Two years had fully elapsed since the incidents narrated in the last
chapter, and Miss Letty, in spite of the doctor’s ominous predictions,
was still alive, and, as she expressed it, “in fairly good health for a
woman of her age.” Major Desmond, however, was a prey to constant
alarms, and in spite of the gout and rheumatism which nowadays afflicted
him, used to visit her constantly, being always more or less in terror
lest she should be snatched away suddenly from him and no time for a
last “Good-bye.” And Miss Letty, with her always swift perception, saw
his anxiety, and considered him very tenderly,--for he, though he did
not seem to recognize it, was also suffering from the inevitable aches
and pains of age, yet he held himself as bravely as ever. He wasn’t
going to stoop and crawl about with a stick,--no, not he! And he bravely
demonstrated his force of will by walking from his club in Piccadilly to
Hans Place whenever his gouty foot was causing him the most acute
suffering. Other men in his plight would have taken a cab, or at least
availed themselves of a crutch--but he did neither. And there was so
much practical good sense in the resistance he offered to the attempted
siege of illness, that he cured himself of threatened attack many a time
and saved the doctor’s bill.
Both he and Miss Letty had lost sight of Boy. Since the morning on which
he had restored the bank notes, and had, as he said, “left his love,” he
had disappeared mysteriously and unaccountably. The Major had inquired
in vain for him at his old lodgings, and finally, in desperation, had
essayed the disagreeable task of interviewing his parents on the subject
of his whereabouts. But he could get no news from them. The “Honourable”
Jim, bolstered up in his chair, with drawn countenance and hollow eyes,
was scarcely recognizable, save when his son’s name was mentioned, and
then he straightway woke up from his semi-lethargy to swear. The Major
was therefore reduced to the necessity of endeavouring to get what
information he could out of Mrs. D’Arcy-Muir, who, breathing hard and
heavily like a porpoise, wept profusely at his first question, and
allowed her tears to trickle down and mix with the various food stains
on the dirty front of the ample dressing-gown in which she now enveloped
her elephantine proportions.
“Oh, don’t talk to me about Boy!” she said. “Think of my sufferings as a
mother! The disappointment I have had to endure is too terrible for
words! The sacrifices I have made for him! The trouble I have had!”
“What trouble?” demanded the Major sharply. “You have done about as
little for him as any one could, I fancy!”
Mrs. D’Arcy-Muir stopped producing her tears,--and stared at him with
the air of an injured Roman matron.
“Little!” she echoed. “I have done everything for him--everything!
Through my efforts, when his father grudged me any money for his
education, he went to school in France----”
“And he’d better have stayed at home,” interpolated the Major.
“Then I never rested day or night till I could get him to college; and
then--and then----”
“Then he was ‘crammed,’ and forgot that he was anything but a machine to
take in facts and grind them to powder,--and then he went to Sandhurst,
and then he got expelled for being drunk, having seen his father drunk
before him all his life. Yes, ma’am, we know all that! But what I’m
asking you now is--what’s become of him?”
“I’m sure I don’t know,” said Mrs. D’Arcy-Muir, beginning to be
snappish. “I have not seen or heard anything of him for ages. He has
deserted his mother! He is ungrateful--unnatural--and cruel! Sometimes I
think he cannot be my son. I’m sure”--here she put her handkerchief to
her eyes--“the stories one hears of changelings might really be
true,--for Boy was never the same to me after he stayed with Miss
Letty.”
As she spoke she almost screamed, for the Major, with one big stride,
came close up to her and glared down upon her like a figure of fury.
“Why--why, you miserable woman!” he suddenly burst out. “You ought to be
ashamed of yourself! You dare to hint anything against one of the finest
creatures God ever made, and the best friend your son ever had--and
I’ll--I’ll _shake_ you! I will! If that wretched object
inside--Jim--whom I used to know when he was younger, had shaken you
long ago it would have done you and him a world of good! You don’t know
any news of Boy, don’t you? Well, _I_ do. I know this much, that if Miss
Letty had been a woman like you, that unfortunate young fellow you have
brought into the world would be serving his time in prison for---- Well,
never mind for what! But with all his faults and follies he is better
than his mother. If I had my way, his mother should hear a thing or two!
Yes, ma’am, you may stare at me as much as ever you like--I’ve often
wanted to speak my mind to you, and now I’ve done it. You were never fit
to have a son. You never knew what to do with him when you got him. Your
carelessness, your selfishness, your slovenliness, your downright d----
d idleness, are at the bottom of a good deal of the mischief he’s
tumbled into. There, ma’am! I’ve said what I think, and I feel better
for it. Good morning!”
And before Mrs. D’Arcy-Muir could say another word he abruptly left her,
and she heard the street door shut after him with a loud bang. Her
husband yelled to her from the adjoining room.
“What’s that?”
She went to him, her heavy tread shaking the flooring as she moved.
“It’s that horrible old Major Desmond just gone,” she said viciously.
“He’s been most insulting! He actually says _I_ am to blame for Boy’s
turning out so badly!”
The Honourable Jim began to laugh. It was not a pleasant laugh, and the
nature of his illness did not conduce to agreeable facial expression.
But what latent sense of humour remained in him was decidedly awakened
by his wife’s indignation.
“You’re to blame, eh! He said that? Well, he’s right--so you are! So you
are!”
“Jim!”
And over her fat cheeks her little eyes peered at him with a look of
amazement and wrath.
“I mean it,” he persisted thickly, trying to twist his poor paralysed
tongue to distinct utterance. “You haven’t been fair to me or Boy,” and
he began to whimper feebly. “The house has always been at sixes and
sevens--never knew when one was going to have one’s bit or drop--no one
in their senses would ever have called it a home--and you never tried
to do me any good. If you had I might not be lying here now. Desmond’s
right enough--old Dick Desmond was always a good sort of thoroughgoing
chap. He knows what’s what. He’s right--it _is_ your fault. God knows it
is!”
His head fell back wearily on his pillow, and his lack-lustre eyes
rolled restlessly in his head as if in search for something
unattainable. There was something really pitiable in the wretched man’s
helplessness,--and in the neglected state of his room, where medicine
bottles, cups and glasses were littered about in confusion, and where
everything showed carelessness and utter disregard of the commonest
cleanliness and comfort. But no touch of compunction moved his wife to
any consciousness of regret or compassion. On the contrary, she assumed
an almost sublime air of majestic tolerance and injured innocence.
“Oh, of course!” she said resignedly, “of course it’s my fault! I ought
to have known you would say that. It’s the way of a man. He always
blames the woman who has been good to him--who has waited upon him hand
and foot--who has worked for him night and day--who has----” here she
began to grow hysterical--“who has loved him--who has been the mother of
his son--who has sacrificed herself entirely to her home! Yes--it is
always the way! Nothing but ingratitude! But you are ill, and I will not
blame you--Oh no, Jim--I’ll not blame you, poor man!--you will be
sorry--sorry for being so cruel to your good wife who has been so kind
to you!”
With a sort of fat chuckling sob the estimable woman retired--not to
weep, oh no! but merely to eat some eggs and macaroni, a dish to which
she was particularly partial, and which had consoled her often before
for the wrongs inflicted on her as the chief martyr of her sex.
And the Major returned to Miss Letty with the account of his embassy,
whereat the gentle soul laughed a little, though there was a sadness in
her laughter. All her old affection for Boy as a child had come back in
full force for Boy as a young man, now that she knew all the story of
his griefs and temptations. For after the affair of the bank notes, the
Major had judged it best to tell her of the lad’s expulsion from
Sandhurst, and when she knew everything, her pity and tenderness for him
knew no bounds. Her whole heart went out to him--and she had but one
wish--to see him again and lay her hands in a farewell blessing on his
head. “Just once before I die,” she thought, for she knew in her own
soul that death could not be far off--“just to kiss him and say I
understand how he was tempted, poor fellow!--and how heartily I forgive
him and pray for him.”
The Major knew of this secret longing of hers, though she seldom spoke
of it, and it was in his great desire to gratify her that he sought
everywhere for some clue to Boy’s whereabouts, but in vain. A police
raid on the “Marquis” de Gramont’s gambling den had effectually cleared
that rats’ nest out of London, so there were no difficulties left there
by means of which Boy might have been traceable. Anxious and disturbed
in mind, the good Major rambled up and down the Strand and all the
bye-streets appertaining thereto, under the vague impression that he
should perhaps find Boy reduced to selling matches or bootlaces at a
corner, or coming out of a cheap eating-house,--“for,” said the Major
feelingly, “he will have to get a dinner somehow or somewhere. One of
the chief disadvantages of life on this earth is that none of us can do
without feeding. If a world were invented where the creatures in it
could exist simply by breathing in the air and drinking in the light, it
would be perfection--there would be no cause for quarrelling, strife, or
envyings of one another, though I expect some of the fashionable ladies
would even then keep things pretty lively by quarrelling over their
lovers and their gowns.”
Violet Morrison was away from London just at this time. Her course of
study in surgical nursing, followed with the most intense and
painstaking care, had made her an invaluable assistant to two or three
of the greatest surgeons in London--and “Nurse Morrison,” as she was
called, was always in demand. She was no fancy follower of her
profession. She had not taken it up for the express purpose of flirting
with the doctors, and inveigling one of them into marrying her. She had,
however, grown into a very beautiful woman, and many a clever and
brilliant ‘rising man’ cast longing eyes of admiration at her fair face
and graceful form, as she moved with noiseless step and soft pitying
eyes through a hospital ward, soothing pain by her touch and inspiring
courage by her smile. But she set herself steadfastly against every hint
of love or marriage, and never swerved for an hour or a moment from the
lines of work and duty she had elected to walk in. Her only personal
anxiety was for Miss Letty, and willingly would she have stayed with her
beloved old friend, had not Miss Letty herself refused to be “coddled,”
as she expressed it.
“If you don’t go and do your work, child, I shall fancy I am in
immediate danger,” she said with a smile, “and I shall die right off
before you have time to look round! Go where your duty calls you,--I
shall be ever so much better and happier for knowing that you are where
you ought to be.”
“I ought to be with you, I think,” said Violet tenderly. “My first duty
is to you.”
Miss Letty patted her hand kindly,
“Your first duty is to help those who are in instant need, my dear,” she
said. “Be quite happy about me,--I am really feeling much better and
stronger, and I don’t think I shall go away from you just yet--not quite
just yet. I think I shall live”--and her eyes softened tenderly--“to see
Boy again.”
So Violet went, though not till after consultation with her uncle, who
swore vociferously that if she remained to “nurse” Miss Letty, it would
be all up with her at once.
“She’ll get it into her head that she can’t be left alone,--that she’s
just on the point of dropping down dead--and I don’t know what else in
the way of sickly rubbish,” he said warmly. “Look here, child! I’ve got
the gout--and your wiseacres of doctors tell me that it may fly to my
heart and do for me in a minute. Well--all I say is, let it! It can’t do
any more when it’s done! But because I have to be dismissed out of the
world one way or the other, I’m not going to crawl round on sticks, with
a nurse bobbing about after me by way of a walking advertisement to
announce--‘All’s up with this chap! Look at him and bid him good-bye!’
Not a bit of it!”
Violet laughed.
“You dear uncle! You are always so plucky!”
“Plucky! There’s no pluck about it,--we’ve all got to die--and when the
time comes, let us for heaven’s sake go decently and in order, without
making a fuss about it. The animals show us a good example--they go into
holes and corners to die, in order not to distress their living friends.
That’s what we ought to do, if we were not so deuced conceited as to
think ourselves the most valuable objects in all creation. Yet, as a
matter of fact, there are a good many horses and dogs who are superior
to most men. No, Violet!--Don’t you bother about Miss Letty. _I’ll_
take care of her. She’ll live all the longer for not being fussed over.
You talk of pluck! She’s twenty times more plucky than I am--and
we’ll--we’ll both make a stand against the final enemy--_together_!”
There was a pathetic note in the Major’s voice as he uttered the last
few words, and Violet felt her eyes grow suddenly moist. But in her deep
respect for the fine old man’s personal courage as well as for his
fidelity to a lifelong passion, she forbore to utter one word of the
sympathy which she knew would be unwelcome.
And time went on, till all at once England was thrilled and aroused by
the declaration of war with the Transvaal,--a trumpet note which,
re-echoing through the whole Empire, called into action the dormant
martial spirit of all the men who love their country and their Queen.
Excitement followed upon excitement,--hurried preparations for
battle--embarkations of troops--rumours, now of victory, now of
defeat,--and all the world was astir with eagerness to see how
lion-hearted England would respond to the sudden and difficult demand
made upon the strength of her military power. Regiment after regiment
was despatched to the front,--ship after ship bore away sons, brothers,
husbands and fathers from their homes and families, some to come back
again loaded with honour and victory,--some never to return. The Major
woke up like an old war-horse who hears the “réveille” sounded in the
darkness of his stable,--and almost forgot his gout in the eagerness
with which he tramped to and fro from the War Office to gather up the
latest news of friends and old comrades in arms who had thrown up
everything to go to the front and be again in active service.
“I never regretted my lost youth till now,” he said enviously to his old
friend Captain Fitzgerald Crosby, who on account of a certain skill in
the management of some special form of gun, was going out to the
Cape--“Why, God bless me, Fitz, you’re only fifteen years younger than I
am!”
“That’s true,” said Fitz,--“still fifteen years count, old boy! I wish
with all my heart you were going with me,--but perhaps you would not
care about leaving Miss Letty.”
“No--you’re right--I shouldn’t,” said the Major promptly. “I’m not
jealous of you--don’t you think it! I wish you luck and a late chance of
promotion!”
And when Fitz had gone, in company with many others whom the Major knew,
another parting took place which caused the old man a very decided
twinge of pain, and almost moved him to urge his own personal claims
against those of duty. One of the famous surgeons for whom Violet had
worked so well, was leaving for hospital work at the front, and made it
a particular request that “Nurse Morrison” should also go on the same
steamer.
“We don’t want any amateur ‘fancy’ nurses out there,” he said,
explaining the position to the Major, who heard him with a mingling of
pride and pain,--pride that his niece’s skill was so highly valued--pain
at the idea of her leaving him,--“We want brave capable women, who will
be examples to the others, and who really mean to work. There is no one
I know who will be so valuable to me in my operations on the wounded as
Nurse Morrison. I have talked to her about it, and she is quite willing
to go if you give her leave.”
The matter had to be decided in a hurry, and so the Major, with a
somewhat dismal face, confided it all to Miss Letty, who at once pleaded
eloquently that Violet might be permitted to undertake the high duties
offered to her.
“Let her go, Dick, by all means,” she said. “It’s a splendid chance for
her--I know she will win the highest honours. She is perfectly fearless,
and she may help to save many a valuable life.”
“But you, Letty,” said Desmond. “Who’s going to look after _you_?”
Miss Letty smiled.
“I’m all right, Dick! I have my maid,--and if I get any worse than I am,
I will ask my old Margaret to come over from Scotland and nurse me. We
mustn’t be selfish in our old age, Dick! We must let Violet go. Her
services will be invaluable, and if we miss her, as of course we shall,
during her absence, we shall at any rate feel we are doing our little
best towards helping our brave soldiers by giving our dear girl to
their cause.”
And so Violet sailed for the seat of war, bidding her uncle and Miss
Letty good-bye with many tears, forebodings and private griefs,--but
moved to heroic resolution to do her best where her work was so
strenuously demanded. The moment she arrived at the Cape, she and the
eminent surgeon who had secured her services were sent on to join the
forces moving towards Colenso, and she soon had her mind as well as her
hands full with the instructions she received as to the interior
arrangements of hospital field tents, and the preparations for what has
been rightly termed the “merciful cruelty” of the operating tables.
On the eve of the now famous battle of Colenso she stood at the entrance
of one of these tents, pale but resolute, gazing out into space, her
heart strangely heavy, her eyes burning with the heat of the dry, dusty
air, and her whole mind oppressed with premonitory forebodings. Danger
and death seemed very near,--and though cheerfulness was one of her
qualities as a nurse, she found it difficult on this particular night to
shake off the gloom and dread, which, like a black storm-cloud, steadily
darkened down over her soul. She tried to think of all the things
connected with her work--of the field hospital train, which she had
walked through from end to end at the request of her commanding surgeon,
examining everything, and admiring the forethought and care with which
so many comforts had been provided for the coming wounded. The coming
wounded! A faint shudder ran through her frame,--how un-Christian, how
terrible it seemed, that shot and shell should be used to tear poor
human beings to pieces for a quarrel over a bit of land, so much gold,
or a difference as to the gain or loss of either!
“If the politicians who work up wars could only realize the true horror
of bloodshed they would surely be more careful!” she thought. “It is
terrible to be waiting here for the bodies of the poor fellows, mangled
and bleeding, who have to suffer the most frightful agonies just at the
command of Governments sitting safe in their easy chairs!”
“Thinking of home, Nurse Morrison?” said a cheery voice; and she looked
up to see the famous surgeon she served addressing her. “Or of the
coming Christmas?”
“Neither, sir. I was thinking of the cruelty of war.”
“It is a relic of barbarism,” said the great man, the while he peered
into the hospital tent and saw that things were as he would have them.
“Indeed, it is almost the only vestige left to us of the dark ages. The
proper way for civilized nations to behave in a difficulty is to submit
to peaceable arbitration. War--especially nowadays--is a mere
slaughter-house--and the soldiers are the poor sheep led to the
shambles. The real nature of the thing is covered up under flying flags
and the shout of patriotism, but, as a matter of stern fact, it is a
horrible piece of cowardice for one nation to try murdering another just
to see which one gets its way first.”
“I am glad you think as I do,” said Violet, her eyes shining. “It is
surely better to serve Queen and Country by the peaceful arts and
sciences, than by killing men wholesale!”
The surgeon looked at her quizzically.
“Yes, nurse, but you must remember that the arts and sciences are very
seldom rewarded--whereas if you kill a few of your human brethren you
get notice and promotion! Don’t let us talk about it. We must do as we
are told. And when the poor chaps are shot at and battered about, we
must try to mend them up as well as we can. You’ve got everything very
nice in there--very nice! Now oblige me, nurse, by trying to rest,--for
from what I hear you will be actively wanted to-morrow.”
He nodded and went his way. Accustomed to obedience, Violet lay down on
her little tent-bed, and before she closed her eyes in sleep prayed
fervently for her uncle and her “darling Miss Letty.”
“I wonder how she is?” she thought, “and I wonder if she has yet heard
anything of Boy?”
The morning broke clear and calm over the distant heights called
Drakensberg, and an intense heat poured down from the cloudless sky,
making the very ground scorching to the tread. There was not a breath
of air, and the scarcity of water made it impossible to cool the tents
by ordinary means. Violet awoke to the thunderous crash of the British
naval guns opening fire on Fort Wylie. As dawn deepened into day, the
bombardment grew faster and more furious, but no response came from the
hidden enemy. For some time, storms of shell and shrapnel poured on in
their destructive course without any apparent result, till all at once
one shot crashed fiercely from the hills behind Colenso. This was
followed by an appalling roar of guns and a deluge of fire from the Boer
line of defence, and the fray began in deadly earnest. Sick and
terrified at first by the hideous din, Violet instinctively put her
hands to her ears, and sat, with one or two of the other nurses, well
within the first field hospital tent, waiting for she knew not what.
Once the great surgeon looked in, pale with excitement.
“Be ready, all of you!” he said briefly. “This is deadly work!” And he
was gone.
“Are you not afraid?” asked one of her companions, whispering to Violet.
“Afraid?” she answered. “Oh no, not afraid,--only sorry! Sorry with my
whole heart and soul for what these poor soldiers will have to suffer! I
am thinking of them all the while--not of myself.”
The hammering of the guns continued, and far away, from the heights,
invisible cannon thundered and boomed. As the day advanced the combat
grew more closely contested, and wounded men were beginning to be
rapidly carried to the “donga,” or shelter, at the rear of the British
forces. Disaster followed disaster; and presently a word was whispered
that turned the hearts of the waiting women in the tents cold--“defeat.”
Defeat! For the British? Surely there was no such possibility! Defeat!
While they were whispering together in low awestruck voices, the great
surgeon suddenly entered with some of his assistants, his sleeves rolled
up, his whole manner emphatically declaring work--and work too of the
promptest and smartest character. Violet moved at once to his side.
“Do as I tell you,” he said, “and--you must not shrink! You will see
some horrible sights. Are you prepared?”
“Quite!” she replied tranquilly. He gave one glance at her calm face and
steadfast eyes--nodded approvingly, and went on with his preparations. A
young lieutenant suddenly rushed in.
“They’ve shot the Colonel!” he exclaimed wildly. “He wouldn’t leave the
guns! They wanted him to, but he said ‘Abandon be damned! We never
abandon guns!’” And away he rushed again.
On went the crash of the Maxims behind the Boer trenches,--the earth was
torn up in every direction by the bursting of lyddite shells--dead and
wounded were brought in by their comrades, or carried on ambulances by
the Army Medical Corps. The nurses were soon more than busy,--Violet
Morrison did her best to soothe the frantic ravings of many of the men
who, growing delirious with pain, fancied themselves still fighting on
the field, and filled the air with their shoutings. “Look to the guns!
Splendid! Splendid work! Don’t leave the guns!” And the hospital tent
she controlled, so quiet and orderly some hours previously, was now
transformed into a scene of breathless horror and interest.
The hot suffocating day went on, till, as the afternoon lengthened
towards evening, there came the appalling news that the young and
gallant Lieutenant Roberts, the only son of one of the most heroic of
English generals, had been killed in a brave attempt to rescue the guns.
This awful fatality seemed to create something of a panic among the
bravest,--some of the steadiest heads lost account of what they were
doing for the moment, and by a fatal forgetfulness on the part of the
Staff, orders were never given to the Devons and Scots Fusiliers to
leave the “donga” where they, with many wounded, were sheltered.
Faithful to their duty, these unfortunate and valiant men remained where
they were, waiting till they were told to move,--with the dire result
that as the evening closed in the enemy crossed the river and
treacherously surrounded them under cover of the white flag. Cruel
slaughter followed,--but in the very midst of the fire and the falling
men, a young officer on horseback suddenly dashed out from behind a
hillock, galloping with all his might and bearing a wounded comrade
across his saddle. A rain of shots greeted his appearance, but he seemed
to bear a charmed life, for he raced on and on through the hail of
bullets and never stopped till he reached the first field hospital tent,
where his horse suddenly reeled and fell dead, bringing himself and his
wounded burden to the ground.
Some of the medical staff were round him in an instant, and as soon as
he could get breath he spoke.
“I’m not hurt,” he explained, “but this chap is. I found him
wounded--and a rascal Boer making a barricade of his body to hide
himself behind while he fired at our men. I shot the Boer, and took away
this fellow--he’s a young private--I’m afraid he’s done for. I should
like to know who he is, for he gave a sort of cry when I took hold of
him, and called me ‘Alister,’ and swooned right off. Alister’s my
name--so he must know me.”
He shook himself like a young lion, free of dust, and wiped away the
blood that was trickling from a small scar in his cheek. His wish that
the comrade he had rescued should be attended to at once was gratified
as quickly as possible, and as the surgeon bared the terrible wounds of
the insensible mangled human creature before him he shook his head.
“No hope!” he said,--“it’s no use operating here! It would only prolong
the poor fellow’s agony. He’s coming to, though. Do you think he knows
you?”
“Well, my name’s McDonald,” said the young officer,--“Alister McDonald.
My father’s in the Gordon Highlanders. And this chap called me Alister.
Let me have a look at him.” He came up to the side of the wounded
soldier, who was gradually returning to consciousness with heavy
shuddering breaths of pain,--and looked long and earnestly in his face.
Then he gave a sharp exclamation.
“By Jove! It’s Boy!”
Violet Morrison heard the cry, and turned swiftly.
“Boy!” she exclaimed, and came forward, her lips apart, her whole frame
trembling. Alister McDonald looked at her in surprise and admiration.
“Do you know him?” he said. “I’ve never seen him since he was a little
chap, but I remember his face quite well. I don’t know how he comes to
be a private, though. I think it must be the same fellow. His name is
Robert D’Arcy-Muir----”
But Violet, bending down over the poor shattered frame of the dying man,
quickly recognized, through the trickling blood and clammy dews of fever
heat, the delicate refined features and clustering fair locks which had
once been the fond admiration of one of the sweetest women in the world,
and, despite all her efforts at self-control, a low sob escaped her.
“Oh my darling Miss Letty!” she whispered--“Oh Boy!”
Young Alister McDonald heard her.
“Miss Letty!” he echoed with quick interest--“Oh, then it must be Boy.
He stayed with her up in Scotland at a house just opposite my
father’s----”
The surgeon raised a warning finger,--and he was silent. Boy opened his
eyes, dimly blue, and slowly glazing over with a dark film, and looked
up in the face of “Nurse Morrison.”
“Have we won?” he asked faintly.
The surgeon laid his firm kind hand upon the fitfully beating pulse.
“Don’t fret! We _shall_ win!” he said.
Boy gazed blankly up from his straight pallet bed.
“Shall we?--I don’t know--it’s all defeat--defeat!--and they’ve got the
guns!--by treachery. Where’s Alister?”
“Here!” said the young lieutenant, advancing. “Cheer up, old chap!”
“I knew it must be you!” said Boy, trying to stretch out his hand. “When
you shot that Boer coward--and took me up on your horse--I
knew!--Alister all over!--You were always like that--about fighting the
enemies of England--do you remember?”
“Yes, I remember”--and Alister affectionately touched that feebly
groping hand--“Don’t you worry! It’s all right!”
“Ah, you’ve done something brave--already!” murmured Boy. “You always
said you would--you wanted to be a hero, and you’ve--you’ve begun! I
wanted to do something great too--for Miss Letty’s sake....”
His voice sank. Moved by a passionate wish to rouse him once more,
Violet Morrison suddenly put her arms round him as he lay, and said
clearly--
“Boy!”
He stared at her, and a little smile crept round his mouth.
“Boy!” she went on sobbingly--“Can you hear me--can you understand?”
He made a faint sign of assent.
“I know Miss Letty,” she went on in her sweet thrilling tones--“and you
have seen me, and I have seen you, only you don’t remember me just now.
Poor Boy! I know Miss Letty--and I know how she loves you and wants to
see you again!”
The smile grew sweeter on the poor parched lips.
“Does she?” His voice seemed to come from a long way off, so faint and
feeble it had grown. “Ah! But I must do something great--and she will
forgive me----”
“She has forgiven you!” said Violet.--“Oh Boy!--dear Boy!--try to
understand!”
A grey shadow fell warningly on his features, but he still kept his eyes
fixed on Violet.
“Does--she--know?”
“She knows--she knows!” answered Violet, unable now to restrain her fast
falling tears. “She knows how hard everything was for you--yes, dear
Boy, she knows!--and she loves you just as dearly now, as when you were
a little child!”
A grave peace began to compose and soften his face, as though it were
touched by some invisible sweet angel’s hand.
“Tell her--that I enlisted--to get a chance--of making amends--doing
something good--brave--to make her proud of me,--but it’s too late
now--too late....”
A terrible convulsion seized him, and the sharp agony of it caused him
to spring half upright. The surgeon caught him and held him fast--he
stared straight before him, his eyes shining out with an almost
supernatural brightness--then all the light in them suddenly faded--the
lids drooped--and he sank back heavily. Violet put her arms round him
once more, and drew the fallen head, disfigured and bleeding, to her
bosom, weeping and murmuring still--
“Boy! Oh Boy!”
“It’s all right!” he said dreamily--“All forgiven--all right! Don’t cry.
Tell Miss Letty not to cry. Tell her--Boy--Boy left his love!”
An awed silence followed--and then--young Alister McDonald, with a
tenderness which, though he knew it not, was destined to deepen into a
husband’s lifelong devotion later on, drew the weeping Violet gently
aside that she might give her tears full vent,--while the surgeon
reverently drew a covering over the quiet face of the dead.
* * * * *
At home in England the news of the battle of Colenso and the capture of
the British guns was received by a whole world with incredulity and
dismay. Throngs of people crowded the War Office, clamouring for
news--pouring out inquiries and lamentations,--reading the terrible list
of casualties, and while reading scarcely believing what their own eyes
beheld. Major Desmond, furious at the mere idea of any disaster to the
British arms, stood reading the list, without half understanding what he
saw, so bewildered and stunned was his mind with the cruel and
unexpected nature of the dispatches from the front, till all at once he
saw--
“Captain Fitzgerald Crosby. Killed.”
He staggered back as though he had received a blow.
“What, Fitz? Poor old Fitz! Gone so soon? No--surely not possible!”
He read the announcement again and again, feeling quite sick and giddy;
and his eyes, wandering up and down the column, suddenly fell on the
name “D’Arcy-Muir.”
“Robert D’Arcy-Muir--Private. Killed.”
“Now wait a bit!” said the Major, sternly apostrophising himself--“This
won’t do! You’re dreaming, old man! It’s no good fancying oneself in a
nightmare. Robert D’Arcy-Muir,--private--in what regiment?--Scots
Fusiliers. Now let me see!”
He went straight to one of the chief authorities at the War Office--a
man whom he knew intimately and who would be most likely to help him.
“Robert D’Arcy-Muir,--private--Scots Fusiliers? Curious you should ask
me about him!--his name came under my notice quite by chance two years
ago. Yes--I remember the case quite well. He was the only son of an
officer of good family, Captain the Honourable D’Arcy-Muir. He was at
Sandhurst, but unfortunately got expelled for being drunk and
disorderly. He told his story, it appears, quite frankly, when he
enlisted, and his honesty stood him rather in good stead. He was quite a
favourite with the regiment, I believe. Killed, is he?--And you knew
him?--Sorry, I’m sure. Will I see that his parents are
informed?--Certainly. Have you the address? Thanks. They didn’t know he
had enlisted? Odd! They couldn’t have cared much. I suppose they dropped
him when he was expelled. Good morning! I’m afraid you’ve had a shock.
These are trying times for every one.”
And the Major’s informant shook hands with him kindly, and turned to
other matters, for urgent business was crowding his hours of time, and
there was more than enough for him to do. Desmond went out of his
presence, weary, broken down, and as it were stricken old for the first
time. The curt and sudden announcement of the death of his old chum
‘Fitz’ had overwhelmed him--and now, the certainty of Boy’s death as
well, a death so swift, so tragic, so far away from home, made him
shudder with fear and horror as he thought of Miss Letty. She had been
very ailing since Violet had gone to South Africa, and yielding to the
Major’s entreaties she had sent for old Margaret, her former faithful
attendant. And Margaret had had come at once, and now scarcely ever left
her. To Margaret she talked constantly of Boy, and the hopes she had of
seeing him again--hopes, alas!--that were now to be completely and for
ever destroyed.
“Shall I tell her?” thought the Major woefully--“or shall I keep it
secret for a little while? But if I do not speak, his parents will be
sure to write and inform her. Nothing would please that woman
D’Arcy-Muir more than to frighten her with a big black-bordered
envelope. I think I’d better try and break it to her gently. Poor Fitz!
He’s got his promotion! Well! I suppose it’s the way he would have liked
best to die if he’d been given a choice. But Boy! So young! Poor
fellow--poor little chap!--with mettle in him after all! Wasted
life--wasted hope--wasted love--all a waste! God knows I’ve done my best
to keep a stout heart--but upon my soul, life is a sad and cruel
business!”
With slow and lagging footsteps he made his reluctant way to Hans Place
and to Miss Letty’s always bright house, though it was scarcely so
bright now as it used to be, for the hand of its gentle mistress was not
so active and her supervision was not so careful and vigilant. And to
the Major’s deeply afflicted mind the fact that some of the blinds were
down, impressed him with an uncomfortable sense of gloom.
“Looks as if she were mourning for Boy already!” he murmured, as he rang
the bell.
Margaret opened the door.
“How is Miss Letty?”
“Well, sir, she was a bit nervous last night and low in her spirits--but
this morning she woke up quite bright and bonnie-like--more like her old
self than she’s been for many a day. And she said to me, ‘Margaret, I
think I shall hear news of Boy to-day’----”
The Major gave a sigh that was more a groan.
“She said that?”
“Ay sir, ’deed she did. But you’re lookin’ wan and weary yourself,
sir,--I hope there’s no bad tidings----”
The Major interrupted her by a grave gesture.
“Where is she?”
“Just in the morning-room as usual, sir, reading. I left her there an
hour ago--she had some letters to write, she said--and she was just as
bright and cheery as could be--an’ a little while since I peeped in and
she was sitting by the fire wi’ a book----”
“All right. I’ll go to her. If I want you, I’ll call.”
He entered the morning-room with a very quiet step. There was a bright
fire sparkling in the grate, and Miss Letty was seated beside it, in her
arm-chair, with a book on her knee, her back turned towards him. Her
favourite bird was singing prettily in its cage, pecking daintily now
and then at the bit of sugar she daily gave it with her own hands. The
Major coughed gently. Miss Letty did not stir. Somewhat surprised at
this, he advanced a little farther into the room.
“Letty!”
No answer.
“My God!”
He sprang to her side.
“Letty!--Letty dear!--Letty!--Not dead! Oh, Letty, Letty!--Not dead!”
A smile was on her sweet old face,--her eyes were closed. The great Book
resting on her knee was the Book which teaches us all the way to
Heaven,--and her little thin white hand, with its diamond betrothal
ring sparkling upon it, lay cold and stiff upon the open page. Overcome
by too great an awe for weeping or loud clamour in the presence of this
simple yet queenly majesty of death, her faithful lover of many years
knelt humbly down, broken-hearted, to read the words on which that hand
rested.
“Peace I leave with you,--My peace I give unto you,--not as the world
giveth, give I unto you!”
And kneeling still, he reverently kissed that dear, loyal, pure little
hand,--once and twice for the sake of the slain “Boy” lying at rest in
his South African grave,--once and yet again for his own deep love of
the Angel gone back to her native home with God, and murmured,--
“Better so, Letty! Better so!”
THE END.
_Hazell, Watson, & Viney, Ld., Printers, London and Aylesbury_