barbara which

made further confidences impossible. So he had to talk of other matters.

Of these, as it chanced, he had something to say.

</p>

<p>

A letter had arrived that morning from his elder brother George, who

was an officer in a line regiment. It had been written in the trenches

before Sebastopol, for these events took place in the mid-Victorian

period towards the end of the Crimean War. Or rather the letter had been

begun in the trenches and finished in the military hospital, whither

George had been conveyed, suffering from "fever and severe chill," which

seemed to be somewhat contradictory terms, though doubtless they were in

fact compatible enough. Still he wrote a very interesting letter, which,

after the pudding had been consumed to the last spoonful, Anthony read

aloud while the girls ate apples and cracked nuts with their teeth.

</p>

<p>

"Dear me! George seems to be very unwell," said Mrs. Walrond.

</p>

<p>

"Yes," answered Anthony, "I am afraid he is. One of the medical officers

whom my father knows, who is working in that hospital, says they mean

to send him home as soon as he can bear the journey, though he doesn't

think it will be just at present."

</p>

<p>

This sounded depressing, but Mr. Walrond found that it had a bright

side.

</p>

<p>

"At any rate, he won't be shot like so many poor fellows; also he has

been in several of the big battles and will be promoted. I look upon him

as a made man. He'll soon shake off his cold in his native air&mdash;&mdash;"

</p>

<p>

"And we shall have a real wounded hero in the village," said one of the

girls.

</p>

<p>

"He isn't a wounded hero," answered Janey, "he's only got a chill."

</p>

<p>

"Well, that's as bad as wounded, dear, and I am sure he would have been

wounded if he could." And so on.

</p>

<p>

"When are you going back to Cambridge, Anthony?" asked Mrs. Walrond

presently.

</p>

<p>

"To-morrow morning, I am sorry to say," he answered, and Barbara's face

fell at his words. "You see, I go up for my degree this summer term,

and my father is very anxious that I should take high honours in

mathematics. He says that it will give me a better standing in the Bar.

So I must begin work at once with a tutor before term, for there's no

one near here who can help me."

</p>

<p>

"No," said Mr. Walrond. "If it had been classics now, with a little

refurbishing perhaps I might. But mathematics are beyond me."

</p>

<p>

"Barbara should teach him," suggested one of the little girls slyly.

"She's splendid at Rule of Three."

</p>

<p>

"Which is more than you are," said Mrs. Walrond in severe tones, "who

always make thirteen out of five and seven. Barbara, love, you are

looking very tired. All this noise is too much for you, you must go

and lie down at once in your own room. No, not on the sofa, in your own

room. Now say good-bye to Anthony and go."

</p>

<p>

So Barbara, who was really tired, though with a happy weariness, did as

she was bid. Her hand met Anthony's and lingered there for a little,

her violet eyes met his brown eyes and lingered there a little; her lips

spoke some few words of commonplace farewell. Then staying a moment to

take the violets from the cracked vase, and another moment to kiss her

father as she passed him, she walked, or rather glided from the room

with the graceful movement that was peculiar to her, and lo! at once

for Anthony it became a very emptiness. Moreover, he grew aware of the

hardness of his wooden seat and that the noise of the girls was making

his head ache. So presently he too rose and departed.

</p>

<a name="2HCH0003"><!-- H2 anchor --></a>



<div style="height: 4em;"><br><br><br><br></div>



<h2>

    CHAPTER III

</h2>

<h3>

    AUNT MARIA

</h3>

<p>

Six months or so had gone by and summer reigned royally at Eastwich,

for thus was the parish named of which the Reverend Septimus Walrond

had spiritual charge. The heath was a blaze of gold, the cut hay smelt

sweetly in the fields, the sea sparkled like one vast sapphire, the

larks beneath the sun and the nightingales beneath the moon sang their

hearts out on Gunter's Hill, and all the land was full of life and sound

and perfume.

</p>

<p>

On one particularly beautiful evening, after partaking of a meal called

"high tea," Barbara, quite strong again now and blooming like the wild

rose upon her breast, set out alone upon a walk. Her errand was to the

cottage of that very fisherman whose child her father had baptised on

the night when her life trembled in the balance. Having accomplished

this she turned homewards, lost in reverie, events having happened at

the Rectory which gave her cause for thought. When she had gone a little

way some instinct led her to look up. About fifty yards away a man was

walking towards her to all appearance also lost in reverie. Even at that

distance and in the uncertain evening light she knew well enough that

this was Anthony. Her heart leapt at the sight of him and her cheeks

seemed to catch the hue of the wild rose on her bosom. Then she

straightened her dress a little and walked on.

</p>

<p>

In less than a minute they had met.

</p>

<p>

"I heard where you had gone and came to meet you," he said awkwardly.

"How well you are looking, Barbara, how well and&mdash;&mdash;" he had meant to

add "beautiful," but his tongue stumbled at the word and what he said

was "brown."

</p>

<p>

"If I were an Indian I suppose I should thank you for the compliment,

Anthony, but as it is I don't know. But how well <i>you</i> are looking, how

well and by comparison&mdash;fat."

</p>

<p>

Then they both laughed, and he explained at length how he had been able

to get home two days earlier than he expected; also that he had taken

his degree with even higher honours than he hoped.

</p>

<p>

"I am so glad," she said earnestly.

</p>

<p>

"And so am I; I mean glad that you are glad. You see, if it hadn't been

for you I should never have done so well. But because I thought you

would be glad, I worked like anything."

</p>

<p>

"You should have thought of what your father would feel, not

of&mdash;of&mdash;well, it has all ended as it should, so we needn't argue. How

is your brother George?" she went on, cutting short the answer that was

rising to his lips. "I suppose I should call him Captain Arnott now, for

I hear he has been promoted. We haven't seen him since he came home last

week, from some hospital in the South of England, they say."

</p>

<p>

Anthony's face grew serious.

</p>

<p>

"I don't know; I don't quite like the look of him, and he coughs such a

lot. It seems as though he could not shake off that chill he got in the

trenches. That's why he hasn't been to call at the Rectory."

</p>

<p>

"I hope this beautiful weather will cure him," Barbara replied rather

doubtfully, for she had heard a bad report of George Arnott's health.

Then to change the subject she added, "Do you know, we had a visitor

yesterday, Aunt Maria in the flesh, in a great deal of flesh, as Janey

says."

</p>

<p>

"Do you mean Lady Thompson?"

</p>

<p>

She nodded.

</p>

<p>

"Aunt Thompson and her footman and her pug dog. Thank goodness, she only

stayed to tea, as she had a ten mile drive back to her hotel. As it was,

lots of things happened."

</p>

<p>

"What happened?"

</p>

<p>

"Well, first when she got out of the carriage, covered with jet anchor

chains&mdash;for you know Uncle Samuel died only three months ago and left

her all his money&mdash;she caught sight of our heads staring at her out of

the drawing-room window, and asked father if he kept a girls' school.

Then she made mother cry by remarking that she ought to be thankful to

Providence for having taken to its bosom the four of us who died young

&mdash;you know she has no children herself and so can't feel about them.

Also father was furious because she told him that at least half of us

should have been boys. He turned quite pink and said:

</p>

<p>

"'I have been taught, Lady Thompson, that these are matters which God

Almighty keeps in His own hands, and to Him I must refer you.'

</p>

<p>

"'Good gracious! don't get angry,' she answered. 'If you clergymen can

cross-examine your Maker, I am not in that position. Besides, they are

all very good-looking girls who may find husbands, if they ever see a

man. So things might have been worse.'

</p>

<p>

"Then she made remarks about the tea, for Uncle Samuel was a

tea-merchant; and lastly that wicked Janey sent the footman to take

the pug dog to walk past the butcher's shop where the fighting terrier

lives. You can guess the rest."

</p>

<p>

"Was the pug killed?" asked Anthony.

</p>

<p>

"No, though the poor thing came back in a bad way. I never knew before

that a pug's tail was so long when it is quite uncurled. But the footman

looked almost worse, for he got notice on the spot. You see he went into

the 'Red Dragon' and left the pug outside."

</p>

<p>

"And here endeth Aunt Maria and all her works," said Anthony, who wanted

to talk of other things.

</p>

<p>

"No, not quite."

</p>

<p>

He looked at her, for there was meaning in her voice.

</p>

<p>

"In fact," she went on, "so far as I'm concerned it ought to run, 'Here

beginneth Aunt Maria.' You see, I have got to go and live with her

to-morrow."

</p>

<p>

Anthony stopped and looked at her.

</p>

<p>

"What the devil do you mean?" he asked.

</p>

<p>

"What I say. She took a fancy to me and she wants a companion&mdash;someone

to do her errands and read to her at night and look after the pug dog

and so forth. And she will pay me thirty pounds a year with my board and

dresses. And" (with gathering emphasis) "we cannot afford to offend her

who have half lived upon her alms and old clothes for so many years.

And, in short, Dad and my mother thought it best that I should go, since

Joyce can take my place, and at any rate it will be a mouth less to feed

at home. So I am going to-morrow morning by the carrier's cart."

</p>

<p>

"Going?" gasped Anthony. "Where to?"

</p>

<p>

"To London first, then to Paris, then to Italy to winter at Rome, and

then goodness knows where. You see, my Aunt Maria has wanted to travel

all her life, but Uncle Samuel, who was born in Putney, feared the sea

and lived and died in Putney in the very house in which he was born. Now

Aunt Maria wants a change and means to have it."

</p>

<p>

Then Anthony broke out.

</p>

<p>

"Damn the old woman! Why can't she take her change in Italy or wherever

she wishes, and leave you alone?"

</p>

<p>

"Anthony!" said Barbara in a scandalised voice. "What do you mean,

Anthony, by using such dreadful language about my aunt?"

</p>

<p>

"What do I mean? Well" (this with the recklessness of despair), "if you

want to know, I mean that I can't bear your going away."

</p>

<p>

"If my parents," began Barbara steadily&mdash;&mdash;

</p>

<p>

"What have your parents to do with it? I'm not your parents, I'm

your&mdash;&mdash;"

</p>

<p>

Barbara looked at him in remonstrance.

</p>

<p>

"&mdash;old friend, played together in childhood, you know the kind of thing.

In short, I don't want you to go to Italy with Lady Thompson. I want you

to stop here."

</p>

<p>

"Why, Anthony? I thought you told me you were going to live in chambers

in London and read for the Bar."

</p>

<p>

"Well, London isn't Italy, and one doesn't eat dinners at Lincoln's

Inn all the year round, one comes home sometimes. And heaven knows whom

you'll meet in those places or what tricks that horrible old aunt of

yours will be playing with you. Oh! it's wicked! How can you desert your

poor father and mother in this way, to say nothing of your sisters? I

never thought you were so hard-hearted."

</p>

<p>

"Anthony," said Barbara in a gentle voice, "do you know what we have got

to live on? In good years it comes to about 150 pounds, but once, when

my father got into that lawsuit over the dog that was supposed to kill

the sheep, it went down to 70 pounds. That was the winter when two

of the little ones died for want of proper food&mdash;nothing else&mdash;and I

remember that the rest of us had to walk barefoot in the mud and snow

because there was no money to buy us boots, and only some of us could

go out at once because we had no cloaks to put on. Well, all this may

happen again. And so, Anthony, do you think that I should be right to

throw away thirty pounds a year and to make a quarrel with my aunt, who

is rich and kind-hearted although very over-bearing, and the only friend

we have? If my father died, Anthony, or even was taken ill, and he is

not very strong, what would become of us? Unless Aunt Thompson chose to

help we should all have to go to the workhouse, for girls who have not

been specially trained can earn nothing, except perhaps as domestic

servants, if they are strong enough. I don't want to go away and read

to Aunt Maria and take the pug dog out walking, although it is true I

should like to see Italy, but I must&mdash;can't you understand&mdash;I must.

So please reproach me no more, for it is hard to bear&mdash;especially from

you."

</p>

<p>

"Stop! For God's sake, stop!" said Anthony. "I am a brute to have spoken

like that, and I'm helpless; that's the worst of it. Oh! my darling,

don't you understand? Don't you understand&mdash;&mdash;?"

</p>

<p>

"No," answered Barbara, shaking her head and beginning to cry.

</p>

<p>

"That I love you, that I have always loved you, and that I always shall

love you until&mdash;until&mdash;the moon ceases to shine?" and he pointed to that

orb which had appeared above the sea.

</p>

<p>

"They say that it is dead already, and no doubt will come to an end like

everything else," remarked Barbara, seeking to gain time.

</p>

<p>

Then for a while she sought nothing more, who found herself lost in her

lover's arms.

</p>

<p>

So there they plighted their troth, that was, they swore, more enduring

than the moon, for indeed they so believed.

</p>

<p>

"Nothing shall part us except death," he said.

</p>

<p>

"Why should death part us?" she answered, looking him bravely in the

eyes. "I mean to live beyond death, and while I live and wherever I live

death shall <i>not</i> part us, if you'll be true to me."

</p>

<p>

"I'll not fail in that," he answered.

</p>

<p>

And so their souls melted into rapture and were lifted up beyond the

world. The song of the nightingales was heavenly music in their ears,

and the moon's silver rays upon the sea were the road by which their

linked souls travelled to the throne of Him who had lit their lamp of

love, and there made petition that through all life's accidents and

death's darkness it might burn eternally.

</p>

<p>

For the love of these two was deep and faithful, and already seemed to

them as though it were a thing they had lost awhile and found once

more; a very precious jewel that from the beginning had shone upon their

breasts; a guiding-star to light them to that end which is the dawn of

Endlessness.

</p>

<p>

Who will not smile at such thoughts as these?

</p>

<p>

The way of the man with the maid and the way of the maid with the man

and the moon to light them and the birds to sing the epithalamium of

their hearts and the great sea to murmur of eternity in their opened

ears. Nature at her sweet work beneath the gentle night&mdash;who is there

that will not say that it was nothing more?

</p>

<p>

Well, let their story answer.

</p>

<a name="2HCH0004"><!-- H2 anchor --></a>



<div style="height: 4em;"><br><br><br><br></div>



<h2>

    CHAPTER IV

</h2>

<h3>

    A YEAR LATER

</h3>

<p>

Something over a year had gone by, and Barbara, returned from her

foreign travels, sat in the drawing-room of Lady Thompson's house in

Russell Square.

</p>

<p>

That year had made much difference in her, for the sweet country girl,

now of full age, had blossomed into the beautiful young woman of the

world. She had wintered in Rome and studied its antiquities and art. She

had learned some French and Italian, for nothing was grudged to her in

the way of masters, and worked at music, for which she had a natural

taste. She had seen a good deal of society also, for Lady Thompson was

at heart proud of her beautiful niece, and spared no expense to bring

her into contact with such people as she considered she should know.

</p>

<p>

Thus it came about that the fine apartment they occupied in Rome had

many visitors. Among these was a certain Secretary of Legation, the Hon.

Charles Erskine Russell, who, it was expected, would in the course

of nature succeed to a peerage. He was a very agreeable as well as an

accomplished and wealthy man, and&mdash;he fell in love with Barbara. With

the cleverness of her sex she managed to put him off and to avoid any

actual proposal before they left for Switzerland in the early summer.

Thither, happily, he could not follow them, since his official duties

prevented him from leaving the Embassy. Lady Thompson was much annoyed

at what she considered his bad conduct, and said as much to Barbara.

</p>

<p>

Her niece listened, but did not discuss the matter, with the result that

Lady Thompson's opinion of the Hon. Charles Russell was confirmed. Was

it not clear that there had been no proposal, although it was equally

clear that he ought to have proposed? Poor Barbara! Perhaps this was the

only act of deception of which she was ever guilty.

</p>

<p>

So things went on until the previous day, the Monday after their arrival

in London, when, most unhappily, Lady Thompson went out to lunch and met

the Hon. Charles Russell, who was on leave in England.

</p>

<p>

Next morning, while Barbara was engaged in arranging some flowers in the

drawing-room, who should be shown in but Mr. Russell. In her alarm

she dropped a bowl and broke it, a sign that he evidently considered

hopeful, setting it down to the emotion which his sudden presence

caused. To emotion it was due, indeed, but not of a kind he would have

wished. Recovering herself, Barbara shook his hand and then told the

servant who was picking up the pieces of the bowl to inform her ladyship

of the arrival of this morning caller.

</p>

<p>

The man bowed and departed, and as he went Barbara noticed an ominous

twinkle in the pleasant blue eyes of the Hon. Charles Russell.

</p>

<p>

The rest of the interview may be summed up in a few words. Mr. Russell

was eloquent, passionate and convincing. He assured Barbara that she was

the only woman he had ever loved with such force and conviction that in

the end she almost believed him. But this belief, if it existed, did not

in the least shake her absolutely definite determination to have nothing

whatsoever to do with her would-be lover.

</p>

<p>

Not until she had told him so six times, however, did he consent to

believe her, for indeed he had been led to expect a very different

answer.

</p>

<p>

"I suppose you care for someone else," he said at last.

</p>

<p>

"Yes," said Barbara, whose back, metaphorically, was against the wall.

</p>

<p>

"Somebody much more&mdash;suitable."

</p>

<p>

"No," said Barbara, "he is poor and not distinguished and has all his

way to make in the world."

</p>

<p>

"He might change his mind, or&mdash;die."

</p>

<p>

"If so, I should not change mine," said Barbara. "Very likely I shall

not marry him, but I shall not marry anyone else."

</p>

<p>

"In heaven's name, why not?"

</p>

<p>

"Because it would be a sacrilege against heaven."

</p>

<p>

Then at last Mr. Russell understood.

</p>

<p>

"Allow me to offer you my good wishes and to assure you of my earnest

and unalterable respect," he said in a somewhat broken voice, and taking

her hand he touched it lightly with his lips, turned, and departed out

of Barbara's sight and life.

</p>

<p>

Ten minutes later Lady Thompson arrived, and her coming was like to

that of a thunderstorm. She shut the door, locked it, and sat down in an

armchair in solemn, lurid silence. Then with one swift flash the storm

broke.

</p>

<p>

"What is this I hear from Mr. Russell?"

</p>

<p>

"I am sure I don't know what you have heard from Mr. Russell," answered

Barbara faintly.

</p>

<p>

"Perhaps, but you know very well what there was to hear, you wicked,

ungrateful girl."

</p>

<p>

"Wicked!" murmured Barbara, "ungrateful!"

</p>

<p>

"Yes, it is wicked to lead a man on and then reject him as though he

were&mdash;rubbish. And it is ungrateful to throw away the chances that a

kind aunt and Providence put in your way. What have you against him?"

</p>

<p>

"Nothing at all, I think him very nice."

</p>

<p>

Lady Thompson's brow lightened; if she thought him "very nice" all might

yet be well. Perhaps this refusal was nothing but nonsensical modesty.

Mr. Russell, being a gentleman, had not told her everything.

</p>

<p>

"Then I say you shall marry him."

</p>

<p>

"And I say, Aunt, that I will not and cannot."

</p>

<p>

"Why? Have you been secretly converted to the Church of Rome, and are

you going into a nunnery? Or is there&mdash;another man?"

</p>

<p>

"Yes, Aunt."

</p>

<p>

"Where is he?" said Lady Thompson, looking about her as though she

expected to find him hidden under the furniture. "And how did you manage

to become entangled with him, you sly girl, under my very nose? And who

is he? One of those bowing and scraping Italians, I suppose, who think

you'll get my money. Tell me the truth at once."

</p>

<p>

"He is somebody you have never seen, Aunt. One of the Arnotts down at

home."

</p>

<p>

"Oh, that Captain! Well, I believe they have a decent property, about

2,000 pounds a year, but all in land, which Sir Samuel never held by.

Of course, it is nothing like the Russell match, which would have made a

peeress of you some day and given you a great position meanwhile. But I

suppose we must be thankful for small mercies."

</p>

<p>

"It is not Captain Arnott, it is his younger brother Anthony."

</p>

<p>

"Anthony! Anthony, that youth who is reading for the Bar. Why, the

property is all entailed, and he will scarcely have a half-penny, for

his mother brought no money to the Arnotts. Oh, this is too much! To

throw up Mr. Russell for an Anthony. Are you engaged to him with your

parents' consent, may I ask, and if so, why was the matter concealed

from me, who would certainly have declined to drag an entangled young

woman about the world?"

</p>

<p>

"I am not engaged, but my father and mother know that we are attached

to each other. It happened the day after you came to Eastwich, or

they would have told you. My father made me promise that we would not

correspond while I was away, as he thought that we were too young to

bind ourselves to each other, especially as Anthony has no present

prospects or means to support a wife."

</p>

<p>

"I am glad they had so much sense. It is more than might have been

expected of my sister after her own performance, for which doubtless she

is sorry enough now. Like you, she might have married a title instead of

a curate and beggary."

</p>

<p>

"I am quite sure that my mother is not sorry, Aunt," replied Barbara,

whose spirit was rising. "I know that she is a very happy woman."

</p>

<p>

"Look here, Barbara, let's come to the point. Will you give up this

moon-calf business of yours or not?"

</p>

<p>

"It is not a moon-calf business, whatever that may be, and I will not

give it up."

</p>

<p>

"Very well, then, I can't make you as you are of age. But I have done

with you. You will go to your room and stop there, and to-morrow morning

you will return to your parents, to whom I will write at once. You have

betrayed my hospitality and presumed upon my kindness; after all the

things I have given you, too," and her eyes fixed themselves upon a

pearl necklace that Barbara was wearing. For Lady Thompson could be

generous when she was in the mood.

</p>

<p>

Barbara unfastened the necklace and offered it to her aunt without a

word.

</p>

<p>

"Nonsense!" said Lady Thompson. "Do you think I want to rob you of your

trinkets because I happen to have given them to you? Keep them, they

may be useful one day when you have a husband and a family and no money.

Pearls may pay the butcher and the rent."

</p>

<p>

"Thank you for all your kindness, Aunt, and good-bye. I am sorry that

I am not able to do as you wish about marriage, but after all a woman's

life is her own."

</p>

<p>

"That's just what it isn't and never has been. A woman's life is her

husband's and her children's, and that's why&mdash;but it is no use arguing.

You have taken your own line. Perhaps you are right, God knows. At any

rate, it isn't mine, so we had better part. Still, I rather admire your

courage. I wonder what this young fellow is like for whose sake you are

prepared to lose so much; more than you think, maybe, for I had grown

fond of you. Well, good-bye, I'll see about your getting off. There,

don't think that I bear malice although I am so angry with you. Write to

me when you get into a tight place," and rising, she kissed her, rather

roughly but not without affection, and flung out of the room like one

who feared to trust herself there any longer.

</p>

<p>

On the evening of the following day Barbara, emerging from the carrier's

cart at the blacksmith's corner at Eastwich, was met by a riotous throng

of five energetic young sisters who nearly devoured her with kisses.

So happy was that greeting, indeed, that in it she almost forgot her

sorrows. In truth, as she reflected, why should she be sorry at all?

She was clear of a suitor whom she did not wish to marry, and of an aunt

whose very kindness was oppressive and whose temper was terrible. She

had fifty pounds in her pocket and a good stock of clothes, to say

nothing of the pearls and other jewellery, wealth indeed if measured by

the Walrond standard. Her beloved sisters were evidently in the best of

health and spirits; also, as she thought, better-looking than any girls

she had seen since she bade them farewell. Her father and mother were,

as they told her, well and delighted at her return; and lastly, as she

had already gathered, Anthony either was or was about to be at the Hall.

Why then should she be sorry? Why indeed should she not rejoice and

thank God for these good things?

</p>

<p>

On that evening, however, when supper was done, she had a somewhat

serious interview with her father and mother who sat on either side of

her, each of them holding one of her hands, for they could scarcely bear

her out of their sight. She had told all the tale of the Hon. Charles

Russell and of her violent dismissal by her aunt, of which story they

were not entirely ignorant, for Lady Thompson had already advised them

of these events by letter.

</p>

<p>

The Reverend Septimus shook his head sadly. He was not a worldly-minded

man; still, to have a presumptive peer for a son-in-law, who would

doubtless also become an ambassador, was a prospect that at heart he

relinquished with regret. Also this young Arnott business seemed very

vague and unsatisfactory, and there were the other girls and their

future to be considered. No wonder, then, that he shook his kindly grey

head and looked somewhat depressed.

</p>

<p>

But his wife took another line.

</p>

<p>

"Septimus," she said, "in these matters a woman must judge by her own

heart, and you see Barbara is a woman now. Once, you remember, I had

to face something of the same sort, and I do not think, dear,

notwithstanding all our troubles, that either of us have regretted our

decision."

</p>

<p>

Then they both rose and solemnly kissed each other over Barbara's head.

</p>

<a name="2HCH0005"><!-- H2 anchor --></a>



<div style="height: 4em;"><br><br><br><br></div>



<h2>

    CHAPTER V

</h2>

<h3>

    WEDDED

</h3>

<p>

Next day, oh! joy of joys, Barbara and Anthony met once more after some

fifteen months of separation. Anthony was now in his twenty-fourth

year, a fine young man with well-cut features, brown eyes and a pleasant

smile. Muscularly, too, he was very strong, as was shown by his athletic

record at Cambridge. Whether his strength extended to his constitution

was another matter. Mrs. Walrond, noticing his unvarying colour, which

she thought unduly high, and the transparent character of his skin,

spoke to her husband upon the matter.

</p>

<p>

In his turn Septimus spoke to the old local doctor, who shrugged

his shoulders and remarked that the Arnotts had been delicate for

generations, "lungy," he called it. Noticing that Mr. Walrond looked

serious, and knowing something of how matters stood between Anthony and

Barbara, he hastened to add that so far as he knew there was no cause

for alarm, and that if he were moderately careful he thought that

Anthony would live to eighty.

</p>

<p>

"But it is otherwise with his brother," he added significantly, "and for

the matter of that with the old man also."

</p>

<p>

Then he went away, and there was something in the manner of his

going which seemed to suggest that he did not wish to continue the

conversation.

</p>

<p>

From Anthony, however, Barbara soon learned the truth as to his brother.

His lungs were gone, for the chill he took in the Crimea had settled on

them, and now there was left to him but a little time to live. This was

sad news and marred the happiness of their meeting, since both of them

were far too unworldly to consider its effect upon their own prospects,

or that it would make easy that which had hitherto seemed impossible.

</p>

<p>

"Are you nursing him?" she asked.

</p>

<p>

"Yes, more or less. I took him to the South of England for two months,

but it did no good."

</p>

<p>

"I am glad the thing is not catching," she remarked, glancing at him.

</p>

<p>

"Oh, no," he replied carelessly, "I never heard that it was catching,

though some people say it runs in families. I hope not, I am sure, as

the poor old chap insists upon my sleeping in his room whenever I am at

home, as we used to do when we were boys."

</p>

<p>

Then their talk wandered elsewhere, for they had so much to say to each

other that it seemed doubtful if they would ever get to the end of it

all. Anthony was particularly anxious to learn what blessed circumstance

had caused Barbara's sudden re-appearance at Eastwich. She fenced for a

while, then told him all the truth.

</p>

<p>

"So you gave up this brilliant marriage for me, a fellow with scarcely a

half-penny and a very few prospects," he exclaimed, staring at her.

</p>

<p>

"Of course. What would you have expected me to do&mdash;marry one man while

I love another? As for the rest it must take its chance," and while the

words were on her lips, for the first time it came into Barbara's mind

that perhaps Anthony had no need to trouble about his worldly fortunes.

For if it were indeed true that Captain Arnott was doomed, who else

would succeed to the estate?

</p>

<p>

"I think you are an angel," he said, still overcome by this wondrous

instance of fidelity and of courage in the face of Lady Thompson's

anger.

</p>

<p>

"If I had done anything else, I think, Anthony, that you might very well

have called me&mdash;whatever is the reverse of an angel."

</p>

<p>

And thus the links of their perfect love were drawn even closer than

before.

</p>

<p>

Only three days later Mr. Walrond was summoned hastily to the Hall. When

he returned from his ministrations it was to announce in a sad voice

that Captain Arnott was sinking fast. Before the following morning he

was dead.

</p>

<p>

A month or so after the grave had closed over Captain Arnott the

engagement of Anthony and Barbara was announced formally, and by

the express wish of Mr. Arnott. The old gentleman had for years been

partially paralysed and in a delicate state of health, which the

sad loss of his elder son had done much to render worse. He sent for

Barbara, whom he had known from her childhood, and told her that the

sooner she and Anthony were married the better he would be pleased.

</p>

<p>

"You see, my dear," he added, "I do not wish the old name to die out

after we have been in this place for three hundred years, and you

Walronds are a healthy stock, which is more than we can say now. Worn

out, I suppose, worn out! In fact," he went on, looking at her sharply,

"it is for you to consider whether you care to take the risks of coming

into this family, for whatever the doctors may or may not say, I think

it my duty to tell you straight out that in my opinion there is some

risk."

</p>

<p>

"If so, I do not fear it, Mr. Arnott, and I hope you will not put any

such idea into Anthony's head. If you do he might refuse to marry me,

and that would break my heart."

</p>

<p>

"No, I dare say you do not fear it, but there are other&mdash;well, things

must take their course. If we were always thinking of the future no one

would dare to stir."

</p>

<p>

Then he told her that when first he heard of their mutual attachment he

had been much disturbed, as he did not see how they were to marry.

</p>

<p>

"But poor George's death has changed all that," he said, "since now

Anthony will get the estate, which is practically the only property we

have, and it ought always to produce enough to keep you going and to

maintain the place in a modest way."

</p>

<p>

Lastly he presented her with a valuable set of diamonds that had

belonged to his mother, saying he might not be alive to do so when the

time of her marriage came, and dismissed her with his blessing.

</p>

<p>

In due course all these tidings, including that of the diamonds, came

to the ears of Aunt Thompson, and wondrously softened that lady's anger.

Indeed, she wrote to Barbara in very affectionate terms, to wish her

every happiness and say how glad she was to hear that she was settling

herself so well in life. She added that she should make a point of being

present at the wedding. A postscript informed her that Mr. Russell was

about to be married to an Italian countess, a widow.

</p>

<p>

Barbara's wedding was fixed for October. At the beginning of that month,

however, Anthony was seized with some unaccountable kind of illness, in

which coughing played a considerable part. So severe were its effects

that it was thought desirable to postpone the ceremony. The doctor

ordered him away for a change of air. On the morning of his departure he

spoke seriously to Barbara.

</p>

<p>

"I don't know what is the matter with me," he said, "and I don't think

it is very much at present. But, dear, I have a kind of presentiment

that I am going to become an invalid. My strength is nothing like

what it was, and at times it fails me in a most unaccountable manner.

Barbara, it breaks my heart to say it, but I doubt whether you ought to

marry me."

</p>

<p>

"If you were going to be a permanent invalid, which I do not believe for

one moment," answered Barbara steadily, "you would want a nurse, and who

could nurse you so well as your wife? Therefore unless you had ceased to

care for me, I should certainly marry you."

</p>

<p>

Then, as still he seemed to hesitate, she flung her arms about him and

kissed him, which was an argument that he lacked strength to resist.

</p>

<p>

A day or two afterwards her father also spoke to Barbara.

</p>

<p>

"I don't like this illness of Anthony's, my dear. The doctor does not

seem to understand it, or at any rate so he pretends, and says he has

no doubt it will pass off. But I cannot help remembering the case of his

brother George; also that of his mother before him.. In short, Barbara,

do you think&mdash;well, that it would be wise to marry him? I know that

to break it off would be dreadful, but, you see, health is so very

important."

</p>

<p>

Barbara turned on her father almost fiercely.

</p>

<p>

"Whose health?" she asked. "If you mean mine, it is in no danger; and if

it were I should care nothing. What good would health be to me if I lost

Anthony, who is more to me than life? But if you mean his health, then

the greatest happiness I can have is to nurse him."

</p>

<p>

"Yes, yes, I understand, dear. But, you see, there might be&mdash;others."

</p>

<p>

"If so, father, they must run their risks as we do; that is if there are

any risks for them to run, which I doubt."

</p>

<p>

"I dare say you are quite right, dear; indeed, I feel almost sure that

you are right, only I thought it my duty to mention the matter, which I

hope you will forgive me for having done. And now I may tell you I have

a letter from Anthony, saying that he is ever so much better, and asking

if the fifteenth of November will suit us for the wedding."

</p>

<p>

On the fifteenth of November, accordingly, Anthony and Barbara were made

man and wife by the bride's father with the assistance of the clergyman

of the next parish. Owing to the recent death of the bridegroom's

brother and the condition of Mr. Arnott's health the wedding was

extremely quiet. Still, in its own way it was as charming as it was

happy. All her five sisters acted as Barbara's bridesmaids, and many

gathered in that church said they were the most beautiful bevy of

maidens that ever had been seen. But if so, Barbara outshone them all,

perhaps because of her jewels and fine clothes and the radiance on her

lovely face.

</p>

<p>

Anthony, who seemed to be quite well again, also looked extremely

handsome, while Aunt Thompson, who by now had put off her mourning,

shone in that dim church as the sun shines through a morning mist.

</p>

<p>

In short, all went as merrily as it should, save that the bride's mother

seemed depressed and wept a little.

</p>

<p>

This, said her sister to someone in a loud voice, was in her opinion

nothing short of wicked. What business, she asked, has a woman with

six portionless daughters to cry because one of them is making a good

marriage; "though it is true," she added, dropping her voice to a

confidential whisper, "that had Barbara chosen she might have made a

better one. Yes, I don't mind telling you that she might have been a

peeress, instead of the wife of a mere country squire."

</p>

<p>

In truth, Mrs. Walrond was ill at ease about this marriage, why she

did not know. Something in her heart seemed to tell her that her dear

daughter's happiness would not be of long continuance. Bearing in mind

his family history, she feared for Anthony's health; indeed, she feared

a hundred things that she was quite unable to define. However, at the

little breakfast which followed she seemed quite to recover her spirits

and laughed as merrily as anyone at the speech which Lady Thompson

insisted upon making, in which she described Barbara as "her darling,

beautiful and most accomplished niece, who indeed was almost her

daughter."

</p>

<a name="2HCH0006"><!-- H2 anchor --></a>



<div style="height: 4em;"><br><br><br><br></div>



<h2>

    CHAPTER VI

</h2>

<a name="2H_PART"><!-- H2 anchor --></a>



<div style="height: 4em;"><br><br><br><br></div>



<h2>

    PARTED

</h2>

<p>

Hard indeed would it be to find a happier marriage than that of Anthony

and Barbara. They adored each other. Never a shadow came between them.

Almost might it be said that their thoughts were one thought and their

hearts one heart. It is common to hear of twin souls, but how often are

they to be met with in the actual experience of life? Here, however,

they really might be found, or so it would seem. Had they been one

ancient entity divided long ago by the working of Fate and now brought

together once more through the power of an overmastering attraction,

their union could not have been more complete. To the eye of the

observer, and indeed to their own eyes, it showed neither seam nor flaw.

They were one and indivisible.

</p>

<p>

About such happiness as this there is something alarming, something

ominous. Mrs. Walrond felt it from the first, and they, the two persons

concerned, felt it also.

</p>

<p>

"Our joy frightens me," said Anthony to Barbara one day. "I feel like

that Persian monarch who threw his most treasured ring into the sea

because he was too fortunate; you remember the sea refused the offering,

for the royal cook found it in the mouth of a fish."

</p>

<p>

"Then, dear, he was doubly fortunate, for he made his sacrifice and kept

his ring."

</p>

<p>

Anthony, seeing that Barbara had never heard the story and its ending,

did not tell it to her, but she read something of what was passing in

his mind, as very often she had the power to do.

</p>

<p>

"Dearest," she said earnestly, "I know what you think. You think that

such happiness as ours will not be allowed to last for long, that

something evil will overtake us. Well, it may be so, but if it is, at

least we shall have had the happiness, which having been, will remain

for ever, a part of you, a part of me; a temple of our love not built

with hands in which we shall offer thanks eternally, here and&mdash;beyond,"

and she nodded towards the glory of the sunset sky, then turned and

kissed him.

</p>

<p>

As it chanced, that cruel devouring sea which rages at the feet of

all mankind was destined ere long to take the offering that was most

precious to these two. Only this was flung to its waters, not by their

hands, but by that of Fate, nor did it return to them again.

</p>

<p>

After their marriage Anthony and Barbara hired a charming little

Georgian house at Chelsea near to the river. The drawback to

the dwelling was that it stood quite close to a place of public

entertainment called "The Gardens," very well known in those days as

the nightly haunt of persons who were not always as respectable as they

might have been. During their sojourn in London they never entered these

Gardens, but often in the summer evenings they passed them when out for

the walks which they took together, since Anthony spent most of his days

at the Temple, studying law in the chambers of a leading barrister. Thus

their somewhat fantastic gateway became impressed upon Barbara's mind,

as did the character of the people who frequented them. As, however,

their proximity reduced the rent of their own and neighbouring houses

by about one-half, personally they were grateful to these Gardens, since

the noise of the bands and the dancing did not trouble them much, and

those who danced could always be avoided.

</p>

<p>

When they had been married nearly a year a little daughter was born to

them, a sweet baby with violet eyes like to those of Barbara. Now indeed

their bliss was complete, but it was not fated that it should remain,

since the hungry sea took its sacrifice. The summer was very hot in

London, and many infants sickened there of some infantile complaint,

among them their own child. Like hundreds of others, it died when only a

few months old and left them desolate.

</p>

<p>

Perhaps Anthony was the more crushed of the two, since here Barbara's

vivid faith came to her aid.

</p>

<p>

"We have only lost her for a little while," she said, choking back her

tears as she laid some flowers on the little grave. "We shall find her

again; I know that we shall find her again, and meanwhile she will be

happier than she could have been with us in this sad world."

</p>

<p>

Then they walked back home, pushing their way through the painted crowds

that were gathering at the gates of "The Gardens," and listening to the

strains of the gay music that jarred upon their ears.

</p>

<p>

In due course, having been called to the Bar, Anthony entered the

chambers of an eminent Common Law leader. Although his prospects

were now good, and he was ere long likely to be independent of the

profession, he was anxious to follow it and make a name and fortune for

himself. This indeed he would have found little difficulty in doing,

since soon he showed that he had studied to good purpose; moreover, his

gifts were decidedly forensic. He spoke well and without nervousness;

his memory was accurate and his mind logical. Moreover, he had something

of that imaginative and sympathetic power which brings an advocate

success with juries.

</p>

<p>

Already he had been entrusted with a few cases which he held as "devil"

for somebody else, when two events happened which between them brought

his career as a lawyer to an end. In the November after the death of

their baby his father suddenly died. On receiving the news of his fatal

illness Anthony hurried to Eastwich without even returning home to

fetch a warm coat, and as a result took a severe cold. During the winter

following the funeral this cold settled on his lungs. At last towards

the spring the crisis came. He was taken seriously ill, and on his

partial recovery several doctors held a consultation over him. Their

verdict was that he must give up his profession, which fortunately now

he was in a position to do, live in the country and as much in the open

air as possible, spending the worst months of the winter either in the

South of England or in some warmer land. These grave and learned men

told him outright that his lungs were seriously attacked, and that he

must choose between following their advice and a speedy departure from

the world.

</p>

<p>

Anthony would have defied them, for that was his nature. He wished to

go on with his work and take the risk. But Barbara persuaded him to

obedience. She said she agreed with him that the matter of his health

was greatly exaggerated. At the same time, she pointed out that as they

were now very well off she saw no reason why he should continue to slave

at a profession which might or might not bring him an adequate return

fifteen or twenty years later. She added that personally she detested

London, and would like nothing better than to live at Eastwich near her

own people. Also she showed him that his rather extensive estate needed

personal attention, and could be much improved in value if he were there

to care for it.

</p>

<p>

The end may be guessed; Anthony gave up the Bar and the house in

Chelsea. After staying at Torquay for a few of the winter months,

where his health improved enormously, they moved to Eastwich during the

following May. Here their welcome was warm indeed, not only from the

Rectory party, who rejoiced to have Barbara back among them, but from

the entire neighbourhood, including the tenants and labourers on the

property.

</p>

<p>

The ensuing summer was one of the happiest of their married life.

Anthony became so much better that Barbara began to believe he had

thrown off his lung weakness. Certain repairs and rearrangements of

their old Elizabethan house agreeably occupied their time, and, to crown

all, on Christmas Eve Barbara gave birth to a son, an extraordinarily

fine and vigorous child, red-haired, blue-eyed, and so far as could be

seen at that early age entirely unlike either of his parents.

</p>

<p>

The old doctor who ushered him into the world remarked that he had never

seen a more splendid and perfect boy, nor one who appeared to possess a

robuster constitution.

</p>

<p>

In due course Mr. Walrond christened him by the name of Anthony, after

his father, and a dinner was given to the tenants and labourers in

honour of the event.

</p>

<p>

That same month, there being a dearth of suitable men with an adequate

knowledge of the law, Anthony, who already was a magistrate, though so

young, was elected a Deputy-Chairman of Quarter Sessions for his county.

This local honour pleased him very much, since now he knew that

his legal education would not be wasted, and that he would have an

opportunity of turning it to use as a judge of minor cases.

</p>

<p>

Yet this grateful and conciliatory appointment in the end brought him

evil and not good. The first Quarter Sessions at which he was called

upon to preside in one of the courts fell in February, when he ought

to have been out of the East of England. The calendar was heavy, and

Anthony acquitted himself very well in the trial of some difficult

cases, earning the compliments of all concerned. But on leaving the hot

court after a long day he caught a heavy cold, which awoke his latent

complaint, and from that time forward he began to go down hill.

</p>

<p>

Still, watched, fought against by Barbara, its progress was slow. The

winter months they spent in warmer climates, only residing in Eastwich

from May to November. During the summer Anthony occupied himself on

matters connected with the estate and principally with the cultivation

of the home farm. Indeed, as time went on and increasing weakness forced

him to withdraw himself more and more from the world and its affairs,

the interests of this farm loomed ever larger in his eyes, as largely

indeed as though he depended upon it alone for his daily bread.

Moreover, it brought him into touch with Nature, and now that they were

so near to parting, his friendship with her grew very close.

</p>

<p>

This was one of his troubles, that when he died, and he knew that before

very long he must die, even if he continued to live in some other form,

he must bid farewell to the Nature that he knew.

</p>

<p>

Of course, there was much of her, her cruel side, that he would rejoice

to lose. He could scarcely conceive a future existence framed upon those

lines of struggle, which in its working involves pain and cruelty and

death. Putting aside sport and its pleasures, which he had abandoned

because of the suffering and extinction entailed upon the shot or hunted

creatures, to him it seemed inexpressibly sad that even his honest

farming operations, at least where the beasts were concerned, should

always culminate in death. Why should the faithful horse be knocked on

the head when it grew old, or the poor cow go to the butcher as a reward

for its long career of usefulness and profit?

</p>

<p>

What relentless power had thus decreed? In any higher life surely this

decree would be rescinded, and of that side of Nature he had seen more

than enough upon the earth. It was her gentler and harmless aspects from

which he did not wish to part&mdash;from the flower and the fruit, from the

springing blade and the ripened corn; from the beauty that brooded

over sea and land; from the glory of the spreading firmament alive with

light, and the winds that blew beneath it, and the rains that washed

the face of earth; from the majestic passage of the glittering stars

shedding their sweet influences through the night. To bid farewell to

such things as these must, to his mind, indeed be terrible.

</p>

<p>

Once he said as much to Barbara, who thought a while and answered him:

</p>

<p>

"Why should we be taken beyond all things? If seems scarcely reasonable.

I know we have not much to go on, but did not the Christ speak of

drinking the fruit of the vine 'new with you in my Father's kingdom'?

Therefore surely there must be a growing plant that produces the fruit

and a process directed by intelligence that turns it into wine. There

must be husbandmen or farmers. There must be mansions or abiding places,

also, for they are spoken of, and flowers and all things that are

beautiful and useful; a new earth indeed, but not one so different to

the old as to be utterly unfamiliar."

</p>

<p>

Anthony said no more of the matter at this time, but it must have

remained in his mind. At any rate, a month or two later when he woke up

one morning he said to Barbara:

</p>

<p>

"Will you laugh very much if I tell you of a dream that came to me last

night&mdash;if it was a dream, for I seemed to be still awake?"

</p>

<p>

"Why should I laugh at your dream?" she asked, kissing him. "I often

think that there is as much truth in dreams as in anything else. Tell it

to me."

</p>

<p>

"I dreamed that I saw a mighty landscape which I knew was not of the

earth. It came to me like a picture, and a great stillness brooded over

it. At the back of this landscape stood a towering cliff of stern rock

thousands of feet high. Set at intervals along the edge of the cliff

were golden figures, mighty and immovable. Whether they were living

guards or only statues I do not know, for I never came near to them.

Here and there, miles apart, streams from the lands beyond poured

over the edge of the cliff in huge cascades of foam that became raging

torrents when they reached its lowest slopes. One of these rivers fed

a lake which lay in a chasm on the slopes, and from either end of this

lake poured two rivers which seemed to me about twenty miles apart, as

we should judge. They ran through groves of cedars and large groups

of forest trees not unlike to enormous oaks and pines, and yet not the

same.

</p>

<p>

"One river, that to the right if I looked towards the lake, was very

broad, so broad that after it reached the plain and flowed slowly,

great ships could have sailed upon it. The other, that to the left, was

smaller and more rapid, but it also wandered away across the plain

till my sight could follow it no farther. I observed that the broad,

right-hand river evidently inundated its banks in seasons of flood, much

as the Nile does, and that all along those banks were fields filled with

rich crops, of what sort I do not know. The plain itself, which I take

it was a kind of delta, the gift of the great river, was limitless. It

stretched on and on, broken only by forests, along the edges of which

moved many animals.

</p>

<p>

"When first I saw this landscape it was suffused with a sweet and pearly

light, that came not from sun or moon or stars, but from a luminous body

in shape like a folded fan, of which the handle rested on the earth. By

degrees this fan began to open; I suppose that it was the hour of dawn.

Its ribs of gorgeous light spread themselves from one side of heaven

to the other and were joined together by webs of a thousand colours,

of such stuff as the rainbow, only a hundred times more beautiful. The

reflection from these rainbow webs lay upon the earth, divided by

and sometimes mingled with those from the bars of light, and made it

glorious.

</p>

<p>

"All these things I saw from an eminence on which I stood that rose

between the rivers at the head of the plain. At length, overcome by the

splendour, drunk as it were with beauty, I turned to look behind me, and

there, quite close, in the midst of stately gardens with terraces and

trees and fountains and banks of flowers, I saw a house, and&mdash;now indeed

you will laugh&mdash;for so far as I can recollect it, in general style it

was not unlike our own; that is to say, its architecture seemed to be

more or less Elizabethan. If one who was acquainted with Elizabethan

buildings had gone to that land and built a house from memory, but

with more beautiful materials, he might have produced such a one as I

imagined in my dream.

</p>

<p>

"Presently from the door of the house emerged two figures. One of these

was my brother George and the other, Barbara, was our baby grown to a

little fair-haired child. The child perceived me first and ran to

me through the flowers. It leapt into my arms and kissed me. Then my

brother came and said&mdash;I do not mean he spoke, but his meaning was

conveyed to me:

</p>

<p>

"'You see, we are making your home ready. We hope that you will like it

when you come, but if not you can change it as you wish.'

</p>

<p>

"Then I woke up, or went to sleep&mdash;I do not know which."

</p>

<p>

Barbara made light of Anthony's dream, which seemed to her to be after

all but a reflection or an echo of earthly things tricked out with some

bizarre imagination. Was not this obvious? The house? A vague replica of

his own house. The river? Something copied from the Nile, delta and all.

The waterfalls? Niagara on a larger scale. The great trees? Doubtless

their counterparts grew in America. The brother and the babe&mdash;would he

not naturally be thinking of his brother and his babe? The thing stood

self-convicted. Echo, echo, echo, flung back in mockery of our agonised

pleadings from the cliffs of the Beyond.

</p>

<p>

And yet this dream haunted her, especially as it returned to him more

than once, always with a few added details. They often talked of this

supernatural landscape and of the great radiant fan which closed at

night and opened itself by day, wherewith it was illuminated. Barbara

thought it strange that Anthony should have imagined so splendid a

thing. And yet why should he not have done so? If she could picture it

in her own mind, why should he not be able to originate it in his.

</p>

<p>

She told him all this, only avoiding allusions to the child, the baby

Barbara whom they had lost. For of this child, although she longed

to ask him details as to her supposed appearance, she could not bring

herself to speak. Supposing that he were right, supposing that their

daughter was really growing up yonder towards some celestial womanhood,

and waiting for him and waiting for her, the mother upon whose breast

she had lain, the poor, bereaved mother. Oh! then would not all be worth

while?

</p>

<p>

Anthony listened and said that he agreed with her; as a lawyer he had

analysed the dream and found in it nothing at all. Nothing more, for

instance, than on analysis is to be found in any and every religion.

</p>

<p>

"And yet," he added, with that pleasant smile of his which was beginning

to grow so painfully sweet and plaintive in its character, "and yet, it

is very odd how real that landscape and that house are becoming to me.

Do you know, Barbara, that the other night I seemed to be sitting in

it in a great cool room, looking out at the river and the vast fertile

plain. Then you came in, my dear, clad in a beautiful robe embroidered

with violets. Yes, you came in glancing round you timidly like one who

had lost her way, and saw me and cried aloud."

</p>

<p>

Towards the end Anthony grew worse with a dreadful swiftness. He was to

have gone abroad as usual that winter, but when the time came his state

was such that the doctors shrugged their shoulders and said that he

might as well stop at home in comfort.

</p>

<p>

Up to the middle of October he managed to get out upon the farm on fine

days to see to the drilling of the wheat and so forth. One rather rough

afternoon he went out thus, not because he wished to, but for the sake

of his spaniel dog, Nell, which bothered him to come into the fresh air.

Not finding something that he sought, he was drawn far afield and caught

in a tempest of rain and wind, through which he must struggle home.

Barbara who, growing anxious, had gone to seek him, found him leaning

against an oak unable to speak, with a little stream of blood trickling

from the corner of his mouth. Indeed, it was the dog, which seemed

distressed, that discovered her and led her to him.

</p>

<p>

This was Anthony's last outing, but he lived till Christmas Eve, his

son's eighth birthday. That morning the boy was brought into his room

to receive some present that his father had procured for him, and

warned that he must be very quiet. Quiet, however, he would not be; his

tumultuous health and strength seemed to forbid it. He racketed about

the room, teasing the spaniel which lay by the side of the bed, until

the patient beast growled at him and even bit, or pretended to bite

him. Thereon he set up such a yell of pain, or anger, or both, that his

father struggled from the bed to see what was the matter, and so brought

on the haemorrhage which caused his death.

</p>

<p>

"I am afraid you will have trouble with that child, Barbara," he gasped

shortly before the end. "He seems to be different from either of us; but

he is our son, and I know that you will do your best for him. I leave

him in your keeping. Good night, dearest, I want to go to sleep."

</p>

<p>

Then he went to sleep, and Barbara's heart broke.

</p>

<a name="2HCH0007"><!-- H2 anchor --></a>



<div style="height: 4em;"><br><br><br><br></div>



<h2>

    CHAPTER VII

</h2>

<h3>

    BARBARA'S SIN

</h3>

<p>

The months following Anthony's death were to Barbara as a bad dream.

Like one in a dream she saw that open, wintry grave beneath the tall

church tower about whose battlements the wind-blown rooks wheeled on

their homeward way. She noted a little yellow aconite that had opened

its bloom prematurely in the shadow of the wall, and the sight of it

brought her some kind of comfort. He had loved aconites and planted many

of them, though because of his winter absences years had gone by since

he had seen one with his eyes, at any rate in England. That this flower

among them all should bloom on that day and in that place seemed to her

a message and a consolation, the only one that she could find.

</p>

<p>

His sad office over, her father accompanied her home, pouring into her

ear the words of faith and hope that he was accustomed to use to those

broken by bereavement, and with him came her mother. But soon she

thanked them gently and bade them leave her to herself. Then they

brought her son to her, thinking that the sight of him would thaw her

heart. For a while the child was quiet and subdued, for there was that

about his mother's face which awed him. At last, weary of being still,

he swung round on his heel after a fashion that he had, and said:

</p>

<p>

"Cook says that now father is dead I'm master here, and everyone will

have to do what I tell them."

</p>

<p>

Barbara lifted her head and looked at him, and something in her

fawn-like eyes, a mute reproach, pierced to the boy's heart. At any

rate, he began to whimper and left the room.

</p>

<p>

There was little in the remark, which was such as a vulgar servant might

well make thoughtlessly. Yet it brought home to Barbara the grim fact

of her loss more completely perhaps than anything had done. Her beloved

husband was dead, of no more account in the world than those who had

passed from it at Eastwich a thousand years ago. He was dead, and soon

would be forgotten by all save her, and she was alone; in her heart

utterly alone.

</p>

<p>

The summer came and everyone grew cheerful. Aunt Thompson arrived at

the Hall to stay, and urged Barbara to put away past things and resign

herself to the will of Providence&mdash;as she had done in the case of the

departed Samuel.

</p>

<p>

"After all," she said, "it might have been worse. You might have been

called upon to nurse an invalid for twenty years, and when at last he

went, have found the best part of your life gone, as I did," and she

sighed heavily. "As it is, you still look quite a girl, having kept your

figure so well; you are comfortably off and have a good position, and in

short there is no knowing what may happen in the future. You must come

up and stay with me this winter, dear, instead of poking yourself away

in this damp old house, where everybody seems to die of consumption.

Really it is a sort of family vault, and if you stop here long enough

you will catch something too."

</p>

<p>

Barbara thanked her with a sad little smile, and answered that she would

think over her kind invitation and write to her later. But in the end

she never went to London, at least not to stay, perhaps it reminded her

too vividly of her life there with Anthony. At Eastwich she could bear

such memories, but for some unexplained reason it was otherwise in

London.

</p>

<p>

Indeed, in the course of time her aunt gave up the attempt to persuade

her, and devoted herself to forwarding the fortunes of her other pretty

nieces, Barbara's sisters, two of whom, it should be said, already she

had settled comfortably in life. Also she took a fancy to the boy, in

whose rough, energetic nature she found something akin to her own.

</p>

<p>

"I am sick of women," she said; "it is a comfort to have to do with a

male thing."

</p>

<p>

So it came about that after he went to school young Anthony spent a

large share of his holidays at his great-aunt's London house. It may be

added that he got no good from these visits, since Lady Thompson spoilt

him and let him have his way in everything. Also she gave him more money

than a boy ought to have. As a result, or partly so, Barbara found that

her son grew more and more uncontrollable. He mixed with grooms and low

characters, and when checked flew into fits of passion which frightened

her.

</p>

<p>

Oddly enough, during these paroxysms, which were generally followed by

two or three days of persistent sulking, the only person who seemed

to have any control over him was a certain under-housemaid named Bess

Cotton, the daughter of a small farmer in the neighbourhood. This girl,

who was only about three years older than Anthony, was remarkable for

her handsome appearance and vigour of body and mind. Her hair and large

eyes were so dark that probably the local belief that she had gipsy or

other foreign blood in her veins was true. Her complexion, however, was

purely English, and her character had all the coarseness of those

who have lived for generations in the Fens, whence her father came,

uncontrolled by higher influences, such as the fellowship of gentle-bred

and educated folk.

</p>

<p>

Bess was an excellent and capable servant, one, moreover, who soon

obtained a sort of mastery in the household. On a certain occasion the

young Squire, as they called him, was in one of the worst of his rages,

having been forbidden by his mother to go to a coursing meeting which

he wished to attend. In this state he shut himself up in the library,

swearing that he would do a mischief to anyone who came near him, a

promise which, being very strong for his years, he was quite capable of

keeping. The man-servant was told to go in and bring him out, but hung

back.

</p>

<p>

"Bless you," said Bess, "I ain't afraid," and without hesitation walked

into the room and shut the door behind her.

</p>

<p>

Barbara, listening afar off, heard a shout of "Get out!" followed by

a fearful crash, and trembled, for all violence was abominable to her

nature.

</p>

<p>

"He will injure that poor girl," she said to herself, and rose,

proposing to enter the library and face her son.

</p>

<p>

As she hurried down the long Elizabethan corridor, however, she heard

another sound that came to her through an open window, that of Anthony

laughing in his jolliest and most uproarious manner and of the housemaid

Bess, laughing with him. She stayed where she was and listened. Bess had

left the library and was coming across the courtyard, where one of the

other servants met her and asked some question that Barbara did not

catch. The answer in Bess's ringing voice was clear enough.

</p>

<p>

"Lord!" she said, "they always gave me the wild colts to break upon the

farm. It is a matter of eye and handling, that's all. He nearly got me

with that plaster thing, so I went for him and boxed his ears till he

was dazed. Then I kissed him afterwards till he laughed, and he'll never

be any more trouble, at least with me. That mother of his don't know how

to handle him. She's another breed."

</p>

<p>

"Yes," said the questioner, "the mistress is a lady, she is, and gentle

like the squire who's gone. But how did they get such a one as Master

Anthony?"

</p>

<p>

"Don't know," replied Bess, "but father says that when he was a boy

in the Fens they'd have told that the fairy folk changed him at birth.

Anyway, I like him well enough, for he suits me."

</p>

<p>

Barbara went back to her sitting-room, where not long afterwards the boy

came to her. As he entered the doorway she noted how handsome he looked

with his massive head and square-jawed face, and how utterly unlike any

Arnott or Walrond known to her personally or by tradition. Had he been

a changeling, such as the girl Bess spoke of, he could not have seemed

more different.

</p>

<p>

He came and stood before her, his hands in his pockets and a smile upon

his face, for he could smile very pleasantly when he chose.

</p>

<p>

"Well, Anthony," she said, "what is it?"

</p>

<p>

"Nothing, mother dear, except that I have come to beg your pardon. You

were quite right about the coursing meeting; they are a low lot, and I

oughtn't to mix with them. But I had bets on some of the dogs and wanted

to go awfully. Then when you said I mustn't I lost my temper."

</p>

<p>

"That was very evident, Anthony."

</p>

<p>

"Yes, mother; I felt as though I could have killed someone. I did try

to kill Bess with that bust of Plato, but she dodged like a cat and the

thing smashed against the wall. Then she came for me straight and gave

me what I deserved, for she was too many for me. And presently all my

rage went, and I found that I was laughing while she tidied my clothes.

I wish you could do the same, mother."

</p>

<p>

"Do you, Anthony? Well, I cannot."

</p>

<p>

"I know. Where did I get my temper from, mother? Not from you, or my

father from all I have heard and remember of him."

</p>

<p>

"Your grandfather would say it was from the devil, Anthony."

</p>

<p>

"Yes, and perhaps he is right; only then it is rather hard luck on me,

isn't it? I can't help it&mdash;it comes."

</p>

<p>

"Then make it go, Anthony. You are to be confirmed soon. Change your

heart."

</p>

<p>

"I'll try. But, mother dear, though I am so bad to you, you are the only

one who will ever change me. When that wild-cat of a girl got the better

of me just now, it was you I thought of, not her. If I lost you I don't

know what would become of me."

</p>

<p>

"We have to stand or fall alone, Anthony."

</p>

<p>

"Perhaps, mother. I don't know; I am not old enough. Still, don't leave

me alone, for if you do, then I am sure which I shall do," and bending

down he kissed her and left the room.

</p>

<p>

After this scene Anthony's behaviour improved very much; his reports

from school were good, for he was quick and clever, and his great skill

in athletics made him a favourite. Also his grandfather, who prepared

him for confirmation, announced that the lad's nature seemed to have

softened.

</p>

<p>

So things remained for some time, to be accurate, for just so long as

the girl Bess was a servant at the Hall.

</p>

<p>

Anthony might talk about his mother's influence over him, and without

doubt when he was in his normal state this was considerable. Also it

served to prevent him from breaking out. But when he did break out, Bess

Catton alone could deal with him. Naturally it would be thought that

there was some mutual attraction between these young people. Yet this

was not so, at any rate on the part of the girl, who had been overheard

to tell Anthony to his face that she hated the sight of him and "would

cut him to ribbons" if she were his mother.

</p>

<p>

At any rate, there were others, or one other, of whom Bess did not hate

the sight, and in the end her behaviour caused such scandal that Barbara

was obliged to send her out of the house.

</p>

<p>

"All right, ma'am," she said, "I'll go, and be glad of a change. You may

ring your own bull-calf now and I wish you joy of the job, since there's

none but me that can lead him."

</p>

<p>

A few days later Anthony returned from school. With him came a letter

from the head master, who wrote that he did not wish to make any

scandal, and therefore had not expelled the boy. Still, he would be

obliged if his mother would refrain from sending him back, as he did not

consider him a suitable member of a public school. He suggested, in

the lad's own interest, that it might be wise to place him in some

establishment where a speciality was made of the training of unruly

youths. He added that he wrote this with the more regret since Anthony's

father and grandfather had been scholars at &mdash;&mdash; in their day, and her

son possessed no mean intellectual abilities. This would be shown by

the fact that he was at the head of his class, and might doubtless under

other circumstances have risen to a high place in the sixth form.

</p>

<p>

Then followed the details of his misdoings, of which one need only be

mentioned. He had fought another boy, who, it may be added, was older

than himself, and beaten him. But the matter did not end there, since

after his adversary had given up the fight Anthony flew at him and

maltreated him so ferociously before they could be separated, that for a

while the poor lad was actually in danger of collapse.

</p>

<p>

When reproached he expressed no penitence, but said only that he wished

that he had killed him. This he repeated to his mother's face; moreover,

he was furious when he found that Bess Catton had been sent away and

demanded her return. When told that this was impossible he announced

quietly that he would make the place a hell, and kept his word.

</p>

<p>

For a year or more before this date Barbara had not been well. She

suffered from persistent colds which she was unable to shake off, and

with these came great depression of spirit. Now in her misery the poor

woman went to her room, and falling on her knees prayed with all her

heart that she might die. The burden laid upon her was more than she

could bear. Only one consolation could she find, that her beloved

husband had not lived to share it, for she knew it would have crushed

him as it crushed her.

</p>

<p>

Her father was now very old, and so feeble that everyone screened him

from trouble so far as might be. But this particular trouble could not

be hid, and Barbara told him all.

</p>

<p>

"Do not give way, my dearest daughter," he said, "and above all do not

seek to fly from your trial, which doubtless is sent to you for some

good purpose. Troubles that we strive to escape nearly always recoil

upon our heads, whereas if they are faced, often they melt away. If you

remain in the world to watch and help him, your son's nature, bad as it

seems to be, may yet alter, for after all I know that he loves you. But

if you give up and leave the world, who can tell what will happen to him

when he is quite uncontrolled and in possession of his fortune?"

</p>

<p>

Barbara recognised the truth of her father's words, and while he lived

tried to act up to them. But as it happened Mr. Walrond did not live

long, for one evening he was found dead in the church, whither he often

went to pray.

</p>

<p>

About this time the doctors told Barbara that her condition of health

was somewhat serious. It seemed that her lungs also showed signs of

being affected. Perhaps she had contracted the disease from her husband,

and now that she was so broken in spirit, it asserted itself. They

added, however, that if she took certain precautions, and above all went

away from Eastwich, there was every reason to hope that she would quite

recover her health.

</p>

<p>

In the end Barbara did not go away. At the time Anthony was being

instructed by a tutor who resided at the Hall to prepare him for

the University and ultimately for the Army. Needless to say, she was

employed continually in trying to compose the differences between him

and this tutor. How then could she go away and leave that poor gentleman

and her old mother, who when she was not staying with one of her other

married daughters now made her home at the Hall?

</p>

<p>

Thus she argued to herself, but the truth was that she did not wish

to go. Her dearest associations were in the churchyard yonder, the

churchyard where she hoped ere long she would be laid. She hated life,

she sought and craved for death. This was her sin.

</p>

<p>

Night by night she lay awake and thought of Anthony, her darling, her

beloved. She remembered that dream of his about a home that awaited him

in another world, and she loved to fancy him as dwelling in that place

of peace and making ready for her coming.

</p>

<p>

Nobody thought of him now except herself and his old dog Nell. The dog

thought of him, she was sure, for it would sleep beneath his empty bed,

and at times sit up, look at it and whine. Then it would come and rest

its head upon her as she slept, and she would wake to find it looking at

her with a question in its eyes. One night in the darkness it did this,

then left her and broke into a joyous whimpering, such as it used to

make when its master was going to take it out. She even heard it jumping

up as though to paw at him, and wondered dreamily what it could mean.

</p>

<p>

When she woke in the morning she saw the poor beast lying stiff and cold

upon the bed that had been Anthony's, and though she wept over it, her

tears were perhaps those of envy rather than of sorrow, for she was sure

that it had found Anthony.

</p>

<p>

More and more Barbara threw out her soul towards Anthony. Across the

void of Nothingness she sent it travelling, nor did it return with

empty hands. Something of Anthony had greeted it, though she could

not remember the greeting, had spoken with it, though she could not

interpret the words. Of this at least she was sure, she had been near to

Anthony.

</p>

<p>

Once she seemed to see him. In the infinite, infinite distance, millions

of miles away, the sky opened as it were. There in the opening was

Anthony talking with one whom she knew for their daughter, the baby that

had died, talking of her. In a minute they were gone, but she had seen

them, she was sure that she had seen them, and the knowledge warmed her

heart.

</p>

<p>

So there was no error, the Bible was true, more or less; Faith was not

built on running water or on sand. Life was not a mere hellish mockery,

where tiaras turned to crowns of thorn and joy was but an inch rule by

which to measure the alps of human pain. Life was a door, a gateway.

The door dreadful, the gate perilous, if you will, but beyond it lay no

dream, no empty blackness. Beyond it stretched the Promised Land peopled

with the lost who soon would be the found.

</p>

<p>

Barbara's last illness was rapid. When she began to go she went swiftly.

</p>

<p>

"Can't you save her?" asked her son of one of the doctors.

</p>

<p>

"The disease has gone too far," he answered. "Moreover, it is impossible

to save one who seeks to die."

</p>

<p>

"Why does she seek to die?" blurted Anthony, glaring at him.

</p>

<p>

"Perhaps, young gentleman, you are in a better position to answer that

question than I am," replied the doctor, who knew of Anthony's cruel

conduct to his mother and had reproached him with it, not once but on

several occasions.

</p>

<p>

"You mean that I have killed her," said Anthony savagely.

</p>

<p>

"No," replied the doctor, "she is dying of tuberculosis of the lungs.

What were the primary causes which induced that disease I cannot be

sure. All I said was that she appears to welcome it, or rather its

issue. And I will add this on my own account, that when she does die the

world will lose one of the sweetest women that ever walked upon it. Good

morning."

</p>

<p>

"I know what he means," said Anthony to himself, as he watched the

retreating form. "He means that I have murdered her, and perhaps I

have. She is sick of me and wants to get back to my father, who was

so different. That's why she won't go on living when she might. She is

committing suicide&mdash;of a holy sort. Well, what made me a brute and her

an angel? And when she's gone how will the brute get on without the

angel? Why should I be filled with fury and wickedness and she of whom

I was born with sweetness and light? Let God or the devil answer that

if they can. My mother, oh! my mother!" and this violent, sinister youth

hid his face in his hands and wept.

</p>

<p>

Barbara sank down and down into a very whirlpool of nothingness. Bending

over it, as it were, she saw the face of her aged mother, the faces of

some of her dear sisters, the face of the kindly doctor, and lastly the

agonised face of her handsome son.

</p>

<p>

"Mother! Don't leave me, mother. Mother! for God's sake come back to me,

mother, or we shall never meet again. Come back to save me!"

</p>

<p>

These were the last words that Barbara heard.

</p>

<a name="2HCH0008"><!-- H2 anchor --></a>



<div style="height: 4em;"><br><br><br><br></div>



<h2>

    CHAPTER VIII

</h2>

<h3>

    THE ATONEMENT

</h3>

<p>

Now these are the things that seemed to happen to Barbara after her

earthly death. Or rather some of the things, for most of them have faded

away and been lost to her mortal memory.

</p>

<p>

Consciousness returned to her, but at first it was consciousness in an

utter dark. Everywhere was blackness, and in it she was quite alone. The

whole universe seemed to centre in her solitary soul. Still she felt no

fear, only a kind of wonder at this infinite blank through which she was

being borne for millions and millions of miles.

</p>

<p>

Lights began to shine in the blackness like to those of passing ships

upon a midnight sea. Now she was at rest, and the rest was long and

sweet. Every fear and sad thought, every sensation of pain or discomfort

left her. Peace flowed into her.

</p>

<p>

Presently she became aware of a weight upon her knee, and wondered by

what it could be caused, for it reminded her of something; became aware

also that there was light about her. At length her eyes opened and she

perceived the light, though dimly, and that it was different to any she

had known, purer, more radiant. She perceived also that she lay upon

a low couch, and that the weight upon her knee was caused by something

shaped like the head of a dog. Nay, it <i>was</i> the head of a dog, and one

she knew well, Anthony's dog, that had died upon his bed. Now she was

sure that she dreamed, and in her dream she tried to speak to the dog.

The words that her mind formed were:

</p>

<p>

"Nell! Is that you, Nell?" but she could not utter them.

</p>

<p>

Still they were answered, for it appeared to her that the dog thought,

and that she could read its thought, which was:

</p>

<p>

"Yes, it is I, who though but a dog, having been the last to leave you,

am allowed to be the first to greet you," and it lifted its head and

looked at her with eyes full of a wonderful love.

</p>

<p>

Her heart went out towards the faithful beast in a kind of rapture, and

her intelligence formed another question, it was:

</p>

<p>

"Where am I, and if you, a creature, are here, where are the others?"

</p>

<p>

"Be patient. I only watch you till they come," was the answer.

</p>

<p>

"Till they come. Till who come?" she murmured.

</p>

<p>

Something within told her to inquire no more. But oh! was it possible

&mdash;was the earth dream coming true?

</p>

<p>

A long while went by. She looked about her, and understood that she was

lying in a great and beautiful room beneath a dome which seemed to be

fashioned of translucent ivory or alabaster. At the end of the room were

curtains woven of some glittering stuff that gave out light. At length

these curtains were drawn, and through them, bearing a cup in her hand,

passed a shape like to that of a mortal woman, only so radiant that

Barbara knew that had she been alive with the old life she would have

felt afraid.

</p>

<p>

This shape also was clad in garments that gave out light, and in its

hair were jewelled flowers. It glided to her side and looked at her with

loving, mysterious eyes. Then it held the cup to her lips, and said, or

rather thought, for the speech of that land declared itself in thought

and vision:

</p>

<p>

"Drink of this new wine."

</p>

<p>

She drank of the wine, and a wonderful life fell upon her like a glory.

</p>

<p>

"Who are you, O Vision?" she asked, and by way of answer there rose up

within her a picture of herself, Barbara, leaning over a cot and looking

at the white face of a dead child in a certain room in London. Then she

knew that this was her daughter, and stretched out her arms towards her

and received her in her arms.

</p>

<p>

Presently she looked again, and there around the bed appeared four other

shapes of beauty.

</p>

<p>

"You have forgotten us, Barbara," said one of them, "but we are your

sisters who died in infancy."

</p>

<p>

For the third time she looked, and behold! kneeling at her side, just as

he had been found kneeling in the church, was her adored father, grown

more young. Once more she looked, and last of all, breathing ineffable

love, came her lost darling, Anthony himself.

</p>

<p>

From heart to heart flashed their swift thoughts, like lightnings from

cloud to cloud, till all her being was a very sea of joy. Now the great

room was full of presences, and now the curtains were gone and all space

beyond was full of presences, and from that glorious company of a sudden

there arose a song of welcome and beneath the burden of its sweetness

she swooned to sleep.

</p>

<p>

Barbara dwelt in joy with those she loved and learned many things. She

learned that this sweet new life of hers was what she had fashioned on

the earth with her prayers and strivings; that the seeds of love and

suffering sown down in the world's rank soil had here blossomed to

this perfect flower. Now she knew what was meant by the saying that the

kingdom of Heaven is within you, and by the other saying that as man

sows so shall he reap. She learned that in this world beyond the world,

and that yet itself was but a rung in the ladder of many universes, up

which ladder all souls must climb to the ultimate judgment, there was

sorrow as well as bliss, there were both suffering and delight.

</p>

<p>

Here the sinful were brought face to face with the naked horror of their

sins, and from it fled wailing and aghast. Here the cruel, the covetous,

the lustful and the liar were as creatures dragged from black caverns

of darkness into the burning light of day. These yearned back to their

darkness and attained sometimes to other coverings of a mortal flesh, or

to some land of which she had no knowledge. For such was their fate if

in them there was no spark of repentant spirit that in this new world

could be fanned to flame.

</p>

<p>

Upwards or downwards, such is the law of the universe in which nothing

can stand still. Up from the earth which Barbara had left came the

spirit shape of all that lived and could die, even to that of the

flower. But down to the earth it seemed that much of it was whirled

again, to ascend once more in an age to come, since though the stream of

life pulses continually forward, it has its backwash and its eddies.

</p>

<p>

Barbara learned that though it is blessed to die young and sinless, like

to that glorious child of hers with whom she walked in this heavenly

creation, and whose task it was to instruct her in its simpler

mysteries, to live and to repent is yet more blessed. In this life or

in that all have sinned, but not all have repented, and therefore, it

appeared to Barbara, again and again such must know the burden of the

flesh.

</p>

<p>

Also she saw many wonders and learned many secrets of that vast,

spiritual universe into which this world of ours pours itself day by

day. But if she remembers anything of these she cannot tell them.

</p>

<p>

Oh! happy was her life with Anthony, for there, though now sex as we

know it had ceased to be, spirit grew ever closer to spirit, and as

below they dreamed and hoped, their union had indeed become an altar on

which Love's perfect fire flamed an offering to Heaven. Happy, too, was

her communion with those other souls that had been mingled in her lot,

and with many more whom she had known aforetime and elsewhere and long

forgotten. For Barbara learned that life is an ancient story of which we

spell out the chapters one by one.

</p>

<p>

Yet amidst all this joy and all the blessed labours of a hallowed world

in which idleness was not known, nor any weariness in well-doing, a

certain shadow met Barbara whichever way she turned.

</p>

<p>

"What is it?" asked Anthony, who felt her trouble.

</p>

<p>

"Our son," she answered, and showed him all the tale, or so much of it

as he did not know, ending, "And I chose to leave him that I might take

my chance of finding you. I died when I might have lived on if I had so

willed. That is my sin and it haunts me."

</p>

<p>

"We are not the parents of his soul, which is as ancient as our own,

Barbara."

</p>

<p>

"No, but for a while it was given into my hand and I deserted it, and

now I am afraid. How can I tell what has chanced to the soul of this

son of ours? Here there is no time. I know not if I bade it farewell

yesterday or ten thousand years ago. Long, long since it may have passed

through this world, where it would seem we dwell only with those whom we

seek or who seek us. Or it may abide upon the earth and there grow foul

and hateful. Let us search out the truth, Anthony. There are those who

can open its gates to us if the aim be pure and good."

</p>

<p>

"After I died, Barbara, I strove to learn how things went with you, and

strove in vain."

</p>

<p>

"Not altogether, Anthony, for sometimes you were very near to me, or so

I dreamed. Moreover, the case was different."

</p>

<p>

"Those who search sometimes find more than they seek, Barbara."

</p>

<p>

"Doubtless. Still, it is laid on me. Something drives me on."

</p>

<p>

So by the means appointed they sought to know the truth as to this son

of theirs, and it was decreed that the truth should be known to them.

</p>

<p>

In a dream, a vision, or perchance in truth&mdash;which they never knew&mdash;they

were drawn to the world that they had left, and the reek of its sins and

miseries pierced them like a spear.

</p>

<p>

They stood in the streets of London near to a certain fantastic gateway

that was familiar to them, the gateway of "The Gardens." From within

came sounds of music and revelling, for the season was that of summer.

A woman descended from a carriage. She was finely dressed, dark and

handsome. Barbara knew her at once for the girl Bess Catton, who alone

could control her son in his rages and whom she had dismissed for her

bad conduct. She entered the place and they entered with her, although

she saw them not. Bess sat down, and presently a man whom she seemed

to know drew out of the throng and spoke to her. He was a tall man of

middle age, with heavy eyes. Looking into his heart, they saw that it

was stained with evil. The soul within him lay asleep, wrapped round

with the webs of sin. This man said:

</p>

<p>

"We are going to have a merry supper, Bess. Come and join us."

</p>

<p>

"I'd like to well enough," she answered, "for I'm tired of my grand

life; it's too respectable. But suppose that Anthony came along. He's my

lawful spouse, you know. We had words and I told him where I was going."

</p>

<p>

"Oh, we'll risk your Anthony! Forget your marriage ring and have a taste

of the good old times."

</p>

<p>

"All right. I'm not afraid of Anthony, never was, but others are. Well,

it's your look-out."

</p>

<p>

She went with the man to a pavilion where food was served, and

accompanied him to a room separated by curtains from the main hall. It

had open windows which looked out on to the illuminated garden and the

dancing. In this room, seated round a table, was a company of women

gaudily dressed and painted, and with them were men. One of these was

a mere boy now being drawn into evil for the first time, and Barbara

grieved for him.

</p>

<p>

These welcomed the woman Bess and her companion noisily, and made room

for them in seats near to the window. Then the meal began, a costly meal

at which not much was eaten but a great deal was drunk. The revellers

grew excited with wine; they made jests and told doubtful stories.

</p>

<p>

Barbara's son Anthony entered unobserved and stood with his back against

the curtains. He was a man now, tall, powerful, and in his way handsome,

with hair of a chestnut red. Just then he who had brought Bess to the

supper threw his arm about her and kissed her, whereat she laughed and

the others laughed also.

</p>

<p>

Anthony sprang forward. The table was overthrown. He seized the man and

shook him. Then he struck him in the face and hurled him through the

open window to the path below. For a few seconds the man lay there,

then rose and ran till presently he vanished beneath the shadow of some

trees. There was tumult and confusion in the room; servants rushed in,

and one of the men, he who seemed to be the host, talked with them and

offered them money. The woman Bess began to revile her husband.

</p>

<p>

He took her by the arm and said:

</p>

<p>

"Will you follow that fellow through the window, or will you come with

me?"

</p>

<p>

Glancing at him, she saw something in his face that made her silent.

Then they went away together.

</p>

<p>

The scene changed. Barbara knew that now she saw her Aunt Thompson's

London house. In that drawing-room where she had parted from Mr.

Russell, her son and his wife stood face to face.

</p>

<p>

"How dare you?" she gasped through her set lips, glaring at him with

fierce eyes.

</p>

<p>

"How dare <i>you?</i>" he answered. "Did I marry you for this? I have given

you everything, my name, the wealth my old aunt left to me; you, you the

peasant's child, the evil woman whom I tried to lift up because I loved

you from the first."

</p>

<p>

"Then you were a fool for your pains, for such as I can't be lifted up."

</p>

<p>

"And you," he went on, unheeding, "go back to your mire and the herd of

your fellow-swine. You ask me how I dare. Go on with these ways, and I

tell you I'll dare a good deal more before I've done. I'll be rid of you

if I must break your neck and hang for it."

</p>

<p>

"You can't be rid of me. I'm your lawful wife, and you can prove nothing

against me since I married. Do you think I want to be such a one as that

mother of yours, to have children and mope myself to the grave&mdash;&mdash;"

</p>

<p>

"You'd best leave my mother out of it, or by the devil that made you

I'll send you after her. Keep her name off your vile lips."

</p>

<p>

"Why should I? What good did she ever do you? She pretended to be such

a saint, but she hated you, and small wonder, seeing what you were. Why

she even died to be rid of you. Oh, I know all about it, and you told me

as much yourself. If my child is ever born I hope for your sake it will

be such another as you are, or as I am. You can take your choice," and

with a glare of hate she rushed from the room.

</p>

<p>

On a table near the fireplace stood spirits. The maddened husband went

to them, filled a tumbler half full with brandy, added a little water

and drank it off.

</p>

<p>

He poured more brandy into the glass and began to think. To Barbara his

mind was as an open book and she read what was passing there. What she

saw were such thoughts as these: "My only comfort, and yet till within

two years ago, whatever else I did, I never touched drink. I swore to my

mother that I never would, and had she been alive to-day&mdash;&mdash;. But Bess

always liked her glass, and drinking alone is no company. Ah! if my

mother had lived everything would have been different, for I outgrew the

bad fit and might have become quite a decent fellow. But then I met Bess

again by chance, and she had the old hold on me, and there was none to

keep me back, and she knew how to play her fish until I married her. The

old aunt never found it out. If she had I shouldn't have 8,000 pounds a

year to-day. I lied to her about that, and I wonder what she thinks

of me now, if she can think where she is gone. I wonder what my mother

thinks also, and my father, who was a good man by all accounts, though

nobody seems to remember much about him. Supposing that they could see

me now, supposing that they could have been at that supper party and

witnessed the conjugal interview between me and the female creature who

is my legal wife, what would they think? Well, they are dead and can't,

for the dead don't come back. The dead are just a few double handfuls of

dirt, no more, and since no doubt I shall join them before very long, I

thank God for it, or rather I would if there were a God to thank. Here's

to the company of the Dead who will never hear or see or feel anything

more from everlasting to everlasting. Amen."

</p>

<p>

Then he drank off the second half tumbler of brandy, hid his face in his

hands and began to sob, muttering:

</p>

<p>

"Mother, why did you leave me? Oh, mother, come back to me, mother, and

save my soul from hell!"

</p>

<p>

Barbara and Anthony awoke from their dream of the dreadful earth and

looked into each other's hearts.

</p>

<p>

"It is true," said their hearts, which could not lie, and with those

words all the glory of their state faded to a grey nothingness.

</p>

<p>

"You have seen and heard," said Barbara. "It was my sin which has

brought this misery on our son, who, had I lived on, might have been

saved. Now through me he is lost, who step by step of his own will must

travel downwards to the last depth, and thence, perhaps, never be raised

again. This is the thing that I have done, yes, I whom blind judges in

the world held to be good."

</p>

<p>

"I have seen and heard," he answered, "and joy has departed from me. Yet

what wrong have you worked, who did not know?"

</p>

<p>

"Come, my father," called Barbara to that spirit who in the flesh had

been named Septimus Walrond, "come, you who are holy, and pray that

light may be given to us."

</p>

<p>

So he came and prayed and from the Heavens above fell a vision in answer

to his prayer. The vision was that of the fate of the soul of the son of

Anthony and Barbara through a thousand, thousand ages that were to come,

and it was a dreadful fate.

</p>

<p>

"Pray again, my father," said Barbara, "and ask if it may be changed."

</p>

<p>

So the spirit of Septimus Walrond prayed, and the spirits of his

daughters and of the daughter of Anthony and Barbara prayed with him.

Together they kneeled and prayed to the Glory that shone above.

</p>

<p>

There came another vision, that of a little child leading a man by the

hand, and the child was Barbara and the man was he who had been her son.

By a long and difficult path&mdash;upwards, ever upwards&mdash;she led him, and

the end of that path was not seen.

</p>

<p>

Then these spirits prayed that the meaning of this vision might be made

more clear. But to that prayer there came no answer.

</p>

<p>

Barbara went apart into a wilderness where thorns grew and there endured

the agony of temptation. On the one hand lay the pure life of joy which,

like the difficult path that had been shown to her, led upwards, ever

upwards to yet greater joy, shared with those she loved. On the other

hand lay the seething hell of Earth, to be once more endured through

many mortal years and&mdash;a soul to save alive. None might counsel her,

none might direct her. She must choose and choose alone. Not in fear of

punishment, for this was not possible to her. Not in hope of glory, for

that she must inherit, but only for the hope's sake that she might&mdash;save

a soul alive.

</p>

<p>

Out of her deep heart's infinite love and charity thus she chose in

atonement of her mortal sin. And as she chose the great arc of Heaven

above her, that had been grey and silent, burst to splendour and to

song.

</p>

<p>

So Barbara for a while bade farewell to those who loved her, bade

farewell to Anthony her heart's heart. Once more, alone, utterly alone,

she laid her on the couch in the great chamber with the translucent dome

and thence her spirit was whirled back through nothingness to the hell

of Earth, there to be born again in the child of the evil woman, that it

might save a soul alive.

</p>

<p>

Thus did the sweet and holy Barbara&mdash;Barbara who came back&mdash;in atonement

of her sin.

</p>

<p>

For her reward, as she fights on in hope, she has memory and such

visions as are written here.

</p>



<center>THE END</center>

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