Marion was rattling on, as she sat before her glass, brushing her bright hair, which hung in great luxuriance over her white dressing-gown; but hearing no reply from Eleanor, she turned round, and saw her sister, with her head leaning on her hand, in her old abstracted way: jumping up, she ran to her, and casting her arms—how dazzlingly fair they looked against that sable robe!—round Eleanor’s neck, she exclaimed, “Sweet sister mine, how selfish I must seem; but I am so happy!—and you—ah! you only answer me with your tears; but, my own darling, you must not refuse to be comforted—you must not.” And she kissed the high, thoughtful brow of the pale, sad face she loved.
“Comfort, Marion! dear, bright-faced, light-hearted sister!—earth can give me no comfort, no consolation; but I love you—I love you;” and she took Marion to her bosom, and kissed her tenderly. “Consolation and comfort are yet to come. Doubtless they will come, but they have not been granted me yet. Ah! ‘Sunbeam,’” she added, calling her by the name a Kafir chieftain had applied to Marion—“‘Sunbeam,’ may no clouds overshadow you!”
She longed—oh! how she longed—to warn Marion of the thorns and rugged ways of the path which looked so fair, with Love beckoning in the distance, and smiling at the feet that stumbled in striving to reach his temple, in which were many altars—some of triumph, most of sacrifice; but she had not the heart to rend aside the veil.
She gathered up her sister’s radiant tresses, kissed again the rosy cheek, and withdrew to her own little room. The moon shone through the latticed windows, chequering the objects it illuminated: she extinguished her light, and looked out into the avenue. Frankfort and Ormsby were still there. On the right and left were the wagons: the lager consisted of some twenty people on either side, but all was noiseless, save the pacing of a solitary sentinel, who waited for Frankfort to go the midnight rounds. The latter hurried up the avenue, and bid the man proceed, saying he would follow; and then she heard the two officers exchange a friendly “Good night.”
“Remember,” said Frankfort.
“I will,” replied Ormsby; “you are right, and I am wrong, my good fellow.” The rest was lost to Eleanor, who retired from the window.
Another blazing day! Mrs Daveney established herself with Marion and Mrs Trail in the cool dining-room; Eleanor was assisting Mr Trail in the school; Frankfort was displaying his success in engineering to his host, and was planning work for Ormsby and himself.
Marion was more listless than usual, laying down her work—sad, stupid work it was—coarse frock-making for those “wretched little Hottentots”—and lifting up the dark moreen blinds to see if thunder-clouds were gathering. “No; there were streaks in the sky like great white plumes, there would be a breeze in the evening, and she should have her ride.”
“Sit down, Marion,” said Mrs Daveney, rather impatiently; “how restless you are! it is impossible to write while you are wandering about the room.”
Marion sat down, her cheeks in a glow, and stitched away in nervous haste. Her mother noted all this.