Still he felt he had acted, as far as he could judge, for the best. A career of trust and command was before him. He was to think for others as well as himself. He was in possession of house, land, and cattle. He was to be umpire, in a large district, between the great powers of might and right. He stood with ten talents in his hand, for which he was to be responsible.
A certain spasm shot through his wife’s heart, as well as his own, when the old uniform was laid aside for ever—the sword hung up, the number cut from the forage-cap; but within her mind lay, deeper than in his, the germ and elements of an unrecognised ambition. Had she been born to power at home, she would have exercised it with the same lofty bearing with which, on one occasion, in her husband’s absence on duty, she had set her house in array to receive a troop of savages, who had been seen stalking, brand and assegai in hand, through the passes of the district.
The letter we have quoted was but a girlish effusion. Still, the shrewd woman of the world, the embryo Duchess, read her friend and playmate aright when, on laying down this epistle from a soldier’s wife, she remarked to a friend who had heard its contents, “Africa will suit Eleanor Daveney. In England she could neither be seen nor heard above her compeers. I know her better than she knows herself. She is just one of those who profess self-abnegation in their desire to be placed in a sphere of usefulness, but whose enthusiasm would fall to the ground without the excitement of success or applause.”
“There is some good sense, though, and much good feeling,” observed the other lady, “in all Eleanor says, and, without intending it, she has placed her husband in a pleasant light. I should think he was just the man to appreciate the good sense, and turn the warmth of heart to wise account.”
“Yes, I dare say,” replied Eleanor’s friend, with an absent air, as she walked to the window, overlooking Piccadilly, and watched the restless thoroughfare through her eye-glass. Then a carriage, in most perfect taste, drove up, a portly man, with a hook nose and rubicund visage, descended, and the Duchess-elect forgot Mrs Daveney’s existence for many years, till her cousin Frankfort, by a letter, revived for a short time the old association.
But let future events develop the characters I have faintly sketched. Supper is ready in the eating-room, and Mr Daveney, as we shall for the future style him, having introduced his guests to his tiny dressing-room, where they refreshed themselves with clean water and a slight change of dress, taps at the door and waits to usher them to his hospitable board.
The sportsmen gladly acceded, and followed him to the dining-room, where Mrs Daveney and two daughters awaited them.
Frankfort’s eye rested at once upon the pale face of Eleanor, the elder of these daughters. He recognised the high thoughtful forehead of the father, but the long grey eye, with dark lashes, resembled her mother’s, so did the lip, that had narrowly escaped being scornful; and, though strongly resembling her mother, the features of the youthful face were soft. But much older than that young fair face was the expression it wore,—wore, for it was not natural to it. Was it the result of mournful experiences? Yes, surely so, thought Frankfort, as Mr Daveney took his daughter’s hand, and placing her beside himself, introduced her to his guests.
She looked up, and bending gracefully to both gentlemen, her eyes and Frankfort’s met. Oh, the mysterious charm cast on the traveller from the depths of those earnest, melancholy orbs!
Ormsby soon found that both sisters had been, in Cape Town, Marion within the last twelve months, visiting some friends of her father, who were enjoying the Cape climate after the sultry sun of India. He was fully prepared to admire his fair neighbour’s bright eyes, and at the same time enjoy the repast spread before him; it was plentiful, savoury, and far from inelegant. Before the host was that first-rate Irish dish, a cold shoulder of corned mutton, garnished with fresh, green, crisp parsley; on lifting the cover from the side-dishes, a fragrant steam arose, that warmed a hungry man’s heart as he inhaled it. In one was a fine cucumber, scooped hollow, and then stuffed with seasoned meat, and stewed in rich sauce. In another smoked a famous Dutch plat, called La partje, square inches of mutton, skewered on little sticks, dipped in sauce, made of tomatoes and capsicums and eschalots if none better offers, and toasted over a wood fire. A third contained a pile of rice, white as snow; the next a rechauffé of ox-tail curry; added to these were potatoes, baked with their jackets on in the ashes, roasted meelies (Indian corn), so delicious when young, grated biltongue, excellent butter, some delicious rolls, a household loaf on a trencher, with a knife beside it, whereof the handle was of polished horn from the head of the African gemsbok; then there was such preserved quince, and marmalade, as a Scotchman’s soul would have delighted in, to say nothing of poached eggs, brought in hot after all had sat down. It was all like magic to the travellers, and had they seen the old Malay in the kitchen, with his mysterious contrivances, which no European cook would condescend to understand, they would have been still more astonished. He was an old creature, who had lived with the Morlands, and then followed the Daveneys to the wilderness, where he had his own way, and sent forth all manner of savoury dishes from a huge fireplace, without a grate, before which he was seated all day, issuing his orders to an assistant imp, something like May.