LITMIR.BIZ

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I not his dog, his old dog, to lead him in his blindness? Why do you take his bone from a dog?"

      "What is the man saying?" asked Dorothy.

      "He is offended because you come to lead me; he says that he is my dog, and that you snatch his bone from him. A pretty sort of bone, indeed!" he added.

      "Tell him," said Dorothy, "that here in this country I hold your hand. What does he want? Is he not always with you? Does he not sleep across your door? What more does he want?"

      Ernest translated her reply.

      "Ow!" said the Zulu, with a grunt of dissatisfaction.

      "He is a faithful fellow, Doll, and has stood by me for many years; you must not vex him."

      But Dorothy, after the manner of loving women, was tenacious of what she considered /her/ rights.

      "Tell him that he can walk in front," she said, putting on an obstinate little look--and she could look obstinate when she liked. "Besides," she added, "he cannot be trusted to lead you. I am sure he was tipsy last night."

      Ernest translated the first remark only--into the latter he did not care to inquire, for the Zulu vowed that he could never understand Dorothy's English, and Mazooku accepted the compromise. Thus for awhile the difference was patched up.

      Sometimes Dorothy and Ernest would go out riding together; for, blind as he was, Ernest could not be persuaded to give up his riding. It was a pretty sight to see them; Ernest mounted on his towering black stallion, "The Devil," which in his hands was as gentle as a lamb, but with everybody else fully justified his appellation, and Dorothy on a cream-coloured cob Mr. Cardus had given her, holding in her right hand a steel guiding-rein linked to "The Devil's" bit. In this way they would wander all over the country-side, and sometimes, when a good piece of turf presented itself, even venture on a sharp canter. Behind them Mazooku rode as groom, mounted on a stout pony, with his feet stuck, Zulu fashion, well out at right angles to his animal's side.

      They were a strange trio.

      So from week's end to week's end Dorothy was ever by Ernest's side, reading to him, writing for him, walking and riding with him, weaving herself into the substance of his life.

      At last there came one sunny August day, when they were sitting together in the shade of the chancel of Titheburgh Abbey. It was a favourite spot of theirs, for the grey old walls sheltered them from the glare of the sun and the breath of the winds. It was a spot, too, rich in memories of the dead past, and a pleasant place to sit.

      Through the gaping window-places came the murmur of the ocean and the warmth of the harvest sunshine; and gazing out by the chancel doorway, Dorothy could see the long lights of the afternoon dance and sparkle on the emerald waves.

      She had been reading to him, and the book lay idle on her knees as she gazed dreamily at those lights and shadows, a sweet picture of pensive womanhood. He, too, had relapsed into silence, and was evidently thinking deeply.

      Presently she roused herself.

      "Well, Ernest," she said, "what are you thinking about? You are as dull as--as the dullest thing in the world, whatever that may be. What is the dullest thing in the world?"

      "I don't know," he answered, awakening. "Yes, I think I do; an American novel."

      "Yes, that is a good definition. You are as dull as an American novel."

      "It is unkind of you to say so, Doll, my dear. I was thinking of something, Doll."

      She made a little face, which of course he could not see, and answered quickly:

      "You generally are thinking of something. You generally are thinking of--Eva, except when you are asleep, and then you are dreaming of her."

      Ernest coloured up.

      "Yes," he said, "it is true; she is often more or less in my mind. It is my misfortune, Doll, not my fault. You see, I do not do things by halves."

      Dorothy bit her lip.

      "She should be vastly flattered, I am sure. Few women can boast of having inspired such affection in a man. I suppose it is because she treated you so badly. Dogs love the hand that whips them. You are a curious character, Ernest. Not many men would give so much to one who has returned so little."

      "So much the better for them. If I had a son, I think that I should teach him to make love to all women, and to use their affection as a means of amusement and self-advancement, but to fall in love with none."

      "That is one of your bitter remarks, for which I suppose we must thank Eva. You are always making them now. Let me tell you that there are good women in the world; yes, and honest, faithful women, who, when they have given their heart, are true to their choice, and would not do it violence to be made Queen of England. But you men do not go the right way to find them. You think of nothing but beauty, and never take the trouble to learn the hearts of the sweet girls who grow like daisies in the grass all round you, but who do not happen to have great melting eyes or a splendid figure. You tread them underfoot, and if they were not so humble they would be crushed, as you rush off and try to pick the rose; and then you prick your fingers and cry out, and tell all the daisies how shamefully the rose has treated you."

      Ernest laughed, and Dorothy went on:

      "Yes, it is an unjust world. Let a woman but be beautiful, and everything is at her feet, for you men are despicable creatures, and care for little except what is pleasant to the senses. On the other hand, let her be plain, or only ordinary-looking--for the fate of most of us is just to escape being ugly--and you pay as much regard to her as you do to the chairs you sit on. And yet, strange as it may seem to you, probably she has her feelings, and her capacities for high affections, and her imaginative power, all working vigorously behind her plain little face. Probably, too, she is better than your beauty. Nature does not give everything. When she endows a woman with perfect loveliness, she robes her either of her heart or her brains, or perhaps of both. But you men don't see that, because you won't look; so in course of time all the fine possibilities in Miss Plain-face wither up, and she becomes a disappointed old maid, while my Lady Beauty pursues her career of selfishness and mischief-making, till at last she withers up too, that's one comfort. We all end in bones, you know, and there isn't much difference between us then."

      Ernest had been listening with great amusement to Dorothy's views. He had no idea that she took such matters into her shrewd consideration.

      "I heard a girl say the other day that, on the whole, most women preferred to become old maids," he said.

      "Then she told fibs; they don't. It isn't natural that they should--that is, if they care for anybody. Just think, there are more than ten hundred thousand of our charming sisterhood in these islands, and more women being born every day! Ten hundred thousand restless, unoccupied, disgusted, loveless women! It is simply awful to think of. I wonder they don't breed a revolution. If they were all beautiful, they would."

      He laughed again.

      "Do you know what remedy Mazooku would apply to this state of affairs?"

      "No."

      "The instant adoption of polygamy. There are no unmarried women among the Natal Zulus, and as a class they are extremely happy."

      Dorothy shook her head.

      "It wouldn't do here; it would be too expensive."

      "I say, Doll, you spoke just now of our 'charming sisterhood'; you are rather young to consider yourself an old maid. Do you want to become one?"

      "Yes," she said sharply.

      "Then /you/ don't care for anybody, eh?"

      She blushed up furiously.

      "What business is it of yours, I should like to know?" she answered.

      "Well, Doll, not much. But will you be angry with me if I say something?"

      "I suppose you can say what you like."

      "Yes; but will you listen?"

      "If you speak

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