Part 34 (2/2)
”A hundred men and five officers,” continued the burgher captain.
”We had friends in the action,” said Mr Daveney, trying to be firm.
”Can you tell us if they are safe?”
”Their names, sir?”
”Frankfort and Ormsby.”
”I have the list of officers killed and wounded,” said the man; and first he looked in his hat, next he fumbled in his capacious pockets, then he turned his haversack round,--it was not there; examined his pouch--”No; he was afraid he had lost it.” How little could he understand the agonised suspense of Marion.
He took off his wide-flapped hat again.
”See under the feather,” said May.
The bushman's quick eye had detected a paper stuck in the string encircling the hat; it was the list. May s.n.a.t.c.hed it from him, and handed it to Mr Daveney.
Neither Ormsby's nor Frankfort's name was there.
Marion burst into tears of grat.i.tude and excitement.
The burgher spoke truth when he said the enemy was beaten, but not conquered. May said there were holes in the calabash, and so it was; the warrior bands were broken, but they infested the colony in all directions, walking in and out of it as it pleased them, by manifold kloofs and pa.s.ses untrod by settlers.
It was Sir John Manvers's division which had been engaged. Sir Adrian was still to the eastward, preparing to march beyond the Orange River; the messages of defiance addressed to Sir John Manvers were referred to him.
The master of Annerley, in utter dread of Lyle's reappearance at no distant period, determined on retiring, as soon as possible, to the lower and more civilised districts of the Cape Colony; and Mrs Daveney, eagerly according with his plan, prepared at once for the journey, which was to be undertaken as opportunities offered of travelling with escorts.
Meanwhile comforting letters were received from Ormsby. Frankfort had joined Sir Adrian's force. Eleanor tried to rouse herself to exertion, and the day arrived when the family was to quit Annerley for ever.
May, to his infinite joy, was, with Fitje and his child, to accompany the Daveneys.
”Be not heart-sore, missis,” said he to Eleanor; ”when the night gets darkest, day is nearest;” and taking the long whip from Griqua Adam, he gave the signal for departure by a loud sharp crack, that echoed like twenty whips up the kloof.
The colonists, men, women, and children, with Mr and Mrs Trail, stood at the gate of the avenue. Some begged to say ”Good-bye” to the young ”missis,” and the curtains of the wagon were drawn aside for a minute; but those who caught sight of Eleanor turned away frightened and sorrowful at her ghastly looks, and begged the rest not to trouble her.
Her mother was beside her. Eleanor's head was pillowed on her sympathising bosom. Truly did that mother deplore her own blind, obstinate folly in trusting her unfortunate daughter's happiness to that which, had she chosen to look deeply into it, she would have seen was but a chance of well-doing after all.
Oh! how many are there who _will_ work for themselves, instead of waiting for Providence's gracious helping hand.
Mr Daveney and Marion were on horseback.
The people pressed forward to say ”Farewell.” Father and daughter had a hand for each, and one blue-eyed, fair-haired child would be lifted up to be kissed.
”Ah!” said an Englishwoman, ”bless Miss Marion! she has no pride.”
”Troth, an ye'r wrong,” interposed an Irish one. ”Sure it's herself that has the real pride--the pride of the lady, that knows she does not demean herself by showing the good-will to all G.o.d's creatures.”
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