SMITH AND THE PHARAOHS AND OTHER TALES

By H. Rider Haggard

Contents:

 Smith And The Pharaohs

 Magepa The Buck

 The Blue Curtains

 Little Flower

 Only A Dream

 Barbara Who Came Back

SMITH AND THE PHARAOHS

I

Scientists, or some scientists--for occasionally one learned persondiffers from other learned persons--tell us they know all that is worthknowing about man, which statement, of course, includes woman. Theytrace him from his remotest origin; they show us how his bones changedand his shape modified, also how, under the influence of his needs andpassions, his intelligence developed from something very humble. They demonstrate conclusively that there is nothing in man which thedissecting-table will not explain; that his aspirations towards anotherlife have their root in the fear of death, or, say others of them, inthat of earthquake or thunder; that his affinities with the past aremerely inherited from remote ancestors who lived in that past, perhaps amillion years ago; and that everything noble about him is but the fruitof expediency or of a veneer of civilisation, while everything base mustbe attributed to the instincts of his dominant and primeval nature. Man, in short, is an animal who, like every other animal, is finally subduedby his environment and takes his colour from his surroundings, as cattledo from the red soil of Devon. Such are the facts, they (or some ofthem) declare; all the rest is rubbish. 

At times we are inclined to agree with these sages, especially after ithas been our privilege to attend a course of lectures by one of them. Then perhaps something comes within the range of our experience whichgives us pause and causes doubts, the old divine doubts, to arise againdeep in our hearts, and with them a yet diviner hope. 

Perchance when all is said, so we think to ourselves, man _is_ somethingmore than an animal. Perchance he has known the past, the far past, andwill know the future, the far, far future. Perchance the dream is true, and he does indeed possess what for convenience is called an immortalsoul, that may manifest itself in one shape or another; that may sleepfor ages, but, waking or sleeping, still remains itself, indestructibleas the matter of the Universe. 

An incident in the career of Mr. James Ebenezer Smith might welloccasion such reflections, were any acquainted with its details, whichuntil this, its setting forth, was not the case. Mr. Smith is a personwho knows when to be silent. Still, undoubtedly it gave cause forthought to one individual--namely, to him to whom it happened. Indeed, James Ebenezer Smith is still thinking over it, thinking very hardindeed. 

J. E. Smith was well born and well educated. When he was a good-lookingand 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 wasthrown penniless, also friendless, upon the rocky bosom of the world. No, not quite friendless, for he had a godfather, a gentleman connectedwith business whose Christian name was Ebenezer. To him, as a lastresource, Smith went, feeling that Ebenezer owed him something in returnfor the awful appellation wherewith he had been endowed in baptism. 

To a certain extent Ebenezer recognised the obligation. He did nothingheroic, but he found his godson a clerkship in a bank of which he wasone of the directors--a modest clerkship, no more. Also, when he died ayear later, he left him a hundred pounds to be spent upon some souvenir. 

Smith, being of a practical turn of mind, instead of adorning himselfwith memorial jewellery for which he had no use, invested the hundredpounds in an exceedingly promising speculation. As it happened, he wasnot misinformed, and his talent returned to him multiplied by ten. Herepeated the experiment, and, being in a position to know what he wasdoing, with considerable success. By the time that he was thirty hefound himself possessed of a fortune of something over twenty-fivethousand pounds. Then (and this shows the wise and practical nature ofthe man) he stopped speculating and put out his money in such a fashionthat it brought him a safe and clear four per cent. 

By this time Smith, being an excellent man of business, was well up inthe service of his bank--as yet only a clerk, it is true, but one whodrew his four hundred pounds a year, with prospects. In short, he was ina position to marry had he wished to do so. As it happened, he did notwish--perhaps because, being very friendless, no lady who attracted himcrossed his path; perhaps for other reasons. 

Shy and reserved in temperament, he confided only in himself. None, noteven his superiors at the bank or the Board of Management, knew howwell off he had become. No one visited him at the flat which he wasunderstood to occupy somewhere in the neighbourhood of Putney; hebelonged to no club, and possessed not a single intimate. The blow whichthe world had dealt him in his early days, the harsh repulses and therough treatment he had then experienced, sank so deep into his sensitivesoul 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 arefined type. 

Soon, however, Smith discovered--it was after he had given upspeculating--that a man must have something to occupy his mind. He triedphilanthropy, but found himself too sensitive for a business whichso often resolves itself into rude inquiry as to the affairs of otherpeople. After a struggle, therefore, he compromised with his conscienceby setting aside a liberal portion of his income for anonymousdistribution among deserving persons and objects. 

While still in this vacant frame of mind Smith chanced one day, when thebank was closed, to drift into the British Museum, more to escape thevile weather that prevailed without than for any other reason. Wanderinghither and thither at hazard, he found himself in the great gallerydevoted to Egyptian stone objects and sculpture. The place bewilderedhim somewhat, for he knew nothing of Egyptology; indeed, there remainedupon his mind only a sense of wonderment not unmixed with awe. It musthave been a great people, he thought to himself, that executed theseworks, and with the thought came a desire to know more about them. Yethe was going away when suddenly his eye fell on the sculptured head of awoman which hung upon the wall. 

Smith looked at it once, twice, thrice, and at the third look he fell inlove. 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 couldhe forget the face which that carven mask portrayed. Perhaps it was notreally beautiful save for its wondrous and mystic smile; perhaps thelips were too thick and the nostrils too broad. Yet to him that facewas Beauty itself, beauty which drew him as with a cart-rope, and awokewithin him all kinds of wonderful imaginings, some of them so strangeand tender that almost they partook of the nature of memories. He staredat the image, and the image smiled back sweetly at him, as doubtless it, or rather its original--for this was but a plaster cast--had smiled atnothingness in some tomb or hiding-hole for over thirty centuries, andas the woman whose likeness it was had once smiled upon the world. 

A short, stout gentleman bustled up and, in tones of authority, addressed some workmen who were arranging a base for a neighbouringstatue. It occurred to Smith that he must be someone who knew aboutthese objects. Overcoming his natural diffidence with an effort, heraised his hat and asked the gentleman if he could tell him who was theoriginal of the mask. 

The official--who, in fact, was a very great man in the Museum--glancedat Smith shrewdly, and, seeing that his interest was genuine, answered--

"I don't know. Nobody knows. She has been given several names, but noneof them have authority. Perhaps one day the rest of the statue maybe found, and then we shall learn--that is, if it is inscribed. Mostlikely, however, it has been burnt for lime long ago. "

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

"Well, only a little. To begin with, that's a cast. The original is inthe Cairo Museum. Mariette found it, I believe at Karnac, and gave ita name after his fashion. Probably she was a queen--of the eighteenthdynasty, by the work. But you can see her rank for yourself from thebroken _uraeus_. " (Smith did not stop him to explain that he had notthe faintest idea what a _uraeus_ might be, seeing that he was utterlyunfamiliar with the snake-headed crest of Egyptian royalty. ) "You shouldgo to Egypt and study the head for yourself. It is one of the mostbeautiful things that ever was found. Well, I must be off. Good day. "

And he bustled down the long gallery. 

Smith found his way upstairs and looked at mummies and other things. Somehow it hurt him to reflect that the owner of yonder sweet, alluringface must have become a mummy long, long before the Christian era. Mummies did not strike him as attractive. 

He returned to the statuary and stared at his plaster cast till one ofthe workmen remarked to his fellow that if he were the gent he'd go andlook at "a live'un" for a change. 

Then Smith retired abashed. 

On his way home he called at his bookseller's and ordered "all thebest works on Egyptology". When, a day or two later, they arrived ina packing-case, together with a bill for thirty-eight pounds, he wassomewhat dismayed. Still, he tackled those books like a man, and, beingclever and industrious, within three months had a fair working knowledgeof the subject, and had even picked up a smattering of hieroglyphics. 

In January--that was, at the end of those three months--Smith astonishedhis Board of Directors by applying for ten weeks' leave, he who hadhitherto been content with a fortnight in the year. When questioned heexplained that he had been suffering from bronchitis, and was advised totake a change in Egypt. 

"A very good idea, " said the manager; "but I'm afraid you'll find itexpensive. They fleece one in Egypt. "

"I know, " answered Smith; "but I've saved a little and have only myselfto spend it upon. "

So Smith went to Egypt and saw the original of the beauteous head anda thousand other fascinating things. Indeed, he did more. Attachinghimself to some excavators who were glad of his intelligent assistance, he actually dug for a month in the neighbourhood of ancient Thebes, butwithout finding anything in particular. 

It was not till two years later that he made his great discovery, thatwhich is known as Smith's Tomb. Here it may be explained that the stateof his health had become such as to necessitate an annual visit toEgypt, or so his superiors understood. 

However, as he asked for no summer holiday, and was always ready to doanother man's work or to stop overtime, he found it easy to arrange forthese winter excursions. 

On this, his third visit to Egypt, Smith obtained from theDirector-General of Antiquities at Cairo a licence to dig upon hisown account. Being already well known in the country as a skilledEgyptologist, this was granted upon the usual terms--namely, that theDepartment of Antiquities should have a right to take any of the objectswhich might be found, or all of them, if it so desired. 

Such preliminary matters having been arranged by correspondence, Smith, after a few days spent in the Museum at Cairo, took the night trainto Luxor, where he found his head-man, an ex-dragoman named Mahomet, waiting for him and his fellaheen labourers already hired. There werebut forty of them, for his was a comparatively small venture. Threehundred pounds was the amount that he had made up his mind to expend, and such a sum does not go far in excavations. 

During his visit of the previous year Smith had marked the place wherehe meant to dig. It was in the cemetery of old Thebes, at the wild spotnot far from the temple of Medinet Habu, that is known as the Valley ofthe Queens. Here, separated from the resting-places of their royal lordsby the bold mass of the intervening hill, some of the greatest ladies ofEgypt have been laid to rest, and it was their tombs that Smith desiredto investigate. As he knew well, some of these must yet remain to bediscovered. Who could say? Fortune favours the bold. It might be that hewould find the holy grave of that beauteous, unknown Royalty whose facehad haunted him for three long years!

For a whole month he dug without the slightest success. The spot thathe selected had proved, indeed, to be the mouth of a tomb. Aftertwenty-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 beendesigned must have died quite young and been buried elsewhere; or shehad chosen herself another sepulchre, or mayhap the rock had provedunsuitable for sculpture. 

Smith shrugged his shoulders and moved on, sinking trial pits andtrenches here and there, but still finding nothing. Two-thirds of histime 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 returningafter a fruitless morning of labour, when something seemed to attracthim towards a little _wadi_, or bay, in the hillside that was filledwith tumbled rocks and sand. There were scores of such places, and thisone looked no more promising than any of the others had proved to be. Yet it attracted him. Thoroughly dispirited, he walked past it twentypaces or more, then turned. 

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

He pointed to the recess in the cliff. 

"No good, sah, " said Mahomet. "No tomb there. Bed-rock too near top. Toomuch water run in there; dead queen like keep dry!"

But Smith went on, and the others followed obediently. 

He walked down the little slope of sand and boulders and examined thecliff. It was virgin rock; never a tool mark was to be seen. Already themen were going, when the same strange instinct which had drawn him tothe spot caused him to take a spade from one of them and begin to shovelaway the sand from the face of the cliff--for here, for some unexplainedreason, were no boulders or _debris_. Seeing their master, to whom theywere attached, at work, they began to work too, and for twenty minutesor more dug on cheerfully enough, just to humour him, since all weresure that here there was no tomb. At length Smith ordered them todesist, for, although now they were six feet down, the rock remained ofthe same virgin character. 

With an exclamation of disgust he threw out a last shovelful of sand. The edge of his spade struck on something that projected. He clearedaway a little more sand, and there appeared a rounded ledge which seemedto be a cornice. Calling back the men, he pointed to it, and without aword all of them began to dig again. Five minutes more of work made itclear that it was a cornice, and half an hour later there appeared thetop of the doorway of a tomb. 

"Old people wall him up, " said Mahomet, pointing to the flat stones setin mud for mortar with which the doorway had been closed, and to theundecipherable impress upon the mud of the scarab seals of the officialswhose duty it had been to close the last resting-place of the royal deadfor ever. 

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

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

So they dug on furiously till at length Smith saw something which causedhim to groan aloud. There was a hole in the masonry--the tomb had beenbroken into. Mahomet saw it too, and examined the top of the aperturewith his skilled eye. 

"Very old thief, " he said. "Look, he try build up wall again, but runaway before he have time finish. " And he pointed to certain flat stoneswhich had been roughly and hurriedly replaced. 

"Dig--dig!" said Smith. 

Ten minutes more and the aperture was cleared. It was only just bigenough to admit the body of a man. 

By now the sun was setting. Swiftly, swiftly it seemed to tumble downthe sky. One minute it was above the rough crests of the western hillsbehind them; the next, a great ball of glowing fire, it rested on theirtopmost ridge. Then it was gone. For an instant a kind of green sparkshone where it had been. This too went out, and the sudden Egyptiannight was upon them. 

The fellaheen muttered among themselves, and one or two of them wanderedoff on some pretext. The rest threw down their tools and looked atSmith. "Men say they no like stop here. They afraid of ghost! Toomany _afreet_ live in these tomb. That what they say. Come back finishto-morrow morning when it light. Very foolish people, these commonfellaheen, " remarked Mahomet, in a superior tone. 

"Quite so, " replied Smith, who knew well that nothing that he couldoffer would tempt his men to go on with the opening of a tomb aftersunset. "Let them go away. You and I will stop and watch the place tillmorning. "

"Sorry, sah, " said Mahomet, "but I not feel quite well inside; think Igot fever. I go to camp and lie down and pray under plenty blanket. "

"All right, go, " said Smith; "but if there is anyone who is not acoward, let him bring me my big coat, something to eat and drink, andthe lantern that hangs in my tent. I will meet him there in the valley. "

Mahomet, though rather doubtfully, promised that this should be done, and, after begging Smith to accompany them, lest the spirit of whoeverslept in the tomb should work him a mischief during the night, theydeparted quickly enough. 

Smith lit his pipe, sat down on the sand, and waited. Half an hour laterhe heard a sound of singing, and through the darkness, which was dense, saw lights coming up the valley. 

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

He was right. These were his men, no less than twenty of them, for witha fewer number they did not dare to face the ghosts which they believedhaunted the valley after nightfall. Presently the light from the lanternwhich one of them carried (not Mahomet, whose sickness had increased toosuddenly to enable him to come) fell upon the tall form of Smith, who, dressed in his white working clothes, was leaning against a rock. Downwent the lantern, and with a howl of terror the brave company turned andfled. 

"Sons of cowards!" roared Smith after them, in his most vigorous Arabic. "It is I, your master, not an _afreet_. "

They heard, and by degrees crept back again. Then he perceived that inorder 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 bottleof beer, and so on. As even thus there were not enough things to goround, two of them bore his big coat between them, the first holding itby the sleeves and the second by the tail as though it were a stretcher. 

"Put them down, " said Smith, and they obeyed. "Now, " he added, "run foryour lives; I thought I heard two _afreets_ talking up there just nowof what they would do to any followers of the Prophet who mocked theirgods, if perchance they should meet them in their holy place at night. "

This kindly counsel was accepted with much eagerness. In another minuteSmith was alone with the stars and the dying desert wind. 

Collecting his goods, or as many of them as he wanted, he thrust theminto the pockets of the great-coat and returned to the mouth of thetomb. Here he made his simple meal by the light of the lantern, andafterwards tried to go to sleep. But sleep he could not. Somethingalways woke him. First it was a jackal howling amongst the rocks; nexta sand-fly bit him in the ankle so sharply that he thought he must havebeen stung by a scorpion. Then, notwithstanding his warm coat, thecold got hold of him, for the clothes beneath were wet through withperspiration, and it occurred to him that unless he did something hewould probably contract an internal chill or perhaps fever. He rose andwalked about. 

By now the moon was up, revealing all the sad, wild scene in its everydetail. The mystery of Egypt entered his soul and oppressed him. Howmuch dead majesty lay in the hill upon which he stood? Were they allreally dead, he wondered, or were those fellaheen right? Did theirspirits still come forth at night and wander through the land where oncethey ruled? Of course that was the Egyptian faith according to whichthe _Ka_, or Double, eternally haunted the place where its earthlycounterpart had been laid to rest. When one came to think of it, beneatha mass of unintelligible symbolism there was much in the Egyptian faithwhich it was hard for a Christian to disbelieve. Salvation through aRedeemer, for instance, and the resurrection of the body. Had he, Smith, not already written a treatise upon these points of similarity which heproposed to publish one day, not under his own name? Well, he would notthink of them now; the occasion seemed scarcely fitting--they came hometoo pointedly to one who was engaged in violating a tomb. 

His mind, or rather his imagination--of which he had plenty--went off ata tangent. What sights had this place seen thousands of years ago! Once, thousands of years ago, a procession had wound up along the roadwaywhich was doubtless buried beneath the sand whereon he stood towardsthe dark door of this sepulchre. He could see it as it passed in andout between the rocks. The priests, shaven-headed and robed in leopards'skins, or some of them in pure white, bearing the mystic symbols oftheir office. The funeral sledge drawn by oxen, and on it the greatrectangular case that contained the outer and the inner coffins, andwithin them the mummy of some departed Majesty; in the Egyptian formula, "the hawk that had spread its wings and flown into the bosom ofOsiris, " God of Death. Behind, the mourners, rending the air with theirlamentations. Then those who bore the funeral furniture and offerings. Then the high officers of State and the first priests of Amen and ofthe other gods. Then the sister queens, leading by the hand a wonderingchild or two. Then the sons of Pharaoh, young men carrying the emblemsof their rank. 

Lastly, walking alone, Pharaoh himself in his ceremonial robes, hisapron, his double crown of linen surmounted by the golden snake, hisinlaid bracelets and his heavy, tinkling earrings. Pharaoh, his headbowed, his feet travelling wearily, and in his heart--what thoughts?Sorrow, perhaps, for her who had departed. Yet he had other queens andfair women without count. Doubtless she was sweet and beautiful, butsweetness and beauty were not given to her alone. Moreover, was she notwont to cross his will and to question his divinity? No, surely itis not only of her that he thinks, her for whom he had prepared thissplendid tomb with all things needful to unite her with the gods. Surelyhe thinks also of himself and that other tomb on the farther side of thehill whereat the artists labour day by day--yes, and have laboured thesemany years; that tomb to which before so very long he too must travel injust this fashion, to seek his place beyond the doors of Death, who layshis equal hand on king and queen and slave. 

The vision passed. It was so real that Smith thought he must have beendreaming. Well, he was awake now, and colder than ever. Moreover, thejackals had multiplied. There were a whole pack of them, and not faraway. Look! One crossed in the ring of the lamplight, a slinking, yellowbeast that smelt the remains of dinner. Or perhaps it smelt himself. Moreover, there were bad characters who haunted these mountains, and hewas alone and quite unarmed. Perhaps he ought to put out the light whichadvertised his whereabouts. It would be wise, and yet in this particularhe rejected wisdom. After all, the light was some company. 

Since sleep seemed to be out of the question, he fell back upon poorhumanity's other anodyne, work, which has the incidental advantage ofgenerating warmth. Seizing a shovel, he began to dig at the doorway ofthe tomb, whilst the jackals howled louder than ever in astonishment. They were not used to such a sight. For thousands of years, as the oldmoon above could have told, no man, or at least no solitary man, haddared to rob tombs at such an unnatural hour. 

When Smith had been digging for about twenty minutes something tinkledon his shovel with a noise which sounded loud in that silence. 

"A stone which may come in handy for the jackals, " he thought tohimself, shaking the sand slowly off the spade until it appeared. Thereit was, and not large enough to be of much service. Still, he picked itup, and rubbed it in his hands to clear off the encrusting dirt. When heopened them he saw that it was no stone, but a bronze. 

"Osiris, " reflected Smith, "buried in front of the tomb to hallow theground. No, an Isis. No, the head of a statuette, and a jolly goodone, too--at any rate, in moonlight. Seems to have been gilded. " And, reaching out for the lamp, he held it over the object. 

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. 

"The Queen of the Mask!" he gasped. "The same--the same! By heavens, thevery same!"

Oh, he could not be mistaken. There were the identical lips, a littlethick and pouted; the identical nostrils, curved and quivering, but alittle wide; the identical arched eyebrows and dreamy eyes set somewhatfar apart. Above all, there was the identical alluring and mysterioussmile. Only on this masterpiece of ancient art was set a whole crown of_uraei_ surrounding the entire head. Beneath the crown and pressed backbehind the ears was a full-bottomed wig or royal head-dress, of whichthe ends descended to the breasts. The statuette, that, having beengilt, remained quite perfect and uncorroded, was broken just above themiddle, apparently by a single violent blow, for the fracture was veryclean. 

At once it occurred to Smith that it had been stolen from the tomb bya thief who thought it to be gold; that outside of the tomb doubt hadovertaken him and caused him to break it upon a stone or otherwise. Therest was clear. Finding that it was but gold-washed bronze he had thrownaway the fragments, rather than be at the pains of carrying them. Thiswas his theory, probably not a correct one, as the sequel seems to show. 

Smith's first idea was to recover the other portion. He searched quite along while, but without success. Neither then nor afterwards could itbe found. He reflected that perhaps this lower half had remained in thethief's hand, who, in his vexation, had thrown it far away, leavingthe head to lie where it fell. Again Smith examined this head, and moreclosely. Now he saw that just beneath the breasts was a delicately cutcartouche. 

Being by this time a master of hieroglyphics, he read it withouttrouble. It ran: "Ma-Mee, Great Royal Lady. Beloved of ----" Here thecartouche was broken away. 

"Ma-Me, or it might be Ma-Mi, " he reflected. "I never heard of a queencalled Ma-Me, or Ma-Mi, or Ma-Mu. She must be quite new to history. Iwonder of whom she was beloved? Amen, or Horus, or Isis, probably. Ofsome god, I have no doubt, at least I hope so!"

He stared at the beautiful portrait in his hand, as once he had staredat the cast on the Museum wall, and the beautiful portrait, emergingfrom the dust of ages, smiled back at him there in the solemn moonlightas once the cast had smiled from the museum wall. Only that had been buta cast, whereas this was real. This had slept with the dead from whosefeatures it had been fashioned, the dead who lay, or who had lain, within. 

A sudden resolution took hold of Smith. He would explore that tomb, atonce and alone. No one should accompany him on this his first visit;it would be a sacrilege that anyone save himself should set foot thereuntil he had looked on what it might contain. 

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 thehole that they had cleared. Lastly, something seemed to call on him tocome and see. He placed the bronze head in his breast-pocket over hisheart, and, thrusting the lamp through the hole, looked down. Here therewas no difficulty, since sand had drifted in to the level of the bottomof the aperture. Through it he struggled, to find himself upon a bed ofsand that only just left him room to push himself along between it andthe roof. A little farther on the passage was almost filled with mud. 

Mahomet had been right when, from his knowledge of the bed-rock, he saidthat any tomb made in this place must be flooded. It _had_ been floodedby some ancient rain-storm, and Smith began to fear that he would findit quite filled with soil caked as hard as iron. So, indeed, it was toa certain depth, a result that apparently had been anticipated by thosewho hollowed it, for this entrance shaft was left quite undecorated. Indeed, as Smith found afterwards, a hole had been dug beneath thedoorway to allow the mud to enter after the burial was completed. Only amiscalculation had been made. The natural level of the mud did not quitereach the roof of the tomb, and therefore still left it open. 

After crawling for forty feet or so over this caked mud, Smith suddenlyfound himself on a rising stair. Then he understood the plan; the tombitself was on a higher level. 

Here began the paintings. Here the Queen Ma-Mee, wearing her crowns anddressed in diaphanous garments, was presented to god after god. Betweenher figure and those of the divinities the wall was covered withhieroglyphs 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 notvery long after the interment, the mud over which Smith had just crawledwas still wet. This he could tell, since the clay from the rascal'sfeet remained upon the stairs, and that upon his fingers had stained thepaintings on the wall against which he had supported himself; indeed, in one place was an exact impression of his hand, showing its shape andeven the lines of the skin. 

At the top of the flight of steps ran another passage at a higherlevel, which the water had never reached, and to right and left were thebeginnings of unfinished chambers. It was clear to him that this queenhad died young. Her tomb, as she or the king had designed it, was neverfinished. A few more paces, and the passage enlarged itself into a hallabout thirty feet square. The ceiling was decorated with vultures, theirwings outspread, the looped Cross of Life hanging from their talons. On one wall her Majesty Ma-Mee stood expectant while Anubis weighed herheart against the feather of truth, and Thoth, the Recorder, wrote downthe verdict upon his tablets. All her titles were given to her here, such as--"Great Royal Heiress, Royal Sister, Royal Wife, Royal Mother, Lady of the Two Lands, Palm-branch of Love, Beautiful-exceedingly. "

Smith read them hurriedly and noted that nowhere could he see the nameof the king who had been her husband. It would almost seem as thoughthis had been purposely omitted. On the other walls Ma-Mee, accompaniedby her _Ka_, or Double, made offerings to the various gods, or utteredpropitiatory speeches to the hideous demons of the underworld, declaringtheir names to them and forcing them to say: "Pass on. Thou art pure!"

Lastly, on the end wall, triumphant, all her trials done, she, thejustified Osiris, or Spirit, was received by the god Osiris, Saviour ofSpirits. 

All these things Smith noted hurriedly as he swung the lamp to and froin that hallowed place. Then he saw something else which filled him withdismay. On the floor of the chamber where the coffins had been--for thiswas the burial chamber--lay a heap of black fragments charred with fire. Instantly he understood. After the thief had done his work he had burnedthe mummy-cases, and with them the body of the queen. There could beno doubt that this was so, for look! among the ashes lay some calcinedhuman bones, while the roof above was blackened with the smoke andcracked by the heat of the conflagration. There was nothing left for himto find!

Oppressed with the closeness of the atmosphere, he sat down upon alittle bench or table cut in the rock that evidently had been meantto receive offerings to the dead. Indeed, on it still lay the scorchedremains of some votive flowers. Here, his lamp between his feet, herested a while, staring at those calcined bones. See, yonder was thelower jaw, and in it some teeth, small, white, regular and but littleworn. Yes, she had died young. Then he turned to go, for disappointmentand the holiness of the place overcame him; he could endure no more ofit that night. 

Leaving the burial hall, he walked along the painted passage, the lampswinging and his eyes fixed upon the floor. He was disheartened, and thepaintings could wait till the morrow. He descended the steps and came tothe foot of the mud slope. Here suddenly he perceived, projecting fromsome sand that had drifted down over the mud, what seemed to be thecorner of a reed box or basket. To clear away the sand was easy, and--yes, it was a basket, a foot or so in length, such a basket asthe old Egyptians used to contain the funeral figures which are called_ushaptis_, or other objects connected with the dead. It looked asthough it had been dropped, for it lay upon its side. Smith openedit--not very hopefully, for surely nothing of value would have beenabandoned thus. 

The first thing that met his eyes was a mummied hand, broken off at thewrist, a woman's little hand, most delicately shaped. It was witheredand paper-white, but the contours still remained; the long fingers wereperfect, and the almond-shaped nails had been stained with henna, as wasthe embalmers' fashion. On the hand were two gold rings, and for thoserings it had been stolen. Smith looked at it for a long while, and hisheart swelled within him, for here was the hand of that royal lady ofhis dreams. 

Indeed, he did more than look; he kissed it, and as his lips touchedthe holy relic it seemed to him as though a wind, cold but scented, blewupon his brow. Then, growing fearful of the thoughts that arose withinhim, he hurried his mind back to the world, or rather to the examinationof the basket. 

Here he found other objects roughly wrapped in fragments of mummy-cloththat had been torn from the body of the queen. These it is needless todescribe, 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 wasincomplete. For instance, there was but one of the great gold ceremonialear-rings fashioned like a group of pomegranate blooms, and the mostbeautiful of the necklaces had been torn in two--half of it was missing. 

It was clear to Smith that only a portion of the precious objects whichwere buried with the mummy had been placed in this basket. Why had thesebeen left where he found them? A little reflection made that clear also. Something had prompted the thief to destroy the desecrated body and itscoffin with fire, probably in the hope of hiding his evil handiwork. Then he fled with his spoil. But he had forgotten how fiercely mummiesand their trappings can burn. Or perhaps the thing was an accident. Hemust have had a lamp, and if its flame chanced to touch this bituminoustinder!

At any rate, the smoke overtook the man in that narrow place as he beganto 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 ofthe royal dead that morrow never came, as was discovered afterwards. 

When at length Smith struggled into the open air the stars were palingbefore the dawn. An hour later, after the sky was well up, Mahomet(recovered from his sickness) and his myrmidons arrived. 

"I have been busy while you slept, " said Smith, showing them the mummiedhand (but not the rings which he had removed from the shrunk fingers), and the broken bronze, but not the priceless jewellery which was hiddenin his pockets. 

For the next ten days they dug till the tomb and its approach were quiteclear. In the sand, at the head of a flight of steps which led down tothe doorway, they found the skeleton of a man, who evidently had beenburied there in a hurried fashion. His skull was shattered by the blowof an axe, and the shaven scalp that still clung to it suggested that hemight have been a priest. 

Mahomet thought, and Smith agreed with him, that this was the person whohad violated the tomb. As he was escaping from it the guards of the holyplace surprised him after he had covered up the hole by which he hadentered and purposed to return. There they executed him without trialand divided up the plunder, thinking that no more was to be found. Orperhaps his confederates killed him. 

Such at least were the theories advanced by Mahomet. Whether they wereright or wrong none will ever know. For instance, the skeleton may nothave been that of the thief, though probability appears to point theother way. 

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 picturesand copying the inscriptions, which for various reasons proved to be ofextraordinary interest. Then, having reverently buried the charred bonesof the queen in a secret place of the sepulchre, he handed it over tothe care of the local Guardian of Antiquities, paid off Mahomet and thefellaheen, and departed for Cairo. With him went the wonderful jewelsof which he had breathed no word, and another relic to him yet moreprecious--the hand of her Majesty Ma-Mee, Palm-branch of Love. 

And now follows the strange sequel of this story of Smith and the queenMa-Mee. 

II

Smith was seated in the sanctum of the distinguished Director-Generalof 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 atAlexandria, standing on a table in the pot that had hidden them for twothousand years; in the corner the mummy of a royal child, aged six orseven, not long ago discovered, with some inscription scrawled uponthe wrappings (brought here to be deciphered by the Master), and thewithered lotus-bloom, love's last offering, thrust beneath one of thepink retaining bands. 

"A touching object, " thought Smith to himself. "Really, they might haveleft the dear little girl in peace. "

Smith had a tender heart, but even as he reflected he became awarethat some of the jewellery hidden in an inner pocket of his waistcoat(designed for bank-notes) was fretting his skin. He had a tenderconscience also. 

Just then the Director, a French savant, bustled in, alert, vigorous, full of interest. 

"Ah, my dear Mr. Smith!" he said, in his excellent English. "I am indeedglad to see you back again, especially as I understand that you are comerejoicing and bringing your sheaves with you. They tell me you have beenextraordinarily successful. What do you say is the name of this queenwhose tomb you have found--Ma-Mee? A very unusual name. How do youget the extra vowel? Is it for euphony, eh? Did I not know how good ascholar you are, I should be tempted to believe that you had misreadit. Me-Mee, Ma-Mee! That would be pretty in French, would it not? _Mamie_--my darling! Well, I dare say she was somebody's _mie_ in her time. But tell me the story. "

Smith told him shortly and clearly; also he produced his photographs andcopies of inscriptions. 

"This is interesting--interesting truly, " said the Director, when he hadglanced through them. "You must leave them with me to study. Also youwill publish them, is it not so? Perhaps one of the Societies wouldhelp you with the cost, for it should be done in facsimile. Look at thisvignette! Most unusual. Oh, what a pity that scoundrelly priest got offwith the jewellery and burnt her Majesty's body!"

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

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

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

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

Slowly Smith unbuttoned his waistcoat. From its inner pocket andelsewhere about his person he extracted the jewels wrapped inmummy-cloth as he had found them. First he produced a sceptre-head ofgold, in the shape of a pomegranate fruit and engraved with the thronename and titles of Ma-Mee. 

"What a beautiful object!" said the Director. "Look! the handle was ofivory, and that _sacre_ thief of a priest smashed it out at the socket. It was fresh ivory then; the robbery must have taken place not longafter the burial. See, this magnifying-glass shows it. Is that all?"

Smith handed him the surviving half of the marvellous necklace that hadbeen torn in two. 

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

"Oh, heavens! How lovely! Note the cutting of those cornelian heads ofHathor and the gold lotus-blooms between--yes, and the enamelled fliesbeneath. We have nothing like it in the Museum. "

So it went on. 

"Is that all?" gasped the Director at last, when every object from thebasket glittered before them on the table. 

"Yes, " said Smith. "That is--no. I found a broken statuette hidden inthe sand outside the tomb. It is of the queen, but I thought perhaps youwould allow me to keep this. "

"But certainly, Mr. Smith; it is yours indeed. We are not niggards here. Still, if I might see it----"

From yet another pocket Smith produced the head. The Director gazed atit, then he spoke with feeling. 

"I said just now that you were discreet, Mr. Smith, and I have beenreflecting that you are honest. But now I must add that you are veryclever. If you had not made me promise that this bronze should be yoursbefore you showed it me--well, it would never have gone into thatpocket again. And, in the public interest, won't you release me from thepromise?"

"_No_, " said Smith. 

"You are perhaps not aware, " went on the Director, with a groan, "thatthis is a portrait of Mariette's unknown queen whom we are thus able toidentify. It seems a pity that the two should be separated; a replica wecould let you have. "

"I am quite aware, " said Smith, "and I will be sure to send _you_ areplica, with photographs. Also I promise to leave the original to somemuseum by will. "

The Director clasped the image tenderly, and, holding it to the light, read the broken cartouche beneath the breasts. 

"'Ma-Me, Great Royal Lady. Beloved of ----' Beloved of whom? Well, ofSmith, for one. Take it, monsieur, and hide it away at once, lest soonthere should be another mummy in this collection, a modern mummy calledSmith; and, in the name of Justice, let the museum which inherits it benot 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 isyour health now? Our cold winds are very trying. Quite good? Ah, thatis excellent! I suppose that you have no more articles that you can showme?"

"I have nothing more except a mummied hand, which I found in the basketwith the jewels. The two rings off it lie there. Doubtless it wasremoved to get at that bracelet. I suppose you will not mind my keepingthe hand----"

"Of the beloved of Smith, " interrupted the Director drolly. "No, Isuppose not, though for my part I should prefer one that was not quiteso old. Still, perhaps _you_ will not mind my seeing it. That pocket ofyours still looks a little bulky; I thought that it contained books!"

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

"Ah, " said the Director, "a pretty, well-bred hand. No doubt thisMa-Mee was the real heiress to the throne, as she describes herself. The Pharaoh was somebody of inferior birth, half-brother--she is called'Royal Sister, ' you remember--son of one of the Pharaoh's slave-women, perhaps. Odd that she never mentioned him in the tomb. It looks asthough they didn't get on in life, and that she was determined to havedone with him in death. Those were the rings upon that hand, were theynot?"

He replaced them on the fingers, then took off one, a royal signet in acartouche, and read the inscription on the other: "'Bes Ank, Ank Bes. ''Bes the Living, the Living Bes. '

"Your Ma-Mee had some human vanity about her, " he added. "Bes, amongother things, as you know, was the god of beauty and of the adornmentsof women. She wore that ring that she might remain beautiful, and thather dresses might always fit, and her rouge never cake when she wasdancing before the gods. Also it fixes her period pretty closely, butthen 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. "

With a little bow he gave the hand back to Smith, leaving the Bes ringon the finger that had worn it for more than three thousand years. Atleast, Smith was so sure it was the Bes ring that at the time he did notlook at it again. 

Then they parted, Smith promising to return upon the morrow, which, owing to events to be described, he did not do. 

"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 mindabout that ring. Also there is the bronze. Monsieur Smith was _ruse_there. It is worth a thousand pounds, that bronze. Yet I do not believehe was thinking of the money. I believe he is in love with that Ma-Meeand wants to keep her picture. _Mon Dieu!_ A well-established affection. At least he is what the English call an odd fish, one whom I could nevermake out, and of whom no one seems to know anything. Still, honest, Iam sure--quite honest. Why, he might have kept every one of those jewelsand no one have been the wiser. And what things! What a find! _Ciel!_what a find! There has been nothing like it for years. Benedictions onthe head of Odd-fish Smith!"

Then he collected the precious objects, thrust them into an innercompartment of his safe, which he locked and double-locked, and, asit was nearly five o'clock, departed from the Museum to his privateresidence in the grounds, there to study Smith's copies and photographs, and to tell some friends of the great things that had happened. 

When Smith found himself outside the sacred door, and had presented itsvenerable guardian with a baksheesh of five piastres, he walked a fewpaces to the right and paused a while to watch some native labourerswho were dragging a huge sarcophagus upon an improvised tramway. As theydragged they sang an echoing rhythmic song, whereof each line ended withan invocation to Allah. 

Just so, reflected Smith, had their forefathers sung when, millenniumsago, 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 theyslid the casing blocks of the pyramids up the great causeway and smoothslope of sand, and laid them in their dizzy resting-places. Only theneach line of the immemorial chant of toil ended with an invocation toAmen, now transformed to Allah. The East may change its masters andits gods, but its customs never change, and if to-day Allah wore thefeathers of Amen one wonders whether the worshippers would find thedifference so very great. 

Thus thought Smith as he hurried away from the sarcophagus and thoseblue-robed, dark-skinned fellaheen, down the long gallery that is filledwith a thousand sculptures. For a moment he paused before the wonderfulwhite statue of Queen Amenartas, then, remembering that his time wasshort, hastened on to a certain room, one of those which opened out ofthe gallery. 

In a corner of this room, upon the wall, amongst many other beautifulobjects, stood that head which Mariette had found, whereof in past yearsthe 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 thatstatue. Her very hand was in his pocket--yes, the hand that had touchedyonder marble, pointing out its defects to the sculptor, or perhapsswearing that he flattered her. Smith wondered who that sculptor was;surely he must have been a happy man. Also he wondered whether thestatuette was also this master's work. He thought so, but he wished tomake sure. 

Near to the end of the room he stopped and looked about him like athief. He was alone in the place; not a single student or tourist couldbe seen, and its guardian was somewhere else. He drew out the boxthat contained the hand. From the hand he slipped the ring which theDirector-General had left there as a gift to himself. He would much havepreferred the other with the signet, but how could he say so, especiallyafter the episode of the statuette?

Replacing the hand in his pocket without looking at the ring--for hiseyes were watching to see whether he was observed--he set it upon hislittle finger, which it exactly fitted. (Ma-Mee had worn both of themupon the third finger of her left hand, the Bes ring as a guard to thesignet. ) He had the fancy to approach the effigy of Ma-Mee wearing aring which she had worn and that came straight from her finger to hisown. 

Smith found the head in its accustomed place. Weeks had gone by since helooked upon it, and now, to his eyes, it had grown more beautifulthan ever, and its smile was more mystical and living. He drew out thestatuette and began to compare them point by point. Oh, no doubt waspossible! Both were likenesses of the same woman, though the statuettemight have been executed two or three years later than the statue. Tohim the face of it looked a little older and more spiritual. Perhapsillness, or some premonition of her end had then thrown its shadow onthe queen. He compared and compared. He made some rough measurementsand sketches in his pocket-book, and set himself to work out a canon ofproportions. 

So hard and earnestly did he work, so lost was his mind that he neverheard the accustomed warning sound which announces that the Museumis 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 casta last perfunctory glance about the place before departing till theSaturday morning; for the morrow was Friday, the Mohammedan Sabbath, on which the Museum remains shut, and he would not be called upon toattend. So he went. Everybody went. The great doors clanged, were lockedand bolted, and, save for a watchman outside, no one was left in allthat vast place except Smith in his corner, engaged in sketching and inmeasurements. 

The difficulty of seeing, owing to the increase of shadow, first calledhis attention to the fact that time was slipping away. He glanced at hiswatch and saw that it was ten minutes to the hour. 

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

How strangely silent the place seemed! Not a footstep to be heard or thesound of a human voice. He looked at his watch again, and saw thatit was six o'clock, not five, or so the thing said. But that wasimpossible, for the Museum shut at five; evidently the desert sand hadgot into the works. The room in which he stood was that known as RoomI, and he had noticed that its Arab custodian often frequented Room K orthe gallery outside. He would find him and ask what was the real time. 

Passing round the effigy of the wonderful Hathor cow, perhaps the finestexample of an ancient sculpture of a beast in the whole world, Smithcame to the doorway and looked up and down the gallery. Not a soul tobe seen. He ran to Room K, to Room H, and others. Still not a soul to beseen. Then he made his way as fast as he could go to the great entrance. The doors were locked and bolted. 

"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_salle des ventes_ is still open. Shops don't shut till they areobliged. "

Thither he went, to find its door as firmly closed as a door can be. Heknocked on it, but a sepulchral echo was the only answer. 

"I know, " he reflected. "The Director must still be in his room. It willtake him a long while to examine all that jewellery and put it away. "

So for the room he headed, and, after losing his path twice, found itby help of the sarcophagus that the Arabs had been dragging, which nowstood as deserted as it had done in the tomb, a lonesome and impressiveobject in the gathering shadows. The Director's door was shut, and againhis knockings produced nothing but an echo. He started on a tour roundthe Museum, and, having searched the ground floors, ascended to theupper galleries by the great stairway. 

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 inthe middle of the gallery, reposed Rameses II. Near to, on shelves ina side case, were Rameses' son, Meneptah, and above, his son, SetiII, while in other cases were the mortal remains of many more of theroyalties of Egypt. He looked at the proud face of Rameses and at thelittle fringe of white locks turned yellow by the embalmer's spices, also at the raised left arm. He remembered how the Director had toldhim that when they were unrolling this mighty monarch they went awayto lunch, and that presently the man who had been left in charge of thebody rushed into the room with his hair on end, and said that the deadking had lifted his arm and pointed at him. 

Back they went, and there, true enough, was the arm lifted; nor werethey ever able to get it quite into its place again. The explanationgiven was that the warmth of the sun had contracted the witheredmuscles, a very natural and correct explanation. 

Still, Smith wished that he had not recollected the story just at thismoment, especially as the arm seemed to move while he contemplated it--a very little, but still to move. 

He turned round and gazed at Meneptah, whose hollow eyes stared at himfrom between the wrappings carelessly thrown across the parchment-likeand ashen face. There, probably, lay the countenance that had frownedon Moses. There was the heart which God had hardened. Well, it washard enough now, for the doctors said he died of ossification of thearteries, and that the vessels of the heart were full of lime!

Smith stood upon a chair and peeped at Seti II. Above. His weakercountenance was very peaceful, but it seemed to wear an air of reproach. In getting down Smith managed to upset the heavy chair. The noise itmade was terrific. He would not have thought it possible that the fallof such an article could produce so much sound. Satisfied with hisinspection of these particular kings, who somehow looked quite differentnow from what they had ever done before--more real and imminent, so tospeak--he renewed his search for a living man. 

On he went, mummies to his right, mummies to his left, of every styleand period, till he began to feel as though he never wished to seeanother dried remnant of mortality. He peeped into the room where laythe relics of Iouiya and Touiyou, the father and mother of the greatQueen Taia. Cloths had been drawn over these, and really they lookedworse and more suggestive thus draped than in their frigid and unadornedblackness. He came to the coffins of the priest-kings of the twentiethdynasty, formidable painted coffins with human faces. There seemed to bea vast number of these priest-kings, but perhaps they were betterthan the gold masks of the great Ptolemaic ladies which glinted at himthrough the gathering gloom. 

Really, he had seen enough of the upper floors. The statues downstairswere better than all these dead, although it was true that, according tothe Egyptian faith, every one of those statues was haunted eternally bythe _Ka_, or Double, of the person whom it represented. He descendedthe great stairway. Was it fancy, or did something run across the bottomstep in front of him--an animal of some kind, followed by a swift-movingand indefinite shadow? If so, it must have been the Museum cat huntinga Museum mouse. Only then what on earth was that very peculiar andunpleasant shadow?

He called, "Puss! puss! puss!" for he would have been quite glad of itscompany; but there came no friendly "miau" in response. Perhaps it wasonly the _Ka_ of a cat and the shadow was--oh! never mind what. TheEgyptians worshipped cats, and there were plenty of their mummies abouton the shelves. But the shadow!

Once he shouted in the hope of attracting attention, for there were nowindows to which he could climb. He did not repeat the experiment, forit seemed as though a thousand voices were answering him from everycorner and roof of the gigantic edifice. 

Well, he must face the thing out. He was shut in a museum, and thequestion 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. Hethought with affection of the lavatory, where, before going to seethe Director, only that afternoon he had washed his hands with theassistance of a kindly Arab who watched the door and gracefully accepteda piastre. But there was no Arab there now, and the door, like everyother in this confounded place, was locked. He marched on to theentrance. 

Here, opposite to each other, stood the red sarcophagi of the greatQueen Hatshepu and her brother and husband, Thotmes III. He looked atthem. Why should not one of these afford him a night's lodging? Theywere deep and quiet, and would fit the human frame very nicely. For awhile Smith wondered which of these monarchs would be the more likelyto take offence at such a use of a private sarcophagus, and, acting ongeneral principles, concluded that he would rather throw himself on themercy of the lady. 

Already one of his legs was over the edge of that solemn coffer, and hewas squeezing his body beneath the massive lid that was propped aboveit on blocks of wood, when he remembered a little, naked, witheredthing with long hair that he had seen in a side chamber of the tombof Amenhotep II. In the Valley of Kings at Thebes. This caricature ofhumanity many thought, and he agreed with them, to be the actual body ofthe mighty Hatshepu as it appeared after the robbers had done with it. 

Supposing now, that when he was lying at the bottom of that sarcophagus, sleeping the sleep of the just, this little personage should peep overits edge and ask him what he was doing there! Of course the idea wasabsurd; he was tired, and his nerves were a little shaken. Still, thefact remained that for centuries the hallowed dust of Queen Hatshepu hadslept where he, a modern man, was proposing to sleep. 

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 theresult that very extensive repairs had become necessary. So extensivewere they, indeed, that the Director-General had informed him that theywould take several years to complete. Therefore this hall was boardedup, only a little doorway being left by which the workmen could enter. Certain statues, of Seti II. And others, too large to be moved, werealso roughly boarded over, as were some great funeral boats on eitherside of the entrance. The rest of the place, which might be two hundredfeet long with a proportionate breadth, was empty save for the colossiof Amenhotep III. And his queen Taia that stood beneath the gallery atits farther end. 

It was an appalling place in which to sleep, but better, reflectedSmith, than a sarcophagus or those mummy chambers. If, for instance, he could creep behind the deal boards that enclosed one of the funeralboats he would be quite comfortable there. Lifting the curtain, heslipped into the hall, where the gloom of evening had already settled. Only the skylights and the outline of the towering colossi at the farend remained visible. Close to him were the two funeral boats which hehad noted when he looked into the hall earlier on that day, standing atthe 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 projectingplanks were not quite joined at the bow. He crept in between them andthe boat and laid himself down. 

Presumably, being altogether tired out, Smith did ultimately fallasleep, for how long he never knew. At any rate, it is certain that, ifso, he woke up again. He could not tell the time, because his watchwas not a repeater, and the place was as black as the pit. He had somematches in his pocket, and might have struck one and even have lit hispipe. To his credit be it said, however, he remembered that he was thesole tenant of one of the most valuable museums in the world, and hisresponsibilities with reference to fire. So he refrained from strikingthat match under the keel of a boat which had become very dry in thecourse of five thousand years. 

Smith found himself very wide awake indeed. Never in all his life did heremember being more so, not even in the hour of its great catastrophe, or when his godfather, Ebenezer, after much hesitation, had promised hima clerkship in the bank of which he was a director. His nerves seemedstrung tight as harp-strings, and his every sense was painfully acute. Thus he could even smell the odour of mummies that floated down from theupper galleries and the earthy scent of the boat which had been buriedfor thousands of years in sand at the foot of the pyramid of one of thefifth dynasty kings. 

Moreover, he could hear all sorts of strange sounds, faint and far-awaysounds which at first he thought must emanate from Cairo without. Soon, however, he grew sure that their origin was more local. Doubtless thecement work and the cases in the galleries were cracking audibly, as isthe unpleasant habit of such things at night. 

Yet why should these common manifestations be so universal and affecthim so strangely? Really, it seemed as though people were stirring allabout him. More, he could have sworn that the great funeral boat beneathwhich he lay had become re-peopled with the crew that once it bore. 

He heard them at their business above him. There were trampings and asound as though something heavy were being laid on the deck, such, forinstance, as must have been made when the mummy of Pharaoh was set therefor its last journey to the western bank of the Nile. Yes, and now hecould have sworn again that the priestly crew were getting out the oars. 

Smith began to meditate flight from the neighbourhood of that place whensomething occurred which determined him to stop where he was. 

The huge hall was growing light, but not, as at first he hoped, with therays 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 firstit 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. 

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 theDead, the Egyptian saviour of the world!

There he stood, in his mummy-cloths, wearing the feathered crown, andholding 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? Smithcould not tell, since he never moved, only stood there, splendid andfearful, his calm, benignant face staring into nothingness. 

Smith became aware that the darkness between him and the vision ofthis god was peopled; that a great congregation was gathering, or hadgathered there. The blue light began to grow; long tongues of it shotforward, which joined themselves together, illumining all that hugehall. 

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, theybowed themselves to the Osiris, and ere the tinkling of their ornamentshad died away, lo! Osiris was gone. But in his place stood another, Isis, the Mother of Mystery, her deep eyes looking forth from beneaththe jewelled vulture-cap. Again the congregation bowed, and, lo! she wasgone. But in her place stood yet another, a radiant, lovely being, whoheld in her hand the Sign of Life, and wore upon her head the symbol ofthe shining disc--Hathor, Goddess of Love. A third time the congregationbowed, and she, too, was gone; nor did any other appear in her place. 

The Pharaohs and their queens began to move about and speak to eachother; their voices came to his ears in one low, sweet murmur. 

In his amaze Smith had forgotten fear. From his hiding-place he watchedthem intently. Some of them he knew by their faces. There, for instance, was the long-necked Khu-en-aten, talking somewhat angrily to theimperial Rameses II. Smith could understand what he said, for this powerseemed to have been given to him. He was complaining in a high, weakvoice 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 toworship, should not include _his_ god, symbolized by the "Aten, " or thesun's disc. 

"I have heard of your Majesty's god, " replied Rameses; "the priests usedto tell me of him, also that he did not last long after your Majestyflew 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 inmy time. Oh, do not let your Majesty be angry! So many of us havebeen heretics. My grandson, Seti, there"--and he pointed to a mild, thoughtful-faced man--"for example. I am told that he really worshippedthe 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 Hebrewherself. At least, they tell me so. "

"I will talk with him, " answered Khu-en-aten. "It is more than possiblethat we may agree on certain points. Meanwhile, let me explain to yourMajesty----"

"Oh, I pray you, not now. There is my wife. "

"Your wife?" said Khu-en-aten, drawing himself up. "Which wife? I amtold that your Majesty had many and left a large family; indeed, Isee some hundreds of them here to-night. Now, I--but let me introduceNefertiti to your Majesty. I may explain that she was my _only_ wife. "

"So I have understood. Your Majesty was rather an invalid, were you not?Of course, in those circumstances, one prefers the nurse whom one cantrust. Oh, pray, no offence! Nefertari, my love--oh, I beg pardon!--Astnefert--Nefertari has gone to speak to some of her children--letme introduce you to your predecessor, the Queen Nefertiti, wife ofAmenhotep IV. --I mean Khu-en-aten (he changed his name, you know, because half of it was that of the father of the gods). She isinterested in the question of plural marriage. Good-bye! I wish to havea word with my grandfather, Rameses I. He was fond of me as a littleboy. "

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 morebeautiful than he had ever pictured her. She was tall and somewhatfair-complexioned, with slumbrous, dark eyes, and on her face gleamedthe mystic smile he loved. She wore a robe of simple white and apurple-broidered apron, a crown of golden _uraei_ with turquoise eyeswas set upon her dark hair as in her statue, and on her breast and armswere the very necklace and bracelets that he had taken from her tomb. She appeared to be somewhat moody, or rather thoughtful, for she leanedby herself against a balustrade, watching the throng without muchinterest. 

Presently a Pharaoh, a black-browed, vigorous man with thick lips, drewnear. 

"I greet your Majesty, " he said. 

She started, and answered: "Oh, it is you! I make my obeisance to yourMajesty, " and she curtsied to him, humbly enough, but with a suggestionof mockery in her movements. 

"Well, you do not seem to have been very anxious to find me, Ma-Mee, which, considering that we meet so seldom----"

"I saw that your Majesty was engaged with my sister queens, " sheinterrupted, in a rich, low voice, "and with some other ladies in thegallery there, whose faces I seem to remember, but who I think were_not_ queens. Unless, indeed, you married them after I was drawn away. "

"One must talk to one's relations, " replied the Pharaoh. 

"Quite so. But, you see, I have no relations--at least, none whom I knowwell. My parents, you will remember, died when I was young, leaving meEgypt's heiress, and they are still vexed at the marriage which I madeon the advice of my counsellors. But, is it not annoying? I have lostone of my rings, that which had the god Bes on it. Some dweller on theearth must be wearing it to-day, and that is why I cannot get it backfrom him. "

"Him! Why 'him'? Hush; the business is about to begin. "

"What business, my lord?"

"Oh, the question of the violation of our tombs, I believe. "

"Indeed! That is a large subject, and not a very profitable one, Ishould say. Tell me, who is that?" And she pointed to a lady who hadstepped forward, a very splendid person, magnificently arrayed. 

"Cleopatra the Greek, " he answered, "the last of Egypt's Sovereigns, oneof the Ptolemys. You can always know her by that Roman who walks aboutafter her. "

"Which?" asked Ma-Mee. "I see several--also other men. She was thewretch who rolled Egypt in the dirt and betrayed her. Oh, if it were notfor the law of peace by which we must abide when we meet thus!"

"You mean that she would be torn to shreds, Ma-Mee, and her very soulscattered like the limbs of Osiris? Well, if it were not for that law ofpeace, so perhaps would many of us, for never have I heard a single kingamong these hundreds speak altogether well of those who went before orfollowed after him. "

"Especially of those who went before if they happen to have hammered outtheir cartouches and usurped their monuments, " said the queen, dryly, and looking him in the eyes. 

At this home-thrust the Pharaoh seemed to wince. Making no answer, hepointed to the royal woman who had mounted the steps at the end of thehall. 

Queen Cleopatra lifted her hand and stood thus for a while. Verysplendid she was, and Smith, on his hands and knees behind the boardingof the boat, thanked his stars that alone among modern men it had beenhis 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 didamiss, at least had known how to die. 

Silence fell upon that glittering galaxy of kings and queens and uponall the hundreds of their offspring, their women, and their greatofficers who crowded the double tier of galleries around the hall. 

"Royalties of Egypt, " she began, in a sweet, clear voice whichpenetrated to the farthest recesses of the place, "I, Cleopatra, thesixth of that name and the last monarch who ruled over the Upper and theLower Lands before Egypt became a home of slaves, have a word to sayto your Majesties, who, in your mortal days, all of you more worthilyfilled the throne on which once I sat. I do not speak of Egypt and itsfate, or of our sins--whereof mine were not the least--that brought herto 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, thatof the feast of him whom we call Osiris, but whom other nations haveknown and know by different names, it is given to us once more to bemortal for an hour, and, though we be but shadows, to renew the lovesand hates of our long-perished flesh. Here for an hour we strut in ourforgotten pomp; the crowns that were ours still adorn our brows, andonce more we seem to listen to our people's praise. Our hopes are thehopes of mortal life, our foes are the foes we feared, our gods growreal again, and our lovers whisper in our ears. Moreover, this joy isgiven to us--to see each other as we are, to know as the gods know, andtherefore 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 whowas the first of her kings to take my place. "

She bowed, and the audience bowed back to her. Then she descended thesteps and was lost in the throng. Where she had been appeared an oldman, simply-clad, long-bearded, wise-faced, and wearing on his grey hairno crown save a plain band of gold, from the centre of which rose thesnake-headed _uraeus_ crest. 

"Your Majesties who came after me, " said the old man, "I am Menes, thefirst of the accepted Pharaohs of Egypt, although many of those who wentbefore me were more truly kings than I. Yet as the first who joinedthe Upper and the Lower Lands, and took the royal style and titles, andruled as well as I could rule, it is given to me to talk with you fora while this night whereon our spirits are permitted to gather from theuttermost 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 thegods and of its meanings. Next, in darkness and in secret, let us speakof the mystery of our lives, of whence they come, of where they tarry bythe road, and whither they go at last. And afterwards, let us speak ofother matters face to face in light and openness, as we were wont to dowhen we were men. Then hence to Thebes, there to celebrate our yearlyfestival. Is such your will?"

"Such is our will, " they answered. 

It seemed to Smith that dense darkness fell upon the place, and withit a silence that was awful. For a time that he could not reckon, thatmight have been years or might have been moments, he sat there in theutter darkness and the utter silence. 

At length the light came again, first as a blue spark, then in upwardpouring rays, and lastly pervading all. There stood Menes on the steps, and there in front of him was gathered the same royal throng. 

"The mysteries are finished, " said the old king. "Now, if any have aughtto say, let it be said openly. "

A young man dressed in the robes and ornaments of an early dynasty cameforward and stood upon the steps between the Pharaoh Menes and all thosewho had reigned after him. His face seemed familiar to Smith, as wasthe 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 inone of the cases of the Museum, together with the bones of the PharaohUnas. 

"Your Majesties, " he began, "I am the King Metesuphis. The matter thatI wish to lay before you is that of the violation of our sepulchres bythose men who now live upon the earth. The mortal bodies of many who aregathered here to-night lie in this place to be stared at and mockedby the curious. I myself am one of them, jawless, broken, hideous tobehold. Yonder, day by day, must my _Ka_ sit watching my desecratedflesh, torn from the pyramid that, with cost and labour, I raised up tobe 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 ofHer, sleeps, or rather wakes in a dark city, called London, across theseas, a place of murk where no sun shines. Others have been burnt withfire, others are scattered in small dust. The ornaments that were oursare stole away and sold to the greedy; our sacred writings and oursymbols are their jest. Soon there will not be one holy grave in Egyptthat remains undefiled. "

"That is so, " said a voice from the company. "But four months gone thedeep, deep pit was opened that I had dug in the shadow of the Pyramid ofCephren, 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 preservethe 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 inthe blackness of a great ship and tossing on a sea that is strewn withice. "

"It is so, " echoed a hundred other voices. 

"Then, " went on the young king, turning to Menes, "I ask of your Majestywhether there is no means whereby we may be avenged on those who do usthis foul wrong. "

"Let him who has wisdom speak, " said the old Pharaoh. 

A man of middle age, short in stature and of a thoughtful brow, who heldin his hand a wand and wore the feathers and insignia of the heir to thethrone of Egypt and of a high priest of Amen, moved to the steps. Smithknew him at once from his statues. He was Khaemuas, son of Rameses theGreat, the mightiest magician that ever was in Egypt, who of his ownwill withdrew himself from earth before the time came that he should situpon the throne. 

"I have wisdom, your Majesties, and I will answer, " he said. "The timedraws on when, in the land of Death which is Life, the land that wecall Amenti, it will be given to us to lay our wrongs as to this matterbefore Those who judge, knowing that they will be avenged. On this nightof the year also, when we resume the shapes we were, we have certainpowers of vengeance, or rather of executing justice. But our time isshort, and there is much to say and do before the sun-god Ra arisesand we depart each to his place. Therefore it seems best that we shouldleave these wicked ones in their wickedness till we meet them face toface beyond the world. "

Smith, who had been following the words of Khaemuas with the closestattention and considerable anxiety, breathed again, thanking Heaventhat the engagements of these departed monarchs were so numerous andpressing. Still, as a matter of precaution, he drew the cigar-box whichcontained Ma-Mee's hand from his pocket, and pushed it as far away fromhim as he could. It was a most unlucky act. Perhaps the cigar-box gratedon the floor, or perhaps the fact of his touching the relic put him intopsychic communication with all these spirits. At any rate, he becameaware that the eyes of that dreadful magician were fixed upon him, andthat a bone had a better chance of escaping the search of a Rontgen raythan he of hiding himself from their baleful glare. 

"As it happens, however, " went on Khaemuas, in a cold voice, "I nowperceive that there is hidden in this place, and spying on us, one ofthe worst of these vile thieves. I say to your Majesties that I see himcrouched beneath yonder funeral barge, and that he has with him at thismoment the hand of one of your Majesties, stolen by him from her tomb atThebes. "

Now every queen in the company became visibly agitated (Smith, who waswatching Ma-Mee, saw her hold up her hands and look at them), while allthe Pharaohs pointed with their fingers and exclaimed together, in avoice that rolled round the hall like thunder:

"Let him be brought forth to judgment!"

Khaemuas raised his wand and, holding it towards the boat where Smithwas hidden, said:

"Draw near, Vile One, bringing with thee that thou hast stolen. "

Smith tried hard to remain where he was. He sat himself down and sethis heels against the floor. As the reader knows, he was always shy andretiring by disposition, and never had these weaknesses oppressed himmore than they did just then. When a child his favourite nightmare hadbeen that the foreman of a jury was in the act of proclaiming himguilty of some dreadful but unstated crime. Now he understood what thatnightmare foreshadowed. He was about to be convicted in a court ofwhich all the kings and queens of Egypt were the jury, Menes wasChief Justice, and the magician Khaemuas played the _role_ ofAttorney-General. 

In vain did he sit down and hold fast. Some power took possession of himwhich forced him first to stretch out his arm and pick up the cigar-boxcontaining the hand of Ma-Mee, and next drew him from the friendlyshelter of the deal boards that were about the boat. 

Now he was on his feet and walking down the flight of steps opposite tothose on which Menes stood far away. Now he was among all that throngof ghosts, which parted to let him pass, looking at him as he went withcold and wondering eyes. They were very majestic ghosts; the ages thathad gone by since they laid down their sceptres had taken nothing fromtheir royal dignity. Moreover, save one, none of them seemed to have anypity 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 theDirector's room with a lotus flower thrust beneath her bandages. As hepassed Smith heard her say:

"This Vile One is frightened. Be brave, Vile One!"

Smith understood, and pride came to his aid. He, a gentleman of themodern world, would not show the white feather before a crowd of ancientEgyptian ghosts. Turning to the child, he smiled at her, then drewhimself to his full height and walked on quietly. Here it may bestated that Smith was a tall man, still comparatively young, and verygood-looking, straight and spare in frame, with dark, pleasant eyes anda little black beard. 

"At least he is a well-favoured thief, " said one of the queens toanother. 

"Yes, " answered she who had been addressed. "I wonder that a man withsuch a noble air should find pleasure in disturbing graves and stealingthe offerings of the dead, " words that gave Smith much cause forthought. He had never considered the matter in this light. 

Now he came to the place where Ma-Mee stood, the black-browed Pharaohwho had been her husband at her side. On his left hand which held thecigar-box was the gold Bes ring, and that box he felt constrained tocarry pressed against him just over his heart. 

As he went by he turned his head, and his eyes met those of Ma-Mee. Shestarted violently. Then she saw the ring upon his hand and again startedstill more violently. 

"What ails your Majesty?" asked the Pharaoh. 

"Oh, naught, " she answered. "Yet does this earth-dweller remind you ofanyone?"

"Yes, he does, " answered the Pharaoh. "He reminds me very much of thataccursed sculptor about whom we had words. "

"Do you mean a certain Horu, the Court artist; he who worked the imagethat was buried with me, and whom you sent to carve your statues in thedeserts of Kush, until he died of fevers--or was it poison?"

"Aye; Horu and no other, may Set take and keep him!" growled thePharaoh. 

Then Smith passed on and heard no more. Now he stood before thevenerable Menes. Some instinct caused him to bow to this Pharaoh, whobowed back to him. Then he turned and bowed to the royal company, andthey also bowed back to him, coldly, but very gravely and courteously. 

"Dweller on the world where once we had our place, and therefore brotherof us, the dead, " began Menes, "this divine priest and magician"--andhe pointed to Khaemuas--"declares that you are one of those who foullyviolate our sepulchres and desecrate our ashes. He declares, moreover, that at this very moment you have with you a portion of the mortal fleshof a certain Majesty whose spirit is present here. Say, now, are thesethings true?"

To his astonishment Smith found that he had not the slightest difficultyin answering in the same sweet tongue. 

"O King, they are true, and not true. Hear me, rulers of Egypt. It istrue that I have searched in your graves, because my heart has beendrawn towards you, and I would learn all that I could concerning you, for it comes to me _now_ that once I was one of you--no king, indeed, yet perchance of the blood of kings. Also--for I would hide nothing evenif I could--I searched for one tomb above all others. "

"Why, O man?" asked the Judge. 

"Because a face drew me, a lovely face that was cut in stone. "

Now all that great audience turned their eyes towards him and listenedas though his words moved them. 

"Did you find that holy tomb?" asked Menes. "If so, what did you findtherein?"

"Aye, Pharaoh, and in it I found these, " and he took from the box thewithered hand, from his pocket the broken bronze, and from his fingerthe ring. 

"Also I found other things which I delivered to the keeper of thisplace, articles of jewellery that I seem to see to-night upon one who ispresent here among you. "

"Is the face of this figure the face you sought?" asked the Judge. 

"It is the lovely face, " he answered. 

Menes took the effigy in his hand and read the cartouche that wasengraved beneath its breast. 

"If there be here among us, " he said, presently, "one who long aftermy day ruled as queen in Egypt, one who was named Ma-Me, let her drawnear. "

Now from where she stood glided Ma-Mee and took her place opposite toSmith. 

"Say, O Queen, " asked Menes, "do you know aught of this matter?"

"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 onme and judge for yourselves whether this be so. A certain sculptorfashioned it, the son of a king's son, who was named Horu, the firstof sculptors and the head artist of my Court. There, clad in strangegarments, he stands before you. Horu, or the Double of Horu, he who cutthe image when I ruled in Egypt, is he who found the image and the manwho stands before you; or, mayhap, his Double cast in the same mould. "

The Pharaoh Menes turned to the magician Khaemuas and said:--

"Are these things so, O Seer?"

"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, oncemore 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 lightcomes here to-morrow he himself will again be gathered to the dead. "

Menes bent his head upon his breast and pondered. Smith said nothing. Tohim the whole play was so curious that he had no wish to interfere withits development. If these ghosts wished to make him of their number, letthem do so. He had no ties on earth, and now when he knew full surelythat there was a life beyond this of earth he was quite prepared toexplore its mysteries. So he folded his arms upon his breast and awaitedthe sentence. 

But Ma-Mee did not wait. She raised her hand so swiftly that thebracelets jingled on her wrists, and spoke out with boldness. 

"Royal Khaemuas, prince and magician, " she said, "hearken to one who, like you, was Egypt's heir centuries before you were born, one also whoruled over the Two Lands, and not so ill--which, Prince, never was yourlot. Answer me! Is all wisdom centred in your breast? Answer me! Do youalone know the mysteries of Life and Death? Answer me! Did your god Amenteach you that vengeance went before mercy? Answer me! Did he teachyou that men should be judged unheard? That they should be hurried byviolence to Osiris ere their time, and thereby separated from the deadones whom they loved and forced to return to live again upon this evilEarth?

"Listen: when the last moon was near her full my spirit sat in my tombin the burying-place of queens. My spirit saw this man enter into mytomb, and what he did there. With bowed head he looked upon my bonesthat a thief of the priesthood had robbed and burnt within twenty yearsof their burial, in which he himself had taken part. And what did thisman with those bones, he who was once Horu? I tell you that he hid themaway 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 mybones, or he who buried them with reverence? Again, he found the jewelsthat the priest of your brotherhood had dropped in his flight, when thesmoke of the burning flesh and spices overpowered him, and with them thehand 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 leavethem to be stolen by some peasant? And the hand? I tell you that hekissed that poor dead hand which once had been part of the body of myMajesty, and that now he treasures it as a holy relic. My spirit sawhim do these things and made report thereof to me. I ask you, therefore, Prince, I ask you all, Royalties of Egypt--whether for such deeds thisman should die?"

Now Khaemuas, the advocate of vengeance, shrugged his shoulders andsmiled meaningly, but the congregation of kings and queens thundered ananswer, and it was:--

"_No!_"

Ma-Mee looked to Menes to give judgment. Before he could speak thedark-browed Pharaoh who had named her wife strode forward and addressedthem. 

"Her Majesty, Heiress of Egypt, Royal Wife, Lady of the Two Lands, hasspoken, " 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 wasalso an evil-doer who, by my decree, died in banishment in the landof Kush. Whatever be the truth as to that matter, he admits that heviolated the tomb of her Majesty and stole what the old thieves hadleft. Her Majesty says also--and he does not deny it--that he dared tokiss her hand, and for a man to kiss the hand of a wedded Queen of Egyptthe punishment is death. I claim that this man should die to the Worldbefore his time, that in a day to come again he may live and suffer inthe World. Judge, O Menes. "

Menes lifted his head and spoke, saying:--

"Repeat to me the law, O Pharaoh, under which a living man must diefor the kissing of a dead hand. In my day and in that of those who wentbefore me there was no such law in Egypt. If a living man, who was nother husband, or of her kin, kissed the living hand of a wedded Queen ofEgypt, 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 hadfound her alive within the tomb and kissed her hand, or even her lips, why should he die for the crime of love?

"Hear me, all; this is my judgment in the matter. Let the soul of thatpriest who first violated the tomb of the royal Ma-Mee be hunted downand given to the jaws of the Destroyer, that he may know the last depthsof Death, if so the gods declare. But let this man go from among usunharmed, since what he did he did in reverent ignorance and becauseHathor, Goddess of Love, guided him from of old. Love rules this worldwherein we meet to-night, with all the worlds whence we have gatheredor whither we still must go. Who can defy its power? Who can refuse itsrites? Now hence to Thebes!"

There was a rushing sound as of a thousand wings, and all were gone. 

No, not all, since Smith yet stood before the draped colossi and theempty steps, and beside him, glorious, unearthly, gleamed the vision ofMa-Mee. 

"I, too, must away, " she whispered; "yet ere I go a word with you whoonce were a sculptor in Egypt. You loved me then, and that love cost youyour life, you who once dared to kiss this hand of mine that again youkissed in yonder tomb. For I was Pharaoh's wife in name only; understandme well, in name only; since that title of Royal Mother which they gaveme 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 thisfigure of me which you found in the sand outside my tomb. Not so. _I_broke it, because, daring greatly, you had written thereon, 'Beloved, 'not 'of _Horus_ the God, ' as you should have done, but 'of _Horu_ theMan. ' So when I came to be buried, Pharaoh, knowing all, took the imagefrom my wrappings and hurled it away. I remember, too, the casting ofthat image, and how you threw a gold chain I had given you into thecrucible with the bronze, saying that gold alone was fit to fashion me. And this signet that I bear--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 Besring that I also wore. Take it and wear it ever till you die again, andlet it go to the grave with you as once it went to the grave with me. 

"Now hearken. When Ra the great sun arises again and you awake you willthink that you have dreamed a dream. You will think that in this dreamyou saw and spoke with a lady of Egypt who died more than three thousandyears ago, but whose beauty, carved in stone and bronze, has charmedyour heart to-day. So let it be, yet know, O man, who once was namedHoru, that such dreams are oft-times a shadow of the truth. Know thatthis Glory which shines before you is mine indeed in the land that isboth far and near, the land wherein I dwell eternally, and that what ismine has been, is, and shall be yours for ever. Gods may change theirkingdoms and their names; men may live and die, and live again once moreto die; empires may fall and those who ruled them be turned to forgottendust. Yet true love endures immortal as the souls in which it wasconceived, and from it for you and me, the night of woe and separationdone, at the daybreak which draws on, there shall be born the splendourand 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 blessedhour, Horu, farewell. "

She bent towards him; her sweet lips touched his brow; the perfumefrom her breath and hair beat upon him; the light of her wondrous eyessearched out his very soul, reading the answer that was written there. 

He stretched out his arms to clasp her, and lo! she was gone. 

It was a very cold and a very stiff Smith who awoke on the followingmorning, to find himself exactly where he had lain down--namely, on acement floor beneath the keel of a funeral boat in the central hall ofthe Cairo Museum. He crept from his shelter shivering, and looked atthis hall, to find it quite as empty as it had been on the previousevening. Not a sign or a token was there of Pharaoh Menes and all thosekings and queens of whom he had dreamed so vividly. 

Reflecting on the strange phantasies that weariness and excited nervescan summon to the mind in sleep, Smith made his way to the great doorsand waited in the shadow, praying earnestly that, although it was theMohammedan Sabbath, someone might visit the Museum to see that all waswell. 

As a matter of fact, someone did, and before he had been there aminute--a watchman going about his business. He unlocked the placecarelessly, looking over his shoulder at a kite fighting with twonesting crows. In an instant Smith, who was not minded to stop andanswer questions, had slipped past him and was gliding down the portico, from monument to monument, like a snake between boulders, still keepingin the shadow as he headed for the gates. 

The attendant caught sight of him and uttered a yell of fear; then, since it is not good to look upon an _afreet_, appearing from whence nomortal man could be, he turned his head away. When he looked again Smithwas through those gates and had mingled with the crowd in the streetbeyond. 

The sunshine was very pleasant to one who was conscious of havingcontracted a chill of the worst Egyptian order from long contact with adamp stone floor. Smith walked on through it towards his hotel--it wasShepheard's, and more than a mile away--making up a story as he wentto tell the hall-porter of how he had gone to dine at Mena House by thePyramids, missed the last tram, and stopped the night there. 

Whilst he was thus engaged his left hand struck somewhat sharply againstthe corner of the cigar-box in his pocket, that which contained therelic of the queen Ma-Mee. The pain caused him to glance at his fingersto see if they were injured, and to perceive on one of them the ring hewore. Surely, surely it was not the same that the Director-General hadgiven him! _That_ ring was engraved with the image of the god Bes. On _this_ was cut the cartouche of her Majesty Ma-mee! And he haddreamed--oh, he had dreamed----!

To this day Smith is wondering whether, in the hurry of the moment, hemade a mistake as to which of those rings the Director-General had givenhim as part of his share of the spoil of the royal tomb he discoveredin the Valley of Queens. Afterwards Smith wrote to ask, but theDirector-General could only remember that he gave him one of the tworings, and assured him that that inscribed "_Bes Ank, Ank Bes_, " waswith Ma-Mee's other jewels in the Gold Room of the Museum. 

Also Smith is wondering whether any other bronze figure of an oldEgyptian royalty shows so high a percentage of gold as, on analysis, thebroken image of Ma-Mee was proved to do. For had she not seemed to tellhim a tale of the melting of a golden chain when that effigy was cast?

Was it all only a dream, or was it--something more--by day and by nighthe asks of Nothingness?

But, be she near or far, no answer comes from the Queen Ma-Mee, whoseproud titles were "Her Majesty the Good God, the justified Dweller inOsiris; Daughter of Amen, Royal Heiress, Royal Sister, Royal Wife, RoyalMother; Lady of the Two Lands; Wearer of the Double Crown; of the WhiteCrown, of the Red Crown; Sweet Flower of Love, Beautiful Eternally. "

So, like the rest of us, Smith must wait to learn the truth concerningmany things, and more particularly as to which of those two circles ofancient gold the Director-General gave him yonder at Cairo. 

It seems but a little matter, yet it is more than all the worlds to him!

To the astonishment of his colleagues in antiquarian research, Smith hasnever returned to Egypt. He explains to them that his health is quiterestored, and that he no longer needs this annual change to a moretemperate clime. 

Now, _which_ of the two royal rings did the Director-General return toSmith on the mummied hand of her late Majesty Ma-Mee?

MAGEPA THE BUCK

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 nameof "Marie, " Mr. Curtis, the brother of Sir Henry Curtis, tells of howhe found a number of manuscripts that were left by Mr. Quatermain in hishouse in Yorkshire. Of these "Marie" was one, but in addition to it andsundry other completed records I, the Editor to whom it was directedthat these manuscripts should be handed for publication, have founda quantity of unclassified notes and papers. Some of these deal withmatters that have to do with sport and game, or with historical events, and some are memoranda of incidents connected with the career of thewriter, or with remarkable occurrences that he had witnessed of which hedoes not speak elsewhere. 

One of these notes--it is contained in a book much soiled and worn thatevidently its owner had carried about with him for years--reminds me ofa conversation that I had with Mr. Quatermain long ago when I was hisguest in Yorkshire. The note itself is short; I think that he must havejotted it down within an hour or two of the event to which it refers. Itruns thus:--

"I wonder whether in the 'Land Beyond' any recognition is grantedfor acts of great courage and unselfish devotion--a kind of spiritualVictoria Cross. If so I think it ought to be accorded to that poor oldsavage, Magepa, as it would be if I had any voice in the matter. Upon myword he has made me feel proud of humanity. And yet he was nothing but a'nigger, ' as so many call the Kaffirs. "

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. Withme were Sir Henry Curtis and Captain Good. We were smoking, and theconversation had turned upon deeds of heroism. Each of us detailed suchacts as he could remember which had made the most impression on him. When we had finished, old Allan said:--

"With your leave I'll tell you a story of what I think was one of thebravest 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 youknow, I was turning an honest penny transport-riding for the Government, or rather for the military authorities. I hired them three wagons withthe necessary voorloopers and drivers, sixteen good salted oxen to eachwagon, and myself in charge of the lot. They paid me, well, never mindhow much--I am rather ashamed to mention the amount. The truth is thatthe Imperial officers bought in a dear market during that Zulu War;moreover, things were not always straight. I could tell you stories offolk, not all of them Colonials, who got rich quicker than they ought, commissions and that kind of thing. But perhaps these are betterforgotten. As for me, I asked a good price for my wagons, or rather forthe hire of them, of a very well-satisfied young gentleman in uniformwho 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 wouldhappen if they persisted in their way of advance, then in their pridethey would not listen to the old hunter and transport-rider, butpolitely bowed me out. If they had, there would have been no Isandhlwanadisaster. "

He brooded awhile, for, as I knew, this was a sore subject with him, oneon which he would rarely talk. Although he escaped himself, Quatermainhad lost friends on that fatal field. He went on:--

"To return to old Magepa. I had known him for many years. The first timewe met was in the battle of the Tugela. I was fighting for the king'sson, Umbelazi the Handsome, in the ranks of the Tulwana regiment--I meanto write all that story, for it should not be lost. Well, as I have toldyou before, the Tulwana were wiped out; of the three thousand or so ofthem I think only about fifty remained alive after they had annihilatedthe three of Cetewayo's regiments that set upon them. But as it chancedMagepa was one who survived. 

"I met him afterwards at old King Panda's kraal and recognised himas having fought by my side. Whilst I was talking to him the PrinceCetewayo came by; to me he was civil enough, for he knew how I chancedto be in the battle, but he glared at Magepa, and said:

"'Why, Macumazahn, is not this man one of the dogs with which you triedto 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 somany will never bark again? _Ow!_ if I had my way I would find a stripof hide to fit his neck. '

"'Not so, ' I answered, 'he has the King's peace and he is a brave man--braver than I am, anyway, Prince, seeing that I ran from the ranks ofthe Tulwana, while he stood where he was. '

"'You mean that your horse ran, Macumazahn. Well, since you like thisdog, I will not hurt him, ' and with a shrug he went his way. 

"'Yet soon or late he _will_ hurt me, ' said Magepa, when the Prince hadgone. 'U'Cetewayo has a memory long as the shadow thrown by a tree atsunset. 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 standingstill. You remember how, after we had eaten up the first of Cetewayo'sregiments, the second charged us and we ate that up also. Well, in thatfight I got a tap on the head from a kerry. It struck me on my man'sring which I had just put on, for I think I was the youngest soldier inthat regiment of veterans. The ring saved me; still, for a while I lostmy mind and lay like one dead. When I found it again the fight was overand Cetewayo's people were searching for our wounded that they mightkill them. Presently they found me and saw that there was no hurt on me. 

"'"Here is one who shams dead like a stink-cat, " said a big fellow, lifting his spear. 

"'Then it was that I sprang up and ran, who was but just married anddesired to live. He struck at me, but I jumped over the spear, andthe 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 thanany man in Zululand, outpaced them all and got away safe. '

"'Well done, Magepa, ' I said. 'Still, remember the saying of yourpeople, "At last the strong swimmer goes with the stream and the swiftrunner is run down. "'

"'I know it, Macumazahn, ' he answered, with a nod, 'and perhaps in a dayto come I shall know it better. '

"I took little heed of his words at the time, but more than thirty yearsafterwards I remembered them. 

"Such was my first acquaintance with Magepa. Now, friends, I will tellyou how it was renewed at the time of the Zulu War. 

"As you know, I was attached to the centre column that advanced intoZululand 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 andmany thought it would be averted, I was employed transport-ridinggoods to the little Rorke's Drift Station, that which became so famousafterwards, and incidentally in collecting what information I could ofCetewayo's intentions. Hearing that there was a kraal a mile or sothe other side of the river, of which the people were said to be veryfriendly to the English, I determined to visit it. You may think thiswas 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 quiteunmolested and, indeed, under the royal protection, that I felt no fearfor myself so long as I went alone. 

"Accordingly one evening I crossed the drift and headed for a kloof inwhich I was told the kraal stood. Ten minutes' ride brought me in sightof it. It was not a large kraal; there may have been six or eight hutsand a cattle enclosure surrounded by the usual fence. The situation, however, was very pretty, a knoll of rising ground backed by the woodedslopes of the kloof. As I approached, I saw women and children runningto the kraal to hide, and when I reached the gateway for some timeno one would come out to meet me. At length a small boy appeared whoinformed me that the kraal was 'empty as a gourd. '

"'Quite so, ' I answered; 'still, go and tell the headman that Macumazahnwishes to speak with him. '

"The boy departed, and presently I saw a face that seemed familiar tome peeping round the edge of the gateway. After a careful inspection itsowner emerged. 

"He was a tall, thin man of indefinite age, perhaps between sixty andseventy, with a finely-cut face, a little grey beard, kind eyes and verywell-shaped hands and feet, the fingers, which twitched incessantly, being remarkably long. 

"'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 isKing 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 theneck of a certain one. '

"'Ah!' I said, 'I know you now, you are Magepa the Buck. So the Runnerhas not yet been run down. '

"'No, Macumazahn, not yet, but there is still time. I think that manyswift feet will be at work ere long. '

"'How have you prospered?' I asked him. 

"'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 ismarried and lives with me, for her husband, too, is dead. He was killedby a buffalo, and she has not yet married again. But enter and see. '

"So I went in and saw Magepa's wives, old women all of them. Also, athis bidding, his daughter, whose name was Gita, brought me some _maas_, or curdled milk, to drink. She was a well-formed woman, very likeher father, but sad-faced, perhaps with a prescience of evil to come. Clinging to her finger was a beautiful boy of something under two yearsof age, who, when he saw Magepa, ran to him and threw his little armsabout his legs. The old man lifted the child and kissed him tenderly, saying:

"'It is well that this toddler and I should love one another, Macumazahn, seeing that he is the last of my race. All the otherchildren here are those of the people who have come to live in myshadow. '

"'Where are their fathers?' I asked, patting the little boy who, hismother told me, was named Sinala upon the cheek, an attention that heresented. 

"'They have been called away on duty, ' answered Magepa shortly; and Ichanged the subject. 

"Then we began to talk about old times, and I asked him if he had anyoxen to sell, saying that this was my reason for visiting the kraal. 

"'Nay, Macumazahn, ' he answered in a meaning voice. 'This year all thecattle are the king's. '

"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 safeto the drift. So I bade farewell to the wives and the widowed daughter, and we started. 

"As soon as we were clear of the kraal Magepa began to open his heart tome. 

"'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 notconsent to the demands of the great White Chief from the Cape, '--hemeant Sir Bartle Frere--'he will fight with the English; only he willlet them begin the fighting. He will draw them on into Zululand and thenoverwhelm them with his impis and stamp them flat, and eat them up; andI, 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 willeat them up if they attack him. '

"'Indeed, ' I answered; and then as in duty bound I proceeded to get whatI could out of him, and that was not a little. Of course, however, I didnot swallow it all, since that I suspected that Magepa was feeding mewith news that he had been ordered to disseminate. 

"Presently we came to the mouth of the kloof in which the kraal stood, and here, for greater convenience of conversation, we halted, for Ithought it as well that we should not be seen in close talk on the openplain beyond. The path here, I should add, ran past a clump of greenbushes; I remember they bore a white flower that smelt sweet, and werebacked by some tall grass, elephant-grass I think it was, among whichgrew mimosa trees. 

"'Magepa, ' I said, 'if in truth there is to be fighting, why don't youmove over the river one night with your people and cattle, and get intoNatal?'

"'I would if I could, Macumazahn, who have no stomach for this waragainst the English. But there I should not be safe, since presently theking will come into Natal too, or send thirty thousand assegais as hismessengers. Then what will happen to those who have left him?'

"'Oh! if you think that, ' I answered, laughing, 'you had better staywhere you are. '

"'Also, Macumazahn, the husbands of those women at my kraal have beencalled up to their regiments and if their wives fled to the English theywould be killed. Again, the king has sent for nearly all our cattle "tokeep them safe. " He fears lest we Border Zulus might join our people inNatal, and that is why he is keeping our cattle "safe. "'

"'Life is more than cattle, Magepa. At least you might come. '

"'What! And leave my people to be killed? Macumazahn, you did not useto talk so. Still, hearken. Macumazahn, will you do me a service? I willpay you well for it. I would get my daughter Gita and my little grandsonSinala 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, sothat one may live who will remember my name. Now if I were to send themacross 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 deliverthem safe to some place in Natal? I have money hidden, fifty pieces ofgold, and you may take half of these and also half of the cattle if everI live to get them back out of the keeping of the king. '

"'Never mind about the money, and we will speak of the cattleafterwards, ' I said. 'I understand that you wish to send your daughterand 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 mayhappen? War is a rough game, Magepa. It is not the custom of you blackpeople to spare women and children; and there will be Zulus fighting onour side as well as on yours; do you understand?'

"'_Ow!_ I understand, Macumazahn. I have known the face of war and seenmany a little one like my grandson Sinala assegaied upon his mother'sback. '

"'Very good. But if I do this for you, you must do something for me. Say, Magepa, does Cetewayo _really_ mean to fight, and if so, how? Ohyes, I know all you have been telling me, but I want not words but truthfrom the heart?'

"'You ask secrets, ' said the old fellow, peering about him into thegathering gloom. 'Still, "a spear for a spear and a shield for ashield, " as our saying runs. I have spoken no lie. The king _does_ meanto fight, not because he wants to, but because the regiments swear thatthey will wash their assegais; they who have never seen blood since thatbattle of the Tugela in which we two played a part, and if he will notsuffer it, well, there are more of his race! Also he means to fightthus, ' and he gave me some very useful information, that is, informationwhich would have been useful if those in authority had deigned to payany attention to it when I passed it on. 

"Just as he had finished speaking I thought that I heard a sound in thedense green bush behind us. It reminded me of the noise a man makeswhen he tries to stifle a cough, and frightened me. For if we had beenoverheard by a spy, Magepa was as good as dead, and the sooner I wasacross the river the better. 

"'What's that?' I asked. 

"'A bush buck, Macumazahn. There are lots of them about here. '

"Not being satisfied, though it is true that buck do cough like this, I turned my horse to the bush, seeking an opening. Thereon somethingcrashed away and vanished into the long grass. In those shadows, ofcourse, I could not see what it was, but such light as remained glintedon what might have been the polished tip of the horn of an antelopeor--an assegai. 

"'I told you it was a buck, Macumazahn, ' said Magepa. 'Still, if yousmell danger, let us come away from the bush, though the orders are thatno white man is to be touched as yet. '

"Then, while we walked on towards the ford, he set out with greatdetail, as Kaffirs do, the exact arrangements that he proposed to makefor the handing over of his daughter and her child into my care. Iremember that I asked him why he would not send her on the followingmorning, instead of two mornings later. He answered because he expectedan 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. 

"Near the drift we parted, and I returned to our provisional camp andwrote a beautiful report of all that I had learned, of which report, Imay add, no one took the slightest notice. 

"I think it was the morning before that whereon I had arranged to meetGita and the little boy at the drift that just about dawn I went down tothe river for a wash. Having taken my dip, I climbed on to a flat rockto dress myself, and looked at the billows of beautiful, pearly mistwhich hid the face of the water, and considered--I almost said listenedto--the great silence, for as yet no live thing was stirring. 

"Ah! if I had known of the hideous sights and sounds that were destinedto be heard ere long in this same haunt of perfect peace! Indeed, atthat moment there came a kind of hint or premonition of them, sincesuddenly through the utter quiet broke the blood-curdling wail ofa woman. It was followed by other wails and shouts, distant and yetdistinct. Then the silence fell again. 

"Now, I thought to myself, that noise might very well have come from oldMagepa's kraal; luckily, however, sounds are deceptive in mist. 

"Well, the end of it was that I waited there till the sun rose. Thefirst thing on which its bright beams struck was a mighty column ofsmoke rising to heaven from where Magepa's kraal had stood!

"I went back to my wagons very sad--so sad that I could scarcely eat mybreakfast. While I walked I wondered hard whether the light had glintedupon the tip of a buck's horn in that patch of green bush with thesweet-smelling white flowers a night or two ago. Or had it perchancefallen upon the point of the assegai of some spy who was watching mymovements! In that event yonder column of smoke and the horrible criesthat preceded it were easy to explain. For had not Magepa and I talkedsecrets together, and in Zulu?

"On the following morning at dawn I attended at the drift in the fainthope that Gita and her boy might arrive there as arranged. But nobodycame, which was not wonderful, seeing that Gita lay dead, stabbedthrough and through, as I saw afterwards, (she made a good fight forthe child), and that her spirit had gone to wherever go the souls of thebrave-hearted, be they white or black. Only on the farther bank of theriver I saw some Zulu scouts who seemed to know my errand, for theycalled to me, asking mockingly where was the pretty woman I had come tomeet?

"After that I tried to put the matter out of my head, which indeed wasfull enough of other things, since now definite orders had arrived as tothe advance, and with these many troops and officers. 

"It was just then that the Zulus began to fire across the river at suchof 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, isonly dangerous when he aims at nothing, for then the bullet looks afteritself and may catch you. To put a stop to this nuisance a regiment ofthe friendly natives--there may have been several hundred of them--wasdirected to cross the river and clear the kloofs and rocks of the Zuluskirmishers who were hidden among them. I watched them go off in finestyle, and in the course of the afternoon heard a good deal of shoutingand banging of guns on the farther side of the river. 

"Towards evening someone told me that our _impi_, as he called itgrandiloquently, was returning victorious. Having at the moment nothingelse to do, I walked down to the river at a point where the water wasdeep and the banks were high. Here I climbed to the top of a pile ofboulders, whence with my field-glasses I could sweep a great extent ofplain which stretched away on the Zululand side till at length it mergedinto hills and bush. 

"Presently I saw some of our natives marching homewards in a scatteredand disorganised fashion, but evidently very proud of themselves, forthey were waving their assegais and singing scraps of war-songs. A fewminutes later, a mile or more away, I caught sight of a man running. 

"Watching him through the glasses I noted three things: First, thathe 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 bya number of our Kaffirs, of whom more and more continually joined thechase. From every side they poured down upon him, trying to cut him offand kill him, for as they got nearer I could see the assegais which theythrew at him flash in the sunlight. 

"Very soon I understood that the man was running with a definite objectand to a definite point; he was trying to reach the river. I thought thesight very pitiful, this one poor creature being hunted to death by somany. Also I wondered why he did not free himself from the bundle onhis back, and came to the conclusion that he must be a witch-doctor, andthat the bundle contained his precious charms or medicines. 

"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 ofhis face against a good background, and knew it for that of Magepa. 

"'My God!' I said to myself, 'it is old Magepa the Buck, and the bundlein the mat will be his grandson, Sinala!'

"Yes, even then I felt certain that he was carrying the child upon hisback. 

"What was I to do? It was impossible for me to cross the river atthat place, and long before I could get round by the ford all would befinished. I stood up on my rock and shouted to those brutes of Kaffirsto let the man alone. They were so excited that they did not hearmy words; at least, they swore afterwards that they thought I wasencouraging them to hunt him down. 

"But Magepa heard me. At the moment he seemed to be failing, but thesight of me appeared to give him fresh strength. He gathered himselftogether and leapt forward at a really surprising speed. Now the riverwas not more than three hundred yards away from him, and for the firsttwo hundred of these he quite outdistanced his pursuers, although theywere most of them young men and comparatively fresh. Then once more hisstrength began to fail. 

"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 wasdragging him down. Once he lifted his hands as though to loose it; thenwith a wild gesture let them fall again. 

"Two of the pursuers who had outpaced the others crept up to him--lank, lean men of not more than thirty years of age. They had stabbing spearsin their hands, such as are used at close quarters, and these of coursethey did not throw. One of them gained a little on the other. 

"Now Magepa was not more than fifty yards from the bank, with the firsthunter about ten paces behind him and coming up rapidly. Magepa glancedover his shoulder and saw, then put out his last strength. For fortyyards 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. 

"'He's done, ' I said, and, upon my word, if I had had a rifle in my handI think I would have stopped one or both of those bloodhounds and takenthe consequences. 

"But no! Just as the first man lifted his broad spear to stab himthrough the back on which the bundle lay, Magepa leapt up and wheeledround to take the thrust in the chest. Evidently he did not wish to bespeared in the back--for a certain reason. He took it sure enough, forthe assegai was wrenched out of the hand of the striker. Still, as hewas reeling backwards, it did not go through Magepa, or perhaps it hit abone. He drew out the spear and threw it at the man, wounding him. Thenhe staggered on, back and back, to the edge of the little cliff. 

"It was reached at last. With a cry of 'Help me, Macumazahn!' Magepaturned, and before the other man could spear him, leapt straight intothe deep water. He rose. Yes, the brave old fellow rose and struck outfor the other bank, leaving a little line of red behind him. 

"I rushed, or rather sprang and rolled down to the edge of the stream towhere 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. Icaught his outstretched hand and pulled him ashore. 

"'The boy!' he gasped; 'the boy! Is he dead?'

"I severed the lashings of the mat that had cut right into the oldfellow's shoulders. Inside of it was little Sinala, spluttering outwater, but very evidently alive and unhurt, for presently he set up ayell. 

"'No, ' I said, 'he lives, and will live. '

"'Then all is well, Macumazahn. ' (_A pause_. ) 'It _was_ a spy in thebush, not a buck. He overheard our talk. The King's slayers came. Gitaheld the door of the hut while I took the child, cut a hole through thestraw with my assegai, and crept out at the back. She was full of spearsbefore she died, but I got away with the boy. Till your Kaffirs foundme I lay hid in the bush, hoping to escape to Natal. Then I ran for theriver, and saw you on the farther bank. _I_ might have got away, butthat child is heavy. ' (_A pause_. ) 'Give him food, Macumazahn, he mustbe hungry. ' (_A pause_. ) 'Farewell. That was a good saying of yours--theswift runner is outrun at last. Ah! yet I did not run in vain. '(_Another pause, the last_. ) Then he lifted himself upon one arm andwith the other saluted, first the boy Sinala and next me, muttering, 'Remember your promise, Macumazahn. '

"That is how Magepa the Buck died. I never saw anyone carrying weightwho could run quite so well as he, " and Quatermain turned his head awayas though the memory of this incident affected him somewhat. 

"What became of the child Sinala?" I asked presently. 

"Oh! I sent him to an institution in Natal, and afterwards was ableto get some of his property back for him. I believe that he is beingtrained as an interpreter. "

THE BLUE CURTAINS

I

In his regiment familiarly they called him "Bottles, " nobody quite knewwhy. It was, however, rumoured that he had been called "Bottles" atHarrow on account of the shape of his nose. Not that his nose wasparticularly like a bottle, but at the end of it was round and large andthick. In reality, however, the sobriquet was more ancient than that, for it had belonged to the hero of this story from babyhood. Now, whena man has a nickname, it generally implies two things: first, that he isgood-tempered, and, secondly, that he is a good fellow. Bottles, _alias_John George Peritt, of a regiment it is unnecessary to name, amplyjustified both these definitions, for a kindlier-tempered or betterfellow never breathed. But unless a thick round nose, a pair of smalllight-coloured eyes, set under bushy brows, and a large but not badlyshaped mouth can be said to constitute beauty, he was not beautiful. On the other hand, however, he was big and well-formed, and apleasant-mannered if a rather silent companion. 

Many years ago Bottles was in love; all the regiment knew it, he was sovery palpably and completely in love. Over his bed in his tidy quartershung the photograph of a young lady who was known to be _the_ younglady; which, when the regiment, individually and collectively, happenedto see it, left no doubt in its mind as to their comrade's taste. Itwas evident even from that badly-coloured photograph that Miss MadelineSpenser 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 hadbut very few, the married ladies of the battalion used frequently tospeculate how Mr. Peritt would "manage" when it came to matrimony. 

At this date the regiment was quartered in Maritzburg, Natal, but itsterm of foreign service had expired, and it expected to be ordered homeimmediately. 

One morning Bottles had been out buck hunting with the scratch pack keptin those days by the garrison at Maritzburg. The run had been a goodone, and after a seven or eight-mile gallop over the open country theyhad actually killed their buck--a beautiful Oribe. This was a thing thatdid not often happen, and Bottles returned filled with joy and pridewith 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 hewas riding hot and tired up the shadier side of broad and dusty ChurchStreet, a gun fired at the Fort beyond Government House announced thearrival of the English mail. 

With a beaming smile--for to him the English mail meant one if not twoletters from Madeline, and possibly the glad news of sailing orders--hepushed on to his quarters, tubbed and dressed, and then went down to themess-house for breakfast, expecting to find the letters delivered. Butthe 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 shadeof the bamboos and camellia bushes before the orderly arrived with thebag. Bottles went at once into the room that opened on to the verandaand stood by calmly, not being given to betraying his emotions, whileslowly and clumsily the mess sergeant sorted the letters. At last hegot his packet--it only consisted of some newspapers and a singleletter--and went away back to his seat on the veranda, feeling ratherdisappointed, for he had expected to hear from his only brother as wellas from his lady-love. Having relit his pipe--for he was of a slowand deliberate mind, and it rather enhances a pleasure to defer it alittle--and settled himself in the big chair opposite the camellia bushjust now covered with sealing-wax-like blooms, he opened his letter andread:--

"My dear George----"

"Good heavens!" he thought to himself, "what can be the matter? Shealways calls me 'Darling Bottles!'"

"My dear George, " he began again, "I hardly know how to begin thisletter--I can scarcely see the paper for crying, and when I think of youreading 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 bykeeping--it is all over between you and me, my dear, dear old Bottles. "

"All over!" he gasped to himself. 

"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 atAtherton, and there I met Sir Alfred Croston, a middle-aged gentleman, who danced with me several times. I did not care about him much, buthe made himself very agreeable, and when I got home aunt--you know hernasty way--congratulated me on my conquest. Well, next day he cameto call, and papa asked him to stop to dinner, and he took me in, andbefore he went away he told me that he was coming to stop at the GeorgeInn 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 kindand nice. At last one day he asked me to marry him, and I was very angryand told him that I was engaged to a gentleman in the army, who was inSouth Africa. He laughed, and said South Africa was a long way off, andI hated him for it. That evening papa and aunt set on me--you know theyneither of them liked our engagement--and told me that our affair wasperfectly silly, and that I must be mad to refuse such an offer. And soit 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 toconsent 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 withme, for it is not my fault, and I suppose after all we could not havegot married, for we have so little money. I do love you, but I can'thelp myself. I hope you won't forget me, or marry anybody else--atleast, not just at present--for I cannot bear to think about it. Writeto me and tell me you won't forget me, and that you are not angrywith 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 totalk like aunt does about settlements and diamonds, but they can't makeup to me for you. Good-bye, dear, I cannot write any more because myhead aches so. --Ever yours, "Madeline Spenser. "

When George Peritt, _alias_ Bottles, had finished reading and re-readingthis letter, he folded it up neatly and put it, after his methodicalfashion, into his pocket. Then he sat and stared at the red camelliablooms before him, that somehow looked as indistinct and misty as thoughthey were fifty yards off instead of so many inches. 

"It is a great blow, " he said to himself. "Poor Madeline! How she mustsuffer!"

Presently he rose and walked--rather unsteadily, for he felt muchupset--to his quarters, and, taking a sheet of notepaper, wrote thefollowing letter to catch the outgoing mail:--

"My dear Madeline, --I have got your letter putting an end to ourengagement. I don't want to dwell on myself when you must have so muchto 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 gothome I might get the adjutancy of a militia regiment, and that we mighthave 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 andluxuries to which you are accustomed; but I am afraid that when one isin 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 ofstanding in your way in life. I love you much too well for that, dearMadeline, and you are too beautiful and delicate to be the wife of apoor subaltern with little beside his pay. I can honestly say that Ihope you will be happy. I don't ask you to think of me too often, asthat might make you less so, but perhaps sometimes when you are quietyou will spare your old lover a thought or two, because I am sure nobodycould care for you more than I do. You need not be afraid that I shallforget you or marry anybody else. I shall do neither the one nor theother. I must close this now to catch the mail; I don't know that thereis anything more to say. It is a hard trial--very; but it is no goodbeing weak and giving way, and it consoles me to think that you are'bettering yourself' as the servants say. Good-bye, dear Madeline. MayGod bless you, is now and ever my earnest prayer. 

"J. G. Peritt. "

Scarcely was this letter finished and hastily dispatched when a loudvoice was heard calling, "Bottles, Bottles, my boy, come rejoice withme; the orders have come--we sail in a fortnight;" followed by the ownerof 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'sdejected and somewhat dazed appearance. 

"No--that is, not particularly. So you sail in a fortnight, do you?"

"'You sail?' What do you mean? Why, we _all_ sail, of course, from thecolonel down to the drummer-boy. "

"I don't think that I--I am going to sail, Jack, " was the hesitatinganswer. 

"Look here, old fellow, are you off your head, or have you beenliquoring up, or what?"

"No--that is, I don't think so; certainly not the first--the second, Imean. "

"Then what do you mean?"

"I mean that, in short, I am sending in my papers. I like this climate--I, in short, am going to take to farming. "

"Sending in your papers! Going to take to farming! And in thisGod-forsaken hole, too. You _must_ be screwed. "

"No, indeed. It is only ten o'clock. "

"And how about getting married, and the girl you are engaged to, andwhom you are looking forward so much to seeing. Is she going to take tofarming?"

Bottles winced visibly. 

"No, you see--in short, we have put an end to that. I am not engagednow. "

"Oh, indeed, " said the friend, and awkwardly departed. 

II

Twelve years have passed since Bottles sent in his papers, and in twelveyears many things happen. Amongst them recently it had happened that ourhero's only and elder brother had, owing to an unexpected developmentof consumption among the expectant heirs, tumbled into a baronetcy andeight thousand a year, and Bottles himself into a modest but to him mostample fortune of as many hundred. When the news reached him he was thecaptain of a volunteer corps engaged in one of the numerous Basuto warsin the Cape Colony. He served the campaign out, and then, in obedienceto his brother's entreaties and a natural craving to see his nativeland, after an absence of nearly fourteen years, resigned his commissionand returned to England. 

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 somehalf-grown, hobbledehoy colonial town, but in a set of the mostcomfortable chambers in the Albany, the local and appropriate habitationof the bachelor brother aforesaid, Sir Eustace Peritt. 

In a very comfortable arm-chair in front of a warm fire (for the monthis November) sits the Bottles of old days--bigger, uglier, shyer thanever, and in addition, disfigured by an assegai wound through the cheek. Opposite to him, and peering at him occasionally with fond curiositythrough an eyeglass, is his brother, a very different stamp of man. Sir Eustace Peritt is a well-preserved, London-looking gentleman, ofapparently any age between thirty and fifty. His eye is so bright, hisfigure so well preserved, that to judge from appearances alone you wouldput him down to the former age. But when you come to know him so as tobe able to measure his consummate knowledge of the world, and tohave the opportunity of reflecting upon the good-natured but profoundcynicism which pleasantly pervades his talk as absolutely as the flavourof lemon pervades rum punch, you would be inclined to assign his natalday to a much earlier date. In reality he was forty, neither more norless, and had both preserved his youthful appearance and gained themellowness of his experience by a judicious use of the opportunities oflife. 

"Well, my dear George, " said Sir Eustace, addressing hisbrother--determined to take this occasion of meeting after so long atime to be rid of the nickname "Bottles, " which he hated--"I haven't hadsuch a pleasure for years. "

"As--as what?"

"As meeting you again, of course. When I saw you on the vessel I knewyou at once. You have not changed at all, unless expansion can be calleda change. "

"Nor have you, Eustace, unless contraction can be called a change. Yourwaist used to be bigger, you know. "

"Ah, George, I drank beer in those days; it is one of things of which Ihave lived to see the folly. In fact, there are not many things of whichI have not lived to see the folly. "

"Except living itself, I suppose?"

"Exactly--except living. I have no wish to follow the example of ourpoor cousins, " he answered with a sigh, "to whose considerate behaviour, however, " he added, brightening, "we owe our present improved position. "Then came a pause. 

"Fourteen years is a long time, George; you must have had a rough timeof it. "

"Yes, pretty rough. I have seen a good deal of irregular service, youknow. "

"And never got anything out of it, I suppose?"

"Oh, yes; I have got my bread and butter, which is all I am worth. "

Sir Eustace looked at his brother doubtfully through his eyeglass. "Youare modest, " he said; "that does not do. You must have a better opinionof yourself if you want to get on in the world. "

"I don't want to get on. I am quite content to earn a living, and I ammodest because I have seen so many better men fare worse. "

"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 quitea lion with that hole in your cheek--by the way, you must tell me thestory. And then, you see, if anything happens to me you stand in for thetitle and estates. That will be quite enough to float you. "

Bottles writhed uneasily in his chair. "Thank you, Eustace; but reallyI must ask you--in short, I don't want to be floated or anything of thesort. I would rather go back to South Africa and my volunteer corps. Iwould indeed. I hate strangers, and society, and all that sort of thing. I'm not fit for it like you. "

"Then what do you mean to do--get married and live in the country?"

Bottles coloured a little through his sun-tanned skin--a fact that didnot escape the eyeglass of his observant brother. "No, I am not going toget married, certainly not. "

"By the way, " said Sir Eustace carelessly, "I saw your old flame, LadyCroston, yesterday, and told her you were coming home. She makes acharming widow. "

"_What!_" ejaculated his brother, slowly raising himself out of hischair in astonishment. "Is her husband dead?"

"Dead? Yes, died a year ago, and a good riddance too. He appointed meone of his executors; I am sure I don't know why, for we never likedeach 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 herright, too. "

"Why did it serve her right?"

Sir Eustace shrugged his shoulders. 

"When a heartless girl jilts the fellow she is engaged to in order tosell 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 ofit--better than she expected. "

His brother sat down again before he answered in a constrained voice, "Don't you think you are rather hard on her, Eustace?"

"Hard on her? No, not a bit of it. Of all the worthless women thatI know, I think Madeline Croston is the most worthless. Look how shetreated you. "

"Eustace, " broke in his brother almost sharply, "if you don't mind, Iwish you would not talk of her like that to me. I can't--in short, Idon't like it. "

Sir Eustace's eyeglass dropped out of Sir Eustace's eye--he hadopened it so wide to stare at his brother. "Why, my dear fellow, " heejaculated, "you don't mean to tell me you still care for that woman?"

His brother twisted his great form about uncomfortably in the low chairas he answered, "I don't know, I'm sure, about caring for her, but Idon't like to hear you say such things about her. "

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. Youmust be a faithful people in South Africa. Here the 'holy feelings ofthe heart' are shorter lived. We wear out several generations of them intwelve years. "

III

Bottles did not go to bed till late that night. Long after Sir Eustace--who, always careful of his health, never stopped up late if he couldavoid it--had vanished, yawning, his brother sat smoking pipe after pipeand thinking. He had sat many times in the same way on a wagon-box inthe African veld, or up where the moonlight turned the falls of theZambesi into a rushing cataract of silver, or alone in his tent when allthe camp was sleeping round him. It was a habit of this queer, silentman to sit and think for hours at night, and arose to a greatextent from an incapacity to sleep, that was the weak point in hisconstitution. 

As for his meditations, they were various, but mostly the outcome of acurious speculative side to his nature, which he never revealed to theoutside world. Dreams of a happiness of which heretofore his hard lifehad given him no glimpse; semi-mystical, religious meditations uponthe great unknown around us; and grand schemes for the regeneration ofmankind--all formed part of them. 

But there was one central thought, the fixed star of his mind, roundwhich all the others continually revolved, taking their light and colourfrom it, and that was the thought of Madeline Croston, the woman to whomhe had been engaged. Years and years had passed since he had seenher face, and yet it was always present to him. Beyond the occasionalmention of her name in some society paper--several of which, by theway, he took in for years and conscientiously searched on the chanceof finding it--till this evening he had never even seen it or heardit spoken; and yet with all the tenacity of his strong, deep nature heclung to her dear memory. That she had left him to marry another manweighed as nothing in the balance of his love. Once she had lovedhim, and thereby he was repaid for the devotion of his life. He hadno ambitions. Madeline had been his great ambition; and when that hadfallen, all the others had fallen with it, even to the dust. He simplydid his duty, whatever it might be, as well as in him lay, without fearof blame or hope of praise--shunning men, and never, if he could avoidit, speaking to a woman, content to earn his livelihood, and for therest rendered colourless by his secret and pathetic passion. 

And now it appeared that Madeline was a widow, which meant--and hisheart beat fast at the thought--that she was a free woman. Madeline wasa free woman, and he was within a few minutes' walk of her. No thousandsof 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--a housein Grosvenor Street. Overcome by an uncontrollable impulse, he went outof 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, pouringwith rain, and blowing hard. 

He had been a little in London as a lad and remembered the mainthoroughfares, so had no great difficulty in finding his way upPiccadilly till he came to Park Lane, into which the Red book told himGrosvenor Square opened. But to find Grosvenor Street itself was a moredifficult matter, and at such a time on such a night there was naturallynobody to ask--least of all a policeman. At last he found it, andhurried on down the street with a quickening pulse. What he was hurryingto he could not tell, but that over-mastering impulse forced him onquicker and quicker yet. 

Suddenly he halted, and examined the number of one of the houses by thefaint and struggling light from the nearest lamp. It was _her_ house;now there was nothing between them but a few feet of space and fourteeninches 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 thedriving rain. There was no light in the house, and no sign of life aboutthe street. But there were both light and life in the heart of thiswatcher. All the pulses of his blood were astir, keeping time with thecommotion of his mind. He stood there in the shadow, gazing at the murkyhouse, heedless of the bitter wind and pelting rain, and felt his lifeand spirit pass out of his control into an unknown dominion. The stormthat raged around him was nothing to the convulsion of his inner self inthat hour of madness, which was yet happiness. Yet as it had arisen thussuddenly, so with equal swiftness it died away, and left him standingthere with a chill sense of folly in his mind and of the bitter weatherin his body; for on such a night a mackintosh and a dress coat were notadapted to keep the most ardent lover warm. He shivered, and turning, made his way back to Albany, feeling heartily ashamed of himself andhis midnight expedition, and heartily glad that no one knew of it excepthimself. 

On the following day Bottles--for convenience' sake we still call himby his old nickname--was obliged to see a lawyer with reference to themoney which he had inherited, and to search for a box which had goneastray aboard the steamer; also to buy a tall hat, such as he had notworn for fourteen years; so that between one thing and another it washalf-past four before he got back to the Albany. Here he donned the newhat, which did not fit very well, and a new black coat which fittedso well that it seemed to cut into his large frame in every possibledirection, and departed, furiously struggling with a pair of gloves, also new, for Grosvenor Street. 

A quarter of an hour's walk, for he knew the road this time, brought himto the house. Glancing for a while at the spot where he had stood on theprevious night, he walked up the steps and pulled the bell. Thoughhe looked bold enough outwardly--indeed, rather imposing thanotherwise--with his broad shoulders and the great scar on his bronzedface, his breast was full of terrors. In these, however, he had notmuch time to indulge, for a footman, still decked in the trappings ofvicarious grief, opened the door with the most startling promptitude, and he was ushered upstairs into a small but richly furnished room. 

Madeline was not in the room, though to judge from the lace handkerchieflying on the floor by a low chair, and the open novel on a little wickertable alongside, she had not left it long. The footman departed, saying, in a magnificent undertone, that "her ladyship" should be informed, andleft our hero to enjoy his sensations. Being one of those people whomsuspense of any sort makes fidgety, he employed himself in looking atthe pictures and china, even going so far as to walk to a pair of veryheavy blue velvet curtains that apparently communicated with anotherroom, and peep through them at a much larger apartment of which thefurniture was done up in ghostly-looking bags. 

Retreating from this melancholy sight, finally he took up a positionon the hearthrug and waited. Would she be angry with him for coming? hewondered. Would it recall things she had rather forget? But perhaps shehad already forgotten them--it was so long ago. Would she be very muchchanged? Perhaps he should not know her. Perhaps--but here he happenedto lift his eyes, and there, standing between the two blue velvetcurtains, was Madeline, now a woman in the full splendour of aremarkable beauty, and showing as yet, at any rate in that dull Novembertwilight, no traces of her years. There she stood, her large dark eyesfixed upon him with a look of wistful curiosity, her shapely lips justparted to speak, and her bosom gently heaving, as though with trouble. 

Poor Bottles! One look was enough. There was no chance of his attainingthe blessed haven of disillusionment. In five seconds he was fartherout to sea than ever. When she knew that he had seen her she dropped hereyes a little--he saw the long curved lashes appear against her cheek, and moved forward. 

"How do you do?" she said softly, extending her slim, cool hand. 

He took the hand and shook it, but for the life of him could think ofnothing to say. Not one of the little speeches he had prepared wouldcome into his mind. Yet the desperate necessity of saying somethingforced itself upon him. 

"How do you do?" he ejaculated with a jerk. "It--it's very cold, isn'tit?"

This remark was such an utter and ludicrous _fiasco_ that Lady Crostoncould not choose but laugh a little. 

"I see, " she said, "that you have not got over your shyness. "

"It is a long while since we met, " he blurted out. 

"I am very glad to see you, " was her simple answer. "Now sit down andtalk to me; tell me all about yourself. Stop; before you begin--howvery curious it is! Do you know I dreamed about you last night--such acurious, painful dream. I dreamed that I was asleep in my room--whichindeed I was--and that it was blowing a gale and raining intorrents--which I believe it was also--so there is nothing verywonderful about that. But now comes the odd part. I dreamed that youwere standing out in the rain and wind and yet looking at me as thoughyou 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 vividdream. And now to-day you have come to see me after all these years. "

He shifted his legs uneasily. Considering the facts of the case, herdream frightened him, which was not strange. Fortunately, at that momentthe impressive footman arrived with the tea-things and asked whether heshould light the lamps. 

"No, " said Lady Croston; "put some wood on the fire. " She knew that shelooked her very best in those half-lights. 

Then, when she had given him his tea, delighting him by remembering thathe did not like sugar, she fell to drawing him out about the wild lifehe had been leading. 

"By the way, " she said presently, "perhaps you can tell me--a few daysago I bought a book for my boy"--she had two children--"all about bravedeeds and that sort of thing, and in it there was a story of a volunteerofficer in South Africa (the name was not mentioned) which interestedme very much. Did you ever hear of it? It was this: The officer was incommand of a fort containing a force that was operating against a nativechief. While he was away the chief sent a flag of truce down to thefort, which was fired on by some of the volunteers in the fort, becausethere was a man among the truce party against whom they had a spite. Just afterwards the officer returned, and was very angry that such athing had been done by Englishmen, whose duty it was, he said, to teachall the world what honour meant. 

"Now comes the brave part of the story. Without saying any more, and notwithstanding the entreaties of his men, who knew that in allprobability he was going to a death by torture, for he was so brave thatthe natives had set a great price upon him, wishing to kill him and usehis body for medicine, which they thought would make them as brave ashe was, that officer rode out far away into the mountains with onlyan interpreter and a white handkerchief, till he came to the chief'sstronghold. But when the natives saw him coming, holding up his whitehandkerchief, they did not fire at him as his men had fired at them, because they were so astonished at his bravery that they thought hemust be mad or inspired. So he came straight on to the walls of thestronghold, called to the chief and begged his pardon for what hadhappened, and then rode away again unharmed. Shortly afterwards, thechief, having captured some of the officer's volunteers, whom in theordinary course of affairs he would have tortured to death, sent themback again untouched, with a message to the effect that he would showthe English officer that he was not the only man who could behave 'likea gentleman. ' I should like to know that man. Do you know who he was?"

Bottles looked uncomfortable, as well he might, for it was an incidentin his own career; but her praise and enthusiasm sent a flush of prideinto his face. 

"I believe it was some fellow in the Basuto War, " he said, prevaricatingwith peculiar awkwardness. 

"Oh, then it _is_ a true story?"

"Yes--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 continueto be worth anything. "

"But who was the man?" she asked, fixing her dark eyes on himsuspiciously. 

"The man!" he stammered. "Oh, the man--well, in short----" and hestopped. 

"In short, _George_, " she put in, for the first time calling him by hisChristian name, "that man was _you_, and I am so proud of you, George. "

It was very hateful to him in a way, for he loathed that kind ofpersonal adulation, even from her. He was so intensely modest he hadnever even reported the incident in question; it had come out in someroundabout way. Yet he could not but feel happy that she had found himout. It was a great deal to him to have moved her, and her sparklingeyes and heaving bosom showed that she was somewhat moved. 

He looked up and his eyes caught hers; the room was nearly dark now, butthe bright flame from the wood the servant had put on the fire playedupon her face. His eyes caught hers, and there was a look in them fromwhich he could not escape, even if he had wished to do so. She hadthrown her head back so that the coronet of her glossy hair rested uponthe back of her low seat, and thus, without strain, could look straightup into his face. He had risen, and was standing by the mantelpiece. Aslow, sweet smile grew upon the perfect face, and the dark eyes becamesoft and luminous as though they shone through tears. 

In another second it had ended, as she thought that it would end and hadintended that it should end. The great strong man was down--yes, downon his knees before her, one trembling hand catching at the arm ofher chair, and the other clasping her tapering fingers. There was nohesitation or awkwardness about him now, the greatness of his long-pentpassion inspired him, and he told her all without let or stop--all thathe had suffered for her sake throughout those lonely years, all hiswretched hopelessness, keeping nothing back. 

Much she did not understand; such a passion as this was too deep tobe fathomed by her shallow lines, too soaring for her to net in herworld-straitened imagination. Once or twice even his exalted notionsmade her smile: it seemed ridiculous, knowing the world as she did, thatany man should think thus of _any_ woman. Nor, when at length he hadfinished, did she attempt an answer, feeling that her strength lay insilence, for she had a poor case. At least, the only argument that sheused was a purely feminine one, but perfectly effective. She bent herbeautiful face towards him, and he kissed it again and again. 

IV

The revulsion of feeling experienced by Bottles as he hurried back tothe Albany to dress for dinner--for he was to dine with his brother atone of his clubs that night--was so extraordinary and overwhelming thatit took him, figuratively speaking, off his legs. As yet his mind, solong accustomed to perpetual misfortune in this, the ruling passion ofhis 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. 

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 preparefor a severe cross-examination in the House upon South African affairs, had jumped at the opportunity of sucking the brains of a man thoroughlyacquainted with the subject. But the expectant Under-Secretary wasdestined to meet with a grievous disappointment, for out of Bottlescame no good thing. For the most part of the dinner he sat silent, onlyspeaking when directly addressed, and then answering so much at randomthat the Under-Secretary quickly came to the conclusion that SirEustace's brother was either a fool or that he had drunk too much. 

Sir Eustace himself saw that his brother's taciturnity had spoilt hislittle dinner, and his temper was not improved thereby. He was notaccustomed to have his dinners spoiled, and felt that, so far as theUnder-Secretary was concerned, he had put himself into a false position. 

"My dear George, " he said in a tone of bland exasperation when they hadgot back to the Albany, "I wonder what can be the matter with you? Itold Atherleigh that you would be able to post him up thoroughly aboutall this Bechuana mess, and he could not get a word out of you. "

His brother absently filled his pipe before he answered:

"The Bechuanas? Oh, yes, I know all about them. I lived among them for ayear. "

"Then why on earth didn't you tell him what you knew? You put me inrather a false position. "

"I am very sorry, Eustace, " he answered humbly. "I will go and see himif you like, and explain the thing to him to-morrow. The fact of thematter is, I was thinking of something else. "

Sir Eustace interrogated him with a look. 

"I was thinking, " he went on slowly, "about Mad--about Lady Croston. "

"Oh!"

"I went to see her this afternoon, and I think, I hope, that I am goingto marry her. "

If Bottles expected that this great news would be received by hiselder brother as such news ought to be received--with congratulatoryrejoicing--he was destined to be disappointed. 

"Good heavens!" ejaculated Sir Eustace shortly, letting his eyeglassdrop. 

"Why do you say that, Eustace?" Bottles asked uneasily. 

"Because--because, " answered his brother in the emphatic tone which washis equivalent for strong language, "you must be mad to think of such athing. "

"Why must I be mad?"

"Because you, still a young man, with all your life before you, deliberately propose to tie yourself up to a middle-aged and _passee_woman--she is extremely _passee_ by daylight, let me tell you--whohas already treated you like a dog, and is burdened with a couple ofchildren, and who, if she marries again, will bring you very littleexcept her luxurious tastes. But I expected this. I thought she wouldtry to catch you with those languishing black eyes of hers. You are notthe first; I know her of old. "

"If, " said his brother, rising in dudgeon, "you are going to abuseMadeline to me, I think I had better say good night, for we shallquarrel--which I would not do for anything. "

Sir Eustace shrugged his shoulders. "Those whom the gods wish to destroythey first make mad, " he muttered, as he lit his hand candle. "This iswhat comes of a course of South Africa. "

But Sir Eustace was an amenable man. His favourite motto was "Live andlet live"; and having given the matter his best consideration during thelengthy process of shaving himself on the following morning, he came tothe conclusion, reluctantly enough it must be owned, that it was evidentthat his brother meant to have his own way, and therefore the best thingto be done was to fall in with his views and trust to the chapterof accidents to bring the thing to naught. Sir Eustace, for all hisapparent worldliness and cynicism, was a good fellow at heart, andcherished a warm affection for his awkward, taciturn brother. Healso cherished a great dislike for Lady Croston, whose character hethoroughly understood. He saw a good deal of her, it is true, because hehappened to be one of the executors of her husband's will; and since hehad come into the baronetcy it had struck him that she had developed aconsiderable partiality for his society. 

The idea of a marriage between his brother and his brother's old flamewas in every way distasteful to him. In the first place, under herhusband's will, Madeline would bring, comparatively speaking, relativelylittle with her should she marry again. That was one objection. Another, and still more forcible one from Sir Eustace's point of view, was thatat her time of life she was not likely to present the house of Perittwith an heir. Now, Sir Eustace had not the slightest intention ofmarrying. Matrimony was, he considered, an excellent institution, andnecessary to the carrying on of the world in a respectable manner, butit 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 unionshould bring children to inherit the title and estates. Prominent aboveboth these excellent reasons, stood his intense distrust and dislike ofthe lady. 

Needs must, however, when the devil (by whom he understood Madeline)drives. He was not going to quarrel with his only brother andpresumptive heir because he chose to marry a woman who was not to histaste. So he shrugged his shoulders--having finished his shaving and hisreflections together--and determined to put the best possible face onhis disappointment. 

"Well, George, " he said to his brother at breakfast, "so you are goingto marry Lady Croston?"

Bottles looked up surprised. "Yes, Eustace, " he answered, "if she willmarry me. "

Sir Eustace glanced at him. "I thought the affair was settled, " he said. 

Bottles rubbed his big nose reflectively as he answered, "Well, no. I don't think that marriage was mentioned. But I suppose she means tomarry me. In short, I don't see how she could mean anything else. "

Sir Eustace breathed more freely, guessing what had taken place. Sothere was as yet no actual engagement. 

"When are you going to see her again?"

"To-morrow. She is engaged all to-day. "

His brother took out a pocket-book and consulted it. "Then I am morefortunate than you are, " he said; "I have an appointment with LadyCroston this evening after dinner. Don't look jealous, old fellow, it isonly about some executor's business. I think I told you that I am oneof her husband's executors, blessings on his memory. She is a peculiarwoman, your _inamorata_, and swears that she won't trust her lawyers, soI have to do all the dirty work myself, worse luck. You had better cometoo. "

"Shan't I be in the way?" asked Bottles doubtfully, struggling feeblyagainst the bribe. 

"It is evident, my dear fellow, that you cannot be _de trop_. I shallpresent my papers for signature and vanish. You ought to be infinitelyobliged to me for giving you such a chance. We will consider thatsettled. We will dine together, and go round to Grosvenor Streetafterwards. "

Bottles agreed. Could he have seen the little scheme that was dawning inhis brother's brain, perhaps he would not have assented so readily. 

When her old lover went away reluctantly to dress for dinner on theprevious day, Madeline Croston sat down to have a good think, and theresult was not entirely satisfactory. It had been very pleasant tosee him, and his passionate declaration of enduring love thrilled herthrough and through, and even woke an echo in her own breast. It madeher proud to think that this man, who, notwithstanding his ugliness andawkwardness, was yet, her instinct told her, worth half a dozen smartLondon fashionables, still loved her and had never ceased to love her. Poor Bottles! she had been very fond of him once. They had grown uptogether, and it really gave her some cruel hours when a sense of whatshe owed to herself and her family had forced her to discard him. 

She remembered, as she sat there this evening, how at the time she hadwondered if it was worth it--if life would not be brighter and happierif 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. Shehad not liked her husband, it is true; but on the whole she had enjoyeda good time and plenty of money, and the power that money brings. Thewisdom of her later days had confirmed the judgment of her youth. Asregards Bottles himself, she had soon got over that fancy; for yearsshe had scarcely thought of him, till Sir Eustace told her that he wascoming home, and she had that curious dream about him. Now he had comeand 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 anutter self-abandonment which, while it thrilled her nerves with acurious sensation of mingled pleasure and pain, not unlike that she onceexperienced at a Spanish bull-fight when she saw a man tossed, was yetextremely awkward to deal with and rather alarming. 

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 wantto marry her, she felt sure of that. If she consented, what were they tolive on? Her own juncture, in the event of her re-marriage, would be cutdown to a thousand a year--she had four now, and was pinched on that;and as for Bottles, she knew what he had--eight hundred, for Sir Eustacehad told her. He was next heir to the baronetcy, it was true, but SirEustace looked as though he would live for ever, and besides, he mightmarry after all. 

For a few minutes Lady Croston contemplated the possibility of existingon eighteen hundred a year, and what Chancery would give her as guardianof her children in a poky house somewhere down at Kensington. Soon sherealised that the thing was not to be done. 

"Unless Sir Eustace will do something for him, it is very clear that wecannot be married, " she said to herself with a sigh. "However, I neednot tell him that just yet, or he will be rushing back to South Africaor something. "

V

Sir Eustace and his brother carried out their programme. They dinedtogether, and about half-past nine drove round to Grosvenor Street. Here they were shown into the drawing-room by the solemn footman, whoinformed Sir Eustace that her ladyship was upstairs in the nursery andhad left a message for him that she would be down presently. 

"All right; there is no hurry, " said Sir Eustace absently, and the manwent downstairs. 

Bottles, being nervous, was fidgeting round the room as usual, and hisbrother, being very much at ease, was standing with his back to thefire, and staring about him. Presently his glance lit upon the bluevelvet curtains which shut off the room they were in from the largersaloon that had not been used since Lady Croston's widowhood, and anidea which had been floating about in his brain suddenly took definiteshape and form. He was a prompt man, and in another second he had actedup to that idea. 

"George, " he said in a quick, low voice, "listen to me, and for Heaven'ssake don't interrupt for a minute. You know that I do not like the ideaof your marrying Lady Croston. You know that I think her worthless--no, wait a minute, don't interrupt--I am only saying what I think. Youbelieve in her; you believe that she is in love with you and will marryyou, and have good reason to believe it, have you not?"

Bottles nodded. 

"Very well. Supposing that I can show you within half an hour that sheis perfectly ready to marry somebody else--myself, for instance--wouldyou still believe in her?"

Bottles turned pale. "The thing is impossible, " he said. 

"That is not the question. Would you still believe in her, and would youstill marry her?"

"Great heavens! no. "

"Good. Then I tell you what I will do for you, and it will perhapsgive you some idea of how deeply I feel in the matter; I will sacrificemyself. "

"Sacrifice yourself?"

"Yes. I mean that I will this very evening propose to Madeline Crostonunder your nose, and I bet you five pounds she accepts me. "

"Impossible, " said Bottles again. "Besides, if she did you don't want tomarry her. "

"Marry her! No, indeed. _I_ am not mad. I shall have to get out of thescrape as best I can--always supposing my view of the lady is correct. "

"Excuse me, " said Bottles with a gasp, "but I must ask you--in short, have _you_ ever been on affectionate terms with Madeline?"

"Never, on my honour. "

"And yet you think she will marry you if you ask her, even after whattook place with me yesterday?"

"Yes, I do. "

"Why?"

"Because, my boy, " replied Sir Eustace with a cynical smile, "I haveeight thousand a year and you have eight hundred--because I have a titleand you have none. That you may happen to be the better fellow of thetwo will, I fear, not make up for those deficiencies. "

Bottles with a motion of his hand waved his brother's courtly complimentaway, as it were, and turned on him with a set white face. 

"I do not believe you, Eustace, " he said. "Do you understand what youmake out this lady to be when you say that she could kiss me and tell methat she loved me--for she did both yesterday--and promise to marry youto-day?"

Sir Eustace shrugged his shoulders. "I think that the lady in questionhas done something like that before, George. "

"That was years ago and under pressure. Now, Eustace, you have made thischarge; you have upset my faith in Madeline, whom I hope to marry, and Isay, prove it--prove it if you can. I will stake my life you cannot. "

"Don't agitate yourself, my dear fellow; and as to betting, I would notrisk more than a fiver. Now oblige me by stepping behind those velvetcurtains--_a la_ 'School for Scandal'--and listening in perfect silenceto my conversation with Lady Croston. She does not know that you arehere, so she will not miss you. You can escape when you have had enoughof it, for there is a door through on to the landing, and as we came upI noticed that it was ajar. Or if you like you can appear from betweenthe curtains like an infuriated husband on the stage and play whatever_role_ occasion may demand. Really the situation has a laughable side. I should enjoy it immensely if _I_ were behind the curtain too. Come, inyou go. "

Bottles hesitated. "I can't hide, " he said. 

"Nonsense; remember how much depends on it. All is fair in love or war. Quick; here she comes. "

Bottles grew flurried and yielded, scarcely knowing what he did. Inanother second he was in the darkened room behind the curtains, throughthe crack in which he could command the lighted scene before him, andSir Eustace was back at his place before the fire, reflecting that inhis ardour to extricate his brother from what he considered a suicidalengagement he had let himself in for a very pretty undertaking. Supposeshe accepted him, his brother would be furious, and he would probablyhave to go abroad to get out of the lady's way; and suppose she refusedhim, he would look a fool. 

Meanwhile the sweep, sweep of Madeline's dress as she passed down thestairs was drawing nearer, and in another instant she was in the room. She was beautifully dressed in silver-grey silk, plentifully trimmedwith black lace, and cut square back and front so as to show her roundedshoulders. She wore no ornaments, being one of the few women who areable to dispense with them, unless indeed a red camellia pinned in thefront of her dress can be called an ornament. Bottles, shivering withshame and doubt behind his curtain, marked that red camellia, andwondered of what it reminded him. 

Then in a flash it all came back, the scene of years and years ago--theverandah in far-away Natal, with himself sitting on it, an open letterin his hand and staring with all his eyes at the camellia bush coveredwith bloom before him. It seemed a bad omen to him--that camellia inMadeline's bosom. Next second she was speaking. 

"Oh, Sir Eustace, I owe you a thousand apologies. You must have beenhere for quite ten minutes, for I heard the front door bang when youcame. But my poor little girl Effie is ill with a sore throat which hasmade her feverish, and she absolutely refused to go to sleep unless shehad my hand to hold. "

"Lucky Effie, " said Sir Eustace, with his politest bow; "I am sure I canunderstand her fancy. "

At the moment he was holding Madeline's hand himself, and gave emphasisto his words by communicating the gentlest possible pressure to it ashe let it fall. But knowing his habits, she did not take much notice. Comparative strangers when Sir Eustace shook hands with them weresometimes in doubt whether he was about to propose to them or to make aremark upon the weather. Alas! it had always been the weather. 

"I come as a man of business besides, and men of business are accustomedto being kept waiting, " he went on. 

"You are really very good, Sir Eustace, to take so much trouble about myaffairs. "

"It is a pleasure, Lady Croston. "

"Ah, Sir Eustace, you do not expect me to believe that, " laughedthe radiant creature at his side. "But if you only knew how I detestlawyers, and what you spare me by the trouble you take, I am sure youwould not grudge me your time. "

"Do not talk of it, Lady Croston. I would do a great deal more than thatfor you; in fact, " here he dropped his voice a little, "there are fewthings that I would not do for you, _Madeline_. "

She raised her delicate eyebrows till they looked like notes ofinterrogation, and blushed a little. This was quite a new style for SirEustace. Was he in earnest? she wondered. Impossible!

"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 havealready witnessed, and the stock can be transferred. "

She signed the paper which he had brought in a big envelope almostwithout looking at it, for she was thinking of Sir Eustace's remark, andhe put it back in the envelope. 

"Is that all the business, Sir Eustace?" she asked. 

"Yes; quite all. Now I suppose that as I have done my duty I had bettergo away. "

"I wish to Heaven he would!" groaned Bottles to himself behind thecurtains. He did not like his brother's affectionate little ways orMadeline's tolerance of them. 

"Indeed, no; you had better sit down and talk to me--that is, if youhave got nothing pleasanter to do. "

We can guess Sir Eustace's prompt reply and Madeline's smiling receptionof the compliment, as she seated herself in a low chair--that same lowchair she had occupied the day before. 

"Now for it, " said Sir Eustace to himself. "I wonder how George isgetting on?"

"My brother tells me that he came to see you yesterday, " he began. 

"Yes, " she answered, smiling again, but wondering in her heart how muchhe had told him. 

"Do you find him much changed?"

"Not much. "

"You used to be very fond of each other once, if I remember right?" saidhe. 

"Yes, once. "

"I often think how curious it is, " went on Sir Eustace in a reflectivetone, "to watch the various changes time brings about, especially wherethe affections are concerned. One sees children at the seaside makinglittle mounds of sand, and they think, if they are very young children, that they will find them there to-morrow. But they reckon without theirtide. To-morrow the sands will have swept as level as ever, and thelittle boys will have to begin again. It is like that with our youthfullove 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, Ithink, a happy thing for both of you that your sandhouse did not last. Is it not?"

Madeline sighed softly. "Yes, I suppose so, " she answered. 

Bottles, behind the curtains, rapidly reviewed the past, and came to adifferent conclusion. 

"Well, that is all done with, " said Sir Eustace cheerfully. 

Madeline did not contradict him; she did not see her way to doing sojust at present. 

Then came a pause. 

"Madeline, " said Sir Eustace presently, in a changed voice, "I havesomething to say to you. "

"Indeed, Sir Eustace, " she answered, lifting her eyebrows again in hernote of interrogation manner, "what is it?"

"It is this, Madeline--I want to ask you to be my wife. "

The blue velvet curtains suddenly gave a jump as though they wereassisting at at spiritualistic _seance_. 

Sir Eustace looked at the curtains with warning in his eye. 

Madeline saw nothing. 

"Really, Sir Eustace!"

"I dare say I surprise you, " went on this ardent lover; "my suit mayseem a sudden one, but in truth it is nothing of the sort. "

"O Lord, what a lie!" groaned the distracted Bottles. 

"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. "

"Nor did I, Madeline, because I thought there was no chance of mymarrying you" ("which I am sure I hope there isn't, " he added tohimself). "But--but, Madeline, I love you. " ("Heaven forgive me forthat!") "Listen to me, Madeline, before you answer, " and he drew hischair closer to her own. "I feel the loneliness of my position, and Iwant 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 marryanybody much our junior. I have had many opportunities lately, Madeline, of seeing the beauty of your character, and to the beauties of yourperson no man could be blind. I can offer you a good position, a goodfortune, and myself, such as I am. Will you take me?" and he laid hishand upon hers and gazed earnestly into her eyes. 

"Really, Sir Eustace, " she murmured, "this is so very unexpected andsudden. "

"Yes, Madeline, I know it is. I have no right to take you by stormin this way, but I trust you will not allow my precipitancy to weightagainst me. Take a little time to think it over--a week say" ("by whichtime, " he reflected, "I hope to be in Algiers. ") "Only, if you can, Madeline, tell me that I may hope. "

She made no immediate answer, but, letting her hands fall idly in herlap, looked straight before her, her beautiful eyes fixed upon vacancy, and her mind amply occupied in considering the pros and cons of thesituation. Then Sir Eustace took heart of grace; bending down, he kissedthe Madonna-like face. Still there was no response. Only very gently shepushed him from her, whispering:

"Yes, Eustace, I think I shall be able to tell you that you may hope. "

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 downthe stairs and into the hall. On the pegs were his hat and coat; he tookthem and passed into the street. 

"I have done a disgraceful thing, " he thought, "and I have paid for it. "

Softly as the door closed Sir Eustace heard it; and then he too left theroom, murmuring, "I shall soon come for my answer, Madeline. "

When he reached the street his brother was gone. 

VI

Sir Eustace did not go straight back to the Albany, but, calling ahansom, drove down to his club. 

"Well, " he thought to himself, "I have played a good many curious partsin my time, but I never had to do with anything like this before. I onlyhope George is not much cut up. His eyes ought to be opened now. What awoman----" but we will not repeat Sir Eustace's comments upon the ladyto whom he was nominally half engaged. 

At the club Sir Eustace met his friend the Under-Secretary, who hadjust escaped from the House. Thanks to information furnished to himthat morning by Bottles, who had been despatched by Sir Eustace, in apenitent mood, to the Colonial Office to see him, he had just succeededin confusing, if not absolutely in defeating, the impertinent people who"wanted to know. " Accordingly he was jubilant, and greeted Sir Eustacewith enthusiasm, and they sat talking together for an hour or more. 

Then Sir Eustace, being, as has been said, of early habits, made his wayhome. 

In his sitting-room he found his brother smoking and contemplating thefire. 

"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 thismorning enabled him to smash up his enemies, and as the smashing latelyhas been rather the other way he is jubilant. He wants you to go to seehim again to-morrow. Oh, by the way, you made your escape all right. Ionly hope I may be as lucky. Well, what do you think of your lady-lovenow?"

"I think, " said Bottles slowly--"that I had rather not say what I dothink. "

"Well, you are not going to marry her now, I suppose?"

"No, I shall not marry her. "

"That is all right; but I expect that it will take _me_ all I know toget clear of her. However, there are some occasions in life when one isbound to sacrifice one's own convenience, and this is one of them. Afterall, she is really very pretty in the evening, so it might have beenworse. "

Bottles winced, and Sir Eustace took a cigarette. 

"By the way, old fellow, " he said, as he settled himself in his chairagain, "I hope you are not put out with me over this. Believe me, youhave no cause to be jealous; she does not care a hang about me, itis only the title and the money. If a fellow who was a lord and had athousand a year more proposed to her to-morrow she would chuck me up andtake him. "

"No; I am not angry with you, " said Bottles; "you meant kindly, but I amangry with myself. It was not honourable to--in short, play the spy upona woman's weakness. "

"You are very scrupulous, " yawned Sir Eustace; "all means are fair tocatch a snake. Dear me, I nearly exploded once or twice; it was betterthan [yawn] any [yawn] play, " and Sir Eustace went to sleep. 

Bottles sat still and stared at the fire. 

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 sincehis return. ) "Odd thing; but do you know that I was dreaming that wewere boys again, and trout-fishing in the old Cantlebrook stream. Idreamt that I hooked a big fish, and you were so excited that you jumpedright into the river after it--you did once, you remember--and the riverswept 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-fishingtogether in the spring. God bless you!"

"Good night, " said Bottles, gazing affectionately after his brother'sdeparting form. 

Then he too rose and went to his bedroom. On a table stood a batteredold tin despatch-box--the companion of all his wanderings. He opened itand took from it first a little bottle of chloral. 

"Ah, " he said, "I shall want you if I am to sleep again. " Setting thebottle down, he extracted from a dirty envelope one or two letters and afaded photograph. It was the same that used to hang over his bed in hisquarters at Maritzburg. These he destroyed, tearing them into small bitswith his strong brown fingers. 

Then he shut the box and sat down at the table to think, opening thesluice-gates of his mind and letting the sea of misery flow in, as itwere. 

This, then, was the woman whom he had forgiven and loved and honouredfor all these years. This was the end and this the reward of all hisdevotion and of all his hopes. And he smiled in bitterness of his painand self-contempt. 

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 hisdelusion--the beautiful delusion of his life--and he felt as though itwould drive him mad, as the man whose shadow left him went mad. 

He rose from the chair, opened the window, and looked out. It was aclear frosty night, and the stars shone brightly. For some while hestood looking at them; then he undressed himself. Generally, for he wasdifferent to most men, he said his prayers. For years, indeed, he hadnot missed doing so, any more than he had missed praying Providence inthem to watch over and bless his beloved Madeline. But to-night he saidno 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 velvetcurtains. 

So he swallowed his sleeping-draught and laid himself down to rest. 

* * * * *

When Madeline Croston heard the news at a dinner-party on the followingevening she was much shocked, and made up her mind to go home early. Tothis day she tells the story as a frightful warning against the carelessuse of chloral. 

LITTLE FLOWER

I

The Rev. Thomas Bull was a man of rock-like character with no moreimagination than a rock. Of good birth, good abilities, good principlesand good repute, really he ought to have been named not Thomas but JohnBull, being as he was a typical representative of the British middleclass. By nature a really religious man and, owing to the balance of hismind, not subject to most of the weaknesses which often afflict others, very early in his career he determined that things spiritual were of fargreater importance than things temporal, and that as Eternity is muchlonger than Time, it was wise to devote himself to the spiritual andleave the temporal to look after itself. There are quite a numberof good people, earnest believers in the doctrine of rewards andpunishments, who take that practical view. With such

"Repaid a thousand-fold shall be, "

is a favourite line of a favourite hymn. 

It is true that his idea of the spiritual was limited. Perhaps it wouldbe more accurate to say that it was unlimited, since he accepted withoutdoubt or question everything that was to be found within the fourcorners of what he had been taught. As a boy he had been noted for hisprowess in swallowing the largest pills. 

"Don't think, " he would say to his weaker brothers and sisters, especially one of the latter whose throat seemed to be so constitutedthat she was obliged to cut up these boluses with a pair of scissors, "Don't think, but gulp 'em down!"

So it was with everything else in life; Thomas did not think, he gulpedit down. Thus in these matters of faith, if other young folk ventured totalk of "allegory" or even to cast unhallowed doubts upon such pointsas those of the exact method of the appearance on this earth of theirMother Eve, or whether the sun actually did stand still at the biddingof Joshua, or the ark, filled with countless pairs of living creatures, floated to the top of Ararat, or Jonah, defying digestive juices, infact abode three days in the interior of a whale, Thomas looked on themwith a pitying smile and remarked that what had been written by Mosesand other accepted prophets was enough for him. 

Indeed a story was told of him when he was a boy at school which wellexemplified this attitude. By way of lightening their labours a verynoted geologist who had the art of interesting youthful audiences andmaking the rocks of the earth tell their own secular story, was broughtto lecture to his House. This eminent man lectured extremely well. Heshowed how beyond a doubt the globe we inhabit, one speck of matter, floating in the sea of space, had existed for millions upon millions ofyears, and how by the evolutionary changes of countless ages it hadat length become fitted to be the habitation of men, who probablythemselves had lived and moved and had their being there for at least amillion of years, perhaps much longer. 

At the conclusion of the entrancing story the boys were invited to askquestions. Thomas Bull, a large, beetle-browed youth, rose at onceand inquired of their titled and aged visitor, a man of world-widereputation, why he thought it funny to tell them fairy tales. The oldgentleman, greatly interested, put on his spectacles, and while the restof the school gasped and the head master and other pedagogues staredamazed, studied this strange lad, then said:

"I am outspoken myself, and I like those who speak out when they do sofrom conviction; but, my young friend, why do you consider that I--well, exaggerate?"

"Because the Bible says so, " replied Thomas unabashed. "The Bible tellsus that the world was made in six days, not in millions of years, andthat 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 youare wrong, sir, or the Bible is, and _I_ prefer the Bible. "

The eminent scientist took off his spectacles and carefully put themaway, remarking:

"Most logical and conclusive. Pray, young gentleman, do not allowany humble deductions of my own or others to interfere with yourconvictions. Only I believe it was Archbishop Ussher, not the Bible, whosaid that the world began about 4, 000 B. C. I think that one day you maybecome a great man--in your own way. Meanwhile I might suggest that acertain sugaring of manners sweetens controversy. "

After this no more questions were asked, and the meeting broke up inconfusion. 

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 isknown as a "temper, " also he was blessed with a good idea of himself andhis own abilities, and had a share of that intolerance by which this isso often accompanied. 

In due course Thomas Bull became a theological student. Rarely was theresuch a student. He turned neither to left nor right, worked eight hoursa day when he did not work ten, and took the highest possible degrees onevery subject. Then he was ordained. About this time he chanced to heara series of sermons by a Colonial bishop that directed his mind towardsthe mission-field. This was after he had served as a deacon in an EastEnd parish and become acquainted with savagery in its western form. 

He consulted with his friends and his superiors as to whether his truecall were not to the far parts of the earth. Unanimously they answeredthat they thought so; so unanimously that a mild fellow-labourer whomhe bullied was stung to the uncharitable remark that almost it looked asthough they wanted to be rid of him. Perhaps they did; perhaps they heldthat for energy so gigantic there was no fitting outlet in this narrowland. 

But as it chanced there was another to be consulted, for by this timethe Rev. Thomas Bull had become engaged to the only daughter of adeceased London trader--in fact, he had been a shop-keeper upon a largescale. This worthy citizen had re-married late in life, choosing, orbeing chosen by a handsome and rather fashionable lady of a somewhathigher class than his own, who was herself a widow. By her he had noissue, his daughter, Dorcas, being the child of his first marriage. Mr. Humphreys, for that was his name, made a somewhat peculiar will, leavingall his fortune, which was considerable, to his young widow, charged, however, with an annuity of 300 pounds settled on his daughter Dorcas. 

On the day before his death, however, he added a codicil which angeredMrs. Humphreys very much when she saw it, to the effect that if shere-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 thedecease of his wife. 

The result of these testamentary dispositions was that one house, although it chanced to be large, proved too small to hold Mrs. Humphreysand her stepdaughter, Dorcas. The latter was a mild and timid littlecreature with a turned-up nose, light-coloured fluffy hair andan indeterminate mouth. Still there was a degree of annoyance andfashionable scorn at which her spirit rose. The end of it was that shewent to live on her three hundred a year and to practise good works inthe East End, being laudably determined to make a career for herself, which she was not in the least fitted to do. 

Thus it was that Dorcas came into contact with the Rev. Thomas Bull. From the first time she saw her future husband he dominated andfascinated her. He was in the pulpit and really looked very handsomethere with his burly form, his large black eyes and his determined, clean-shaven face. Moreover, he preached well in his own vigorousfashion. 

On this occasion he was engaged in denouncing the vices and pettiness ofmodern woman--upper-class modern woman--of whom he knew nothing atall, a topic that appealed to an East End congregation. He showed howworthless was this luxurious stamp of females, what a deal they thoughtof dress and of other more evil delights. He compared them to theFlorentines whom Savonarola (in his heart Thomas saw resemblancesbetween himself and that great if narrow man) scourged till they wept inrepentance and piled up their jewels and fripperies to be burned. 

What do they do with their lives, he asked. Is there one in ten thousandof them who would abandon her luxuries and go forth to spread the lightin the dark places of earth, or would even pinch herself to supportothers who did? And so on for thirty minutes. 

Dorcas, listening and, reflecting on her stepmother, thought howmarvellously true it all was. Had he known her personally, which so faras she was aware was not the case, the preacher could not have describedher better. Also it was certain that Mrs. Humphreys and her friends hadnot the slightest intention of spreading any kind of light, unless itwere that of their own eyes and jewels, or of going anywhere to do so, except perhaps to Monte Carlo in the spring. 

How noble too was the picture he painted of the life of self-sacrificeand high endeavour that lay open to her sex. She would like to leadthat higher life, being in truth a good-hearted little thing full ofrighteous impulses; only unfortunately she did not know how, for herpresent mild and tentative efforts had been somewhat disappointing intheir fruits. 

Then an inspiration seized her; she would consult Mr. Bull. 

She did so, with results that might have been anticipated. Within threemonths she and her mentor were engaged and within six married. 

It was during those fervid weeks of engagement that the pair agreed, notwithout a little hesitation upon the part of Dorcas, that in due coursehe would become a missionary and set forth to convert the heathen inwhat he called "Blackest Africa. " First, however, there was much to bedone; he must go through a long course of training; he must acquainthimself with various savage languages, such as Swahili and Zulu, and somust she. 

Oh! how poor Dorcas, who was not very clever and had no gift of tonguescame to loathe those barbaric dialects. Still she worked away at themlike a heroine, confining herself ultimately, with a wise and practicalprescience, to learning words and sentences that dealt with domesticaffairs, as as "Light the fire. " "Put the kettle on to boil. " "Sister, have you chopped the wood?" "Cease making so much noise in thekitchen-hut. " "Wake me if you hear the lion eating our cow. " And soforth. 

For more than a year after their marriage these preliminaries continuedwhile Thomas worked like a horse, though it is true that Dorcasslackened her attention to Swahili and Zulu grammar in the pressure ofmore immediate affairs. Especially was this so after the baby was born, a girl, flaxen-haired like her mother, whom Thomas christened by thename of Tabitha, and who in after years became the "Little Flower" ofthis history. Then as the time of departure drew near another thinghappened. Her stepmother, Mrs. Humphreys, insisted upon going to a ballin Lent, where she caught a chill that developed into inflammation ofthe lungs and killed her. 

The result of this visitation of Providence, as Thomas called it, wasthat Dorcas suddenly found herself a rich woman with an income of quite2000 pounds a year, for her father had been wealthier than she knew. Now temptation took hold of her. Why, she asked herself, should Thomasdepart to Africa to teach black people, when with his gifts and hermeans he could stop at home comfortably and before very long become abishop, or at the least a dean?

Greatly daring, she propounded this matter to her husband, only to findthat she might better have tried to knock down a stone wall withher head than induce him to change his plans. He listened to herpatiently--unless over-irritated, a perfectly exasperating patience wasone of his gifts--then said in a cold voice that he was astonished ather. 

"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 seekerafter the fleshpots of Egypt. Never let me hear you mention the matteragain. "

"But there is the baby, " she exclaimed. "Africa is hot and might notagree with her. "

"Heaven will look after the baby, " he answered. 

"That's just what I am afraid of, " wailed Dorcas. 

Then they had their first quarrel, in the course of which, be itadmitted, she said one or two spiteful things. For instance, shesuggested that the real reason he wished to go abroad was because he wasso unpopular with his brother clergymen at home, and especially with hissuperiors, to whom he was fond of administering lectures and reproofs. 

It ended, of course, in her being crushed as flat as is a broken-wingedbutterfly that comes in the path of a garden roller. He stood up andtowered over her. 

"Dorcas, " he said, "do what you will. Stay here if you wish, and enjoyyour money and your luxuries. I sail on the first of next month forAfrica. Because you are weak, do I cease to be strong?"

"I think not, " she replied, sobbing, and gave in. 

So they sailed, first class--this was a concession, for he had intendedto go third--but without a nurse; on that point he stood firm. 

"You must learn to look after your own children, " he said, a remark atwhich she made a little face that meant more than he knew. 

II

The career of Mr. And Mrs. Bull during the next eight years calls forbut little comment. Partly because Tabitha was delicate at first andmust be within reach of doctors, they lived for the most part at variouscoast cities in Africa, where Thomas worked with his usual fervourand earnestness, acquiring languages which he learned to speak withconsiderable perfection, though Dorcas never did, and acquaintinghimself thoroughly with the local conditions in so far as they affectedmissionary enterprise. 

He took no interest in anything else, not even in the history of thenatives, or their peculiar forms of culture, since for the most partthey have a secret culture of their own. All that was done with, hesaid, a turned page of the black and barbarous past; it was his businessto write new things upon a new sheet. Perhaps it was for this reasonthat Thomas Bull never really came to understand or enter into the heartof 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 theburning, desperate and disagreeable sinners who must be saved, and heset to work to save them with fearful vigour. 

His wife, although her vocabulary was still extremely limited and mucheked out with English or Dutch words, got on much better with them. 

"You know, Thomas, " she would say, "they have all sorts of fine ideaswhich we don't understand, and are not so bad in their way, only youmust find out what their way is. "

"I have found out, " he said grimly; "it is a very evil way, the way ofdestruction. I wish you would not make such a friend of that sly blacknurse-girl who tells me a lie once out of every three times she opensher mouth. "

For the rest Dorcas was fairly comfortable, as with their means shewas always able to have a nice house in whatever town they might bestationed, where she could give tennis parties and even little lunchesand dinners, that is if her husband chanced to be away, as often hewas visiting up-country districts, or taking the duty there for anothermissionary who was sick or on leave. Indeed, in these conditions shecame to like Africa fairly well, for she was a chilly little thing wholoved its ample, all-pervading sunshine, and made a good many friends, especially among young men, to whom her helplessness and rather forlornlittle face appealed. 

The women, too, liked her, for she was kindly and always ready to helpin case of poverty or other distresses. Luckily, in a way, she was herown mistress, since her fortune came to her unfettered by any marriagesettlements; moreover, it was in the hands of trustees, so that theprincipal could not be alienated. Therefore she had her own account andher own cheque-book and used her spare money as she liked. More than onepoor missionary's wife knew this and called her blessed, as through herbounty they once again looked upon the shores of England or were ableto send a sick child home for treatment. But of these good deeds Dorcasnever talked, least of all to her husband. If he suspected them, afterone encounter upon some such matter, in which she developed a hiddenstrength and purpose, he had the sense to remain silent. 

So things went on for years, not unhappily on the whole, for as theyrolled by the child Tabitha grew acclimatised and much stronger. By thistime, although Dorcas loved her husband as all wives should, obeying himin all, or at any rate in most things, she had come to recognise that heand she were very differently constituted. Of course, she knew thathe was infinitely her superior, and indeed that of most people. Likeeverybody else she admired his uprightness, his fixity of purpose andhis devouring energy and believed him to be destined to great things. Still, to tell the truth, which she often confessed with penitenceupon her knees, on the whole she felt happier, or at any rate morecomfortable, during his occasional absences to which allusion has beenmade, when she could have her friends to tea and indulge in human gossipwithout being called "worldly. "

It only remains to add that her little girl Tabitha, a name sheshortened into Tabbie, was her constant joy, especially as she had noother children. Tabbie was a bright, fair-haired little thing, clever, too, with resource and a will of her own, an improved edition ofherself, but in every way utterly unlike her father, a fact thatsecretly annoyed him. Everybody loved Tabitha, and Tabitha lovedeverybody, not excepting the natives, who adored her. Between theKaffirs and Tabitha there was some strong natural bond of sympathy. Theyunderstood one another. 

At length came the blow. 

It happened thus. Not far from the borders of Zululand but in thecountry that is vaguely known as Portuguese Territory, was a certaintribe of mixed Zulu and Basuto blood who were called the Ama-Sisa, thatis, the People of the Sisa. Now "Sisa" in the Zulu tongue has a peculiarmeaning which may be translated as "Sent Away. " It is said that theyacquired this name because the Zulu kings when they exercised dominionover all that district were in the habit of despatching large herds ofthe royal cattle to be looked after by these people, or in their ownidiom to be _sisa'd_, i. E. Agisted, as we say in English of stock thatare entrusted to another to graze at a distance from the owner's home. 

Some, however, gave another reason. In the territory of this tribe wasa certain spot of which we shall hear more later, where these sameZulu kings were in the habit of causing offenders against their law orcustoms to be executed. Such also, like the cattle, were "sent away, "and from one of these two causes, whichever it may have been, or perhapsfrom both, the tribe originally derived its name. 

It was not a large tribe, perhaps there were three hundred and fiftyheads of families in it, or say something under two thousand souls inall, descendants, probably, of a mild, peace-loving, industrious Basutostock on to which had been grafted a certain number of the dominant, warlike Zulus who perhaps had killed out the men and possessedthemselves of the Basuto women and their cattle. The result was thatamong this small people there were two strains, one of the bellicosetype, who practically remained Zulus, and the other of the milder andmore progressive Basuto stamp, who were in the majority. 

Among these Sisas missionaries had been at work for a number of years, with results that on the whole were satisfactory. More than half ofthem had been baptised and were Christians of a sort; a church had beenbuilt; a more or less modern system of agriculture had been introduced, and the most of the population wore trousers or skirts, according tosex. Recently, however, trouble had arisen over the old question ofpolygamy. The missionaries would not tolerate more than one wife, whilethe Zulu section of the tribe insisted upon the old prerogative ofplural marriage. 

The dispute had ended in something like actual fighting, in the courseof which the church and the school were burnt, also the missionary'shouse. Because of these troubles this excellent man was forced to campout in the wet, for it was the rainy season, and catching a chill, diedsuddenly of heart-failure following rheumatic fever just after he hadmoved into his new habitation, which consisted of some rather glorifiednative huts. 

Subsequently to these events there came a petition from the chief of thetribe, a man called Kosa, whose name probably derived from the Zulu wordKoos, which means chief or captain, addressed to the Church authoritiesand asking that a new Teacher might be sent to take the place of him whohad died, also to rebuild the church and the school. If this were notdone, 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. 

This was an appeal that could not be neglected, since hitherto the Sisahad been a spot of light in a dark place, as most of the surroundingpeoples, who were of the old Zulu stock, remained heathen. If that lightwent out the chances were that they would continue to be so, whereas ifit went on burning another result might be hoped, since from a spark agreat fire may come. Therefore earnest search was made for a suitableperson to deal with so difficult and delicate a situation, with theresult that the lot fell upon the Rev. Thomas Bull. 

Once his name was mentioned, it was acclaimed by all. He was the veryman, they said, bold, determined, filled with a Jesuit's fiery zeal(although it need scarcely be explained that he hated Jesuits as a catdoes mustard), one whom no witch-doctors would daunt, one, moreover, who being blessed with this world's goods would ask no pay, but on thecontrary would perhaps contribute a handsome sum towards the re-buildingof the church. This, it may be explained, as the Mission itself scarcelypossessed a spare penny with which to bless itself, was a point thatcould not be overlooked. 

So Thomas was sent for and offered the post, after its difficulties anddrawbacks had been fairly but diplomatically explained to him. He didnot 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 forwhich he had been seeking. Up in that secluded spot in PortugueseTerritory he would, he reflected, be entirely on his own, a sort oflittle bishop with no one to interfere with him, and able to have hisown way about everything, which in more civilised regions he found hecould not do. Here a set of older gentlemen, who were always appealingto 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 hisfollowing to dust beneath its iron rim. He said that he would go atonce, and what is more, he promised a donation of 1, 000 pounds towardsthe rebuilding of the church and other burnt-out edifices. 

"That is very generous of Bull, " remarked the Dean when he had left theroom. 

"Yes, " said another dignitary, "only I think that the undertakingmust be looked upon as conditional. I understand, well, that the moneybelongs to Mrs. Bull. "

"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 pardoneda vulgarism, will knock the stuffing out of that pestilent Menzi and hiscrowd. "

"Do you think so?" asked the other. "I am not so certain. I have met oldMenzi, and he is a tough nut to crack. He may 'knock the stuffing' outof him. Bull, sound as he is, and splendid as he is in many ways, doesnot, it seems to me, quite understand natives, or that it is easier tolead them than to drive them. "

"Perhaps not, " said the Dean, "but in the case of these Sisas it israther a matter of Hobson's choice, isn't it?"

So this affair was settled, and in due course Thomas received his letterof appointment as priest-in-charge of the Sisa station. 

On his arrival home a few days later, where he was not expected till thefollowing week, Thomas was so pre-occupied that he scarcely seemed tonotice his wife's affectionate greeting; even the fact that both sheand Tabitha were arrayed in smart and unmissionary-like garments escapedhim. Dorcas also looked pre-occupied, the truth being that she hadasked a few young people, officers and maidens of the place (alas! asit chanced, among them were no clergy or their wives and daughters), toplay tennis that afternoon and some of them to stop to supper. Now shewas wondering how her austere spouse would take the news. He mightbe cross and lecture her; when he was both cross and lectured thecombination was not agreeable. 

A few formal enquiries as to health and a certain sick person were madeand answered. Dorcas assured him that they were both quite well, Tabithaespecially, and that she had visited the afflicted woman as directed. 

"And how was she, dear?" he asked. 

"I don't know, dear, " she answered. "You see, when I got to the houseI met Mrs. Tomley, the Rector's wife, at the door, and she said, ratherpointedly I thought, that she and her husband were looking after thecase, and though grateful for the kind assistance you had rendered, feltthat they need not trouble us any more, as the patient was a parishionerof theirs. "

"Did they?" said Thomas with a frown. "Considering all things--well, letit be. "

Dorcas was quite content to do so, for she was aware that her husband'sgood-heartedness was apt to be interpreted as poaching by some whoshould have known better, and that in fact the ground was dangerous. 

"I have something to tell you, " she began nervously, "about anarrangement I have made for this afternoon. "

Mr. Bull, who was drinking a tumbler of water--he was a teetotallerand non-smoker, and one of his grievances was that his wife found itdesirable to take a little wine for the Pauline reason--set it down andsaid:

"Never mind your afternoon arrangements, my dear; they are generallyof a sort that can be altered, for _I_ have something to tell _you_, something very important. My call has come. "

"Your call, dear. What call? I did not know that you expectedanyone--and, by the way----"

She got no further, for her husband interrupted. 

"Do not be ridiculous, Dorcas. I said call--not caller, and I use theword in its higher sense. "

"Oh! I understand, forgive me for being so stupid. Have they made you abishop?"

"A bishop----"

"I mean a dean, or an archdeacon, or something!" she went on confusedly. 

"No, Dorcas, they have not. I could scarcely expect promotion as yet, though it is true that I thought--but never mind, others no doubt havebetter claims and longer service. I have, however, been honoured with amost responsible duty. "

"Indeed, dear. What duty?"

"I have been nominated priest-in-charge of the Sisa Station. "

"O-oh! and where is that? Is it anywhere near Durban, or perhapsMaritzburg?"

"I don't exactly know at present, though I understand that it isabout six days' trek from Eshowe in Zululand, but over the border inPortuguese territory. Indeed, I am not sure that one can trek all theway, at least when the rivers are in flood. Then it is necessary tocross one of them in a basket slung upon a rope, or if the river is nottoo full, in a punt. At this season the basket is most used. "

"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 thishouse for another year?"

"Of course I do. The families of missionaries must expect to facehardships, from which it is true circumstances have relieved you up tothe present. It is therefore only right that they should begin now, whenTabitha has become as strong as any child of her age that I know. As forthe house, I had forgotten all about it. It must be relet, or failingthat we must bear the loss, which fortunately we can well afford. "

Dorcas looked at him and said nothing because words failed her, so hewent on hurriedly. 

"By the way, love, I have taken a slight liberty with your name. Itappears that the church at Sisa, which I understand was quite a nice onebuilt with subscriptions obtained in England by one of my predecessorswho chanced to have influence or connections at home, has been recentlyburnt 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 nativehuts, but obviously we must have a church, and as the Society isoverdrawn it cannot help in the matter. Under these circumstances Iventured to promise a gift of 1, 000 pounds, which it is estimated willcover the re-erection of both church and house. "

He paused awaiting a reply, but as Dorcas still said nothing, continued. 

"You will remember that you told me quite recently that you found youhad 1, 500 pounds to your credit, therefore I felt quite sure thatyou would not grudge 1, 000 pounds of it to enable me to fulfil thisduty--this semi-divine duty. "

"Oh!" said Dorcas. "As a matter of fact I intended to spend that 1, 000pounds, or much of it, otherwise. There are some people here whom Iwanted to help, but fortunately I had not mentioned this to them, sothey will have to do without the money and their holiday; also thechildren cannot be sent to school. And, by the way, how is Tabbie to beeducated in this far-away place?"

"I am sorry, dear, but after all private luxuries, including that ofbenevolence, must give way to sacred needs, so I will write to the Deanthat the money will be forthcoming when it is needed. As for Tabitha'seducation, of course we will undertake it between us, at any rate forthe next few years. "

"Yes, Thomas, since you have passed your word, or rather my word, themoney will be forthcoming. But meanwhile, if you can spare me the odd500 pounds, I suggest that I should stay here with Tabbie, who couldcontinue to attend the college as a day-scholar, while you get us someplace ready to live in among these savages, the Sneezers, or whateverthey are called. "

"My dear, " answered Thomas, "consider what you ask. You are in perfecthealth and so is our child. Would it not, then, be a downright scandalthat you should stop here in luxury while your husband went out toconfront grave difficulties among the Sisas--not the Sneezers--for I maytell you at once that the difficulties are very grave? There is a notedwitch-doctor amongst this people named Menzi, who, I understand, issuspected of having burned down the mission-house, and probably thechurch also, because he said that it was ridiculous that an unmarriedman 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 argumentand its application. Also often these barbarians consider that a man whois not married _must_ be insane! Therefore it is absolutely necessarythat you and the child should be present with me from the first. "

"Oh! is it?" said Dorcas, turning very pink. "Well, I am sorry to saythat just now it is absolutely necessary that I should be absent fromyou, since I have a tennis party this afternoon--the officers of thegarrison are coming and about half a dozen girls--and I must go toarrange about the tea. "

"A tennis party! A tennis party to those godless officers and probablyequally godless girls, " exclaimed her husband. "I am ashamed of you, Dorcas, you should be occupied with higher things. "

Then at last the worm turned. 

"Do you know, Thomas, " she answered, springing up, "that I am inclinedto be ashamed of you too, who I think should be occupied in keeping yourtemper. You have accepted some strange mission without consulting me, you have promised 1, 000 pounds of my money without consulting me, andnow you scold me because I have a few young people to play tennis andstop to supper. It is unchristian, it is uncharitable, it is--too bad!"and sitting down again she burst into tears. 

The Rev. Thomas who by now was in a really regal rage, not knowing whatto say or do, glared about him. By ill-luck his eye fell upon a box ofcigarettes that stood upon the mantelpiece. 

"What are those things doing here?" he asked. "I do not smoke, so theycannot be for me. Is our money--I beg pardon--your money which isso much needed in other directions to be wasted in providing suchunnecessaries--for officers and--idle girls? Oh--bless it all, " andseizing the offending cigarettes he hurled them through the open window, a scattered shower of white tubes which some Kaffirs outside instantlyproceeded to collect. 

Then he rushed from the house, and Dorcas went to get ready for herparty. But first she sent a servant to buy another box of cigarettes. Itwas her first act of rebellion against the iron rule of the Rev. ThomasBull. 

III

In the end, as may be guessed, Dorcas, who was a good and faithfullittle soul, accompanied her husband to the Sisa country. Tabitha wentalso, rejoicing, having learned that in this happy land there was noschool. Dorcas found the journey awful, but really, had she but knownit, it was most fortunate, indeed ideal. Her husband, who was a littleanxious on the point, had made the best arrangements that were possibleon such an expedition. 

The wagon in which they trekked was good and comfortable, and althoughit was still the rainy season, fortune favoured them in the matterof weather, so that when they came to the formidable river, they wereactually able to trek across it with the help of some oxen borrowedfrom a missionary in that neighbourhood, without having recourse to thedreaded rope-slung basket, or even to the punt. 

Beyond the river they were met by some Christian Kaffirs of the Sisatribe, who were sent by the Chief Kosa to guide them through the hundredmiles or so of difficult country which still lay between them and theirgoal. These men were pleasant-spoken but rather depressed folk, clad inmuch-worn European clothes that somehow became them very ill. They gavea melancholy account of the spiritual condition of the Sisas, who sincethe death of their last pastor, they said, were relapsing rapidly intoheathenism under the pernicious influence of Menzi, the witch-doctor. Therefore Kosa sent his greetings and prayed the new Teacher to hurry totheir aid and put a stop to this state of things. 

"Fear nothing, " said Thomas in a loud voice, speaking in Zulu, which bynow he knew very well. "I _will_ put a stop to it. "

Then they asked him his name. He replied that it was Thomas Bull, whichafter the native fashion, having found out what bull meant in English, they translated into a long appellation which, strictly rendered, meant_Roaring-Leader-of-the-holy-Herd_. When he found this out, Thomas flatlydeclined any such unchristian title, with the result that, anxious tooblige, they christened him "Tombool, " and as "Tombool" thenceforwardhe was known. (Dorcas objected to this name, but Tabitha remarked sagelythat at any rate it was better than "Tomfool. ")

This was to his face, but behind his back they called him _Inkunzi_, which means bull, and in order to keep up the idea, designated poorDorcas _Isidanda_, that being interpreted signified a gentle-naturedcow. To Tabitha they gave a prettier name, calling her _Imba_ or LittleFlower. 

At first Dorcas was quite pleased with her title, which sounded nice, but when she came to learn what it meant it was otherwise. 

"How can you expect me, Thomas, to live among a people who call me 'amild cow'?" she asked indignantly. 

"Never mind, my dear, " he answered. "In their symbolical way theyare only signifying that you will feed them with the milk of humankindness, " a reply which did not soothe her at all. In fact, of thethree the child alone was pleased, because she said that "OpeningFlower" was a prettier name than Tabbie, which reminded her of cats. 

Thenceforward, following a track, for it could not be called a road, they advanced slowly, first over a mountain pass on the farther side ofwhich the wagon nearly upset, and then across a great bush-clad plainwhere there was much game and the lions roared round them at night, necessitating great fires to frighten them away. These lions terrifiedDorcas, a town-bred woman who had never seen one of them except in theZoo, so much that she could scarcely sleep, but oddly enough Tabitha wasnot disturbed by them. 

"God will not let us be eaten by a lion, will He, Father?" she asked inher simple faith. 

"Certainly not, " he answered, "and if the brute tries to do so I shallshoot it. "

"I'd rather trust to God, Father, because you know you can never hitanything, " replied Tabitha. 

Fortunately, however, it never became necessary for Thomas to show hisskill as a marksman, for when they got through the bushveld there wereno more lions. 

On the fourth day after they left the river they found themselves upongentle sloping veld that by degrees led them upwards to high land whereit was cold and healthy and there were no mosquitoes. For two days theytrekked over these high lands, which seemed to be quite uninhabited saveby herds of feeding buck, till at length they attained their crest, andbelow them saw a beautiful mimosa-clad plain which the guides told themwas the Sisa Country. 

"The Promised Land at last! It makes me feel like another Moses, " saidThomas, waving his arm. 

"Oh, isn't it lovely!" exclaimed Tabitha. 

"Yes, dear, " answered her mother, "but--but I don't see any town. "

This indeed was the case because there was none, the Sisa kraal, for itcould not be dignified by any other name, being round a projectingridge and out of sight. For the rest the prospect was very fair, beingpark-like in character, with dotted clumps of trees among which ran, or rather wound, a silver stream that seemed to issue from between tworocky koppies in the distance. 

These koppies, the guides told them, were the gates of Sisa Town. Theyneglected to add that it lay in a hot and unhealthy hill-ringed hollowbeyond them, the site having originally been chosen because it wasdifficult to attack, being only approachable through certain passes. Therefore it was a very suitable place in which to kraal the cattleof the Zulu kings in times of danger. That day they travelled down thedeclivity into the plain, where they camped. By the following afternoonthey came to the koppies through which the river ran, and asked itsname. The answer was _Ukufa_. 

"_Ukufa?_" said Thomas. "Why, that means Death. "

"Yes, " was the reply, "because in the old days this river was the Riverof Death where evil-doers were sent to be slain. "

"How horrible!" said Dorcas, for unfortunately she had overheard andunderstood this conversation. 

By the side of the river was a kind of shelf of rock that was used as aroad, and over this they bumped in their wagon, till presently they werepast the koppies and could see their future home beyond. It was a plainsome miles across, and entirely surrounded by precipitous hills, theriver entering it through a gorge to the north. In the centre of thisplain was another large koppie of which the river _Ukufa_, or Death, washed one side. Around this koppie, amid a certain area of cultivatedland, stood the "town" of the Christian branch of the Sisa. It consistedof groups of huts, ten or a dozen groups in all, set on low ground nearthe river, which suggested that the population might number anythingbetween seven hundred and a thousand souls. 

At the time that our party first saw it the sun was sinking, and haddisappeared behind the western portion of the barricade of hills. Therefore the valley, if it may be so called, was plunged in a gloomthat seemed almost unnatural when compared with the brilliant sky above, across which the radiant lights of an African sunset already sped likearrows, or rather like red and ominous spears of flame. 

"What a dreadful place!" exclaimed Dorcas. "Is our home to be here?"

"I suppose so, " answered Thomas, who to tell the truth for once washimself somewhat dismayed. "It does look a little gloomy, but afterall it is very sheltered, and home is what one makes it, " he addedsententiously. 

Here the conversation was interrupted by the arrival of the Chief andsome of the Christian portion of the Sisa tribe, who having been warnedof its approach by messenger, to the number of a hundred and fifty or sohad advanced to meet the party. 

They were a motley crowd clad in every kind of garment, ranging from amoth-eaten General's tunic to practically nothing at all. Indeed, onetall, thin fellow sported only a battered helmet of rusty steel thathad drifted here from some European army, a _moocha_ or waistbelt ofcatskins, and a pair of decayed tennis-shoes through which his toesappeared. With them came what were evidently the remains of the churchchoir, when there was a church, for they wore dirty fragments ofsurplices and sang what seemed to be a hymn tune to the strains of adecadent accordion. 

The tune was long and ended in a kind of howl like to that of adisappointed jackal. When at length it was finished the Chief Kosaappeared. He was a middle-aged man, become prematurely old because hehad lived too fast in his pre-Christian days, or so report said. Now hehad a somewhat imbecile appearance, for his fingers twitched and when hespoke his mouth jerked up at the corners; also he kept looking over hisshoulder as though he were afraid of something behind him. Altogether heinspired Thomas with no confidence. Whatever else he might be, clearlyhe was not a staff for a crusader to lean upon. 

Still he came forward and made a very nice speech, as a high-brednative noble, such as he was, can almost invariably do. With many piousexpressions he welcomed the new Teacher, saying that he and his people, that is those of them who were Christians, would do their best to makehim happy. 

Thomas thanked him in appropriate language, adding that he on his partwould do his best to promote their welfare and to save their souls. 

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 thelast _Umfundisi_, or Teacher died, they had been walking the roadto hell at a very great pace, marrying many wives, drinking gin andpractising all kinds of witchcraft under the guidance of the _Isanusi_or doctor, Menzi. This man, he added, had burned down the church and themission-house by his magic, though these had seemed to be destroyed bylightning. 

With a proud gesture Thomas announced that he would soon settle Menziand 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 tosleep. 

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 inthe centre of the plain, reaching it by following the left bank of theriver that washed its western face. 

Passing between a number of tumbled walls built of loose stones, thatonce in bygone generations had sheltered the cattle of Chaka and otherZulu kings, they reached a bay in the side of the koppie that mayhave covered four acres of ground. Here by the edge of the river, butstanding a little above it, were the burnt-out ruins of a building thatby its shape had evidently been a church, and near to it other ruins ofa school and of a house which once was the mission-station. 

As they approached they heard swelling from within those cracked andmelancholy walls the sound of a fierce, defiant chant which Thomasguessed must be some ancient Zulu war-song, as indeed it was. It wasa very impressive song, chanted by many people, which informed thelisteners that those who sung it were the King's oxen, born to killthe King's enemies, and to be killed for the King, and so forth; adeep-noted, savage song that thrilled the blood, at the first sound ofwhich the accordion gave a feeble wail and metaphorically expired. 

"Isn't that beautiful music, Father. I never heard anything like thatbefore, " exclaimed Tabitha. 

Before Thomas could answer, out from the ruined doorway of the Churchissued a band of men--there might have been a hundred of them--clad inall the magnificent panoply of old-time Zulu warriors, with tall plumesupon their heads, large shields upon their arms, kilts about theirmiddles, and fringes of oxtails hanging from their knees and elbows. They formed into a double line and advanced, waving broad-bladedassegais. Then at a signal they halted by the wagon and uttered adeep-throated salute. 

In front of their lines was a little withered old fellow who carriedneither shield nor spear, but only a black rod to which was bound thetail of a _wildebeeste_. Except for his _moocha_ he was almost naked, and into his grey hair was woven a polished ring of black gum, fromwhich hung several little bladders. Upon his scraggy neck was a necklaceof baboon's teeth and amulets, whilst above the _moocha_ was twisted asnake that might have been either alive or stuffed. 

His face, though aged and shrunken, was fine-featured and full ofbreeding, while his hands and feet were very small; his eyes werebrooding, the eyes of a mystic, but when his interest was excited theirglance was as sharp as a bradawl. Just now it was fixed on Thomas, whofelt as if it were piercing him through and through. The owner of theeyes, as Thomas guessed at once, was Menzi, a witch-doctor very famousin those parts. 

"Why are these men armed with spears? It is against the law for Kaffirsto carry spears, " he said to the Chief. 

"This is Portuguese Territory; there is no law in Portuguese Territory, "answered Kosa with a vacant stare. 

"Then we might be all murdered here and no notice taken, " exclaimedThomas. 

"Yes, Teacher. Many people have been murdered here: my father wasmurdered, and I dare say I shall be. "

"Who by?"

Kosa made no answer, but his vacant eyes rested for a little while onMenzi. 

"Good God! what a country, " said Thomas to himself, looking at Dorcaswho was frightened. Then he turned to meet Menzi, who was advancingtowards them. 

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. Thenwith the utmost politeness he drew a snuff-box fashioned from the tip ofa buffalo-horn out of a slit in the lobe of his left ear, extracted thewooden stopper and offered Thomas some snuff. 

"Thank you, but I do not take that nastiness, " said Thomas. 

Menzi sighed as though in disappointment, and having helped himself toa little, re-stoppered the horn and thrust it back into the lobe of hisear. Next he said, speaking in a gentle and refined voice:

"Greeting, Teacher, who, the messengers tell us, are called Tombool inyour own language and in ours _Inkunzi_. A good name, for in truth youlook like a bull. I am glad to see that you are made much more robustthan was the last Teacher, and therefore will live longer in this placethan he did. Though as for the lady-teacher----" and he glanced at thedelicate-looking Dorcas. 

Thomas stared at this man, to whom already he had taken a strongdislike. Then moved thereto either by a very natural outburst of temper, or perchance by a flash of inspiration, he replied:

"Yes, I shall live longer than did my brother, who died here and hasgone to Heaven, and longer I think than you will. "

This personal remark seemed to take Menzi aback; indeed for a moment helooked frightened. Recovering himself, however, he said:

"I perceive, Teacher Tombool, that like myself you are a witch-doctorand a prophet. At present I do not know which of us will live thelonger, but I will consult my Spirits and tell you afterwards. "

"Pray do not trouble to do so on my account, for I do not believe inyour Spirits. "

"Of course you do not, Teacher. No doctor believes in another doctor'sSpirits, since each has his own, and there are more Spirits than thereare doctors. Teacher Tombool, I greet you and tell you at once that weare at war over this matter of Spirits. This tribe, Teacher, is a cleftlog, yes, it is split into two. The Chief there, Kosa, sits on one halfof 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 withsuch weapons as I have. No, do not look at the spears--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 andsuffer us to walk ours. "

"On the contrary, " answered Thomas, "I intend that all the Sisa peopleshall walk one road, the road that leads to Heaven. "

"Is it so, Teacher?" Menzi replied with a mysterious smile. 

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 deepand 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 thatthis river was named Death. 

After Menzi had looked quite a long while, once more he saluted asthough 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 veldflowers, such as appear in their glory after the rains in Africa. Amongthese was a rare and beautiful white lily. This lily Menzi plucked, andstepping forward, presented it to Tabitha, saying:

"A flower for the Flower! A gift to a child from one who is childless!"

Her father saw and meditated interference. But he was too late; Tabithahad already taken the lily and was thanking Menzi in his own tongue, which she knew well enough, having been brought up by Zulu nurses. Hesmiled at her, saying:

"All Spirits, black or white, love flowers. "

Then for a third time he saluted, not the others, but Tabitha, with moreheartiness than before, and turning, departed, followed by his spearmen, who also saluted Tabitha as they filed in front of her. 

It was a strange sight to see these great plumed men lifting their broadspears to the beautiful bright-haired child who stood there holding thetall white lily in her hand as though it were a sceptre. 

IV

When Menzi and his company had departed, vanishing round the corner ofthe koppie, Thomas again asked the Chief where they were to sleep, anurgent matter as darkness was now approaching. 

Kosa answered with his usual vagueness that he supposed in the hut wherethe late Teacher had died after the mission-house was burnt down. Sothey trekked on a little way, passing beneath the shelf of rock that hasbeen mentioned as projecting from that side of the koppie which overhungthe stream, where there was just room for a wagon to travel between thecliff and the water. 

"What a dark road, " said Dorcas, and one of the Christian nativeswho understood some English, having been the body-servant of the latemissionary--it was he with the accordion--replied in Zulu:

"Yes, Lady; this rock is called the Rock of Evildoers, because oncethose accused of witchcraft and others were thrown from it by the orderof 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 andwe have hunted away the crocodiles, though it is true that there arestill plenty of wizards who ought to be thrown from the rock, " and helooked over his shoulder in the direction Menzi had taken, adding in alow voice, "You have just seen the greatest of them, Lady. "

"How horrible!" said Dorcas for the second time. 

A few yards farther on they emerged from this tunnel-like roadway andfound themselves travelling along the northern face of the koppie. Here, surrounded by a fence, stood the Chief's kraal, and just outside of ita large, thatched hut with one or two smaller huts at its back. It wasa good hut of its sort, being built after the Basuto fashion with aprojecting roof and a doorway, and having a kind of verandah flooredwith beaten lime. 

"This was the Teacher's house, " said Kosa as the wagon halted. 

"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 almoststumbled. 

"That is the grave of the late Teacher, Lady. We buried him here becauseMenzi's people took up the bones of those who were in the churchyard andthrew them into the river, " explained Kosa. 

Dorcas looked as though she were going to faint, but Thomas, rising tothe occasion, remarked:

"Come on, dear. The dead are always with us, and what better companycould we have than the dust of our sainted predecessor. "

"I would rather have his room, " murmured Dorcas, and gathering herselftogether, proceeded to the hut. 

Somebody opened the door with difficulty, and as it seemed to be verydark within Thomas struck a match, by the light of which Dorcas peeredinto the interior. Next second she fell back into his arms with a littlescream. 

"Take me away!" she said. "The place is full of rats. "

He stared; it was quite true. There, sitting up upon the deadmissionary's bed, was a singularly large rat that did not seem in theleast frightened by their appearance, whilst other creatures of the sametribe scuttled about the floor and up the walls. 

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 thatwas falling would allow. 

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 andperhaps much better than that which many missionaries and their familiesare called upon to face in various regions of the earth. What horror isthere that missionaries have not been called upon to endure? St. Paultells us of his trials, but they are paralleled, if not surpassed, evenin the present day. 

Missionaries, however good, may not always be wise folk; the readermight even think the Rev. Thomas Bull to be no perfect embodiment ofwisdom, sympathy or perhaps manners, but taking them as a class they arecertainly heroic folks, who endure many things for small reward, as wereckon reward. In nothing perhaps do they show their heroism and faithmore greatly than in their persistent habit of conveying women and youngchildren into the most impossible places of the earth, there to suffermany things, not exclusive, occasionally, of martyrdom. At least theProtestant section of their calling does this; the Roman Catholics arewiser. In renouncing marriage these save themselves from many agonies, and having only their own lives and health at stake, are perhaps betterfitted to face rough work in rough places. 

Even Thomas Bull, not a particularly sensitive person, was tempted morethan once to arrive at similar conclusions during his period of servicein Sisa-land, although neither he nor his wife or child was called uponto face the awful extremities that have confronted others of his cloth;for instance, another Thomas, one Owen, who was a missionary in Zululandat the time when Dingaan, the King, massacred Retief and his Boersbeneath his eyes. 

On the following morning Thomas crept out from beneath his wagon, notrefreshed, it is true, but filled with a renewed and even more fieryzeal. During those damp hours of unrest he had reflected much andbrought the whole position into perspective, a clear if a narrowperspective. The Chief with whom he had to deal evidently was a fool, ifnot an imbecile, and the Christians who remained after a generation ofteaching were for the most part poor creatures, the weak-kneed amongstthis mixed-blood tribe, probably those of the milder Basuto origin. 

Such strength as remained in the people, who were, after all, but adwindling handful marooned in a distant spot, was to be found amongthose of the old Zulu stock. They were descendants of the men sentby the Kings Chaka and Dingaan to keep an eye upon the humble Basutoslaves, whose duty it was to herd the royal cattle, the men, too, towhom was entrusted the proud but hateful business of carrying outthe execution of persons that, for one reason or another, it was notdesirable to kill at home. 

The individuals detailed for these duties were for the most part of highblood, inconvenient persons, perhaps, whom it was desired to move toa distance. Thus, as Thomas Bull soon learned, Menzi was said to beno less a man than the grandson of the King Dingaan himself, one whosefather had developed troublesome ambitions, but whose life had beenspared because his mother was a favourite with the King. 

Hence some of the grandson's pride, which was enhanced by the fact thatin his youth he had been trained in medicine and magic by a certainZikali, alias "Opener-of-Roads, " who was said to have been the greatestwitch-doctor that ever lived in Zululand, and through him had acquired, or perhaps developed inherent psychic gifts, that were in any caseconsiderable. 

In the end, however, he had returned to his petty tribe, neglectinglarger opportunities, as Thomas learned, because of some woman to whomhe was attached at home. It seemed, however, that he might as well havestayed away, since on his arrival he found that this woman had becomeone of the Chief's wives, for which reason he afterwards killed thatChief, Kosa's father, and possessed himself of the woman, who diedimmediately afterwards, as Menzi suspected by poisoning. It wasprincipally for this reason that he hated Kosa, his enemy's son, and allwho clung to him; and partly because of that hatred and the fear that itengendered Kosa and his people had turned Christian, hoping to protectthemselves thus against Menzi and his wizardries. Also for this deadwoman's sake, Menzi had never married again. 

Thomas did not learn all these details, and others that need not bementioned, at once, but by the time he crept out from under that wagonhe had guessed enough to show that he was face to face with a very toughproposition, and being the man he was, he girded his loins to meet it, vowing that he would conquer Menzi or die in the attempt. 

That very morning he called a council of the Christians and set to workwith a will. The first thing to do was to make the late missionary'shuts habitable, which did not take long, and the next to commence therebuilding of the church. Thomas, true to his principles, insisted onbeginning with the church and letting the mission-house stand over, although Dorcas, small blame to her, complained at being obliged to livefor an indefinite time in a hut like a Kaffir woman. However, as usual, she was obliged to give way. 

As it chanced, here there was little difficulty about buildingoperations, for stone and wood and _tambuki_ grass for thatching wereall at hand in plenty. Also the Basuto section of the Sisa, as is commonamong that race, were clever masons and carpenters, some of them havingfollowed those trades in Natal and the more settled places in Zululand, where dwellings had to be erected. Moreover, they possessed wagons, andnow that the dry season was approaching were able to fetch stores ofevery kind from the borders of Natal. Lastly, thanks to Dorcas's bankingaccount, money was by comparison no object, an unusual circumstancewhere missionaries are concerned. 

So all the week Thomas laboured at these matters and at making himselfacquainted with his congregation, and all Sunday he held open-airservices or taught in the ruins of the old church. 

Thus in the midst of so many new interests matters went on notuncomfortably, and Dorcas became more or less reconciled to her life. Still she could never get over her loathing of the place which shebelieved to be ill-omened, perhaps because of its gloomy aspect, coupledwith the name of the river and the uses to which it had been put, afterall not so very long ago. Naturally, also, this distaste was accentuatedby the unlucky circumstances of their arrival. 

Tabitha, too, was really happy, since she loved this wild free life, andhaving been brought up amongst Kaffirs and talking their language almostas well as she did her own, soon she made many friends. 

Perhaps it was a sense that the information would not be well receivedby her father that prevented her from mentioning that the greatest ofthose friends was the old witch-doctor, Menzi, whom she often met whenshe was rambling about the place. Or it may have been pure accident, since Thomas was too busy to bother about such trifles, while hermother, who of course knew, kept her own counsel. The truth is thatthough he was a heathen witch-doctor, Dorcas liked old Menzi better thanany other native in the district, because she said, quite truly, that hewas 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 apinch he might be worth all the others put together, while if he were anenemy, conversely the same applied. 

So it came about that in the end there arose a very strange state ofaffairs. Menzi hated Thomas and did all he could to thwart him. He likedDorcas and did all he could to help her, while the child Tabitha he cameto worship, for some reason he never revealed, which was hidden in thedepths of his secret soul; indeed ere long had she been his own daughterhe could not have loved her more. It was he who amongst many otherthings gave her the pretty carved walking-stick of black and white_umzimbeet_ wood, also the two young blue cranes and the kid thatafterwards were such pets of hers, and with them the beautiful whitefeathers of a cock ostrich that had been killed on the veld. In the sameway 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 doorof their hut, and not any of his Christian flock, as Thomas fondlyimagined. 

Thus things went on for a while. 

Meanwhile Thomas found this same Menzi a stumbling-block and a rockof offence. Whenever he tried to convert man, woman, or child he wasconfronted with Menzi or the shadow of Menzi. Thus those with whom hewas arguing would ask him why he could not work miracles like Menzi. Lethim show them pictures in the fire, or tell them who had stolen theirgoods or where they would find their strayed cattle, and perhaps theywould believe him. And so forth. 

At length Thomas grew exasperated and announced publicly that hecredited nothing of this magic, and that Menzi was only a common cheatwho threw dust into their eyes. If Menzi could perform marvels, lethim show these marvels to him, Thomas, and to his wife, that they mightjudge of them for themselves. 

Apparently this challenge was repeated to the witch-doctor. At least onemorning a few days later, when Thomas went out accompanied by Dorcasand Tabitha, to meet the Chief Kosa and others and to discuss with themwhether ultimately the mission-house should be rebuilt upon the old siteor elsewhere, he found a great concourse of people, all or nearly allthe tribe indeed, assembled on a level place where in the old days stoodone of the great kraals designed to hold the king's cattle. Out of thecrowd emerged Kosa, looking rather sillier than usual, and of him Thomasinquired why it was gathered. Was it to consult with him about themission-house?

"No, Teacher, " answered the Chief, "Menzi has heard that you call him acheat, and has come to show that he is none, assembling all the peoplethat they may judge between you and him. "

"I do not want to see his tricks, " said Thomas angrily. "Tell him to goaway. "

"Oh, Teacher!" replied Kosa, "that would not be wise, for then everyonewould believe that Menzi's magic is so great that you are afraid even tolook upon it. It is better to let him try. Perhaps if you pray hard hewill fail, for his spirits will not always come when he calls them. "

Thomas hesitated, then, being bold by nature, determined that he wouldsee the thing through. After all, Menzi was an impostor and nothingelse, and could work no more magic than he could himself. Here was aprovidential opportunity to expose him. So followed by the others headvanced into the crowd, which made way for him. 

In an open space in its centre, sat Menzi wearing all his witch-doctor'strappings, bladders in his hair, snakeskins tied about him, andthe rest, but even in this grotesque attire still managing to lookdignified. With him were several acolytes or attendants, one of them anold woman, also peculiarly arrayed and carrying hide bags that containedtheir master's medicines. He rose as they came, saluted Thomas andsmiled at Dorcas and Tabitha, very sweetly at the latter. 

"O Teacher, " he said, "my ears hear that you say that I am a liar and acheat who have no wonders at my command; to whom the Spirits never speakand who deceives the people. Now, Teacher, I have come here that it maybe seen whether you are right or I am right. If your magic is greaterthan 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 thecheat, not I. Also it is true that I am not a great magician as was mymaster, Zikali, the Opener-of-Roads, and cannot show you things worthyto be seen. Nor will I smell out evil-doers, witches and wizards, sincethen the people might kill them, and I think that there are some herewho deserve to die in the ancient fashion. No, I will not do this, sinceit is not right that those with you, " here he glanced at Dorcas andTabitha, "should look upon the sight of blood, even in this land wherethe White-man's law has no power. Still there are little things thatmay serve to amuse you for an hour and hurt no one. Have any of you lostanything, for instance?"

"Yes, I have, " said Tabitha with a laugh. 

"Is it so, Little Flower? Then be silent and do not say what you havelost. Have you told any what you have lost?"

"No, " answered Tabitha, "because I was afraid I should be scolded. "

"There, _Imba_, there, Little Flower, even that is too much, because yousee the old cheat might guess something from your words. Yes, he mightguess that it is something of value that you have lost, such as abracelet of gold, or the thing that ticks, on which you white peopleread the time. Nay, be silent and do not let your face move lest Ishould read it. Now let us see what it is that you have lost. "

Then he turned to his confederates, as Thomas called them, and began toask them questions which need not be set out in detail. Was it an animalthat the Little Flower had lost? No, it was not an animal, the Spiritstold him that it was not. Was it an article of dress? No, they did notthink it was an article of dress, yet the Spirits seemed to suggest thatit had something to do with dress. Was it a shoe? Was it scissors? Wasit a comb? Was it a needle? No, but it was something that had to do withneedles. What had to do with needles? Thread. Was it thread? No, butsomething that had to do with thread. Was it a silver shield whichpushed the needle that drew the thread?

Here Tabitha could contain herself no longer, but clapped her hands andcried out delightedly:

"Yes, that's it. It's my thimble. "

"Oh! very well, " said Menzi, "but it is easy to discover what is lostand hard to find it. "

Then followed another long examination of the assessors or acolytes, orwitch-doctor's chorus, by which it was established at length that thethimble had been lost three days before, when Tabitha was sitting on astone sewing, that she believed it had fallen into a crevice of rocks, and so forth. 

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 groundfor an answer. 

At length he announced: (1) That the thimble was not among the rocks;(2) That it was not lost at all. 

"But it is, it is, you silly old man, " cried Tabitha excitedly. "I havehunted everywhere, and I cried about it because I haven't got another, and can't buy one here, and the needle hurts my finger. "

Menzi contemplated her gravely as though he were looking her through andthrough. 

"It is _not_ lost, Little Flower. I see it; you have it now. Put yourhand into the pocket of your dress. What do you find there?"

"Nothing, " said Tabitha. "That is, nothing except a hole. "

"Feel at the bottom of your dress, there on the right. No, a little moreto the front. What do you feel there?"

"Something hard, " said Tabitha. 

"Take this knife and cut the lining of your dress where you feel thehard thing. Ah! there is the silver shield which you have been carryingabout with you all these days. "

The crowd murmured approval. Dorcas exclaimed: "Well, I never!" andThomas looked first puzzled, then angry, then suspicious. 

"Does the Teacher think that the Floweret and the old doctor have madea plot together?" asked Menzi. "Can a sweet Flower make plots and telllies like the old doctor? Well, well, it is nothing. Now let us trysomething better. My bags, my bags. "

Thomas made as though he would go away, but Menzi stopped him, saying:

"No, doubters must stay to see the end of their doubts. What shall I do?Ah! I have it. "

Then from one of the bags he drew out a number of crooked black sticksthat looked like bent ebony rulers, and built them up criss-cross in alittle pile upon the ground. Next he found some bundles of fine driedgrass, which he thrust into the interstices between the sticks, as hedid so bidding one of his servants to run to the nearest hut and bring acoal of fire upon a sherd. 

"A match will not do, " he said. "White men have touched it. "

Presently the burning ember arrived, and muttering something, Menzi blewupon it as though to keep it alight. 

"Now, White Teacher, " he said in a voice that had suddenly becomecommanding, "think of something. Think of what you will, and I will showit to you. "

"Indeed, " said Thomas with a smile. "I have thought of something; nowmake good your words. "

Menzi thrust the ember into the haylike fibres and blew. They caught andblazed up fiercely, making an extraordinarily large flame consideringthe small amount of the kindling. The ebony-like sticks also began toblaze. Menzi grew excited. 

"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!"

He ran round and round the fire; he leapt into the air, then suddenlyshouted: "My Spirit has entered into me; my Snake is in my breast!"

All his excitement went; he grew quite calm, almost cataleptic. Holdinghis thin hands over the fire, slowly he let them fall, and as he did sothe fierce flames died down. 

"It's going out, " said Tabitha. 

Menzi smiled at her and lifted his hands again. Lo! the fire that seemedto be dead leapt up after them in a fierce blaze. Again he dropped hishands and the fire died away. Then he moved his arms to and fro and itcame back, following the motions of his arms as though he drew it by astring. 

"Have you thought, White Teacher? Have you thought?" he asked. "Good!Arise, smoke!"

Behold, instead of the clear flame appeared a fan-shaped column of densewhite smoke, behind which Menzi vanished, all except his outstretchedhands. 

"Look on to the smoke, White people, and do you, Little Flower, tell mewhat you see there, " he called from behind this vaporous veil. 

Tabitha stared, they all stared. Then she cried out:

"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 onhis nose and the tuft of hair that hangs down over his eye, and he'sreading a letter written by Father. I know the writing. It begins, 'Mydear Dean, Providence has appointed me to a strange place'----"

"Is that what you see also, Teacher?" asked Menzi. "And if so, is itwhat you pictured in your thought?"

Thomas turned away and uttered something like a groan, for indeed hehad thought of the Dean and of the letter he had written to him a monthbefore. 

"The Teacher is not satisfied, " said Menzi. "If he had seen all hethought of, being so good and honest, he would tell us. There is somemistake. 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 cannothear. "

Thomas did so--in some way he felt compelled to do so. 

"I am going to think of the church as I propose it shall be whenfinished according to the plans I have made, " he said hoarsely. "I amgoing to think of it with a belfry spire roofed with red tiles and aclock in the tower, and I am going to think of the clock as pointingto the exact hour of noon. Do you all understand? It is impossible thatthis man should know of how I mean to build that spire and about theclock, because until this moment no one knew except myself. If hecan show me that, I shall begin to believe that he is inspired by hismaster, the devil. Do you all understand?"

They said they did, and Menzi called out:

"Be quick, White Teacher. Be quick, I grow tired. My Spirit grows tired. The smoke grows tired. Come, come, come!"

They returned and stood in front of the fire, and in obedience toMenzi's motions once more the fan of smoke arose. On it grew somethingnebulous, something uncertain that by degrees took the form of a church. It was not very clear, perhaps because Thomas found it difficult toconceive the exact shape of the church as it would be when it wasfinished, or only conceived it bit by bit. One thing, however, was verydistinct in his mind, and that was the proposed spire and the clock. Asa result, there was the spire standing at the end of the shadowy churchvivid and distinct. And there was the clock with its two copper handsexactly on the stroke of noon!

"Tell me what you see, Little Flower, " said Menzi in a hollow voice. 

"I see what Father told me he would think of, a church and the spire ofthe church, and the clock pointing to twelve. "

"Do you all see that, " asked Menzi, "and is it what the Teacher said hewould think about?"

"Yes, Doctor, " they answered. 

"Then look once more, for _I_ will think of something. I will think ofthat church falling. Look once more. "

They looked, and behold the shadowy fabric began to totter, then itseemed to collapse, and last of all down went the spire and vanished inthe smoke. 

"Have you seen anything, O people?" said Menzi, "for standing behindthis smoke I can see nothing. Mark that it is thick, since through it Iam invisible to you. "

This was true, since they could only perceive the tips of hisoutstretched fingers appearing upon each side of the smoke-fan. 

"Yes, " they answered, "we have seen a church fall down and vanish. "

"That was my thought, " said Menzi; "have I not told you that was thethought my Spirit gave me?"

"This is black magic, and you are a fiend!" shouted Thomas, and wassilent. 

"Not so, Tombool, though it is true that I have gifts which you cleverWhite people do not understand, " answered Menzi. 

By degrees the smoke melted away, and there on the ground were the tenor twelve crooked pieces of ebony that they had seen consumed, now toall appearance quite untouched by the flame. There too on their fartherside lay Menzi, shining with perspiration, and in a swoon or sleeping. 

"Come away, " said Thomas shortly, and they turned to go, but at thismoment something happened. 

Menzi, it will be remembered, had given Tabitha a kid of a long-hairedvariety of goat peculiar to these parts. This little creature hadalready grown attached to its mistress and walked about after her, inthe way which pet goats have. It had followed her that morning, but notbeing interested in tricks or magic, engaged itself in devouring herbsthat grew amongst the tumbled stones of the old kraal. 

Suddenly Menzi recovered from his faint or seizure and, looking up, directed his attendants to return the magical ebony rods which burnedwithout being consumed to one of the hide bags that contained hismedicines. The assembly began to break up amidst a babel of excitedtalk. 

Tabitha looked round for her goat, and perceiving it at a littledistance, ran to fetch it, since the creature, being engaged in eatingsomething to its taste, would not come at her call. She seized it by theneck to drag it away, with the result that its fore-feet, obstinatelyset upon the wall, overturned a large stone, revealing a great puffadder that was sleeping there. 

The reptile thus disturbed instantly struck backwards after the fashionof its species, so that its fangs, just missing Tabitha's hands, sank deep into the kid's neck. She screamed and there was a greatdisturbance. A native ran forward and pinned down the puff-adder withhis walking-stick of which the top was forked. The kid immediately fellon to its side, and lay there bleeding and bleating. Tabitha began toweep, calling out, "My goat is killed, " between her sobs. 

Menzi, distinguishing her voice amid the tumult, asked what was thematter. Someone told him, whereon he commanded that the kid should bebrought to him and the snake also. This was done, Tabitha following herdying pet with her mother, for by now Thomas had departed, taking noheed of these events, which perhaps he was too disturbed to notice. 

"Save my goat! Save my goat, O Menzi!" implored Tabitha. 

The old witch-doctor looked at the animal, also at the hideouspuff-adder that had been dragged along the ground in the fork of thestick. 

"It will be hard, Little Flower, " he said, "seeing that the goat isbitten in the neck and this snake is very poisonous. Still for yoursake I will try, although I fear that it may prove but a waste of goodmedicine. "

Then he took one of his bags and from it selected a certain packetwrapped in a dried leaf, out of which he shook some grey powder. Seizingthe kid, which seemed to be almost dead, he made an incision in itsthroat over the wound, and into it rubbed some of this powder. Next hespat upon more of the powder, thus turning it into a paste, and openingthe kid's mouth, thrust it down its throat, at the same time mutteringan invocation or spell. 

"Now we must wait, " he said, letting the kid fall upon the ground, whereit lay to all appearance dead. 

"Is that powder any good?" asked Dorcas rather aimlessly. 

"Yes, it is very good, Lady; a medicine of power of which I alonehave the secret, a magic medicine. See, I will show you. Except the_immamba_, the ring-snake that puffs out its head, this one is the mostdeadly in our country. Yet I do not fear it. Look!"

Leaning forward, he seized the puff-adder, and drawing it from beneaththe fork, suffered it to strike him upon the breast, after which hedeliberately killed it with a stone. Then he took some of the greypowder and rubbed it into the punctures; also put more of it into hismouth, which he swallowed. 

"Oh!" exclaimed Dorcas, "he will die, " and some of the Christian Kaffirsechoed her remark. 

But Menzi did not die at all. On the contrary, after shivering a fewtimes he was quite himself, and, indeed, seemed rather brighter thanbefore, like a jaded business man who has drunk a cocktail. 

"No, Wife of Tombool, " he said, "I shall not die; every year I doctormyself with this magic medicine that is called _Dawa_, after which allthe snakes in Sisa-Land--remember that they are many, Little Flower--maybite me if they like. "

"Is it your magic or is it the medicine that protects you?" askedDorcas. 

"Both, Lady. The medicine _Dawa_ is of no use without the magic words, and the magic words are of no use without the medicine. Therefore alonein all the land I can cure snake bites, who have both medicine andmagic. Look at your goat, Little Flower. Look at your goat!"

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, likeMenzi apparently rather brighter than before. 

V

A year had gone by, during which time, by the most heroic exertions, Thomas Bull had at length succeeded in rebuilding the church. Thereit stood, a very nice mission-church, constructed of sun-dried bricksneatly plastered over, cool and spacious within, for the thatched roofwas lofty, beautifully furnished (the font and the pulpit had beenimported from England), and finished off with the spire and clock of hisdreams, the latter also imported from England and especially adjustedfor a hot climate. 

Moreover, there was a sweet and loud-throated bell upon which the clockstruck, with space allowed for the addition of others that mustwait till Thomas could make up his mind to approach Dorcas as to theprovision of the necessary funds. Yes, the church was finished, and theBishop of those parts had made a special journey to consecrate it atthe hottest season of the year, and as a reward for his energy hadcontracted fever and nearly been washed away in a flooded river. 

Only one thing was lacking, a sufficient congregation to fill this finechurch, which secretly the Bishop, who was a sensible man, thought wouldhave been of greater value had it been erected in any of severalother localities that he could have suggested. For alas! the Christiancommunity of Sisa-Land did not increase. Occasionally Thomas succeededin converting one of Menzi's followers, and occasionally Menzi snatcheda lamb from the flock of Thomas, with the result that the scalesremained even neither going up nor down. 

The truth was, of course, that the matter was chiefly one of race; thoseof the Sisas in whom the Basuto blood preponderated became Christian, while those who were of the stubborn Zulu stock, strengthened andinspired by their prophet Menzi, remained unblushingly heathen. 

Still Thomas did not despair. One day, he told himself, there would be agreat change, a veritable landslide, and he would see that church filledwith 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 togather that accursed wizard to his fathers. For that he was a wizard ofsome sort Thomas no longer doubted, a person directly descended from theWitch of Endor, or from some others of her company who were mentionedin the Bible. There was ample authority for wizards, and if they existedthen why should they they not continue to do so? Since he could notexplain it, Thomas swallowed the magic, much as in his boyhood he usedto swallow the pills. 

Yes, if only Menzi were removed by the will of Heaven, which really, thought Thomas, must be outraged by such proceedings, his opportunitywould come, and "Menzi's herd, " as the heathens were called inSisa-land, would be added to his own. The Bishop, it is true, was notequally sanguine, but said nothing to discourage zeal so laudable and souncommon. 

It was while his Lordship was recovering from the sharp bout of feverwhich he had developed in a new and mosquito-haunted hut with a dampfloor that had been especially erected for his accommodation, that atlast the question of the re-building of the mission-house came to ahead, which it could not do while all the available local labour, to saynothing of some hired from afar, was employed upon the church. 

Thomas, it was true, wished to postpone it further, pointing out thata school was most necessary, and that after all they had grown quiteaccustomed to the huts and were fairly comfortable in them. 

On this point, however, Dorcas was firm; indeed, it would not be toomuch to say that, having already been disappointed once, she struck withall the vigour of a trade-unionist. She explained that the situation ofthe huts on the brink of the river was low and most unhealthy, and thatin 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 truealso that Tabitha had been extraordinarily well and grown much eversince she came to Sisa-Land, which puzzled her, inasmuch as the placewas notoriously unhealthy for children, even if they were of nativeblood. Indeed, in her agitation she added an unwise remark to theeffect that she could only explain their daughter's peculiar healthby supposing that Menzi had laid a "good charm" upon her, as all thenatives believed, and he announced publicly that he had done. 

This made Thomas very angry, admittedly not without cause. Forgettinghis conversation to a belief in the reality of Menzi's magic, he talkedin a loud voice about the disgrace of being infected with vile, heathensuperstitions, such as he had never thought to hear uttered by hiswife's Christian lips. Dorcas, however, stuck to her point, and enforcedit by a domestic example, adding that the creatures which in politesociety are called "bed-pests, " that haunted the straw of the huts, tormented her while Tabitha never had so much as a single bite. 

The end of it was that the matter of mission-house _versus_ huts wasreferred to the Bishop for his opinion. As the teeth of his Lordshipwere chattering with ague resulting, he knew full well, from the feverhe had contracted in the said huts, Dorcas found in him a most valuableally. He agreed that a mission-house ought to be built before the schoolor anything else, and suggested that it should be placed in a higherand better situation, above the mists that rose from the river and theheight to which mosquitoes fly. 

Bowing to the judgment of his superior, which really he heard withgratitude, although in his zeal and unselfishness he would havepostponed his own comfort and that of his family till other duties hadbeen fulfilled, Thomas replied that he knew only one such place whichwould 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 hehad noted there was always a breeze, even on the hottest day, since theconformation 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 atthe site. 

So they went, all of them. Ascending a sloping, ancient path that wasnever precipitous, they came to the place, a flat tableland that perhapsmeasured an acre and a half, which by some freak of nature had beenscooped out of the side of the koppie, and was backed by a precipitouscliff in which were caves. The front part of this plateau, that whichapproached to and overhung the river, was of virgin rock, but theacre or so behind was filled with very rich soil that in the course ofcenturies had been washed down from the sides of the koppie, or resultedfrom the decomposition of its material. 

"The very place, " said the Bishop. "The access is easy. The house wouldstand here--no need to dig deep foundations in this stone, and behind, when those trees have been cleared away, you could have a beautiful andfertile garden where anything will grow. Also, look, there is a streamof pure water running from some spring above. It is an ideal site for ahouse, not more than three minutes' walk from the church below, the bestI should say in the whole valley. And then, consider the view. "

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 wherethe path began to descend. Thomas would have passed him without noticeas one with whom he was not on speaking terms, but the Bishop, havingbeen informed by Tabitha who he was, was moved by curiosity to stop andinterchange some words with him, as knowing his tongue perfectly, hecould do. 

"_Sakubona_" (that is, "good day"), he said politely. 

Menzi rose and saluted with his habitual courtesy, first the Bishop, then the others, as usual reserving his sweetest smile for Tabitha. 

"Great Priest, " he said at once, "I understand that the Teacher Tomboolintends to build his house upon this place. "

The Bishop wondered how on earth the man knew that, since the matter hadonly just been decided by people talking in English, but answered thatperhaps he might do so. 

"Great Priest, " went on Menzi in an earnest voice, "I pray you to forbidthe Teacher Tombool from doing anything of the sort. "

"Why, friend?" asked the Bishop. 

"Because, Great Priest, this place is haunted by the spirits of thedead, and those who live here will be haunted also. Hearken. I myselfwhen I was young have seen evil-doers brought from Zululand and hurledfrom that rock, blinded and broken-armed, by order of the King. I saythat scores have been thrown thence to be devoured by the crocodiles inthe pool below. Will such a sight as this be pleasant for white eyes tolook upon, and will such cries as those of the evil-doers who have 'gonedown' be nice for white ears to hear in the silence of the night?"

"But, my good man, " said the Bishop, "what you say is nonsense. Thesepoor creatures are dead, 'gone down' as you say, and do not return. WeChristians have no belief in ghosts, or if they exist we are protectedfrom them. "

"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 tryingto frighten us; for my part I will not be frightened by a nativewitch-doctor and his rubbish, even if he does deal with Satan. With yourpermission I shall certainly build the mission-house here. "

"Quite right, of course, quite right, " said the Bishop, though withinhimself he reflected that evidently the associations of the spot weredisagreeable, and that were he personally concerned, perhaps he shouldbe inclined to consider an alternative site. However, it was a matterfor Mr. Bull to decide. 

"I hear that Tombool will not be turned from his purpose. I hear that hewill still build his house upon this rock. So be it. Let him do so andsee. But this I say, that Imba, the Floweret, shall not be haunted bythe _Isitunzi_ (the ghosts of the dead) who wail in the night, " saidMenzi. 

He advanced to Tabitha, and holding his hands over her he cried out:

"Sweet eyes, be blind to the _Isitunzi_. Little ears, do not hear theirgroans. Spirits, build a garden fence about this flower and keep hersafe from all night-prowling evil things. Imba, little Flower, sleepsoftly while others lie awake and tremble. "

Then he turned and departed swiftly. 

"Dear me!" said the Bishop. "A strange man, a very strange man. I don'tknow quite what to make of him. "

"I do, " answered Thomas, "he is a black-hearted villain who is in leaguewith the devil. "

"Yes, I dare say--I mean as to his being a villain, that is accordingto our standards--but does your daughter--a clever and most attractivelittle girl, by the way--think so? She seemed to look on him withaffection--one learns to read children's eyes, you know. A very strangeman, I repeat. If we could see all his heart we should know lots ofthings and understand more about these people than we do at present. Hasit ever struck you, Mr. Bull, how little we white people _do_ understandof the black man's soul? Perhaps a child can see farther into it thanwe can. What is the saying--'a little child shall lead them, ' is itnot? Perhaps we do not make enough allowances. 'Faith, Hope and Charity, these three, but the greatest of these is charity'--or love, which isthe same thing. However, of course you are quite right not to have beenfrightened by his silly talk about the _Isitunzi_, it would never do toshow fear or hesitation. Still, I am glad that Mrs. Bull did not hearit; you may have noticed that she had gone on ahead, and if I were youI should not repeat it to her, since ladies are so nervous. Tabitha, mydear, don't tell your mother anything of all this. "

"No, Bishop, " answered Tabitha, "I never tell her all the queer thingsthat Menzi says to me when I meet him, or at least not many of them. "

"I wish I had asked him if he had a cure for your local fever, " said theBishop with a laugh, "for against it, although I have taken so much thatmy ears buzz, quinine cannot prevail. "

"He has given me one in a gourd, Bishop, " replied Tabithaconfidentially, "but I have never taken any, because you see I have hadno 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 beangry 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 foryears. "

"Well, my dear, " answered the Bishop, "I don't quite know. There may beall sorts of queer things in Mr. Menzi's medicine. Still, he told you todrink it if necessary, and I am absolutely certain that he does notwish to poison _you_. So perhaps I might have a try, for really I feeluncommonly ill. "

So later on, with much secrecy, the gourd was produced, and the Bishophad "a try. " By some strange coincidence he felt so much better after itthat he begged for the rest of the stuff to comfort him on his homewardjourney, which ultimately he accomplished in the best of health. 

That most admirable and wide-minded prelate departed, and so far ashistory records was no more seen in Sisa-Land. But Thomas remained, and set about the building of the house with his usual vigour. Upon theDeath Rock, as it was called, in course of time he erected an excellentand most serviceable dwelling, not too large but large enough, havingevery comfort and convenience that his local experience could suggestand money could supply, since in this matter the cheque-book of thesuffering Dorcas was entirely at his service. 

At length the house was finished, and with much rejoicing the Bullfamily, deserting their squalid huts, moved into it at the commencementof the hot season. After the first agitations of the change and of thearrangement of the furniture newly-arrived by wagon, they settled downvery comfortably, directing all their energies towards the developmentof the garden, which had already been brought into some rough orderduring the building of the house. 

One difficulty, however, arose at once. For some mysterious reason theyfound that not a single native servant would sleep in the place, no, noteven Tabitha's personal attendant, who adored her. Every soul of themsuddenly developed a sick mother or other relative who would instantlyexpire if deprived of the comfort of their society after dark. Or elsethey themselves became ailing at that hour, saying they could not sleepupon a cliff like a rock-rabbit. 

At any rate, for one cause or another off they went the very moment thatthe sun vanished behind the western hills, nor did they re-appear untilit was well up above those that faced towards the east. 

At least this happened for one night. On the following day, however, apleasant-looking woman named Ivana, whom they knew to be of goodrepute, though of doubtful religion, as sometimes she came to churchand sometimes she did not, appeared and offered her services as"night-dog"--that is what she called it--to Tabitha, saying that she didnot mind sleeping on a height. Since it was inconvenient to have no oneabout the place from dark to dawn, and Dorcas did not approve of Tabithabeing left to sleep alone, the woman, whose character was guaranteedby the Chief Kosa and the elders of the church, was taken on at anindefinite wage. To the matter of pecuniary reward, indeed, she seemedto be entirely indifferent. 

For the rest she rolled herself in blankets, native fashion, and sleptacross Tabitha's door, keeping so good a watch that once when her fatherwished 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 pasther, suddenly Ivana became so threatening that he thought she was aboutto spring at him. After this he wanted to dismiss her, but Dorcas saidit only showed that she was faithful, and that she had better be leftwhere she was, especially as there was no one to take her place. 

So things went on till the day of full moon. On that night Ivanaappeared to be much agitated, and insisted that Tabitha should go to bedearlier than was usual. Also after she was asleep Dorcas noticed thatIvana walked continually to and fro in front of the door of the child'sroom and up and down the veranda on to which its windows opened, droningsome strange song and waving a wand. 

However, at the appointed hour, having said their prayers, Dorcas andher husband went to bed. 

"I wonder if there is anything strange about this place, " remarkedDorcas. "It is so very odd that no native will stop here at night exceptthat half-wild Ivana. "

"Oh! I don't know, " replied Thomas with a yawn, real or feigned. "Thesepeople get all sorts of ideas into their silly heads. Do stop twistingabout and go to sleep. "

At last Dorcas did go to sleep, only to wake up again suddenly and withgreat completeness just as the church clock below struck three, the sound of which she supposed must have roused her. The brilliantmoonlight flooded the room, and as for some reason she felt creepy anddisturbed, Dorcas tried to occupy her mind by reflecting how comfortableit looked with its new, imported furnishings, very different from thathorrible hut in which they had lived so long. 

Then her thoughts drifted to more general matters. She was heartilytired of Sisa-Land, and wished earnestly that her husband could geta change of station, which the Bishop had hinted to her would not beimpossible--somewhere nearer to civilisation. Alas! he was so obstinatethat she feared nothing would move him, at any rate until he hadconverted "Menzi's herd, " who were also obstinate, and remained asheathen as ever. Indeed why, with their ample means, should they becondemned to perpetual exile in these barbarous places? Was there notplenty of work to be done at home, where they might make friends andlive decently?

Putting herself and her own wishes aside, this existence was not fair toTabitha, who, as she saw, watching her with a mother's eye, was becomingimpregnated with the native atmosphere. She who ought to be at aChristian school now talked more Zulu than she did English, and wasbeginning to look at things from the Zulu point of view and to use theiridioms and metaphors even when speaking her own tongue. She had becomea kind of little chieftainess among these folk, also, Christian andheathen alike. Indeed, now most of them spoke of her as the Maiden_Inkosikazi_, or Chieftainess, and accepted her slightest wish or orderas law, which was by no means the case where Dorcas herself and evenThomas were concerned. 

In fact, one or twice they had been driven to make a request throughthe child, notably upon an important occasion that had to do with thetransport-riding of their furniture, to avoid its being left for acouple of months on the farther side of a flooded river. The detailsdo not matter, but what happened was that when Tabitha intervenedthat which had been declared to be impossible proved possible, and thefurniture arrived with wonderful celerity. Moreover, Tabitha made norequest; as Dorcas knew, though she hid it from Thomas, she sent for theheadmen, and when they were seated on the ground before her after theirfashion, Menzi among them, issued an order, saying:

"What! Are my parents and I to live like dogs without a kennel or cattlethat lack a winter kraal, because you are idle? Inspan the wagons andfetch the things or I shall be angry. _Hamba_--Go!"

Thereon they rose and went without argument, only lifting theirright hands above their heads and murmuring, "_Ikosikaas! Umame!_(Chieftainess! Mother!) we hear you. " Yes, they called Tabitha "Mother!"

It was all very wrong, thought Dorcas, but she supposed, being a piouslittle person, that she must bear her burden and trust to Providence tofree her from it, and she closed her eyes to wipe away a tear. 

When Dorcas opened them again something very strange seemed to havehappened. She felt wide awake, and yet knew that she must be dreamingbecause the room had disappeared. There was nothing in sight except thebare rock upon which the house stood. For instance, she could see thegorge behind as it used to be before they made it into a garden, for sherecognised 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 horribleprocession of fierce-looking, savage warriors, with spears andknobkerries, who between them half dragged, half carried a young womanand an elderly man. 

They advanced. They passed within a few feet of her, and observingthe condition of the woman and the man, she saw that these must be ledbecause for a certain reason they could not see where to go, --oh! nevermind what she saw. 

The procession reached the edge of the rock where the railing was, onlynow the railing had gone like the house. Then for the first time Dorcasheard, for hitherto all had seemed to happen in silence. 

"Die, _Umtakati!_ Die, you wizard, as the King commands, and feed theriver-dwellers, " said a deep voice. 

There followed a struggle, a horrible twisting of shapes, and theelderly man vanished over the cliff, while a moment later from belowcame the noise of a great splash. 

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 theprecipice, crying out:

"O Father, I come!"

Then, with one blood-curdling shriek, she vanished also, and againthere followed the sound of a great splash that slowly echoed itself tosilence. 

All had passed away, leaving Dorcas paralysed with terror, and wet withits dew, so that her night-gear clung to her body. The room was justas it had been, filled with the soft moonlight and looking verycomfortable. 

"Thomas!" gasped his wife, "wake up. "

"I _am_ awake, " he answered in his deep voice, which shook a little. "Ihave had a bad dream. "

"What did you dream? Did you see two people thrown from the cliff?"

"Something of that sort. "

"Oh! Thomas, Thomas, I have been in hell. This place is haunted. Don'ttalk to me of dreams. Tabitha will have seen and heard too. She will bedriven mad. Come to her. "

"I think not, " answered Thomas. 

Still he came. 

At the door of Tabitha's room they found the woman Ivana, wide-eyed, solemn, silent. 

"Have you seen or heard anything, Ivana?" asked Thomas. 

"Yes, Teacher, " she answered, "I have seen what I expected to see andheard what I expected to hear on this night of full moon, but I amguarded and do not fear. "

"The child! The child!" said Dorcas. 

"The _Inkosikazi_ Imba sleeps. Disturb her not. "

Taking no heed, they thrust past her into the room. There on her littlewhite bed lay Tabitha fast asleep, and looking like an angel in hersleep, for a sweet smile played about her mouth, and while they watchedshe laughed in her dreams. Then they looked at each other and went backto their own chamber to spend the rest of the night as may be imagined. 

Next morning when they emerged, very shaken and upset, the first personthey met was Ivana, who was waiting for them with their coffee. 

"I have a message for you, Teacher and Lady. Never mind who sends it, Ihave a message for you to which you will do well to give heed. Sleep nomore in this house on the night of full moon, though all other nightswill be good for you. Only the little Chieftainess Imba ought to sleepin this house on the night of full moon. "

So indeed it proved to be. No suburban villa could have been morecommonplace and less disturbed than was their dwelling for twenty-sevennights of every month, but on the twenty-eighth they found a change ofair desirable. Once it is true the stalwart Thomas, like Ajax, defiedthe lightning, or rather other things that come from above--or frombelow. But before morning he appeared at the hut beneath the koppieannouncing that he had come to see how they were getting on, and shakingas though he had a bout of fever. 

Dorcas asked him no questions (afterwards she gathered that he hadbeen favoured with quite a new and very varied midnight programme); butTabitha smiled in her slow way. For Tabitha knew all about this businessas she knew everything that passed in Sisa-Land. Moreover, she laughedat them a little, and said that _she_ was not afraid to sleep in themission-house on the night of full moon. 

What is more, she did so, which was naughty of her, for on one suchoccasion she slipped back to the house when her parents were asleep, followed only by her "night-dog, " the watchful Ivana, and returnedat dawn just as they had discovered that she was missing, singing andlaughing and jumping from stone to stone with the agility of her own petgoat. 

"I slept beautifully, " she cried, "and dreamed I was in heaven allnight. "

Thomas was furious and rated her till she wept. Then suddenly Ivanabecame furious too and rated him. 

Should he be wrath with the Little Chieftainess Imba, she asked him, because the _Isitunzis_, the spirits of the dead, loved her as dideverything else? Did they not understand that the Floweret was unlikethem, one adored of dead and living, one to be cherished even in herdreams, one whom "Heaven Above, " together with those who had "gonebelow, " built round with a wall of spells?--and more of such talk, which Thomas thought so horrible and blasphemous that he fled before itstorrent. 

But when he came back calmer he said no more to Tabitha about herescapade. 

It was a long while afterwards, at the beginning of the great drought, that another terrible thing happened. On a certain calm and beautifulday Tabitha, who still grew and flourished, had taken some of theChristian children to a spot on the farther side of the koppie, wherestood an old fortification originally built for purposes of defence. Here, among the ancient walls, with the assistance of the natives, shehad made a kind of summer-house as children love to do, and in thishouse, like some learned eastern pundit in a cell, a very pretty punditcrowned with a wreath of flowers, she sat upon the ground and instructedthe infant mind of Sisa-Land. 

She was supposed to be telling them Bible stories to prepare themfor their Sunday School examination, which, indeed, she did withembellishments and in their own poetic and metaphorical fashion. Theparticular tale upon which she was engaged, by a strange coincidence, was that from the Acts which narrates how St. Paul was bitten by a viperupon the Island of Melita, and how he shook it off into the fire andtook no hurt. 

"He must have been like Menzi, " said Ivana, who was present, whereonTabitha'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. "

Tabitha, who was used to these disputations, listened smiling, and whileshe listened amused herself by trying to thrust a stone into a hole inthe side of her summer-house, which was formed by one of the originalwalls of the old kraal. 

Presently she uttered a scream, and snatched her arm out of the hole. Toit, or rather to her hand, was hanging a great hooded snake of the cobravariety such as the Boers call _ringhals_. She shook it off, and thereptile, after sitting up, spitting, hissing and expanding its hood, glided back into the wall. Tabitha sat still, staring at her laceratedfinger, which Ivana seized and sucked. 

Then, bidding one of the oldest of the children to take her placeand continue sucking, Ivana ran to a high rock a few yards away whichoverlooked Menzi's kraal, that lay upon a plain at a distance of about aquarter of a mile, and called out in the low, ringing voice that Kaffirscan command, which carries to an enormous distance. 

"Awake, O Menzi! Come, O Doctor, and bring with you your _Dawa_. Thelittle Chieftainess is bitten in the finger by a hooded snake. TheFloweret withers! Imba dies!"

Almost instantly there was a disturbance in the kraal and Menziappeared, following by a man carrying a bag. He cried back in the samestrange voice:

"I hear. I come. Tie string or grass round the lady Imba's finger belowthe bite. Tie it hard till she screams with pain. "

Meanwhile the Christian nurse had rushed off over the crest of thekoppie to fetch Thomas and Dorcas, or either of them. As it chanced shemet them both walking to join Tabitha in her bower, and thus it cameabout that they reached the place at the same moment as did old Menzibounding up the rocks like a _klipspringer_ buck, or a mountain sheep. Hearing him, Thomas turned in the narrow gateway of the kraal and askedwildly:

"What has happened, Witch-doctor?"

"This has happened, White-man, " answered Menzi, "the Floweret has beenbitten by a hooded snake and is about to die. Look at her, " and hepointed to Tabitha, who notwithstanding the venom sucking and the grasstied round her blackened finger, sat huddled-up, shivering and halfcomatose. 

"Let me pass, White-man, that I may save her if I can, " he went on. 

"Get back, " said Thomas, "I will have none of your black magic practisedon my daughter. If she is to live God will save her. "

"What medicines have you, White-man?" asked Menzi. 

"None, at least not here. Faith is my medicine. "

Dorcas looked at Tabitha. She was turning blue and her teeth werechattering. 

"Let the man do his best, " she said to Thomas. "There is no other hope. "

"He shan't touch her, " replied her husband obstinately. 

Then Dorcas fired up, meek-natured though she was and accustomed thoughshe was to obey her husband's will. 

"I say that he shall, " she cried. "I know what he can do. Don't youremember the goat? I will not see my child die as a sacrifice to yourpride. "

"I have made up my mind, " answered Thomas. "If she dies it is sodecreed, and the spells and filth of a heathen cannot save her. "

Dorcas tried to thrust him aside with her feeble strength, but big andburly, he stood in the path like a rock, blocking the way, with thestone entrance walls of the little pleasure-house on either side of him. 

Suddenly the old Zulu, Menzi, became rather terrible; he drew himselfup; he seemed to swell in size; his thin face grew set and fierce. 

"Out of the path, White-man!" he said, "or by Chaka's head I will killyou, " and from somewhere he produced a long, thin-bladed knife of nativeiron fixed on a buck's horn. 

"Kill on, Wizard, " shouted Thomas. "Kill if you can. "

"Listen, " said Dorcas. "If our daughter dies because of you, then I havedone with you. We part for ever. Do you understand?"

"Yes, I understand, " he answered heavily. "So be it. "

Tabitha behind them made some convulsive noise. Thomas turned and lookedat her; she was slowly sinking down upon her side. His face changed. Allthe rage and obstinacy went out of it. 

"My child! Oh, my child!" he cried, "I cannot bear this. Love isstronger than all. When I come up for judgment, may it be rememberedthat love is stronger than all!"

Then he stepped out of the gateway, and sat down upon a stone hiding hiseyes with his hand. 

Menzi threw down the knife and leapt in, followed by his servant whobore his medicines, and the woman Ivana. He did his office; he utteredhis spells and invocations, he rubbed _Dawa_ into the wound, and prisingopen 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. 

About half an hour afterwards he came out of the place followed byIvana, who carried Tabitha in her strong arms; Tabitha was very weak, but smiling, and with the colour returning to her cheeks. Of Thomas hetook no notice, but to Dorcas he said:

"Lady, I give you back your daughter. She is saved. Let her drink milkand sleep. "

Then Thomas, whose judgment and charity were shaken for a while, spoke, saying:

"As a man and a father I thank you, Witch-doctor, but know that as apriest I swear that I will never have more to do with you, who, I amsure, by your arts, can command these reptiles to work your will andhave planned all this to shame me. No, not even if you lay dying would Icome to visit you. "

Thus stormed Thomas in his wrath and humiliation, believing that he hadbeen the victim of a plot and not knowing that he would live bitterly toregret his words. 

"I see that you hate me, Teacher, " said Menzi, "and though here I do notfind the gentleness you preach, I do not wonder; it is quitenatural. Were I you I should do the same. But you are Little Flower'sfather--strange that she should have grown from such a seed--and thoughwe fight, for that reason I cannot hate you. Be not disturbed. Perhapsit was the sucking of the wound and the grass tied round her fingerwhich 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, sayingthat I charmed a deadly _immamba_ to bite Little Flower whom I love, that I might cure her and make a mock of you. Yet I do hate that snakewhich bit the maiden Imba of its own wickedness, the hooded _immamba_that you believe to be my familiar, and it shall die. Man, " here heturned to his servant, "and you, Ivana and the others, pull down thatwall. "

They leapt to do his bidding, and presently discovered the _ringhals_ inits hole. Heedless of its fangs and writhings, Menzi sprang at it witha Zulu curse, and seizing it, proceeded to kill it in a very slow andcruel fashion. 

VI

The great drought fell upon Sisa-Land like a curse from Heaven. Formonth after month the sun beat fiercely, the sky was as brass, and norain fell. Even the dews seemed to depart. The springs dried up. Theriver Ukufa, the river called Death, ceased to flow, so that watercould only be found in its deepest hollows. The pool beneath the Rockof Evildoers, the Death Rock, sank till the bones of those who had beenmurdered there many years before appeared as the crocodiles had leftthem. Cattle died because there was no grass; cows ceased to give theirmilk even where they could be partially fed and watered, so that thelittle children died also. Even in the dampest situations the cropswithered, till at last it became certain that unless rain fell within amonth, before another cold season had gone by there would be starvationeverywhere. For the drought was widespread, and therefore corn could notbe sent from other districts, even if there were cattle to draw it. 

Every day Thomas put up prayers for rain in the church, and on twooccasions held special services for this purpose. These were betterattended than any others had ever been, because his congregation feltthat the matter was extremely urgent, affecting them all, and that nowwas the time when, whatever happened to the heathen, good Christianslike themselves should be rewarded. 

However this did not chance, since the drought went on as fiercely asbefore. 

Menzi was, of course, a rain-doctor, a "Heaven-herd" of the highestdistinction; one who, it was reputed, could by his magic cause themost brazen sky to melt in tears. His services had been called in byneighbouring tribes, with the result, it was rumoured, that those tribeshad been rewarded with partial showers. Also with great ceremony he hadgone through his rites for the benefit of the heathen section of theSisa people. Behold! by some curious accident on the following daya thunderstorm had come up, and with it a short deluge of rain whichsufficed to make it certain that the crops in those fields on which itfell would keep alive, at any rate for a while. 

But mark what happened. As is not uncommon in the case of thundershowers, this rain fell upon the lands which the heathen cultivated onone side of the koppie, whereas those that belonged to the Christiansection upon the other side received not a single drop. The unjust werebedewed, the just were left dry as bones. All that they received was thelightning, which killed an old man, one of the best Christians in theplace. 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 theChristian left there was nothing but blowing dust. 

Now these Christians, weak-kneed some of them, began to murmur, especially those who, having passed through a similar experience intheir youth, remembered what starvation meant in that country. Religion, they reflected, was all very well, but without mealies they couldnot 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 arain-service in his own fashion for the benefit of the entire tribe. 

Thomas argued in vain. He grew angry; he called them names whichdoubtless they deserved; he said that they were spiritual outcasts. Bythis time, being frantic, his flock did not care what he said. EitherMenzi must come, they explained, or they would turn heathen. The GreatOne in the sky could work as well through Menzi as through him, Tomboolor anybody else. Menzi _must_ come. 

Thomas threatened to excommunicate them all, a menace which did notamount to much as they were already excommunicating themselves, and whenthey remained obstinate, told them that he would have nothing to do withthis rain-making business, which was unholy and repugnant to him. Hetold them, moreover, that he was certain that their wickedness wouldbring some judgment upon them, in which he proved to be right. 

The end of it was that Menzi was summoned, and arrived with a triumphantsmile, saying that he was certain he could put everything in order, andthat soon they would have plenty of rain, that is, if they all attendedhis invocations and made him presents suitable to so great an occasion. 

The result was that they did attend them, man, woman and child, seatedin a circle in that same old kraal where the witch-doctor had somarvellously shown pictures upon the smoke. Each of them also broughthis gift in his hand, or, if it were a living thing, drove it beforehim. 

Thomas went down and addressed them in the midst of a sullen silence, calling them wicked and repeating his belief that they would bring ajudgment on their own heads, they who were worshipping Baal and makingofferings to his priest. 

After he had talked himself hoarse, Menzi said mildly that if theTeacher Tombool had finished he would get to business. Why should theTeacher be angry because he, Menzi, offered to do what the Teacher couldnot--save the land from starving? And as for the gifts to himself, didnot White Teachers also receive pay and offerings at certain feasts?

Then, making a gesture of despair, Thomas returned to his house, andwith Dorcas and Tabitha watched the savage ceremony from the edge ofthe 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 heperceived those apostate Christians prostrating themselves at Menzi'sorder, probably, he reflected, to make prayers to the devil. In factthey were not doing this, but only repeating Menzi's magical chants withappropriate gestures, as for countless ages their forefathers had doneupon similar occasions. 

Next an unfortunate black goat was dragged forward by the horns, a verythin black goat, and its throat was cut over a little fire, a sacrificethat suggested necromancy of the most Satanic sort. 

After this Thomas and his family went back into the house and shut thewindows, that they might not hear the unholy shoutings of the misguidedmob. When they went out again Menzi had departed, and so had the others. The place was empty. 

The following day was Sunday, and Thomas locked the church on theinner side, and read the service with Dorcas and Tabitha for solecongregation. It was a melancholy business, for some sense of evilseemed to hang over all three of them, also over everybody else, for theChristians went about with dejected looks and not one person spoke tothem. Only Ivana came at night as usual to sleep with Tabitha, thougheven she said nothing. 

Next morning they woke up to find the heavens black with clouds, heavy, ominous clouds; the truth being that the drought was drawing to itsnatural end. Thomas noted this, and reflected bitterly how hard it wasthat this end should not have come twenty-four hours earlier. But soevents had been decreed and he was helpless. 

By midday it began to rain, lightly at first, and from his rock he couldsee the people, looking unnatural and distorted in that strange gloom, for the clouds had descended almost to the earth, rushing about, holdingout their hands as though to clasp the blessed moisture and talkingexcitedly one to the other. Soon they were driven into their huts, forthe rain turned into a kind of waterspout. Never had such rain beenknown in Sisa-Land. 

All that afternoon it poured, and all the night with ever-increasingviolence; yes, and all the following morning, so that by noonThomas's rain-gauge showed that over twelve inches had fallen in abouttwenty-four hours, and it was still raining. Water rushed down from thekoppie; even their well-built house could not keep out the wet, and, tothe despair of Dorcas, several of the rooms were flooded and some ofthe new furniture was spoiled. The river beneath had become a ragingtorrent, and was rising every hour. Already it was over its banks, andthe water had got into the huts of the Chief's kraal and the villageround it, so that their occupants were obliged to seek safety upon thelower rocks of the koppie, where they sat shivering in the wet. 

Night came at last, and through the darkness they heard cries as ofpeople in distress. The long hours wore away till dawn, a melancholydawn, for still it rained, though more lightly now, and no sun could beseen. 

"Father, " cried Tabitha, who, clad in oilskins, had gone a little waydown the road, "come here and look. "

He went. The child pointed to the village below, or rather what hadbeen the village, for now there was none. It had gone and with it Kosa'skraal; the site was a pool, the huts had vanished, all of them, and someof the roofs lay upon the sides of the koppie, looking like overturnedcoracles. Only the church and the graveyard remained, for those stood onslightly higher ground by the banks of the river. 

A little while later a miserable and dejected crowd arrived at themission-house, wrapped up in blankets or anything else that they hadmanaged to save. 

"What do you want?" asked Thomas. 

"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 aregone, 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. "

"You mean that you are cold and wish to take refuge in the church, ofwhich 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-doctorand ask him to save you. "

"Teacher, come down to the church and pray for us, " they wailed. 

In the end Thomas went, for his heart was moved to pity, and Dorcas andTabitha went with him. 

They entered the church, wading to it through several inches of water, and the service of intercession began, attended by every Christianin the place--except a few who were drowned--a miserable and heartilyrepentant crowd. 

While it was still in progress suddenly there was a commotion, andMenzi himself rushed into the church. It was the first time he had everentered there. 

"Come forth!" he cried. "Come forth if you would save your lives. Thewater has eaten away the ground underneath this Heaven-house. It falls!I say it falls!"

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 fromthe church. The others began to follow swiftly, and as Menzi passed thedoor carrying Tabitha, there came a dreadful rending sound, and one ofthe walls opened, letting in the light. 

All fled forth, Thomas still in his surplice and his soul filled withbitterness, for as he went it came into his mind that this must be afarewell to that cherished church reared with so much love, cost andlabour. 

Outside the building on a patch of higher land, an upthrown plateau ofrock, where presently all gathered beyond the reach of the waters, stoodMenzi and Tabitha. Thomas looked at him and said:

"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 theend!' To set a rock rolling down a hill is easy for those who have thestrength. But who knows on whom it will fall at last?"

"You speak foolishly, Teacher, " answered Menzi. "I do not think that myspells have worked well, for something stronger than I am has spoiledthem. Mayhap it is you, Teacher, or the _Great-Great_ whom you serve inyour own fashion. I do not know, but I pray you to remember that longsince on the smoke of my magic fire I showed you what would come aboutif you re-built the Heaven-house upon this place. But you said I was acheat and would not be warned. Therefore things have gone as the Spiritsappointed that they should go. Your Christians made me gifts and askedme to bring rain and it has come in plenty, and with it other things, more than you asked. Look, " and he pointed downwards. 

The church was falling. Its last foundations were washed away. Down itcame with a mighty crash, to melt into the flood that presently filledthe place where it had been. Its collapse and the noise of it wereterrible, so terrible that the Christians gathered on the rock uttereda heart-rending wail of woe. The spire, being built upon a deeper bedbecause of its weight, stood longer than the rest of the fabric, butpresently it went also. 

Thrice it seemed to bow towards them, then it fell like a child'scastle. Reckoning its height with his eye, Thomas saw that it could notreach them where they stood, and so did the others, therefore no onestirred. As the tower collapsed the clock sounded the first stroke ofthe hour, then suddenly became silent for ever and vanished beneath thewaters, a mass of broken metal. 

But the bell on which it had struck was hurled forward by the sway ofthe fall like a stone from a sling. It sped towards them through theair, a great dark object. Men ran this way and that, so that it fellupon the rock where none stood. It fell; it flew to pieces like anexploding shell, and its fragments hurtled over them with a screamingsound. Yet as it chanced the tongue or clapper of it took a lowercourse, perhaps because it was heavier, and rushing onwards like athrown spear, struck Menzi full upon the chest, crushing in his breastbone. 

They bore him up to the mission-house, since there was nowhere elsewhither he could be taken. Here they laid him on a bed, leaving thewoman, Ivana, to watch him, for they had no skill to deal with suchinjuries as his. Indeed, they thought him dead. 

For a long while Menzi lay senseless, but after night had fallen hismind returned to him and he bade Ivana bring Tabitha to him, Tabitha andno one else. If she could not or would not come, then Ivana must bringno one else, for if she did he would curse her and die at once. 

There were discussions and remonstrances, but in the end Tabitha wasallowed to go, for after all a fellow-creature was dying, and this washis last wish. She came, and Menzi received her smiling. Yes, he smiledand saluted her with shaking but uplifted arm, naming her _Inkosikazi_and _Umame_, or Mother. 

"Welcome, Maiden Imba. Welcome, Little Flower, " he said. "I wish to saygood-bye to you and to bless you; also to endow you with my Spirit, thatit may guard you throughout your life till you are as I am. I have hatedsome of the others, but I have always loved you, Little Flower. "

"And I have loved you too, Menzi, " said Tabitha, with a sob. 

"I know, I know! We witch-doctors read hearts. But do not weep, LittleFlower. 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 strengthof my own which your white people will never understand, because theyare too young to understand. It only comes to the old folk who havebeen since the beginning of the world, and remain as they were at thebeginning. I have been wicked, Little Flower, according to your whitelaw. I have killed men and done many other things that are according tothe law of my own people, and by that law I look for judgment. Yet, OImba, I will say this--that I believe your law to be higher and betterthan my law. Has it not been shown to-day, since of all that weregathered on the rock yonder I alone was struck down and in the hour ofmy victory? The strongest law must be the best law, is it not so? Tellme, Little Flower, would it please you if I died a Christian?"

"Yes, very much, " said Tabitha, fixing upon this point at once and byinstinct avoiding all the other very doubtful disputations. "I willbring my father. "

"Nay, nay, Little Flower. Your father, the Teacher Tombool, swore in hiswrath that he would not come to visit me even if I lay dying, and nowthat I am dying he shall keep his oath and repent of it day by day tillhe too is dying. If I am to die a Christian, you must make me one thismoment; _you_ and no other. Otherwise I go hence a heathen as I havelived. If you bring your father here I will die at once before he cantouch me, as I have power to do. "

Then Tabitha, who although so young had strength and understanding andknew, if she thwarted him, that Menzi would do as he threatened, tookwater 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 atbaptisms. 

Perhaps she was wrong; perhaps she transgressed and took too much uponher. Still, being by nature courageous, she ran the risk and did thesethings as afterwards Ivana testified to the followers of Menzi. 

"Thank you, Little Flower, " said Menzi. "I do not suppose that thisChristian 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 anotherthought. When it is known that I became a Christian at the last then, if_you_ bid them, Little Flower, the 'heathen-herd' will follow where thebull Menzi went before them. They are but broken sherds and scorchedsticks" (i. E. Rubbish) "but they will follow and that will please you, Little Flower, and your father also. "

Here Menzi's breath failed, but recovering it, he continued:

"Hearken! O Imba! I give my people into your hand; now let your handbend the twig as you would have it grow. Make them Christian if youwill, or leave them heathen if you will; I care nothing. They are yoursto drive upon whatever path you choose to set their feet, _yours_, OImba, not Tombool's. Also, I, who lack heirs, give you my cattle, all ofthem. Ivana, make known my words, and with them the curse of Menzi, theKing's child, the _Umazisi_, the Seer, on any who dare to disobey. Sayto those of my House and to my people that henceforth the Maiden Imba istheir lady and their mother. "

Again he paused a little, then went on:

"Now I charge my Spirit to watch over you, Little Flower, till you dieand we come to talk over these matters otherwhere, and my Spirit as itdeparts tells me that it will watch well, and that you will be a veryhappy woman, Little Flower. "

He shut his eyes and lay still a while. Then he opened them again andsaid:

"O Imba, tell your father, the Teacher Tombool, from me that he does notunderstand us black people, whom he thinks so common, as you understandus, Little Flower, and that he would be wise to go to minister to whiteones. "

After this, once more he smiled at Tabitha and then shut his eyes againfor the last time, and that was the end of the witch-doctor Menzi. 

It may be added that after he had rebuilt the church for the secondtime, and numbered all the "Menzi-herd" among his congregation, which hedid now that "the bull of the herd" was dead, as Menzi had foretold thathe would, if Tabitha, whom he had "wrapped with his blanket, " decreedit, Thomas took the sage advice of his departed enemy. 

Now, in the after years, he is the must respected if somewhat fearedbishop of white settlers in a remote Dominion of the Crown. 

Thomas to-day knows more than he used to know, but one thing he hasnever learned, namely that it was the hand of a maid, yes, the littlehidden hand of Tabitha, that drove all "Menzi's herd" into the gates ofthe "Heavenly Kraal, " as some of them named his church. 

For Tabitha knew when to be silent. Perhaps the Kaffirs, whose minds shecould read as an open book, taught her this; or perhaps it was one ofthe best gifts to her of old Menzi's "Spirit, " into whose care he passedher with so much formality. 

This is the story of the great fight between Thomas Bull the missionaryand Menzi the witch-doctor, who was led by his love of a little childwhither he never wished to go; not for his own soul's sake, but justbecause of that little child. 

Menzi did not care about his soul, but, being so strange a man, for somereason that he never explained, for Tabitha, his "Little Flower, " hecared 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. 

ONLY A DREAM

Footprints--footprints--the footprints of one dead. How ghastly theylook as they fall before me! Up and down the long hall they go, and Ifollow them. _Pit, pat_ they fall, those unearthly steps, and beneaththem starts up that awful impress. I can see it grow upon the marble, adamp and dreadful thing. 

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 cantread out the footprints of the dead?

And so on, up and down the dim vista of the past, following the sound ofthe dead feet that wander so restlessly, stamping upon the impress thatwill not be stamped out. Rave on, wild wind, eternal voice of humanmisery; fall, dead footsteps, eternal echo of human memory; stamp, miryfeet; stamp into forgetfulness that which will not be forgotten. 

And so on, on to the end. 

Pretty ideas these for a man about to be married, especially when theyfloat into his brain at night like ominous clouds into a summer sky, andhe is going to be married to-morrow. There is no mistake about it--thewedding, I mean. To be plain and matter-of-fact, why there stand thepresents, or some of them, and very handsome presents they are, rangedin solemn rows upon the long table. It is a remarkable thing to observewhen one is about to make a really satisfactory marriage how scores ofunsuspected or forgotten friends crop up and send little tokens of theiresteem. It was very different when I married my first wife, I remember, but then that match was not satisfactory--just a love-match, no more. 

There they stand in solemn rows, as I have said, and inspire me withbeautiful thoughts about the innate kindness of human nature, especiallythe human nature of our distant cousins. It is possible to grow almostpoetical 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 bethe cream jug, and the electro-plated urn will hiss away behind themboth. Also the chased sugar basin will be in front, full of sugar, andbehind everything will be my second wife. 

"My dear, " she will say, "will you have another cup of tea?" andprobably I shall have another cup. 

Well, it is very curious to notice what ideas will come into a man'shead sometimes. Sometimes something waves a magic wand over hisbeing, and from the recesses of his soul dim things arise and walk. Atunexpected moments they come, and he grows aware of the issues ofhis mysterious life, and his heart shakes and shivers like alightning-shattered tree. In that drear light all earthly things seemfar, and all unseen things draw near and take shape and awe him, and heknows not what is true and what is false, neither can he trace the edgethat marks off the Spirit from the Life. Then it is that the footstepsecho, and the ghostly footprints will not be stamped out. 

Pretty thoughts again! and how persistently they come! It is one o'clockand I will go to bed. The rain is falling in sheets outside. I can hearit lashing against the window panes, and the wind wails through the tallwet elms at the end of the garden. I could tell the voice of those elmsanywhere; I know it as well as the voice of a friend. What a night itis; we sometimes get them in this part of England in October. It wasjust such a night when my first wife died, and that is three years ago. I remember how she sat up in her bed. 

"Ah! those horrible elms, " she said; "I wish you would have them cutdown, Frank; they cry like a woman, " and I said I would, and just afterthat she died, poor dear. And so the old elms stand, and I like theirmusic. It is a strange thing; I was half broken-hearted, for I loved herdearly, and she loved me with all her life and strength, and now--I amgoing to be married again. 

"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 notforgotten her. Nor shall I forget how Annie Guthrie (whom I am going tomarry now) came to see her the day before she died. I know that Anniealways 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 hadclosed, she spoke quite suddenly: "There goes your future wife, Frank, "she said; "you should have married her at first instead of me; she isvery handsome and very good, and she has two thousand a year; _she_would never have died of a nervous illness. " And she laughed a little, and then added:

"Oh, Frank dear, I wonder if you will think of me before you marry AnnieGuthrie. Wherever I am I shall be thinking of you. "

And now that time which she foresaw has come, and Heaven knows that Ihave thought of her, poor dear. Ah! those footsteps of one dead thatwill echo through our lives, those woman's footprints on the marbleflooring which will not be stamped out. Most of us have heard andseen them at some time or other, and I hear and see them very plainlyto-night. Poor dead wife, I wonder if there are any doors in the landwhere you have gone through which you can creep out to look at meto-night? I hope that there are none. Death must indeed be a hell if thedead can see and feel and take measure of the forgetful faithlessness oftheir beloved. Well, I will go to bed and try to get a little rest. Iam not so young or so strong as I was, and this wedding wears me out. Iwish that the whole thing were done or had never been begun. 

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 amoment; nor was it the howling of a dog, for I keep none. It was morelike the crying of a woman's voice; but what woman can be abroad on sucha night or at such an hour--half-past one in the morning?

There it is again--a dreadful sound; it makes the blood turn chill, andyet has something familiar about it. It is a woman's voice calling roundthe house. There, she is at the window now, and rattling it, and, greatheavens! she is calling me. 

"Frank! Frank! Frank!" she calls. 

I strive to stir and unshutter that window, but before I can get thereshe is knocking and calling at another. 

Gone again, with her dreadful wail of "Frank! Frank!" Now I hear her atthe front door, and, half mad with a horrible fear, I run down the long, dark hall and unbar it. There is nothing there--nothing but the wildrush of the wind and the drip of the rain from the portico. But Ican hear the wailing voice going round the house, past the patch ofshrubbery. I close the door and listen. There, she has got through thelittle yard, and is at the back door now. Whoever it is, she must knowthe way about the house. Along the hall I go again, through a swingdoor, through the servants' hall, stumbling down some steps into thekitchen, where the embers of the fire are still alive in the grate, diffusing a little warmth and light into the dense gloom. 

Whoever it is at the door is knocking now with her clenched hand againstthe hard wood, and it is wonderful, though she knocks so low, how thesound echoes through the empty kitchens. 

* * * * *

There I stood and hesitated, trembling in every limb; I dared not openthe door. No words of mine can convey the sense of utter desolation thatoverpowered me. I felt as though I were the only living man in the wholeworld. 

"_Frank! Frank!_" cries the voice with the dreadful familiar ring in it. "Open the door; I am so cold. I have so little time. "

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, agreat rush of air snatched it from my hands and swept it wide. The blackclouds 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. Fora moment I could only see this bit of sky, but by degrees I made out theaccustomed outline of the great trees swinging furiously against it, and the rigid line of the coping of the garden wall beneath them. Then awhirling leaf hit me smartly on the face, and instinctively I droppedmy eyes on to something that as yet I could not distinguish--somethingsmall and black and wet. 

"What are you?" I gasped. Somehow I seemed to feel that it was not aperson--I could not say, _Who_ are you?

"Don't you know me?" wailed the voice, with the far-off familiar ringabout it. "And I mayn't come in and show myself. I haven't the time. Youwere so long opening the door, Frank, and I am so cold--oh, so bitterlycold! Look there, the moon is coming out, and you will be able to seeme. I suppose that you long to see me, as I have longed to see you. "

As the figure spoke, or rather wailed, a moonbeam struggled through thewatery air and fell on it. It was short and shrunken, the figure of atiny woman. Also it was dressed in black and wore a black covering overthe whole head, shrouding it, after the fashion of a bridal veil. Fromevery part of this veil and dress the water fell in heavy drops. 

The figure bore a small basket on her left arm, and her hand--such apoor thin little hand--gleamed white in the moonlight. I noticed thaton the third finger was a red line, showing that a wedding-ring hadonce been there. The other hand was stretched towards me as though inentreaty. 

All this I saw in an instant, as it were, and as I saw it, horror seemedto grip me by the throat as though it were a living thing, for as thevoice had been familiar, so was the form familiar, though the churchyardhad received it long years ago. I could not speak--I could not evenmove. 

"Oh, don't you know me yet?" wailed the voice; "and I have come from sofar to see you, and I cannot stop. Look, look, " and she began to pluckfeverishly with her poor thin hand at the black veil that enshroudedher. At last it came off, and, as in a dream, I saw what in a dim frozenway I had expected to see--the white face and pale yellow hair of mydead wife. Unable to speak or to stir, I gazed and gazed. There was nomistake about it, it was she, ay, even as I had last seen her, whitewith the whiteness of death, with purple circles round her eyes and thegrave-cloth yet beneath her chin. Only her eyes were wide open and fixedupon my face; and a lock of the soft yellow hair had broken loose, andthe wind tossed it. 

"You know me now, Frank--don't you, Frank? It has been so hard to cometo see you, and so cold! But you are going to be married to-morrow, Frank; and I promised--oh, a long time ago--to think of you when youwere going to be married wherever I was, and I have kept my promise, andI have come from where I am and brought a present with me. It was bitterto die so young! I was so young to die and leave you, but I had to go. Take it--take it; be quick, I cannot stay any longer. _I could not giveyou my life, Frank, so I have brought you my death--take it!_"

The figure thrust the basket into my hand, and as it did so the raincame up again, and began to obscure the moonlight. 

"I must go, I must go, " went on the dreadful, familiar voice, in a cryof despair. "Oh, why were you so long opening the door? I wanted totalk to you before you married Annie; and now I shall never see youagain--never! never! _never!_ I have lost you for ever! ever! _ever!_"

As the last wailing notes died away the wind came down with a rush anda whirl and the sweep as of a thousand wings, and threw me back into thehouse, bringing the door to with a crash after me. 

I staggered into the kitchen, the basket in my hand, and set it on thetable. Just then some embers of the fire fell in, and a faint littleflame rose and glimmered on the bright dishes on the dresser, evenrevealing a tin candlestick, with a box of matches by it. I waswell-nigh mad with the darkness and fear, and, seizing the matches, I struck one, and held it to the candle. Presently it caught, and Iglanced round the room. It was just as usual, just as the servantshad left it, and above the mantelpiece the eight-day clock ticked awaysolemnly. While I looked at it it struck two, and in a dim fashion I wasthankful for its friendly sound. 

Then I looked at the basket. It was of very fine white plaited work withblack bands running up it, and a chequered black-and-white handle. Iknew it well. I have never seen another like it. I bought it yearsago at Madeira, and gave it to my poor wife. Ultimately it was washedoverboard in a gale in the Irish Channel. I remember that it was full ofnewspapers and library books, and I had to pay for them. Many and manyis the time that I have seen that identical basket standing there onthat very kitchen table, for my dear wife always used it to put flowersin, and the shortest cut from that part of the garden where her rosesgrew was through the kitchen. She used to gather the flowers, and thencome in and place her basket on the table, just where it stood now, andorder the dinner. 

All this passed through my mind in a few seconds as I stood there withthe candle in my hand, feeling indeed half dead, and yet with my mindpainfully alive. I began to wonder if I had gone asleep, and wasthe victim of a nightmare. No such thing. I wish it had only been anightmare. A mouse ran out along the dresser and jumped on to the floor, making quite a crash in the silence. 

What was in the basket? I feared to look, and yet some power withinme forced me to it. I drew near to the table and stood for a momentlistening to the sound of my own heart. Then I stretched out my hand andslowly raised the lid of the basket. 

"I could not give you my life, so I have brought you my death!" Thosewere her words. What could she mean--what could it all mean? I must knowor I would go mad. There it lay, whatever it was, wrapped up in linen. 

Ah, heaven help me! It was a small bleached human skull!

A dream! After all, only a dream by the fire, but what a dream! And I amto be married to-morrow. 

_Can_ I be married to-morrow?

BARBARA WHO CAME BACK

CHAPTER I

THE RECTORY BLIND

This is the tale of Barbara, Barbara who came back to save a soul alive. 

The Reverend Septimus Walrond was returning from a professional visit toa distant cottage of his remote and straggling parish upon the coast ofEast Anglia. His errand had been sad, to baptise the dying infant of afisherman, which just as the rate was finished wailed once feebly andexpired in his arms. The Reverend Septimus was weeping over the sorrowsof the world. Tears ran down his white but rounded face, for he wasstout of habit, and fell upon his clerical coat that was green with ageand threadbare with use. Although the evening was so cold he held hisbroad-brimmed hat in his hand, and the wind from the moaning sea tossedhis snow-white hair. He was talking to himself, as was his fashion onthese lonely walks. 

"I think that fresh milk would have saved that child, " he said, "buthow was poor Thomas to buy fresh milk at fourpence a quart? Laid up forthree months as he has been and with six children, how was he to buyfresh milk? I ought to have given it to him. I could have done withoutthese new boots till spring, damp feet don't matter to an old man. But Ithought of my own comfort--the son that doth so easily beset me--and somany to clothe and feed at home and poor Barbara, my darling Barbara, hanging between life and death. "

He sobbed and wiped away his tears with the back of his hand, then beganto pray, still aloud. 

"O God of pity, in the name of the loving and merciful Christ, help meand poor Thomas in our troubles. "

"I ought to have put Thomas's name first--my selfishness again, " heejaculated, then went on:

"Give consolation to Thomas who loved his baby, and if it pleases Theein 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 turngive life to others. I know I should not ask it; I know it is betterthat she should go and be with Thee in the immortal home Thou hastprepared for us unhappy, suffering creatures. Yet--pity my poor humanweakness--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, OGod. "

He sobbed again and wiped away another tear, then muttered:

"My selfishness, always my selfishness! With six remaining to be lookedafter, that is counting Barbara if she still lives, I dare to ask tobe relieved of the burdens of the flesh! Pitiful Christ, visit not mywickedness on me or on others, and O Thou that didst raise the daughterof Jairus, save my sweet Barbara and comfort the heart of poor Thomas. Iwill have faith. I _will_ have faith. "

He thrust his hat upon his head, pulling it down over his ears becauseof the rough wind, and walked forward quite jauntily for a few yards. 

"What a comfort these new boots are, " he said. "If I had stepped intothat pool with the old ones my left foot would be wet through now. Letme thank God for these new boots. Oh! how can I, when I remember thatthe price of them should have been spent in milk for the poor baby? IfI 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 triedto think so because it is cheap, though I am sure that this wasthe beginning of poor little Cicely's last illness. With her brokenchilblains she could not stand the snow; at any rate, the chill struckupwards. Well, she has been in bliss three years, three whole years, andhow thankful I ought to be for that. How glad she will be to see Barbaratoo, if it pleases God in His mercy to take Barbara; she always was herfavourite sister. I ought to remember that; I ought to remember thatwhat I lose here I gain there, that my store is always growing inHeaven. 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 andwas content, but that's their Eastern way. It's different with usEnglishmen. "

He stumbled on for a hundred yards or more, vacuously, almost drunkenly, for the hideous agony that he was enduring half paralysed his brain, andby its very excess was bringing him some temporary relief. He looked atthe raging sea to his right, and in a vague fashion wished that it hadswallowed him. He looked at the kind earth of the ploughed field to hisleft, and wished vividly, for the idea was more familiar, that six feetof it lay above him. Then he remembered that just beyond that sand-heaphe had found a plover's nest with two eggs in it fifty years ago whenhe was a boy, and had taken one egg and left the other, or rather hadrestored it because the old bird screamed so pitifully about him. Insome strange manner that little, long-forgotten act of righteousnessbrought a glow of comfort to his tormented spirit. Perhaps God woulddeal so by him. 

In its way the evening was very beautiful. The cold November day wasdying into night. Clear, clear was the sky save for some black and heavysnow clouds that floated on it driven before the easterly wind thatpiped through the sere grasses and blew the plovers over him as thoughthey were dead leaves. Where the sun had vanished long bars of purplelay above the horizon; to his excited fancy they looked like the gatewayof another and a better world, set, as the old Egyptians dreamed, abovethe uttermost pylons of the West. What lay there beyond the sun? Oh!what lay beyond the sun? Perhaps, even now, Barbara knew!

A figure appeared standing upon a sand dune between the pathway and thesea. Septimus was short-sighted and could not tell who it was, but inthis place at this hour doubtless it must be a parishioner, perhapsone waiting to see him upon some important matter. He must forget hisprivate griefs. He must strive to steady his shaken mind and attend tohis duties. He drew himself together and walked on briskly. 

"I wish I had not been obliged to give away Jack, " he said. "He was agreat companion, and somehow I always met people with more confidencewhen he was with me; he seemed to take away my shyness. But the licensewas seven-and-sixpence, and I haven't got seven-and-sixpence; also hehas an excellent home with that stuffy old woman, if a dull one, for hemust miss his walk. Oh! it's you, Anthony. What are you doing here atthis time of night? Your father told me you had a bad cold and there'sso much sickness about. You should be careful, Anthony, you knowyou're not too strong, none of you Arnotts are. Well, I suppose you areshooting, and most young men will risk a great deal in order to killGod's other creatures. "

The person addressed, a tall, broad-shouldered, rather pale young manof about twenty-one, remarkable for his large brown eyes and a certainsweet expression which contrasted somewhat oddly with the generalmanliness of his appearance, lifted his cap and answered:

"No, Mr. Walrond, I am not shooting to-night. In fact, I was waitinghere to meet you. "

"What for, Anthony? Nothing wrong up at the Hall, I hope. "

"No, Mr. Walrond; why should there be anything wrong there?"

"I don't know, I am sure, only as a rule people don't wait for theparson unless there is something amiss, and there seems to be so muchmisfortune in this parish just now. Well, what is it, my boy?"

"I want to know about Barbara, Mr. Walrond. They tell me she is verybad, but I can't get anything definite from the others, I mean from hersisters. They don't seem to be sure, and the doctor wouldn't say when Iasked him. "

The Reverend Septimus looked at Anthony and Anthony looked at theReverend Septimus, and in that look they learned to understand eachother. The agony that was eating out this poor father's heart was notpeculiar to him; another shared it. In what he would have called his"wicked selfishness" the Reverend Septimus felt almost grateful for thissudden revelation. If it is a comfort to share our joys, it is a stillgreater comfort to share our torments. 

"Walk on with me, Anthony, " he said. "I must hurry, I have every reasonto hurry. Had it not been a matter of duty I would not have left thehouse, but, so to speak, a clergyman has many children; he cannot preferone before the other. "

"Yes, yes, " said Anthony, "but what about Barbara? Oh! please tell me atonce. "

"I can't tell you, Anthony, because I don't know. From here to the crestof Gunter's Hill, " and he pointed to an eminence in front of them, "is amile and a quarter. When we get to the crest of Gunter's Hill perhapswe shall know. I left home two hours ago, and then Barbara lay almost atthe point of death; insensible. "

"Insensible, " muttered Anthony. "Oh! my God, insensible. "

"Yes, " went on the clergyman in a voice of patient resignation. "I don'tunderstand much about such things, but the inflammation appears to haveculminated that way. Now either she will never wake again, or if shewakes she may live. At least that is what they tell me, but they may bewrong. I have so often known doctors to be wrong. "

They walked on together in silence twenty yards or more. Then he addedas though speaking to himself:

"When we reach the top of Gunter's Hill perhaps we shall learn. We cansee her window from there, and if she had passed away I bade them pullthe blind down; if she was about the same, to pull it half down, and ifshe were really better, to leave it quite up. I have done that for twonights now, so that I might have a little time to prepare myself. It isa good plan, though very trying to a father's heart. Yesterday I stoodfor quite a while with my eyes fixed upon the ground, not daring to lookand learn the truth. "

Anthony groaned, and once more the old man went on:

"She is a very unselfish girl, Barbara, or perhaps I should saywas, perhaps I should say was. That is how she caught this horribleinflammation. Three weeks ago she and her sister Janey went for a longwalk to the Ness, to--to--oh! I forget why they went. Well, it came onto pour with rain; and just as they had started for home, fortunately, or rather unfortunately, old Stevens the farmer overtook them on hisway back from market and offered them a lift. They got into the cartand Barbara took off the mackintosh that her aunt gave her lastChristmas--it is the only one in the house, since such things are toocostly for me to buy--and put it over Janey, who had a cold. It wasquite unnecessary, for Janey was warmly wrapped up, while Barbara hadnothing under the mackintosh except a summer dress. That is how shecaught the chill. "

Anthony made no comment, and again they walked forward without speaking, perhaps for a quarter of a mile. Then the horror of the suspense becameintolerable to him. Without a word he dashed forward, sped down theslope and up that of the opposing Gunter's Hill, more swiftly perhapsthan he had ever run before, although he was a very quick runner. 

"He's gone, " murmured Septimus. "I wonder why! I suppose that I walk tooslowly for him. I cannot walk so fast as I used to do, and he felt thewind cold. "

Then he dismissed the matter from his half-dazed mind and stumbled onwearily, muttering his disjointed prayers. 

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 againstthis 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 hisheart and caught his breath. 

"I know what that means, " he said. "He was watching the window, and theyhave just pulled down the blind. I suppose he must be fond of her andit--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; onedoes not feel the thorns so much. 'The Lord gave and the Lord hath takenaway, bl--bl--yes, I _will_ say it--blessed be the Name of the Lord. ' Ishould remember that she is so much better where she is; that this isa very hard world; indeed, sometimes I think it is not a world, but ahell. Oh! Barbara, my sweet Barbara!" and he struggled forward blindlybeating at the rough wind with his hands as though it were a visiblefoe, and so at last came to the crest of the hill where Anthony Arnottlay prone upon his face. 

So sure was Septimus of the cause of his collapse that he did not eventrouble to look at the Rectory windows in the hollow near the church twohundred yards or so away. He only looked at Anthony, saying:

"Poor lad, poor lad! I wonder how I shall get him home; I must fetchsome help. "

As he spoke, Anthony sat up and said, "You see, you see!"

"See what?"

"The blind; _it is quite up_. When I got here it was half down, thensomeone pulled it up. That's what finished me. I felt as though I hadbeen hit on the head with a stick. "

The Reverend Septimus stared, then suddenly sank to his knees andreturned thanks in his simple fashion. 

"Don't let us be too certain, Anthony, " he exclaimed at length. "Theremay be a mistake, or perhaps this is only a respite which will prolongthe suspense. Often such things happen to torment us; I mean that theyare God's way of trying and purifying our poor sinful hearts. "

CHAPTER II

THE NEW YEAR FEAST

Barbara did not die. On the contrary, Barbara got quite well again, buther recovery was so slow that Anthony only saw her once before he wasobliged 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 thefirst time. Needless to say he went, taking with him a large bunchof violets which he had grown in a frame at the Hall especially forBarbara. Indeed, she had already received many of those violets throughthe agency of her numerous younger sisters. 

The Rectory dinner was at one o'clock, and the feast could not becalled sumptuous. It consisted of a piece of beef, that known as the"aitch-bone, " which is perhaps the cheapest that the butcher supplieswhen the amount of eating is taken into consideration; one roast duck, a large Pekin, the Near Year offering of the farmer Stevens; and a plumpudding somewhat pallid in appearance. These dainties with late applesand plenty of cold water made up the best dinner that the Walrond familyhad eaten for many a day. 

The Rectory dining-room was a long, narrow chamber of dilapidatedappearance, since between meals it served as a schoolroom also. A dealbookcase in the corner held some tattered educational works and thewalls that once had been painted blue, but now were faded in patchesto a sickly green, were adorned only with four texts illuminated byBarbara. These texts had evidently served as targets for moistened paperpellets, some of which still stuck upon their surface. 

Anthony arrived a little late, since the picking of the violets hadtaken longer than he anticipated, and as there was no one to open thefront door, walked straight into the dining-room. In the doorwayhe collided with the little maid-of-all-work, a red-elbowed girl ofsingularly plain appearance, who having deposited the beef upon thetable, was rushing back for the duck, accompanied by two of the youngWalronds 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 appearancein all that family), burst into screams of laughter. Anthony apologisedprofusely; the maid, ejaculating that she didn't mind, not she, jumpedup and ran for the duck; and the Reverend Septimus, a very differentSeptimus to him whom we met a month or so before, seizing his hand, shook it warmly, calling out:

"Julia, my dear, never mind that beef. I haven't said grace yet. Here'sAnthony. "

"Glad to see him, I am sure, " said Mrs. Walrond, her eyes still fixedupon the beef, which was obviously burnt at one corner. Then with ashrug, for she was accustomed to such accidents, she rose to greet him. 

Mrs. Walrond was a tall and extremely good-looking lady of aboutfifty-five, dark-eyed and bright complexioned, whose chestnut hairwas scarcely touched with grey. Notwithstanding all the troubles andhardships that she had endured, her countenance was serene and evenhappy, for she was blessed with a good heart, a lively faith inProvidence, and a well-regulated mind. Looking at her, it was easy tosee whence Barbara and her other daughters inherited their beauty andair of breeding. 

"How are you, Anthony?" she went on, one eye still fixed upon the burntbeef. "It is good of you to come, though you are late, which I supposeis why the girl has burnt the meat. "

"Not a bit, " called out one of the children, it was Janey, "it is verygood of us to have him when there's only one duck. Anthony, you mustn'teat duck, as we don't often get one and you have hundreds. "

"Not I, dear, I hate ducks, " he relied automatically, for his eyes wereseeking the face of Barbara. 

Barbara was seated in the wooden armchair with a cushion on it, near thefire of driftwood, advantages that were accorded to her in honour ofher still being an invalid. Even to a stranger she would have lookedextraordinarily sweet with her large and rather plaintive violet eyesover which the long black lashes curved, her waving chestnut hair partedin the middle and growing somewhat low upon her forehead, her tallfigure, very thin just now, and her lovely shell-like complexionheightened by a blush. 

To Anthony she seemed a very angel, an angel returned from the shoresof death for his adoration and delight. Oh! if things had gone the otherway--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 feltwhen he looked at the window-place from the crest of Gunter's Hill. Butshe _had_ come back, and he was sure that they were each other's forlife. And yet, and yet, life must end one day and then, what? Once morethat hand of ice dragged at his heart strings. 

In a moment it was all over and Mr. Walrond was speaking. 

"Why don't you bid Barbara good-day, Anthony?" he asked. "Don't youthink she looks well, considering? We do, better than you, in fact, " headded, glancing at his face, which had suddenly grown pale, almost grey. 

"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 _us_violets, even when we have the whooping cough?"

"Because the smell of them is bad for delicate throats, " he answered, and without a word handed the sweet-scented flowers to Barbara. 

She took them, also without a word, but not without a look, pinned a fewto her dress, and reaching a cracked vase from the mantelpiece, disposedof 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 meetingwere over. 

Anthony sat by Barbara. His chair was rickety, one of the legs beingmuch in need of repair; the driftwood fire that burned brightly abouttwo feet away grilled his spine, for no screen was available, and henearly choked himself with a piece of very hot and hard potato. Yet totell the truth never before did he share in such a delightful meal. Forsoon, when the clamour of "the girls" swelled loud and long, and theattention of Mr. And Mrs. Walrond was entirely occupied with the burntbeef and the large duck that absolutely refused to part with its limbs, he found himself almost as much alone with Barbara as though they hadbeen together on the wide seashore. 

"You are really getting quite well?" he asked. 

"Yes, I think so. " Then, after a pause and with a glance from the violeteyes, "Are you glad?"

"You know I am glad. You know that if you had--died, I should have diedtoo. "

"Nonsense, " said the curved lips, but they trembled and the violet eyeswere a-swim with tears. Then a little catch of the throat, and, almostin a whisper, "Anthony, father told me about you and the window-blindand--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 someblackness and began to dream of you. I dreamed that I was sinking backinto the blackness, but you caught me by the hand and lifted me quiteout of it. Then we floated away together for ever and for ever and forever, for though sometimes I lost you we always met again. Then I wokeup and knew that I wasn't going to die, that's all. "

"What a beautiful dream, " began Anthony, but at that moment, pausingfrom her labours at the beef, Mrs. Walrond said:

"Barbara, eat your duck before it grows cold. You know the doctor saidyou must take plenty of nourishment. "

"I am going to, mother, " answered Barbara, "I feel dreadfully hungry, "and really she did; her gentle heart having fed full, of a sudden herbody seemed to need no nourishment. 

"Dear me!" said Mr. Walrond, pausing from his labours and viewing theremains of the duck disconsolately, for he did not see what portion ofits gaunt skeleton was going to furnish him with dinner, and duck wasone of his weaknesses, "dear me, there's a dreadful smell of burning inthis room. Do you think it can be the beef, my love?"

"Of course it is not the beef, " replied Mrs. Walrond rather sharply. "The beef is beautifully done. "

"Oh!" ejaculated one of the girls who had got the calcined bit, "why, mother, you said it was burnt yourself. "

"Never mind what I said, " replied Mrs. Walrond severely, "especially asI was mistaken. It is very rude of your father to make remarks about themeat. "

"Well, something _is_ burning, my love. "

Janey, who was sitting next to Anthony, paused from her meal to sniff, then exclaimed in a voice of delight:

"Oh! it is Anthony's coat tails. Just look, they are turning quitebrown. Why, Anthony, you must be as beautifully done as the beef. If youcan sit there and say nothing, you are a Christian martyr wasted, that'sall. "

Anthony sprang up, murmuring that he thought there was something wrongbehind, which on examination there proved to be. The end of it was thatthe chairs were all pushed downwards, with the result that for the restof that meal there was a fiery gulf fixed between him and Barbara whichmade further confidences impossible. So he had to talk of other matters. Of these, as it chanced, he had something to say. 

A letter had arrived that morning from his elder brother George, whowas an officer in a line regiment. It had been written in the trenchesbefore Sebastopol, for these events took place in the mid-Victorianperiod towards the end of the Crimean War. Or rather the letter had beenbegun in the trenches and finished in the military hospital, whitherGeorge had been conveyed, suffering from "fever and severe chill, " whichseemed to be somewhat contradictory terms, though doubtless they were infact compatible enough. Still he wrote a very interesting letter, which, after the pudding had been consumed to the last spoonful, Anthony readaloud while the girls ate apples and cracked nuts with their teeth. 

"Dear me! George seems to be very unwell, " said Mrs. Walrond. 

"Yes, " answered Anthony, "I am afraid he is. One of the medical officerswhom my father knows, who is working in that hospital, says they meanto send him home as soon as he can bear the journey, though he doesn'tthink it will be just at present. "

This sounded depressing, but Mr. Walrond found that it had a brightside. 

"At any rate, he won't be shot like so many poor fellows; also he hasbeen in several of the big battles and will be promoted. I look upon himas a made man. He'll soon shake off his cold in his native air----"

"And we shall have a real wounded hero in the village, " said one of thegirls. 

"He isn't a wounded hero, " answered Janey, "he's only got a chill. "

"Well, that's as bad as wounded, dear, and I am sure he would have beenwounded if he could. " And so on. 

"When are you going back to Cambridge, Anthony?" asked Mrs. Walrondpresently. 

"To-morrow morning, I am sorry to say, " he answered, and Barbara's facefell 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 inmathematics. 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 noone near here who can help me. "

"No, " said Mr. Walrond. "If it had been classics now, with a littlerefurbishing perhaps I might. But mathematics are beyond me. "

"Barbara should teach him, " suggested one of the little girls slyly. "She's splendid at Rule of Three. "

"Which is more than you are, " said Mrs. Walrond in severe tones, "whoalways make thirteen out of five and seven. Barbara, love, you arelooking very tired. All this noise is too much for you, you must goand lie down at once in your own room. No, not on the sofa, in your ownroom. Now say good-bye to Anthony and go. "

So Barbara, who was really tired, though with a happy weariness, did asshe 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 lipsspoke some few words of commonplace farewell. Then staying a moment totake the violets from the cracked vase, and another moment to kiss herfather as she passed him, she walked, or rather glided from the roomwith the graceful movement that was peculiar to her, and lo! at oncefor Anthony it became a very emptiness. Moreover, he grew aware of thehardness of his wooden seat and that the noise of the girls was makinghis head ache. So presently he too rose and departed. 

CHAPTER III

AUNT MARIA

Six months or so had gone by and summer reigned royally at Eastwich, for thus was the parish named of which the Reverend Septimus Walrondhad spiritual charge. The heath was a blaze of gold, the cut hay smeltsweetly in the fields, the sea sparkled like one vast sapphire, thelarks beneath the sun and the nightingales beneath the moon sang theirhearts out on Gunter's Hill, and all the land was full of life and soundand perfume. 

On one particularly beautiful evening, after partaking of a meal called"high tea, " Barbara, quite strong again now and blooming like the wildrose upon her breast, set out alone upon a walk. Her errand was to thecottage of that very fisherman whose child her father had baptised onthe night when her life trembled in the balance. Having accomplishedthis she turned homewards, lost in reverie, events having happened atthe Rectory which gave her cause for thought. When she had gone a littleway some instinct led her to look up. About fifty yards away a man waswalking towards her to all appearance also lost in reverie. Even at thatdistance and in the uncertain evening light she knew well enough thatthis was Anthony. Her heart leapt at the sight of him and her cheeksseemed to catch the hue of the wild rose on her bosom. Then shestraightened her dress a little and walked on. 

In less than a minute they had met. 

"I heard where you had gone and came to meet you, " he said awkwardly. "How well you are looking, Barbara, how well and----" he had meant toadd "beautiful, " but his tongue stumbled at the word and what he saidwas "brown. "

"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 _you_ are looking, howwell and by comparison--fat. "

Then they both laughed, and he explained at length how he had been ableto get home two days earlier than he expected; also that he had takenhis degree with even higher honours than he hoped. 

"I am so glad, " she said earnestly. 

"And so am I; I mean glad that you are glad. You see, if it hadn't beenfor you I should never have done so well. But because I thought youwould be glad, I worked like anything. "

"You should have thought of what your father would feel, notof--of--well, it has all ended as it should, so we needn't argue. Howis your brother George?" she went on, cutting short the answer that wasrising to his lips. "I suppose I should call him Captain Arnott now, forI hear he has been promoted. We haven't seen him since he came home lastweek, from some hospital in the South of England, they say. "

Anthony's face grew serious. 

"I don't know; I don't quite like the look of him, and he coughs such alot. It seems as though he could not shake off that chill he got in thetrenches. That's why he hasn't been to call at the Rectory. "

"I hope this beautiful weather will cure him, " Barbara replied ratherdoubtfully, 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 visitoryesterday, Aunt Maria in the flesh, in a great deal of flesh, as Janeysays. "

"Do you mean Lady Thompson?"

She nodded. 

"Aunt Thompson and her footman and her pug dog. Thank goodness, she onlystayed to tea, as she had a ten mile drive back to her hotel. As it was, lots of things happened. "

"What happened?"

"Well, first when she got out of the carriage, covered with jet anchorchains--for you know Uncle Samuel died only three months ago and lefther all his money--she caught sight of our heads staring at her out ofthe 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 toProvidence for having taken to its bosom the four of us who died young--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 usshould have been boys. He turned quite pink and said:

"'I have been taught, Lady Thompson, that these are matters which GodAlmighty keeps in His own hands, and to Him I must refer you. '

"'Good gracious! don't get angry, ' she answered. 'If you clergymen cancross-examine your Maker, I am not in that position. Besides, they areall very good-looking girls who may find husbands, if they ever see aman. So things might have been worse. '

"Then she made remarks about the tea, for Uncle Samuel was atea-merchant; and lastly that wicked Janey sent the footman to takethe pug dog to walk past the butcher's shop where the fighting terrierlives. You can guess the rest. "

"Was the pug killed?" asked Anthony. 

"No, though the poor thing came back in a bad way. I never knew beforethat a pug's tail was so long when it is quite uncurled. But the footmanlooked almost worse, for he got notice on the spot. You see he went intothe 'Red Dragon' and left the pug outside. "

"And here endeth Aunt Maria and all her works, " said Anthony, who wantedto talk of other things. 

"No, not quite. "

He looked at her, for there was meaning in her voice. 

"In fact, " she went on, "so far as I'm concerned it ought to run, 'Herebeginneth Aunt Maria. ' You see, I have got to go and live with herto-morrow. "

Anthony stopped and looked at her. 

"What the devil do you mean?" he asked. 

"What I say. She took a fancy to me and she wants a companion--someoneto do her errands and read to her at night and look after the pug dogand so forth. And she will pay me thirty pounds a year with my board anddresses. And" (with gathering emphasis) "we cannot afford to offend herwho 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, sinceJoyce can take my place, and at any rate it will be a mouth less to feedat home. So I am going to-morrow morning by the carrier's cart. "

"Going?" gasped Anthony. "Where to?"

"To London first, then to Paris, then to Italy to winter at Rome, andthen goodness knows where. You see, my Aunt Maria has wanted to travelall her life, but Uncle Samuel, who was born in Putney, feared the seaand lived and died in Putney in the very house in which he was born. NowAunt Maria wants a change and means to have it. "

Then Anthony broke out. 

"Damn the old woman! Why can't she take her change in Italy or wherevershe wishes, and leave you alone?"

"Anthony!" said Barbara in a scandalised voice. "What do you mean, Anthony, by using such dreadful language about my aunt?"

"What do I mean? Well" (this with the recklessness of despair), "if youwant to know, I mean that I can't bear your going away. "

"If my parents, " began Barbara steadily----

"What have your parents to do with it? I'm not your parents, I'myour----"

Barbara looked at him in remonstrance. 

"--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 youto stop here. "

"Why, Anthony? I thought you told me you were going to live in chambersin London and read for the Bar. "

"Well, London isn't Italy, and one doesn't eat dinners at Lincoln'sInn all the year round, one comes home sometimes. And heaven knows whomyou'll meet in those places or what tricks that horrible old aunt ofyours will be playing with you. Oh! it's wicked! How can you desert yourpoor father and mother in this way, to say nothing of your sisters? Inever thought you were so hard-hearted. "

"Anthony, " said Barbara in a gentle voice, "do you know what we have gotto live on? In good years it comes to about 150 pounds, but once, whenmy father got into that lawsuit over the dog that was supposed to killthe sheep, it went down to 70 pounds. That was the winter when twoof the little ones died for want of proper food--nothing else--and Iremember that the rest of us had to walk barefoot in the mud and snowbecause there was no money to buy us boots, and only some of us couldgo out at once because we had no cloaks to put on. Well, all this mayhappen again. And so, Anthony, do you think that I should be right tothrow away thirty pounds a year and to make a quarrel with my aunt, whois rich and kind-hearted although very over-bearing, and the only friendwe have? If my father died, Anthony, or even was taken ill, and he isnot very strong, what would become of us? Unless Aunt Thompson chose tohelp we should all have to go to the workhouse, for girls who have notbeen specially trained can earn nothing, except perhaps as domesticservants, if they are strong enough. I don't want to go away and readto Aunt Maria and take the pug dog out walking, although it is true Ishould like to see Italy, but I must--can't you understand--I must. So please reproach me no more, for it is hard to bear--especially fromyou. "

"Stop! For God's sake, stop!" said Anthony. "I am a brute to have spokenlike that, and I'm helpless; that's the worst of it. Oh! my darling, don't you understand? Don't you understand----?"

"No, " answered Barbara, shaking her head and beginning to cry. 

"That I love you, that I have always loved you, and that I always shalllove you until--until--the moon ceases to shine?" and he pointed to thatorb which had appeared above the sea. 

"They say that it is dead already, and no doubt will come to an end likeeverything else, " remarked Barbara, seeking to gain time. 

Then for a while she sought nothing more, who found herself lost in herlover's arms. 

So there they plighted their troth, that was, they swore, more enduringthan the moon, for indeed they so believed. 

"Nothing shall part us except death, " he said. 

"Why should death part us?" she answered, looking him bravely in theeyes. "I mean to live beyond death, and while I live and wherever I livedeath shall _not_ part us, if you'll be true to me. "

"I'll not fail in that, " he answered. 

And so their souls melted into rapture and were lifted up beyond theworld. 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 theirlinked souls travelled to the throne of Him who had lit their lamp oflove, and there made petition that through all life's accidents anddeath's darkness it might burn eternally. 

For the love of these two was deep and faithful, and already seemed tothem as though it were a thing they had lost awhile and found oncemore; a very precious jewel that from the beginning had shone upon theirbreasts; a guiding-star to light them to that end which is the dawn ofEndlessness. 

Who will not smile at such thoughts as these?

The way of the man with the maid and the way of the maid with the manand the moon to light them and the birds to sing the epithalamium oftheir hearts and the great sea to murmur of eternity in their openedears. Nature at her sweet work beneath the gentle night--who is therethat will not say that it was nothing more?

Well, let their story answer. 

CHAPTER IV

A YEAR LATER

Something over a year had gone by, and Barbara, returned from herforeign travels, sat in the drawing-room of Lady Thompson's house inRussell Square. 

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 theworld. She had wintered in Rome and studied its antiquities and art. Shehad learned some French and Italian, for nothing was grudged to her inthe way of masters, and worked at music, for which she had a naturaltaste. She had seen a good deal of society also, for Lady Thompson wasat heart proud of her beautiful niece, and spared no expense to bringher into contact with such people as she considered she should know. 

Thus it came about that the fine apartment they occupied in Rome hadmany visitors. Among these was a certain Secretary of Legation, the Hon. Charles Erskine Russell, who, it was expected, would in the courseof nature succeed to a peerage. He was a very agreeable as well as anaccomplished and wealthy man, and--he fell in love with Barbara. Withthe cleverness of her sex she managed to put him off and to avoid anyactual proposal before they left for Switzerland in the early summer. Thither, happily, he could not follow them, since his official dutiesprevented him from leaving the Embassy. Lady Thompson was much annoyedat what she considered his bad conduct, and said as much to Barbara. 

Her niece listened, but did not discuss the matter, with the result thatLady Thompson's opinion of the Hon. Charles Russell was confirmed. Wasit not clear that there had been no proposal, although it was equallyclear that he ought to have proposed? Poor Barbara! Perhaps this was theonly act of deception of which she was ever guilty. 

So things went on until the previous day, the Monday after their arrivalin London, when, most unhappily, Lady Thompson went out to lunch and metthe Hon. Charles Russell, who was on leave in England. 

Next morning, while Barbara was engaged in arranging some flowers in thedrawing-room, who should be shown in but Mr. Russell. In her alarmshe dropped a bowl and broke it, a sign that he evidently consideredhopeful, setting it down to the emotion which his sudden presencecaused. To emotion it was due, indeed, but not of a kind he would havewished. Recovering herself, Barbara shook his hand and then told theservant who was picking up the pieces of the bowl to inform her ladyshipof the arrival of this morning caller. 

The man bowed and departed, and as he went Barbara noticed an ominoustwinkle in the pleasant blue eyes of the Hon. Charles Russell. 

The rest of the interview may be summed up in a few words. Mr. Russellwas eloquent, passionate and convincing. He assured Barbara that she wasthe only woman he had ever loved with such force and conviction that inthe end she almost believed him. But this belief, if it existed, did notin the least shake her absolutely definite determination to have nothingwhatsoever to do with her would-be lover. 

Not until she had told him so six times, however, did he consent tobelieve her, for indeed he had been led to expect a very differentanswer. 

"I suppose you care for someone else, " he said at last. 

"Yes, " said Barbara, whose back, metaphorically, was against the wall. 

"Somebody much more--suitable. "

"No, " said Barbara, "he is poor and not distinguished and has all hisway to make in the world. "

"He might change his mind, or--die. "

"If so, I should not change mine, " said Barbara. "Very likely I shallnot marry him, but I shall not marry anyone else. "

"In heaven's name, why not?"

"Because it would be a sacrilege against heaven. "

Then at last Mr. Russell understood. 

"Allow me to offer you my good wishes and to assure you of my earnestand unalterable respect, " he said in a somewhat broken voice, and takingher hand he touched it lightly with his lips, turned, and departed outof Barbara's sight and life. 

Ten minutes later Lady Thompson arrived, and her coming was like tothat of a thunderstorm. She shut the door, locked it, and sat down in anarmchair in solemn, lurid silence. Then with one swift flash the stormbroke. 

"What is this I hear from Mr. Russell?"

"I am sure I don't know what you have heard from Mr. Russell, " answeredBarbara faintly. 

"Perhaps, but you know very well what there was to hear, you wicked, ungrateful girl. "

"Wicked!" murmured Barbara, "ungrateful!"

"Yes, it is wicked to lead a man on and then reject him as though hewere--rubbish. And it is ungrateful to throw away the chances that akind aunt and Providence put in your way. What have you against him?"

"Nothing at all, I think him very nice. "

Lady Thompson's brow lightened; if she thought him "very nice" all mightyet be well. Perhaps this refusal was nothing but nonsensical modesty. Mr. Russell, being a gentleman, had not told her everything. 

"Then I say you shall marry him. "

"And I say, Aunt, that I will not and cannot. "

"Why? Have you been secretly converted to the Church of Rome, and areyou going into a nunnery? Or is there--another man?"

"Yes, Aunt. "

"Where is he?" said Lady Thompson, looking about her as though sheexpected to find him hidden under the furniture. "And how did you manageto become entangled with him, you sly girl, under my very nose? And whois he? One of those bowing and scraping Italians, I suppose, who thinkyou'll get my money. Tell me the truth at once. "

"He is somebody you have never seen, Aunt. One of the Arnotts down athome. "

"Oh, that Captain! Well, I believe they have a decent property, about2, 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 apeeress of you some day and given you a great position meanwhile. But Isuppose we must be thankful for small mercies. "

"It is not Captain Arnott, it is his younger brother Anthony. "

"Anthony! Anthony, that youth who is reading for the Bar. Why, theproperty is all entailed, and he will scarcely have a half-penny, forhis mother brought no money to the Arnotts. Oh, this is too much! Tothrow up Mr. Russell for an Anthony. Are you engaged to him with yourparents' consent, may I ask, and if so, why was the matter concealedfrom me, who would certainly have declined to drag an entangled youngwoman about the world?"

"I am not engaged, but my father and mother know that we are attachedto each other. It happened the day after you came to Eastwich, orthey would have told you. My father made me promise that we would notcorrespond while I was away, as he thought that we were too young tobind ourselves to each other, especially as Anthony has no presentprospects or means to support a wife. "

"I am glad they had so much sense. It is more than might have beenexpected of my sister after her own performance, for which doubtless sheis sorry enough now. Like you, she might have married a title instead ofa curate and beggary. "

"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. "

"Look here, Barbara, let's come to the point. Will you give up thismoon-calf business of yours or not?"

"It is not a moon-calf business, whatever that may be, and I will notgive it up. "

"Very well, then, I can't make you as you are of age. But I have donewith you. You will go to your room and stop there, and to-morrow morningyou will return to your parents, to whom I will write at once. You havebetrayed my hospitality and presumed upon my kindness; after all thethings I have given you, too, " and her eyes fixed themselves upon apearl necklace that Barbara was wearing. For Lady Thompson could begenerous when she was in the mood. 

Barbara unfastened the necklace and offered it to her aunt without aword. 

"Nonsense!" said Lady Thompson. "Do you think I want to rob you of yourtrinkets because I happen to have given them to you? Keep them, theymay be useful one day when you have a husband and a family and no money. Pearls may pay the butcher and the rent. "

"Thank you for all your kindness, Aunt, and good-bye. I am sorry thatI am not able to do as you wish about marriage, but after all a woman'slife is her own. "

"That's just what it isn't and never has been. A woman's life is herhusband's and her children's, and that's why--but it is no use arguing. You have taken your own line. Perhaps you are right, God knows. At anyrate, it isn't mine, so we had better part. Still, I rather admire yourcourage. I wonder what this young fellow is like for whose sake you areprepared to lose so much; more than you think, maybe, for I had grownfond 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 tome when you get into a tight place, " and rising, she kissed her, ratherroughly but not without affection, and flung out of the room like onewho feared to trust herself there any longer. 

On the evening of the following day Barbara, emerging from the carrier'scart at the blacksmith's corner at Eastwich, was met by a riotous throngof five energetic young sisters who nearly devoured her with kisses. So happy was that greeting, indeed, that in it she almost forgot hersorrows. 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 auntwhose very kindness was oppressive and whose temper was terrible. Shehad fifty pounds in her pocket and a good stock of clothes, to saynothing of the pearls and other jewellery, wealth indeed if measured bythe Walrond standard. Her beloved sisters were evidently in the best ofhealth and spirits; also, as she thought, better-looking than any girlsshe 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 shehad 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 andthank God for these good things?

On that evening, however, when supper was done, she had a somewhatserious interview with her father and mother who sat on either side ofher, each of them holding one of her hands, for they could scarcely bearher out of their sight. She had told all the tale of the Hon. CharlesRussell and of her violent dismissal by her aunt, of which story theywere not entirely ignorant, for Lady Thompson had already advised themof these events by letter. 

The Reverend Septimus shook his head sadly. He was not a worldly-mindedman; still, to have a presumptive peer for a son-in-law, who woulddoubtless also become an ambassador, was a prospect that at heart herelinquished with regret. Also this young Arnott business seemed veryvague and unsatisfactory, and there were the other girls and theirfuture to be considered. No wonder, then, that he shook his kindly greyhead and looked somewhat depressed. 

But his wife took another line. 

"Septimus, " she said, "in these matters a woman must judge by her ownheart, and you see Barbara is a woman now. Once, you remember, I hadto face something of the same sort, and I do not think, dear, notwithstanding all our troubles, that either of us have regretted ourdecision. "

Then they both rose and solemnly kissed each other over Barbara's head. 

CHAPTER V

WEDDED

Next day, oh! joy of joys, Barbara and Anthony met once more after somefifteen months of separation. Anthony was now in his twenty-fourthyear, a fine young man with well-cut features, brown eyes and a pleasantsmile. Muscularly, too, he was very strong, as was shown by his athleticrecord at Cambridge. Whether his strength extended to his constitutionwas another matter. Mrs. Walrond, noticing his unvarying colour, whichshe thought unduly high, and the transparent character of his skin, spoke to her husband upon the matter. 

In his turn Septimus spoke to the old local doctor, who shruggedhis shoulders and remarked that the Arnotts had been delicate forgenerations, "lungy, " he called it. Noticing that Mr. Walrond lookedserious, and knowing something of how matters stood between Anthony andBarbara, he hastened to add that so far as he knew there was no causefor alarm, and that if he were moderately careful he thought thatAnthony would live to eighty. 

"But it is otherwise with his brother, " he added significantly, "and forthe matter of that with the old man also. "

Then he went away, and there was something in the manner of hisgoing which seemed to suggest that he did not wish to continue theconversation. 

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 onthem, and now there was left to him but a little time to live. This wassad news and marred the happiness of their meeting, since both of themwere far too unworldly to consider its effect upon their own prospects, or that it would make easy that which had hitherto seemed impossible. 

"Are you nursing him?" she asked. 

"Yes, more or less. I took him to the South of England for two months, but it did no good. "

"I am glad the thing is not catching, " she remarked, glancing at him. 

"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, asthe poor old chap insists upon my sleeping in his room whenever I am athome, as we used to do when we were boys. "

Then their talk wandered elsewhere, for they had so much to say to eachother that it seemed doubtful if they would ever get to the end of itall. Anthony was particularly anxious to learn what blessed circumstancehad caused Barbara's sudden re-appearance at Eastwich. She fenced for awhile, then told him all the truth. 

"So you gave up this brilliant marriage for me, a fellow with scarcely ahalf-penny and a very few prospects, " he exclaimed, staring at her. 

"Of course. What would you have expected me to do--marry one man whileI love another? As for the rest it must take its chance, " and while thewords were on her lips, for the first time it came into Barbara's mindthat perhaps Anthony had no need to trouble about his worldly fortunes. For if it were indeed true that Captain Arnott was doomed, who elsewould succeed to the estate?

"I think you are an angel, " he said, still overcome by this wondrousinstance of fidelity and of courage in the face of Lady Thompson'sanger. 

"If I had done anything else, I think, Anthony, that you might very wellhave called me--whatever is the reverse of an angel. "

And thus the links of their perfect love were drawn even closer thanbefore. 

Only three days later Mr. Walrond was summoned hastily to the Hall. Whenhe returned from his ministrations it was to announce in a sad voicethat Captain Arnott was sinking fast. Before the following morning hewas dead. 

A month or so after the grave had closed over Captain Arnott theengagement of Anthony and Barbara was announced formally, and bythe express wish of Mr. Arnott. The old gentleman had for years beenpartially paralysed and in a delicate state of health, which thesad loss of his elder son had done much to render worse. He sent forBarbara, whom he had known from her childhood, and told her that thesooner she and Anthony were married the better he would be pleased. 

"You see, my dear, " he added, "I do not wish the old name to die outafter we have been in this place for three hundred years, and youWalronds are a healthy stock, which is more than we can say now. Wornout, 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 cominginto this family, for whatever the doctors may or may not say, I thinkit my duty to tell you straight out that in my opinion there is somerisk. "

"If so, I do not fear it, Mr. Arnott, and I hope you will not put anysuch idea into Anthony's head. If you do he might refuse to marry me, and that would break my heart. "

"No, I dare say you do not fear it, but there are other--well, thingsmust take their course. If we were always thinking of the future no onewould dare to stir. "

Then he told her that when first he heard of their mutual attachment hehad been much disturbed, as he did not see how they were to marry. 

"But poor George's death has changed all that, " he said, "since nowAnthony will get the estate, which is practically the only property wehave, and it ought always to produce enough to keep you going and tomaintain the place in a modest way. "

Lastly he presented her with a valuable set of diamonds that hadbelonged to his mother, saying he might not be alive to do so when thetime of her marriage came, and dismissed her with his blessing. 

In due course all these tidings, including that of the diamonds, cameto the ears of Aunt Thompson, and wondrously softened that lady's anger. Indeed, she wrote to Barbara in very affectionate terms, to wish herevery happiness and say how glad she was to hear that she was settlingherself so well in life. She added that she should make a point of beingpresent at the wedding. A postscript informed her that Mr. Russell wasabout to be married to an Italian countess, a widow. 

Barbara's wedding was fixed for October. At the beginning of that month, however, Anthony was seized with some unaccountable kind of illness, inwhich coughing played a considerable part. So severe were its effectsthat it was thought desirable to postpone the ceremony. The doctorordered him away for a change of air. On the morning of his departure hespoke seriously to Barbara. 

"I don't know what is the matter with me, " he said, "and I don't thinkit is very much at present. But, dear, I have a kind of presentimentthat I am going to become an invalid. My strength is nothing likewhat 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 tomarry me. "

"If you were going to be a permanent invalid, which I do not believe forone moment, " answered Barbara steadily, "you would want a nurse, and whocould nurse you so well as your wife? Therefore unless you had ceased tocare for me, I should certainly marry you. "

Then, as still he seemed to hesitate, she flung her arms about him andkissed him, which was an argument that he lacked strength to resist. 

A day or two afterwards her father also spoke to Barbara. 

"I don't like this illness of Anthony's, my dear. The doctor does notseem to understand it, or at any rate so he pretends, and says he hasno doubt it will pass off. But I cannot help remembering the case of hisbrother George; also that of his mother before him. . In short, Barbara, do you think--well, that it would be wise to marry him? I know thatto break it off would be dreadful, but, you see, health is so veryimportant. "

Barbara turned on her father almost fiercely. 

"Whose health?" she asked. "If you mean mine, it is in no danger; and ifit were I should care nothing. What good would health be to me if I lostAnthony, who is more to me than life? But if you mean his health, thenthe greatest happiness I can have is to nurse him. "

"Yes, yes, I understand, dear. But, you see, there might be--others. "

"If so, father, they must run their risks as we do; that is if there areany risks for them to run, which I doubt. "

"I dare say you are quite right, dear; indeed, I feel almost sure thatyou are right, only I thought it my duty to mention the matter, which Ihope you will forgive me for having done. And now I may tell you I havea letter from Anthony, saying that he is ever so much better, and askingif the fifteenth of November will suit us for the wedding. "

On the fifteenth of November, accordingly, Anthony and Barbara were mademan and wife by the bride's father with the assistance of the clergymanof the next parish. Owing to the recent death of the bridegroom'sbrother and the condition of Mr. Arnott's health the wedding wasextremely quiet. Still, in its own way it was as charming as it washappy. All her five sisters acted as Barbara's bridesmaids, and manygathered in that church said they were the most beautiful bevy ofmaidens that ever had been seen. But if so, Barbara outshone them all, perhaps because of her jewels and fine clothes and the radiance on herlovely face. 

Anthony, who seemed to be quite well again, also looked extremelyhandsome, while Aunt Thompson, who by now had put off her mourning, shone in that dim church as the sun shines through a morning mist. 

In short, all went as merrily as it should, save that the bride's motherseemed depressed and wept a little. 

This, said her sister to someone in a loud voice, was in her opinionnothing short of wicked. What business, she asked, has a woman withsix portionless daughters to cry because one of them is making a goodmarriage; "though it is true, " she added, dropping her voice to aconfidential whisper, "that had Barbara chosen she might have made abetter one. Yes, I don't mind telling you that she might have been apeeress, instead of the wife of a mere country squire. "

In truth, Mrs. Walrond was ill at ease about this marriage, why shedid not know. Something in her heart seemed to tell her that her deardaughter's happiness would not be of long continuance. Bearing in mindhis family history, she feared for Anthony's health; indeed, she feareda hundred things that she was quite unable to define. However, at thelittle breakfast which followed she seemed quite to recover her spiritsand laughed as merrily as anyone at the speech which Lady Thompsoninsisted upon making, in which she described Barbara as "her darling, beautiful and most accomplished niece, who indeed was almost herdaughter. "

CHAPTER VI

PARTED

Hard indeed would it be to find a happier marriage than that of Anthonyand Barbara. They adored each other. Never a shadow came between them. Almost might it be said that their thoughts were one thought and theirhearts one heart. It is common to hear of twin souls, but how often arethey 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 oneancient entity divided long ago by the working of Fate and now broughttogether once more through the power of an overmastering attraction, their union could not have been more complete. To the eye of theobserver, and indeed to their own eyes, it showed neither seam nor flaw. They were one and indivisible. 

About such happiness as this there is something alarming, somethingominous. Mrs. Walrond felt it from the first, and they, the two personsconcerned, felt it also. 

"Our joy frightens me, " said Anthony to Barbara one day. "I feel likethat Persian monarch who threw his most treasured ring into the seabecause he was too fortunate; you remember the sea refused the offering, for the royal cook found it in the mouth of a fish. "

"Then, dear, he was doubly fortunate, for he made his sacrifice and kepthis ring. "

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 inhis mind, as very often she had the power to do. 

"Dearest, " she said earnestly, "I know what you think. You think thatsuch happiness as ours will not be allowed to last for long, thatsomething evil will overtake us. Well, it may be so, but if it is, atleast we shall have had the happiness, which having been, will remainfor ever, a part of you, a part of me; a temple of our love not builtwith hands in which we shall offer thanks eternally, here and--beyond, "and she nodded towards the glory of the sunset sky, then turned andkissed him. 

As it chanced, that cruel devouring sea which rages at the feet ofall mankind was destined ere long to take the offering that was mostprecious to these two. Only this was flung to its waters, not by theirhands, but by that of Fate, nor did it return to them again. 

After their marriage Anthony and Barbara hired a charming littleGeorgian house at Chelsea near to the river. The drawback tothe dwelling was that it stood quite close to a place of publicentertainment called "The Gardens, " very well known in those days asthe nightly haunt of persons who were not always as respectable as theymight have been. During their sojourn in London they never entered theseGardens, but often in the summer evenings they passed them when out forthe walks which they took together, since Anthony spent most of his daysat the Temple, studying law in the chambers of a leading barrister. Thustheir 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 housesby about one-half, personally they were grateful to these Gardens, sincethe noise of the bands and the dancing did not trouble them much, andthose who danced could always be avoided. 

When they had been married nearly a year a little daughter was born tothem, a sweet baby with violet eyes like to those of Barbara. Now indeedtheir bliss was complete, but it was not fated that it should remain, since the hungry sea took its sacrifice. The summer was very hot inLondon, and many infants sickened there of some infantile complaint, among them their own child. Like hundreds of others, it died when only afew months old and left them desolate. 

Perhaps Anthony was the more crushed of the two, since here Barbara'svivid faith came to her aid. 

"We have only lost her for a little while, " she said, choking back hertears as she laid some flowers on the little grave. "We shall find heragain; I know that we shall find her again, and meanwhile she will behappier than she could have been with us in this sad world. "

Then they walked back home, pushing their way through the painted crowdsthat were gathering at the gates of "The Gardens, " and listening to thestrains of the gay music that jarred upon their ears. 

In due course, having been called to the Bar, Anthony entered thechambers of an eminent Common Law leader. Although his prospectswere now good, and he was ere long likely to be independent of theprofession, he was anxious to follow it and make a name and fortune forhimself. This indeed he would have found little difficulty in doing, since soon he showed that he had studied to good purpose; moreover, hisgifts were decidedly forensic. He spoke well and without nervousness;his memory was accurate and his mind logical. Moreover, he had somethingof that imaginative and sympathetic power which brings an advocatesuccess with juries. 

Already he had been entrusted with a few cases which he held as "devil"for somebody else, when two events happened which between them broughthis career as a lawyer to an end. In the November after the death oftheir baby his father suddenly died. On receiving the news of his fatalillness Anthony hurried to Eastwich without even returning home tofetch a warm coat, and as a result took a severe cold. During the winterfollowing the funeral this cold settled on his lungs. At last towardsthe spring the crisis came. He was taken seriously ill, and on hispartial recovery several doctors held a consultation over him. Theirverdict was that he must give up his profession, which fortunately nowhe was in a position to do, live in the country and as much in the openair as possible, spending the worst months of the winter either in theSouth of England or in some warmer land. These grave and learned mentold him outright that his lungs were seriously attacked, and that hemust choose between following their advice and a speedy departure fromthe world. 

Anthony would have defied them, for that was his nature. He wished togo on with his work and take the risk. But Barbara persuaded him toobedience. She said she agreed with him that the matter of his healthwas greatly exaggerated. At the same time, she pointed out that as theywere now very well off she saw no reason why he should continue to slaveat a profession which might or might not bring him an adequate returnfifteen or twenty years later. She added that personally she detestedLondon, and would like nothing better than to live at Eastwich near herown people. Also she showed him that his rather extensive estate neededpersonal attention, and could be much improved in value if he were thereto care for it. 

The end may be guessed; Anthony gave up the Bar and the house inChelsea. After staying at Torquay for a few of the winter months, where his health improved enormously, they moved to Eastwich during thefollowing May. Here their welcome was warm indeed, not only from theRectory party, who rejoiced to have Barbara back among them, but fromthe entire neighbourhood, including the tenants and labourers on theproperty. 

The ensuing summer was one of the happiest of their married life. Anthony became so much better that Barbara began to believe he hadthrown off his lung weakness. Certain repairs and rearrangements oftheir old Elizabethan house agreeably occupied their time, and, to crownall, on Christmas Eve Barbara gave birth to a son, an extraordinarilyfine and vigorous child, red-haired, blue-eyed, and so far as could beseen at that early age entirely unlike either of his parents. 

The old doctor who ushered him into the world remarked that he had neverseen a more splendid and perfect boy, nor one who appeared to possess arobuster constitution. 

In due course Mr. Walrond christened him by the name of Anthony, afterhis father, and a dinner was given to the tenants and labourers inhonour of the event. 

That same month, there being a dearth of suitable men with an adequateknowledge of the law, Anthony, who already was a magistrate, though soyoung, was elected a Deputy-Chairman of Quarter Sessions for his county. This local honour pleased him very much, since now he knew thathis legal education would not be wasted, and that he would have anopportunity of turning it to use as a judge of minor cases. 

Yet this grateful and conciliatory appointment in the end brought himevil and not good. The first Quarter Sessions at which he was calledupon to preside in one of the courts fell in February, when he oughtto have been out of the East of England. The calendar was heavy, andAnthony acquitted himself very well in the trial of some difficultcases, earning the compliments of all concerned. But on leaving the hotcourt after a long day he caught a heavy cold, which awoke his latentcomplaint, and from that time forward he began to go down hill. 

Still, watched, fought against by Barbara, its progress was slow. Thewinter months they spent in warmer climates, only residing in Eastwichfrom May to November. During the summer Anthony occupied himself onmatters connected with the estate and principally with the cultivationof the home farm. Indeed, as time went on and increasing weakness forcedhim to withdraw himself more and more from the world and its affairs, the interests of this farm loomed ever larger in his eyes, as largelyindeed as though he depended upon it alone for his daily bread. Moreover, it brought him into touch with Nature, and now that they wereso near to parting, his friendship with her grew very close. 

This was one of his troubles, that when he died, and he knew that beforevery long he must die, even if he continued to live in some other form, he must bid farewell to the Nature that he knew. 

Of course, there was much of her, her cruel side, that he would rejoiceto lose. He could scarcely conceive a future existence framed upon thoselines of struggle, which in its working involves pain and cruelty anddeath. Putting aside sport and its pleasures, which he had abandonedbecause of the suffering and extinction entailed upon the shot or huntedcreatures, to him it seemed inexpressibly sad that even his honestfarming operations, at least where the beasts were concerned, shouldalways culminate in death. Why should the faithful horse be knocked onthe head when it grew old, or the poor cow go to the butcher as a rewardfor its long career of usefulness and profit?

What relentless power had thus decreed? In any higher life surely thisdecree would be rescinded, and of that side of Nature he had seen morethan enough upon the earth. It was her gentler and harmless aspects fromwhich he did not wish to part--from the flower and the fruit, from thespringing blade and the ripened corn; from the beauty that broodedover sea and land; from the glory of the spreading firmament alive withlight, and the winds that blew beneath it, and the rains that washedthe face of earth; from the majestic passage of the glittering starsshedding their sweet influences through the night. To bid farewell tosuch things as these must, to his mind, indeed be terrible. 

Once he said as much to Barbara, who thought a while and answered him:

"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 ofdrinking the fruit of the vine 'new with you in my Father's kingdom'?Therefore surely there must be a growing plant that produces the fruitand a process directed by intelligence that turns it into wine. Theremust be husbandmen or farmers. There must be mansions or abiding places, also, for they are spoken of, and flowers and all things that arebeautiful and useful; a new earth indeed, but not one so different tothe old as to be utterly unfamiliar. "

Anthony said no more of the matter at this time, but it must haveremained in his mind. At any rate, a month or two later when he woke upone morning he said to Barbara:

"Will you laugh very much if I tell you of a dream that came to me lastnight--if it was a dream, for I seemed to be still awake?"

"Why should I laugh at your dream?" she asked, kissing him. "I oftenthink that there is as much truth in dreams as in anything else. Tell itto me. "

"I dreamed that I saw a mighty landscape which I knew was not of theearth. It came to me like a picture, and a great stillness brooded overit. At the back of this landscape stood a towering cliff of stern rockthousands of feet high. Set at intervals along the edge of the cliffwere golden figures, mighty and immovable. Whether they were livingguards or only statues I do not know, for I never came near to them. Here and there, miles apart, streams from the lands beyond pouredover the edge of the cliff in huge cascades of foam that became ragingtorrents when they reached its lowest slopes. One of these rivers feda lake which lay in a chasm on the slopes, and from either end of thislake poured two rivers which seemed to me about twenty miles apart, aswe should judge. They ran through groves of cedars and large groupsof forest trees not unlike to enormous oaks and pines, and yet not thesame. 

"One river, that to the right if I looked towards the lake, was verybroad, so broad that after it reached the plain and flowed slowly, great ships could have sailed upon it. The other, that to the left, wassmaller and more rapid, but it also wandered away across the plaintill my sight could follow it no farther. I observed that the broad, right-hand river evidently inundated its banks in seasons of flood, muchas the Nile does, and that all along those banks were fields filled withrich crops, of what sort I do not know. The plain itself, which I takeit was a kind of delta, the gift of the great river, was limitless. Itstretched on and on, broken only by forests, along the edges of whichmoved many animals. 

"When first I saw this landscape it was suffused with a sweet and pearlylight, that came not from sun or moon or stars, but from a luminous bodyin shape like a folded fan, of which the handle rested on the earth. Bydegrees 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 heavento the other and were joined together by webs of a thousand colours, of such stuff as the rainbow, only a hundred times more beautiful. Thereflection from these rainbow webs lay upon the earth, divided byand sometimes mingled with those from the bars of light, and made itglorious. 

"All these things I saw from an eminence on which I stood that rosebetween the rivers at the head of the plain. At length, overcome by thesplendour, drunk as it were with beauty, I turned to look behind me, andthere, quite close, in the midst of stately gardens with terraces andtrees and fountains and banks of flowers, I saw a house, and--now indeedyou will laugh--for so far as I can recollect it, in general style itwas not unlike our own; that is to say, its architecture seemed to bemore or less Elizabethan. If one who was acquainted with Elizabethanbuildings had gone to that land and built a house from memory, butwith more beautiful materials, he might have produced such a one as Iimagined in my dream. 

"Presently from the door of the house emerged two figures. One of thesewas my brother George and the other, Barbara, was our baby grown to alittle fair-haired child. The child perceived me first and ran tome through the flowers. It leapt into my arms and kissed me. Then mybrother came and said--I do not mean he spoke, but his meaning wasconveyed to me:

"'You see, we are making your home ready. We hope that you will like itwhen you come, but if not you can change it as you wish. '

"Then I woke up, or went to sleep--I do not know which. "

Barbara made light of Anthony's dream, which seemed to her to be afterall but a reflection or an echo of earthly things tricked out with somebizarre imagination. Was not this obvious? The house? A vague replica ofhis own house. The river? Something copied from the Nile, delta and all. The waterfalls? Niagara on a larger scale. The great trees? Doubtlesstheir counterparts grew in America. The brother and the babe--would henot naturally be thinking of his brother and his babe? The thing stoodself-convicted. Echo, echo, echo, flung back in mockery of our agonisedpleadings from the cliffs of the Beyond. 

And yet this dream haunted her, especially as it returned to him morethan once, always with a few added details. They often talked of thissupernatural landscape and of the great radiant fan which closed atnight and opened itself by day, wherewith it was illuminated. Barbarathought it strange that Anthony should have imagined so splendid athing. And yet why should he not have done so? If she could picture itin her own mind, why should he not be able to originate it in his. 

She told him all this, only avoiding allusions to the child, the babyBarbara whom they had lost. For of this child, although she longedto ask him details as to her supposed appearance, she could not bringherself to speak. Supposing that he were right, supposing that theirdaughter was really growing up yonder towards some celestial womanhood, and waiting for him and waiting for her, the mother upon whose breastshe had lain, the poor, bereaved mother. Oh! then would not all be worthwhile?

Anthony listened and said that he agreed with her; as a lawyer he hadanalysed the dream and found in it nothing at all. Nothing more, forinstance, than on analysis is to be found in any and every religion. 

"And yet, " he added, with that pleasant smile of his which was beginningto grow so painfully sweet and plaintive in its character, "and yet, itis 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 init in a great cool room, looking out at the river and the vast fertileplain. Then you came in, my dear, clad in a beautiful robe embroideredwith violets. Yes, you came in glancing round you timidly like one whohad lost her way, and saw me and cried aloud. "

Towards the end Anthony grew worse with a dreadful swiftness. He was tohave gone abroad as usual that winter, but when the time came his statewas such that the doctors shrugged their shoulders and said that hemight as well stop at home in comfort. 

Up to the middle of October he managed to get out upon the farm on finedays to see to the drilling of the wheat and so forth. One rather roughafternoon he went out thus, not because he wished to, but for the sakeof 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 caughtin a tempest of rain and wind, through which he must struggle home. Barbara who, growing anxious, had gone to seek him, found him leaningagainst an oak unable to speak, with a little stream of blood tricklingfrom the corner of his mouth. Indeed, it was the dog, which seemeddistressed, that discovered her and led her to him. 

This was Anthony's last outing, but he lived till Christmas Eve, hisson's eighth birthday. That morning the boy was brought into his roomto receive some present that his father had procured for him, andwarned that he must be very quiet. Quiet, however, he would not be; histumultuous health and strength seemed to forbid it. He racketed aboutthe room, teasing the spaniel which lay by the side of the bed, untilthe patient beast growled at him and even bit, or pretended to bitehim. Thereon he set up such a yell of pain, or anger, or both, that hisfather struggled from the bed to see what was the matter, and so broughton the haemorrhage which caused his death. 

"I am afraid you will have trouble with that child, Barbara, " he gaspedshortly before the end. "He seems to be different from either of us; buthe is our son, and I know that you will do your best for him. I leavehim in your keeping. Good night, dearest, I want to go to sleep. "

Then he went to sleep, and Barbara's heart broke. 

CHAPTER VII

BARBARA'S SIN

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 tallchurch tower about whose battlements the wind-blown rooks wheeled ontheir homeward way. She noted a little yellow aconite that had openedits bloom prematurely in the shadow of the wall, and the sight of itbrought her some kind of comfort. He had loved aconites and planted manyof them, though because of his winter absences years had gone by sincehe had seen one with his eyes, at any rate in England. That this floweramong them all should bloom on that day and in that place seemed to hera message and a consolation, the only one that she could find. 

His sad office over, her father accompanied her home, pouring into herear the words of faith and hope that he was accustomed to use to thosebroken by bereavement, and with him came her mother. But soon shethanked them gently and bade them leave her to herself. Then theybrought her son to her, thinking that the sight of him would thaw herheart. For a while the child was quiet and subdued, for there was thatabout 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:

"Cook says that now father is dead I'm master here, and everyone willhave to do what I tell them. "

Barbara lifted her head and looked at him, and something in herfawn-like eyes, a mute reproach, pierced to the boy's heart. At anyrate, he began to whimper and left the room. 

There was little in the remark, which was such as a vulgar servant mightwell make thoughtlessly. Yet it brought home to Barbara the grim factof her loss more completely perhaps than anything had done. Her belovedhusband was dead, of no more account in the world than those who hadpassed from it at Eastwich a thousand years ago. He was dead, and soonwould be forgotten by all save her, and she was alone; in her heartutterly alone. 

The summer came and everyone grew cheerful. Aunt Thompson arrived atthe Hall to stay, and urged Barbara to put away past things and resignherself to the will of Providence--as she had done in the case of thedeparted Samuel. 

"After all, " she said, "it might have been worse. You might have beencalled upon to nurse an invalid for twenty years, and when at last hewent, have found the best part of your life gone, as I did, " and shesighed heavily. "As it is, you still look quite a girl, having kept yourfigure so well; you are comfortably off and have a good position, and inshort there is no knowing what may happen in the future. You must comeup and stay with me this winter, dear, instead of poking yourself awayin 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 enoughyou will catch something too. "

Barbara thanked her with a sad little smile, and answered that she wouldthink over her kind invitation and write to her later. But in the endshe never went to London, at least not to stay, perhaps it reminded hertoo vividly of her life there with Anthony. At Eastwich she could bearsuch memories, but for some unexplained reason it was otherwise inLondon. 

Indeed, in the course of time her aunt gave up the attempt to persuadeher, and devoted herself to forwarding the fortunes of her other prettynieces, Barbara's sisters, two of whom, it should be said, already shehad settled comfortably in life. Also she took a fancy to the boy, inwhose rough, energetic nature she found something akin to her own. 

"I am sick of women, " she said; "it is a comfort to have to do with amale thing. "

So it came about that after he went to school young Anthony spent alarge share of his holidays at his great-aunt's London house. It may beadded that he got no good from these visits, since Lady Thompson spoilthim and let him have his way in everything. Also she gave him more moneythan a boy ought to have. As a result, or partly so, Barbara found thather son grew more and more uncontrollable. He mixed with grooms and lowcharacters, and when checked flew into fits of passion which frightenedher. 

Oddly enough, during these paroxysms, which were generally followed bytwo or three days of persistent sulking, the only person who seemedto have any control over him was a certain under-housemaid named BessCotton, the daughter of a small farmer in the neighbourhood. This girl, who was only about three years older than Anthony, was remarkable forher handsome appearance and vigour of body and mind. Her hair and largeeyes were so dark that probably the local belief that she had gipsy orother foreign blood in her veins was true. Her complexion, however, waspurely English, and her character had all the coarseness of thosewho have lived for generations in the Fens, whence her father came, uncontrolled by higher influences, such as the fellowship of gentle-bredand educated folk. 

Bess was an excellent and capable servant, one, moreover, who soonobtained a sort of mastery in the household. On a certain occasion theyoung 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 whichhe 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, apromise which, being very strong for his years, he was quite capable ofkeeping. The man-servant was told to go in and bring him out, but hungback. 

"Bless you, " said Bess, "I ain't afraid, " and without hesitation walkedinto the room and shut the door behind her. 

Barbara, listening afar off, heard a shout of "Get out!" followed bya fearful crash, and trembled, for all violence was abominable to hernature. 

"He will injure that poor girl, " she said to herself, and rose, proposing to enter the library and face her son. 

As she hurried down the long Elizabethan corridor, however, she heardanother sound that came to her through an open window, that of Anthonylaughing in his jolliest and most uproarious manner and of the housemaidBess, laughing with him. She stayed where she was and listened. Bess hadleft the library and was coming across the courtyard, where one of theother servants met her and asked some question that Barbara did notcatch. The answer in Bess's ringing voice was clear enough. 

"Lord!" she said, "they always gave me the wild colts to break upon thefarm. It is a matter of eye and handling, that's all. He nearly got mewith that plaster thing, so I went for him and boxed his ears till hewas dazed. Then I kissed him afterwards till he laughed, and he'll neverbe any more trouble, at least with me. That mother of his don't know howto handle him. She's another breed. "

"Yes, " said the questioner, "the mistress is a lady, she is, and gentlelike the squire who's gone. But how did they get such a one as MasterAnthony?"

"Don't know, " replied Bess, "but father says that when he was a boyin the Fens they'd have told that the fairy folk changed him at birth. Anyway, I like him well enough, for he suits me. "

Barbara went back to her sitting-room, where not long afterwards the boycame to her. As he entered the doorway she noted how handsome he lookedwith his massive head and square-jawed face, and how utterly unlike anyArnott or Walrond known to her personally or by tradition. Had he beena changeling, such as the girl Bess spoke of, he could not have seemedmore different. 

He came and stood before her, his hands in his pockets and a smile uponhis face, for he could smile very pleasantly when he chose. 

"Well, Anthony, " she said, "what is it?"

"Nothing, mother dear, except that I have come to beg your pardon. Youwere quite right about the coursing meeting; they are a low lot, and Ioughtn't to mix with them. But I had bets on some of the dogs and wantedto go awfully. Then when you said I mustn't I lost my temper. "

"That was very evident, Anthony. "

"Yes, mother; I felt as though I could have killed someone. I did tryto kill Bess with that bust of Plato, but she dodged like a cat and thething smashed against the wall. Then she came for me straight and gaveme what I deserved, for she was too many for me. And presently all myrage went, and I found that I was laughing while she tidied my clothes. I wish you could do the same, mother. "

"Do you, Anthony? Well, I cannot. "

"I know. Where did I get my temper from, mother? Not from you, or myfather from all I have heard and remember of him. "

"Your grandfather would say it was from the devil, Anthony. "

"Yes, and perhaps he is right; only then it is rather hard luck on me, isn't it? I can't help it--it comes. "

"Then make it go, Anthony. You are to be confirmed soon. Change yourheart. "

"I'll try. But, mother dear, though I am so bad to you, you are the onlyone who will ever change me. When that wild-cat of a girl got the betterof me just now, it was you I thought of, not her. If I lost you I don'tknow what would become of me. "

"We have to stand or fall alone, Anthony. "

"Perhaps, mother. I don't know; I am not old enough. Still, don't leaveme alone, for if you do, then I am sure which I shall do, " and bendingdown he kissed her and left the room. 

After this scene Anthony's behaviour improved very much; his reportsfrom school were good, for he was quick and clever, and his great skillin athletics made him a favourite. Also his grandfather, who preparedhim for confirmation, announced that the lad's nature seemed to havesoftened. 

So things remained for some time, to be accurate, for just so long asthe girl Bess was a servant at the Hall. 

Anthony might talk about his mother's influence over him, and withoutdoubt when he was in his normal state this was considerable. Also itserved to prevent him from breaking out. But when he did break out, BessCatton alone could deal with him. Naturally it would be thought thatthere was some mutual attraction between these young people. Yet thiswas not so, at any rate on the part of the girl, who had been overheardto tell Anthony to his face that she hated the sight of him and "wouldcut him to ribbons" if she were his mother. 

At any rate, there were others, or one other, of whom Bess did not hatethe sight, and in the end her behaviour caused such scandal that Barbarawas obliged to send her out of the house. 

"All right, ma'am, " she said, "I'll go, and be glad of a change. You mayring your own bull-calf now and I wish you joy of the job, since there'snone but me that can lead him. "

A few days later Anthony returned from school. With him came a letterfrom the head master, who wrote that he did not wish to make anyscandal, and therefore had not expelled the boy. Still, he would beobliged if his mother would refrain from sending him back, as he did notconsider him a suitable member of a public school. He suggested, inthe lad's own interest, that it might be wise to place him in someestablishment where a speciality was made of the training of unrulyyouths. He added that he wrote this with the more regret since Anthony'sfather and grandfather had been scholars at ---- in their day, and herson possessed no mean intellectual abilities. This would be shown bythe fact that he was at the head of his class, and might doubtless underother circumstances have risen to a high place in the sixth form. 

Then followed the details of his misdoings, of which one need only bementioned. He had fought another boy, who, it may be added, was olderthan himself, and beaten him. But the matter did not end there, sinceafter his adversary had given up the fight Anthony flew at him andmaltreated him so ferociously before they could be separated, that for awhile the poor lad was actually in danger of collapse. 

When reproached he expressed no penitence, but said only that he wishedthat 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 anddemanded her return. When told that this was impossible he announcedquietly that he would make the place a hell, and kept his word. 

For a year or more before this date Barbara had not been well. Shesuffered from persistent colds which she was unable to shake off, andwith these came great depression of spirit. Now in her misery the poorwoman went to her room, and falling on her knees prayed with all herheart that she might die. The burden laid upon her was more than shecould bear. Only one consolation could she find, that her belovedhusband had not lived to share it, for she knew it would have crushedhim as it crushed her. 

Her father was now very old, and so feeble that everyone screened himfrom trouble so far as might be. But this particular trouble could notbe hid, and Barbara told him all. 

"Do not give way, my dearest daughter, " he said, "and above all do notseek to fly from your trial, which doubtless is sent to you for somegood purpose. Troubles that we strive to escape nearly always recoilupon our heads, whereas if they are faced, often they melt away. If youremain in the world to watch and help him, your son's nature, bad as itseems to be, may yet alter, for after all I know that he loves you. Butif you give up and leave the world, who can tell what will happen to himwhen he is quite uncontrolled and in possession of his fortune?"

Barbara recognised the truth of her father's words, and while he livedtried to act up to them. But as it happened Mr. Walrond did not livelong, for one evening he was found dead in the church, whither he oftenwent to pray. 

About this time the doctors told Barbara that her condition of healthwas somewhat serious. It seemed that her lungs also showed signs ofbeing affected. Perhaps she had contracted the disease from her husband, and now that she was so broken in spirit, it asserted itself. Theyadded, however, that if she took certain precautions, and above all wentaway from Eastwich, there was every reason to hope that she would quiterecover her health. 

In the end Barbara did not go away. At the time Anthony was beinginstructed by a tutor who resided at the Hall to prepare him forthe University and ultimately for the Army. Needless to say, she wasemployed continually in trying to compose the differences between himand this tutor. How then could she go away and leave that poor gentlemanand her old mother, who when she was not staying with one of her othermarried daughters now made her home at the Hall?

Thus she argued to herself, but the truth was that she did not wishto go. Her dearest associations were in the churchyard yonder, thechurchyard where she hoped ere long she would be laid. She hated life, she sought and craved for death. This was her sin. 

Night by night she lay awake and thought of Anthony, her darling, herbeloved. She remembered that dream of his about a home that awaited himin another world, and she loved to fancy him as dwelling in that placeof peace and making ready for her coming. 

Nobody thought of him now except herself and his old dog Nell. The dogthought 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 restits head upon her as she slept, and she would wake to find it looking ather 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 tomake when its master was going to take it out. She even heard it jumpingup as though to paw at him, and wondered dreamily what it could mean. 

When she woke in the morning she saw the poor beast lying stiff and coldupon the bed that had been Anthony's, and though she wept over it, hertears were perhaps those of envy rather than of sorrow, for she was surethat it had found Anthony. 

More and more Barbara threw out her soul towards Anthony. Across thevoid of Nothingness she sent it travelling, nor did it return withempty hands. Something of Anthony had greeted it, though she couldnot remember the greeting, had spoken with it, though she could notinterpret the words. Of this at least she was sure, she had been near toAnthony. 

Once she seemed to see him. In the infinite, infinite distance, millionsof miles away, the sky opened as it were. There in the opening wasAnthony talking with one whom she knew for their daughter, the baby thathad died, talking of her. In a minute they were gone, but she had seenthem, she was sure that she had seen them, and the knowledge warmed herheart. 

So there was no error, the Bible was true, more or less; Faith was notbuilt 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 bywhich 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 nodream, no empty blackness. Beyond it stretched the Promised Land peopledwith the lost who soon would be the found. 

Barbara's last illness was rapid. When she began to go she went swiftly. 

"Can't you save her?" asked her son of one of the doctors. 

"The disease has gone too far, " he answered. "Moreover, it is impossibleto save one who seeks to die. "

"Why does she seek to die?" blurted Anthony, glaring at him. 

"Perhaps, young gentleman, you are in a better position to answer thatquestion than I am, " replied the doctor, who knew of Anthony's cruelconduct to his mother and had reproached him with it, not once but onseveral occasions. 

"You mean that I have killed her, " said Anthony savagely. 

"No, " replied the doctor, "she is dying of tuberculosis of the lungs. What were the primary causes which induced that disease I cannot besure. All I said was that she appears to welcome it, or rather itsissue. And I will add this on my own account, that when she does die theworld will lose one of the sweetest women that ever walked upon it. Goodmorning. "

"I know what he means, " said Anthony to himself, as he watched theretreating form. "He means that I have murdered her, and perhaps Ihave. She is sick of me and wants to get back to my father, who wasso different. That's why she won't go on living when she might. She iscommitting suicide--of a holy sort. Well, what made me a brute and heran angel? And when she's gone how will the brute get on without theangel? Why should I be filled with fury and wickedness and she of whomI was born with sweetness and light? Let God or the devil answer thatif they can. My mother, oh! my mother!" and this violent, sinister youthhid his face in his hands and wept. 

Barbara sank down and down into a very whirlpool of nothingness. Bendingover it, as it were, she saw the face of her aged mother, the faces ofsome of her dear sisters, the face of the kindly doctor, and lastly theagonised face of her handsome son. 

"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!"

These were the last words that Barbara heard. 

CHAPTER VIII

THE ATONEMENT

Now these are the things that seemed to happen to Barbara after herearthly death. Or rather some of the things, for most of them have fadedaway and been lost to her mortal memory. 

Consciousness returned to her, but at first it was consciousness in anutter dark. Everywhere was blackness, and in it she was quite alone. Thewhole universe seemed to centre in her solitary soul. Still she felt nofear, only a kind of wonder at this infinite blank through which she wasbeing borne for millions and millions of miles. 

Lights began to shine in the blackness like to those of passing shipsupon a midnight sea. Now she was at rest, and the rest was long andsweet. Every fear and sad thought, every sensation of pain or discomfortleft her. Peace flowed into her. 

Presently she became aware of a weight upon her knee, and wondered bywhat it could be caused, for it reminded her of something; became awarealso that there was light about her. At length her eyes opened and sheperceived the light, though dimly, and that it was different to any shehad known, purer, more radiant. She perceived also that she lay upona low couch, and that the weight upon her knee was caused by somethingshaped like the head of a dog. Nay, it _was_ the head of a dog, and oneshe knew well, Anthony's dog, that had died upon his bed. Now she wassure that she dreamed, and in her dream she tried to speak to the dog. The words that her mind formed were:

"Nell! Is that you, Nell?" but she could not utter them. 

Still they were answered, for it appeared to her that the dog thought, and that she could read its thought, which was:

"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 andlooked at her with eyes full of a wonderful love. 

Her heart went out towards the faithful beast in a kind of rapture, andher intelligence formed another question, it was:

"Where am I, and if you, a creature, are here, where are the others?"

"Be patient. I only watch you till they come, " was the answer. 

"Till they come. Till who come?" she murmured. 

Something within told her to inquire no more. But oh! was it possible--was the earth dream coming true?

A long while went by. She looked about her, and understood that she waslying in a great and beautiful room beneath a dome which seemed to befashioned of translucent ivory or alabaster. At the end of the room werecurtains woven of some glittering stuff that gave out light. At lengththese 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 thatBarbara knew that had she been alive with the old life she would havefelt afraid. 

This shape also was clad in garments that gave out light, and in itshair were jewelled flowers. It glided to her side and looked at her withloving, mysterious eyes. Then it held the cup to her lips, and said, orrather thought, for the speech of that land declared itself in thoughtand vision:

"Drink of this new wine. "

She drank of the wine, and a wonderful life fell upon her like a glory. 

"Who are you, O Vision?" she asked, and by way of answer there rose upwithin her a picture of herself, Barbara, leaning over a cot and lookingat the white face of a dead child in a certain room in London. Then sheknew that this was her daughter, and stretched out her arms towards herand received her in her arms. 

Presently she looked again, and there around the bed appeared four othershapes of beauty. 

"You have forgotten us, Barbara, " said one of them, "but we are yoursisters who died in infancy. "

For the third time she looked, and behold! kneeling at her side, just ashe had been found kneeling in the church, was her adored father, grownmore young. Once more she looked, and last of all, breathing ineffablelove, came her lost darling, Anthony himself. 

From heart to heart flashed their swift thoughts, like lightnings fromcloud to cloud, till all her being was a very sea of joy. Now the greatroom was full of presences, and now the curtains were gone and all spacebeyond was full of presences, and from that glorious company of a suddenthere arose a song of welcome and beneath the burden of its sweetnessshe swooned to sleep. 

Barbara dwelt in joy with those she loved and learned many things. Shelearned that this sweet new life of hers was what she had fashioned onthe earth with her prayers and strivings; that the seeds of love andsuffering sown down in the world's rank soil had here blossomed tothis perfect flower. Now she knew what was meant by the saying that thekingdom of Heaven is within you, and by the other saying that as mansows 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, upwhich ladder all souls must climb to the ultimate judgment, there wassorrow as well as bliss, there were both suffering and delight. 

Here the sinful were brought face to face with the naked horror of theirsins, and from it fled wailing and aghast. Here the cruel, the covetous, the lustful and the liar were as creatures dragged from black cavernsof darkness into the burning light of day. These yearned back to theirdarkness and attained sometimes to other coverings of a mortal flesh, orto some land of which she had no knowledge. For such was their fate ifin them there was no spark of repentant spirit that in this new worldcould be fanned to flame. 

Upwards or downwards, such is the law of the universe in which nothingcan stand still. Up from the earth which Barbara had left came thespirit shape of all that lived and could die, even to that of theflower. But down to the earth it seemed that much of it was whirledagain, to ascend once more in an age to come, since though the stream oflife pulses continually forward, it has its backwash and its eddies. 

Barbara learned that though it is blessed to die young and sinless, liketo that glorious child of hers with whom she walked in this heavenlycreation, and whose task it was to instruct her in its simplermysteries, to live and to repent is yet more blessed. In this life orin that all have sinned, but not all have repented, and therefore, itappeared to Barbara, again and again such must know the burden of theflesh. 

Also she saw many wonders and learned many secrets of that vast, spiritual universe into which this world of ours pours itself day byday. But if she remembers anything of these she cannot tell them. 

Oh! happy was her life with Anthony, for there, though now sex as weknow it had ceased to be, spirit grew ever closer to spirit, and asbelow they dreamed and hoped, their union had indeed become an altar onwhich Love's perfect fire flamed an offering to Heaven. Happy, too, washer communion with those other souls that had been mingled in her lot, and with many more whom she had known aforetime and elsewhere and longforgotten. For Barbara learned that life is an ancient story of which wespell out the chapters one by one. 

Yet amidst all this joy and all the blessed labours of a hallowed worldin which idleness was not known, nor any weariness in well-doing, acertain shadow met Barbara whichever way she turned. 

"What is it?" asked Anthony, who felt her trouble. 

"Our son, " she answered, and showed him all the tale, or so much of itas he did not know, ending, "And I chose to leave him that I might takemy chance of finding you. I died when I might have lived on if I had sowilled. That is my sin and it haunts me. "

"We are not the parents of his soul, which is as ancient as our own, Barbara. "

"No, but for a while it was given into my hand and I deserted it, andnow I am afraid. How can I tell what has chanced to the soul of thisson of ours? Here there is no time. I know not if I bade it farewellyesterday or ten thousand years ago. Long, long since it may have passedthrough this world, where it would seem we dwell only with those whom weseek or who seek us. Or it may abide upon the earth and there grow fouland hateful. Let us search out the truth, Anthony. There are those whocan open its gates to us if the aim be pure and good. "

"After I died, Barbara, I strove to learn how things went with you, andstrove in vain. "

"Not altogether, Anthony, for sometimes you were very near to me, or soI dreamed. Moreover, the case was different. "

"Those who search sometimes find more than they seek, Barbara. "

"Doubtless. Still, it is laid on me. Something drives me on. "

So by the means appointed they sought to know the truth as to this sonof theirs, and it was decreed that the truth should be known to them. 

In a dream, a vision, or perchance in truth--which they never knew--theywere drawn to the world that they had left, and the reek of its sins andmiseries pierced them like a spear. 

They stood in the streets of London near to a certain fantastic gatewaythat was familiar to them, the gateway of "The Gardens. " From withincame sounds of music and revelling, for the season was that of summer. A woman descended from a carriage. She was finely dressed, dark andhandsome. Barbara knew her at once for the girl Bess Catton, who alonecould control her son in his rages and whom she had dismissed for herbad conduct. She entered the place and they entered with her, althoughshe saw them not. Bess sat down, and presently a man whom she seemedto know drew out of the throng and spoke to her. He was a tall man ofmiddle age, with heavy eyes. Looking into his heart, they saw that itwas stained with evil. The soul within him lay asleep, wrapped roundwith the webs of sin. This man said:

"We are going to have a merry supper, Bess. Come and join us. "

"I'd like to well enough, " she answered, "for I'm tired of my grandlife; it's too respectable. But suppose that Anthony came along. He's mylawful spouse, you know. We had words and I told him where I was going. "

"Oh, we'll risk your Anthony! Forget your marriage ring and have a tasteof the good old times. "

"All right. I'm not afraid of Anthony, never was, but others are. Well, it's your look-out. "

She went with the man to a pavilion where food was served, andaccompanied him to a room separated by curtains from the main hall. Ithad open windows which looked out on to the illuminated garden and thedancing. In this room, seated round a table, was a company of womengaudily dressed and painted, and with them were men. One of these wasa mere boy now being drawn into evil for the first time, and Barbaragrieved for him. 

These welcomed the woman Bess and her companion noisily, and made roomfor them in seats near to the window. Then the meal began, a costly mealat which not much was eaten but a great deal was drunk. The revellersgrew excited with wine; they made jests and told doubtful stories. 

Barbara's son Anthony entered unobserved and stood with his back againstthe 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 thesupper threw his arm about her and kissed her, whereat she laughed andthe others laughed also. 

Anthony sprang forward. The table was overthrown. He seized the man andshook him. Then he struck him in the face and hurled him through theopen 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 sometrees. 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 andoffered them money. The woman Bess began to revile her husband. 

He took her by the arm and said:

"Will you follow that fellow through the window, or will you come withme?"

Glancing at him, she saw something in his face that made her silent. Then they went away together. 

The scene changed. Barbara knew that now she saw her Aunt Thompson'sLondon house. In that drawing-room where she had parted from Mr. Russell, her son and his wife stood face to face. 

"How dare you?" she gasped through her set lips, glaring at him withfierce eyes. 

"How dare _you?_" he answered. "Did I marry you for this? I have givenyou everything, my name, the wealth my old aunt left to me; you, you thepeasant's child, the evil woman whom I tried to lift up because I lovedyou from the first. "

"Then you were a fool for your pains, for such as I can't be lifted up. "

"And you, " he went on, unheeding, "go back to your mire and the herd ofyour fellow-swine. You ask me how I dare. Go on with these ways, and Itell you I'll dare a good deal more before I've done. I'll be rid of youif I must break your neck and hang for it. "

"You can't be rid of me. I'm your lawful wife, and you can prove nothingagainst me since I married. Do you think I want to be such a one as thatmother of yours, to have children and mope myself to the grave----"

"You'd best leave my mother out of it, or by the devil that made youI'll send you after her. Keep her name off your vile lips. "

"Why should I? What good did she ever do you? She pretended to be sucha saint, but she hated you, and small wonder, seeing what you were. Whyshe even died to be rid of you. Oh, I know all about it, and you told meas much yourself. If my child is ever born I hope for your sake it willbe such another as you are, or as I am. You can take your choice, " andwith a glare of hate she rushed from the room. 

On a table near the fireplace stood spirits. The maddened husband wentto them, filled a tumbler half full with brandy, added a little waterand drank it off. 

He poured more brandy into the glass and began to think. To Barbara hismind was as an open book and she read what was passing there. What shesaw were such thoughts as these: "My only comfort, and yet till withintwo years ago, whatever else I did, I never touched drink. I swore to mymother that I never would, and had she been alive to-day----. But Bessalways liked her glass, and drinking alone is no company. Ah! if mymother had lived everything would have been different, for I outgrew thebad fit and might have become quite a decent fellow. But then I met Bessagain by chance, and she had the old hold on me, and there was none tokeep me back, and she knew how to play her fish until I married her. Theold aunt never found it out. If she had I shouldn't have 8, 000 pounds ayear to-day. I lied to her about that, and I wonder what she thinksof me now, if she can think where she is gone. I wonder what my motherthinks also, and my father, who was a good man by all accounts, thoughnobody seems to remember much about him. Supposing that they could seeme now, supposing that they could have been at that supper party andwitnessed the conjugal interview between me and the female creature whois 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 ofdirt, no more, and since no doubt I shall join them before very long, Ithank God for it, or rather I would if there were a God to thank. Here'sto the company of the Dead who will never hear or see or feel anythingmore from everlasting to everlasting. Amen. "

Then he drank off the second half tumbler of brandy, hid his face in hishands and began to sob, muttering:

"Mother, why did you leave me? Oh, mother, come back to me, mother, andsave my soul from hell!"

Barbara and Anthony awoke from their dream of the dreadful earth andlooked into each other's hearts. 

"It is true, " said their hearts, which could not lie, and with thosewords all the glory of their state faded to a grey nothingness. 

"You have seen and heard, " said Barbara. "It was my sin which hasbrought this misery on our son, who, had I lived on, might have beensaved. Now through me he is lost, who step by step of his own will musttravel downwards to the last depth, and thence, perhaps, never be raisedagain. This is the thing that I have done, yes, I whom blind judges inthe world held to be good. "

"I have seen and heard, " he answered, "and joy has departed from me. Yetwhat wrong have you worked, who did not know?"

"Come, my father, " called Barbara to that spirit who in the flesh hadbeen named Septimus Walrond, "come, you who are holy, and pray thatlight may be given to us. "

So he came and prayed and from the Heavens above fell a vision in answerto his prayer. The vision was that of the fate of the soul of the son ofAnthony and Barbara through a thousand, thousand ages that were to come, and it was a dreadful fate. 

"Pray again, my father, " said Barbara, "and ask if it may be changed. "

So the spirit of Septimus Walrond prayed, and the spirits of hisdaughters and of the daughter of Anthony and Barbara prayed with him. Together they kneeled and prayed to the Glory that shone above. 

There came another vision, that of a little child leading a man by thehand, and the child was Barbara and the man was he who had been her son. By a long and difficult path--upwards, ever upwards--she led him, andthe end of that path was not seen. 

Then these spirits prayed that the meaning of this vision might be mademore clear. But to that prayer there came no answer. 

Barbara went apart into a wilderness where thorns grew and there enduredthe 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, everupwards to yet greater joy, shared with those she loved. On the otherhand lay the seething hell of Earth, to be once more endured throughmany mortal years and--a soul to save alive. None might counsel her, none might direct her. She must choose and choose alone. Not in fear ofpunishment, for this was not possible to her. Not in hope of glory, forthat she must inherit, but only for the hope's sake that she might--savea soul alive. 

Out of her deep heart's infinite love and charity thus she chose inatonement of her mortal sin. And as she chose the great arc of Heavenabove her, that had been grey and silent, burst to splendour and tosong. 

So Barbara for a while bade farewell to those who loved her, badefarewell to Anthony her heart's heart. Once more, alone, utterly alone, she laid her on the couch in the great chamber with the translucent domeand thence her spirit was whirled back through nothingness to the hellof Earth, there to be born again in the child of the evil woman, that itmight save a soul alive. 

Thus did the sweet and holy Barbara--Barbara who came back--in atonementof her sin. 

For her reward, as she fights on in hope, she has memory and suchvisions as are written here. 

THE END