RONALD IS OFFERED A COMMISSION.
As soon as Mary Armstrong reached the hospital, the trooper who had
accompanied her took her to the surgeon's quarters. The officer, on
hearing that a lady wished to speak to him, at once came out.
"I am Mary Armstrong," the girl said as she slipped down from the horse.
"I think my father is here, wounded. He came up in the waggons the day
before yesterday, I believe."
"Oh yes, he is here, Miss Armstrong. I had him put in one of the
officers' wards that is otherwise empty at present."
"How is he, doctor?"
"Well, I am sorry to say that just at present he is very ill. The wounds
are not, I hope, likely to prove fatal, though undoubtedly they are very
serious; but he is in a state of high fever--in fact, he is delirious,
principally, I think, owing to his anxiety about you, at least so I
gathered from the officer who brought him in, for he was already
delirious when he arrived here."
"I can go to him, I hope?"
"Certainly you can, Miss Armstrong. Your presence is likely to soothe
him. The ward will be entirely at your disposal. I congratulate you most
heartily upon getting out of the hands of the Kaffirs. Mr. Nolan told us
of the gallant attempt which a sergeant of the Cape Mounted Rifles was
going to make to rescue you; but I don't think that any one thought he
had the shadow of a chance of success."
"He succeeded, doctor, as you see; but he was wounded to-day just as we
were in sight of the town. They are bringing him here. Will you kindly
let me know when he comes in and how he is?"
"I will let you know at once, Miss Armstrong; and now I will take you to
your father."
One of the hospital orderlies was standing by the bedside of Mr.
Armstrong as his daughter and the surgeon entered. The patient was
talking loudly.
"I tell you I will go. They have carried off Mary. I saw them do it and
could not help her, but I will go now."
Mary walked to the bedside and bent down and kissed her father.
"I am here, father, by your side. I have got away from them, and here I
am to nurse you."
The patient ceased talking and a quieter expression came over his face.
Mary took his hand in hers and quietly stroked it.
"That's right, Mary," he murmured; "are the bars of the cattle kraal up?
See that all the shutters are closed, we cannot be too careful, you
know."
"I will see to it all, father," she said, cheerfully; "now try to go to
sleep."
A few more words passed from the wounded man's lips, and then he lay
quiet with closed eyes.
"That is excellent, Miss Armstrong," the surgeon said; "the
consciousness that you are with him has, you see, soothed him at once.
If he moves, get him to drink a little of this lemonade, and I will send
you in some medicine for him shortly."
"How are the wounds, doctor?"
"Oh, I think the wounds will do," the surgeon replied; "so far as I can
tell, the assegai has just missed the top of the lung by a hair's
breadth. Two inches lower and it would have been fatal. As for the
wounds in the legs, I don't anticipate much trouble with them. They have
missed both bones and arteries and are really nothing but flesh wounds,
and after the active, healthy life your father has been living, I do not
think we need be uneasy about them."
In half an hour the surgeon looked in again.
"Sergeant Blunt has arrived," he said. "You can set your mind at ease
about him; it is a nasty gash, but of no real importance whatever. I
have drawn the edges together and sewn them up; he is quite in good
spirits, and laughed and said that a wound in the back could scarcely be
called an honourable scar. I can assure you that in ten days or so he
will be about again."
"Would you mind telling him," Mary asked, "that I would come to see him
at once, but my father is holding my hand so tight that I could not draw
it away without rousing him?"
"I will tell him," the surgeon said. "Oh, here is the orderly with your
medicine as well as your father's."
The orderly brought in a tray with a bowl of beef tea and a glass of
wine. "You will take both these, if you please, Miss Armstrong, and I
will have the other bed placed by the side of your father, so that you
can lie down with him holding your hand. You are looking terribly pale
and tired, and I do not want you on my hands too."
The tray was placed upon the table within Mary's reach, and the surgeon
stood by and saw that she drank the wine and beef tea. He and the
orderly then moved the other couch to the side of Mr. Armstrong's bed,
and arranged it so that Mary could lie down with her hand still in her
father's.
"Now," he said, "I recommend you to go off to sleep soon. I am happy to
say that your father is sleeping naturally, and it may be hours before
he wakes. When he does so, he will be sure to move and wake you, and the
sight of you will, if he is sensible, as I expect he will be, go a long
way towards his cure."
Captain Twentyman, when he returned in the afternoon from a
reconnaissance that he had been making with a portion of the troop,
called at once to see Ronald, but was told that he was sound asleep, and
so left word that he would come again in the morning.
The news of Sergeant Blunt's desperate attempt to rescue three white
women who had been carried off by the Kaffirs had, when reported by
Lieutenant Nolan, been the subject of much talk in the camp. Every one
admitted that it was a breach of discipline thus to leave the party of
which he was in command when upon special service, but no one seriously
blamed him for this. Admiration for the daring action and regret for the
loss of so brave a soldier, for none thought that there was the
slightest chance of ever seeing him again, overpowered all other
feelings. Mr. Nolan stated that the sergeant had told him that one of
the three women was the daughter of the wounded man he had brought in
with him, and that he had known her and her father before, and it was
generally agreed that there must have been something more than mere
acquaintance in the case to induce the sergeant to undertake such a
desperate enterprise. Great interest was therefore excited when, upon
the return of Lieutenant Daniels' party, it became known that he had
fallen in with Sergeant Blunt and a young lady, and that the sergeant
was severely wounded. All sorts of questions were asked the lieutenant.
"Ten to one she's pretty, Daniels," a young subaltern said.
"She is pretty, Mellor," another broke in; "I caught a glimpse of her,
and she is as pretty a girl as I have seen in the colony, though, of
course, she is looking utterly worn out."
"He is a gentleman," another officer, who had just come up, said. "I
have been talking to Nolan, and he tells me that Sergeant Blunt spoke of
her as a lady, and said that her father had served in the army and
fought as a young ensign at Waterloo."
"Mr. Armstrong is a gentleman," Lieutenant Daniels said. "He had a farm
on the Kabousie River, that is where Blunt got to know him. He had the
reputation of being a wealthy man. Blunt was in command of a party who
came up and saved them when they were attacked by the Kaffirs on
Christmas Day. So this is the second time he has rescued the young
lady."
"I hope Mr. Armstrong isn't going to be a stern father, and spoil the
whole romance of the business," young Mellor laughed. "One of your
troopers, Daniels, however brave a fellow, can hardly be considered as a
good match for an heiress."
"Blunt is as much a gentleman as I am," Lieutenant Daniels said,
quietly. "I know nothing whatever of his history or what his real name
is, for I expect that Blunt is only a _nom-de-guerre_, but I do know
that he is a gentleman, and I am sure he has served as an officer. More
than that I do not want to know, unless he chooses to tell me himself. I
suppose he got into some scrape or other at home; but I wouldn't mind
making a heavy bet that, whatever it was, it was nothing dishonourable."
"But how did he get her away from the Kaffirs? It seems almost an
impossibility. I asked the head man of the Fingoes, who was with him,"
another said, "but he had already got three parts drunk, so I did not
get much out of him; but as far as I could make out, they carried her
off from Macomo's kraal in the heart of the Amatolas."
"Oh, come now, that seems altogether absurd," two or three of the
officers standing round laughed, and Mellor said, "Orpheus going down to
fetch Eurydice back from Hades would have had an easy task of it in
comparison."
"I am glad to see that you have not forgotten your classical learning,
Mellor," one of the older officers said, "but certainly, of the two, I
would rather undertake the task of Orpheus, who was pretty decently
treated after all, than go to Macomo's kraal to fetch back a lady-love.
Well, I suppose we shall hear about it to-morrow, but I can hardly
believe this story to be true. The natives are such liars there's no
believing what they say."
The next morning, after breakfast, Captain Twentyman and Lieutenant
Daniels walked across to the hospital. They first saw the surgeon.
"Well, doctor, how is my sergeant?"
"On the high way to recovery," the surgeon said, cheerfully. "Of course,
the wound will be a fortnight, perhaps three weeks, before it is healed
up sufficiently for him to return to duty, but otherwise there is
nothing the matter with him. A long night's rest has pulled him round
completely. He is a little weak from loss of blood; but there is no harm
in that. There is, I think, no fear whatever of fever or other
complications. It is simply a question of the wound healing up."
"And the colonist--Armstrong his name is, I think, whose daughter was
carried away--how is he going on?"
"Much better. His daughter's presence at once calmed his delirium, and
this morning, when he woke after a good night's sleep, he was conscious,
and will now, I think, do well. He is very weak, but that does not
matter, and he is perfectly content, lying there holding his daughter's
hand. He has asked no questions as to how she got back again, and, of
course, I have told her not to allude to the subject, and to check him
at once if he does so. The poor girl looks all the better for her
night's rest. She was a wan-looking creature when she arrived yesterday
morning, but is fifty per cent. better already, and with another day or
two's rest, and the comfort of seeing her father going on well, she will
soon get her colour and tone back again."
"I suppose we can go up and see Blunt, and hear about his adventures?"
"Oh, yes, talking will do him no harm. I will come with you, for I was
too busy this morning, when I went my rounds, to have any conversation
with him except as to his wound."
"My inquiries are partly personal and partly official," Captain
Twentyman said. "Colonel Somerset asked me this morning to see Blunt,
and gather any information as to the Kaffirs' positions that might be
useful. I went yesterday evening to question the Fingo head man who went
with him, but he and all his men were as drunk as pigs. I hear that when
they first arrived they said they had carried the girl off from Macomo's
kraal, but of course there must be some mistake; they never could have
ventured into the heart of the Amatolas and come out alive."
The three officers proceeded together to the ward in which Ronald was
lying.
"Well, sergeant, how do you feel yourself?" Captain Twentyman asked.
"Oh, I am all right, sir," Ronald answered cheerfully. "My back smarts a
bit, of course, but that is nothing. I hope I shall be in the saddle
again before long--at any rate before the advance is made."
"I hope so, Blunt. And now, if you feel up to telling it, I want to hear
about your adventure. Colonel Somerset asked me to inquire, as it will
throw some light on the numbers and position of the Kaffirs; besides,
the whole camp is wanting to know how you succeeded in getting Miss
Armstrong out of the hands of the Kaffirs. I can assure you that there
is nothing else talked about."
"There is nothing much to talk about, as far as I am concerned, sir,"
Ronald said. "It was the Fingoes' doing altogether, and they could have
managed as well, indeed better, without me."
"Except that they would not have done it, unless you had been with
them."
"No, perhaps not," Ronald admitted. "I was lucky enough down at Port
Elizabeth to fish out the son of Kreta, the head man of the party, who
had been washed off his feet in the surf; and it was out of gratitude
for that that he followed me."
"Yes, we heard about that business from Mr. Nolan, and although you
speak lightly of it, it was, he tells us, a very gallant affair indeed.
But now as to this other matter."
"In the first place, Captain Twentyman, I admit that going off as I did
was a great breach of duty. I can only say that I shall be willing,
cheerfully, to submit to any penalty the colonel may think fit to
inflict. I had no right whatever to leave my detachment on what was
really private business; but even if I had been certain that I should
have been shot as a deserter on my return to the regiment, I should not
have hesitated in acting as I did."
"We all understand your feelings, Blunt," Captain Twentyman said,
kindly, "and you have no need to make yourself uneasy on that score. To
punish a man for acting as you have done would be as bad as the sea
story of the captain who flogged a seaman, who jumped overboard to save
a comrade, for leaving the ship without orders. Now for your story: all
we have heard is that your Fingo says you carried off the young lady
from Macomo's kraal, but, of course, that is not believed."
"It is quite true, nevertheless," Ronald said. "Well, this is how it
was, sir," and he gave a full account of the whole adventure.
"Well, I congratulate you most heartily," Captain Twentyman said when he
finished; "it is really a wonderful adventure--a most gallant business
indeed, and the whole corps, officers and men, will be proud of it."
"I should be glad, sir, if there could be some reward given to Kreta and
his men; as you will have seen from my story, any credit that there is
in the matter is certainly their due."
"I will see to that," the officer replied. "The Fingo desires are,
happily, easily satisfied; a good rifle, a few cows, and a barrel of
whisky make up his ideal of happiness. I think I can promise you they
shall have all these."
In the afternoon, Mr. Armstrong again dropped off to a quiet sleep. This
time he was not holding his daughter's hand, and as soon as she saw that
he was fairly off she stole out of the room, and finding the surgeon,
asked if he would take her up to the ward where Sergeant Blunt was
lying.
"Yes, I shall be happy to take you up at once, Miss Armstrong.
Everything is tidy just at present, for I have had a message from
Colonel Somerset that he and the General are coming round the wards. I
don't suppose they will be here for half an hour, so you can come up at
once."
The sick men in the wards were surprised when the surgeon entered,
accompanied by a young lady. She passed shyly along between the rows of
beds until she reached that of Ronald. She put her hand in his, but for
a moment was unable to speak. Ronald saw her agitation, and said
cheerfully: "I am heartily glad, Miss Armstrong, to hear from the doctor
such a good account of your father. As for me, I shall not be in his
hands many days. I told you it was a mere scratch, and I believe that a
good-sized piece of sticking-plaster was all that was wanted."
"You haven't thought me unkind for not coming to see you before, I
hope," the girl said; "but I have not been able till now to leave my
father's room for a moment."
"I quite understood that, Miss Armstrong, and indeed there was no
occasion for you to come to me at all. It would have been quite time
enough when I was up and about again. I only wish that it was likely
that Mr. Armstrong would be on his feet as soon as I shall."
"Oh, he is going on very well," Mary said. "I consider that you have
saved his life as well as mine. I feel sure it is only having me with
him again that has made such a change in him as has taken place since
yesterday. The doctor says so, too. I have not told him yet how it has
all come about, but I hope ere very long he may be able to thank you for
both of us."
"You thanked me more than enough yesterday, Miss Armstrong, and I am not
going to listen to any more of it. As far as I can see, you could not
have done me any greater service than by giving me the opportunity you
have. Every one seems disposed to take quite a ridiculous view of the
matter, and I may look forward to getting a troop-sergeantship when
there is a vacancy."
The girl shook her head. She was too much in earnest even to pretend to
take a light view of the matter. Just at that moment there was a
trampling of horses outside, and the sharp sound of the sentries
presenting arms.
"Here is the General," Ronald said, with a smile, "and although I don't
wish to hurry you away, Miss Armstrong, I think you had better go back
to your father. I don't know whether the Chief would approve of lady
visitors in the hospital."
"Good-bye," the girl said, giving him her hand. "You won't let me thank
you, but you know."
"I know," Ronald replied. "Good-bye"
She looked round for the surgeon, who had, after taking her up to
Ronald, moved away for a short distance, but he was gone, having hurried
off to meet the General below, and with a last nod to Ronald, she left
the ward. She passed out through the door into the courtyard just as the
group of officers were entering.
"That is Miss Armstrong," the surgeon said, as she passed out.
"What, the girl who was rescued?" Colonel Somerset said; "a very pretty,
ladylike-looking young woman. I am not surprised, now that I see her, at
this desperate exploit of my sergeant."
"No, indeed," the General said, smiling. "It's curious, colonel, what
men will do for a pretty face. Those other two poor creatures who were
carried off were both murdered, and I don't suppose their deaths have
greatly distressed this young fellow one way or the other. No doubt he
would have been glad to rescue them; but I imagine that their deaths
have not in any way caused him to regard his mission as a failure. I
suppose that it's human nature, colonel."
Colonel Somerset laughed.
"You and I would have seen the matter in the same light when we were
youngsters, General."
The officers went through the wards, stopping several times to speak a
few words to the patients.
"So this is the deserter," Colonel Somerset said, with some assumed
sternness, as they stopped by Ronald's bedside. "Well, sir, we have had
a good many of those black rascals desert from our ranks, but you are
the first white soldier who has deserted since the war began. Of course,
you expect a drumhead court-martial and shooting as soon as the doctor
lets you out of his hands."
Ronald saw that the old colonel was not in earnest.
"It was very bad, colonel," he said, "and I can only throw myself on
your mercy."
"You have done well, my lad--very well," the colonel said, laying his
hand on his shoulder. "There are some occasions when even military laws
give place to questions of humanity, and this was essentially one of
them. You are a fine fellow, sir; and I am proud that you belong to my
corps."
The General, who had stopped behind speaking to another patient, now
came up.
"You have done a very gallant action, Sergeant Blunt," he said. "Captain
Twentyman has reported the circumstances to me; but when you are out of
hospital you must come to head-quarters and tell me your own story. Will
you see to this, Colonel Somerset?"
"Certainly, sir. I will send him over, or rather bring him over to you,
as soon as he's about, for I should like to hear the whole story also."
In ten days Ronald Mervyn was on his feet again, although not yet fit
for duty; the wound had healed rapidly, but the surgeon said it would be
at least another fortnight before he would be fit for active service. As
soon as he was able to go out and sit on the benches in the hospital
yard, many of his comrades came to see him, and there was a warmth and
earnestness in their congratulations which showed that short as his time
had been in the corps, he was thoroughly popular with them. Sergeant
Menzies was particularly hearty in his greeting.
"I knew you were the right sort, Harry Blunt, as soon as I set eyes upon
you," he said; "but I did not expect you were going to cut us all out so
soon."
"How is my horse, sergeant?"
"Oh, he's none the worse for it, I think. He has been taking walking
exercise, and his stiffness is wearing off fast. I think he misses you
very much, and he wouldn't take his food the first day or two. He has
got over it now, but I know he longs to hear your voice again."
Sometimes, too, Mary Armstrong would come out and sit for a time with
Ronald. Her father was progressing favourably, and though still
extremely weak, was in a fair way towards recovery.
"Will you come in to see father?" Mary said one morning; "he knows all
about it now; but it was only when he came round just now that the
doctor gave leave for him to see you."
"I shall be very glad to see him," Ronald said, rising. "I own that when
I saw him last I entertained very slight hopes I should ever meet him
alive again."
"He is still very weak," the girl said, "and the doctor says he is not
to be allowed to talk much."
"I will only pay a short visit, but it will be a great pleasure to me to
see him; I have always felt his kindness to me."
"Father is kind to every one," the girl said, simply. "In this instance
his kindness has been returned a hundred-fold."
By this time they had reached the door of the ward.
"Here is Mr. Blunt come to see you, father. Now you know what the doctor
said; you are not to excite yourself, and not to talk too much, and if
you are not good, I shall take him away."
"I am glad to see you are better, Mr. Armstrong," Ronald said, as he
went up to the bed, and took the thin hand in his own.
"God bless you, my boy," the wounded man replied; "it is to you I owe my
recovery, for had you not brought Mary back to me, I should be a dead
man now, and would have been glad of it."
"I am very glad, Mr. Armstrong, to have been able to be of service to
your daughter and to you; but do not let us talk about it now; I am sure
that you cannot do so without agitating yourself, and the great point at
present with us all is for you to be up and about again. Do your wounds
hurt you much?"
"Not much; and yours, Blunt?"
"Oh, mine is a mere nothing," Ronald said, cheerfully, "it's healing up
fast, and except when I forget all about it, and move sharply, I
scarcely feel it. I feel something like the proverbial man who swallowed
the poker, and have to keep myself as stiff as if I were on inspection.
This ward is nice and cool, much cooler than they are upstairs. Of
course the verandah outside shades you. You will find it very pleasant
there when you are strong enough to get up. I am afraid that by that
time I shall be off, for the troops are all on their march up from the
coast, and in another ten days we expect to begin operations in
earnest."
"I don't think the doctor ought to let you go," Mary Armstrong said.
"You have done quite your share, I am sure."
"I hope my share in finishing up with these scoundrels will be a good
deal larger yet," Ronald laughed. "My share has principally been
creeping and hiding, except just in that last brush, and there, if I
mistake not, your share was as large as mine. I only fired three shots,
and I think I heard your pistol go four times."
"Yes, it is dreadful to think of now," the girl said; "but somehow it
didn't seem so at the time. I feel shocked now when I recall it."
"There's nothing to be shocked at, Miss Armstrong; it was our lives or
theirs; and if your hand had not been steady, and your aim true, we
should neither of us be here talking over the matter now. But I think my
visit has been long enough. I will come in again, Mr. Armstrong,
to-morrow, and I hope each day to find you more and more able to take
your share in the talk."
In another ten days Ronald rejoined his troop, and the next day received
an order to be ready at four o'clock to accompany Colonel Somerset to
the General's.
"Now, sergeant, take a seat," the General said, "and tell me the full
story of your adventures."
Ronald again repeated his story. When he had done, the General remarked:
"Your report more than bears out what I heard from Captain Twentyman. I
have already talked the matter over with Colonel Somerset, and as we
consider that such an action should be signally rewarded, Colonel
Somerset will at once apply for a commission for you in your own corps,
or if you would prefer it, I will apply for a commission for you in one
of the line regiments. I may say that the application under such
circumstances would certainly be acceded to."
"I am deeply obliged to you for your kindness, sir, and to you, Colonel
Somerset; but I regret to say that, with all respect, I must decline
both offers."
"Decline a commission!" the General said in surprise. "Why, I should
have thought that it was just the thing that you would have liked--a
dashing young fellow like you, and on the eve of serious operations. I
can hardly understand you."
Ronald was silent for a moment.
"My reason for declining it, sir, is a purely personal one. Nothing
would have given me greater pleasure than a commission so bestowed, but
there are circumstances that absolutely prevent my mingling in the
society of gentlemen. The name I go by is not my true one, and over my
own name there is so terrible a shadow resting that so long as it is
there--and I have little hope of its ever being cleared off--I must
remain as I am."
Both officers remained silent a moment.
"You are sure you are not exaggerating the case, Blunt?" Colonel
Somerset said after a pause. "I cannot believe that this cloud of which
you speak can have arisen from any act of yours, and it would be a pity
indeed were you to allow any family matter to weigh upon you thus."
Ronald shook his head. "It is a matter in which I am personally
concerned, sir, and I do not in any way exaggerate it. I repeat, I must
remain in my present position."
"If it must be so, it must," the General said, "though I am heartily
sorry. At least you will have the satisfaction of seeing your name in
General Orders this evening for an act of distinguished bravery."
"Thank you, sir," and Ronald, seeing the conversation was at an end,
saluted to the two officers, went out, and rode back to his quarters.
The town was full of troops now, for the regiments that had been
despatched from England had nearly all arrived upon the spot, and the
operations against the Kaffirs in the Amatolas were to begin at once.
Some of the troops, including two squadrons of the Rifles, were to march
next morning.
Ronald went about his duties till evening, and then turned out to walk
to the hospital. As he passed through the streets, he saw a group round
one of the Rifles, who had just come out from a drinking shop, and was
engaged in a fierce altercation with a Fingo. The man was evidently the
worse for liquor, and Ronald went up to him and put his hand on his
shoulder.
"You had better go off to the barracks at once," he said, sharply; "you
will be getting into trouble if you stay here."
The man turned savagely round.
"Oh, it's you, Sergeant Blunt? Hadn't you better attend to your own
business? I am not committing any crime here. I haven't been murdering
women, or anything of that sort."
Ronald started back as if struck. The significance of the tone in which
the man spoke showed him that these were no random words, but a shaft
deliberately aimed. In a moment he was cool again.
"If you do not return to the barracks at once," he said, sternly, "I
will fetch a corporal's guard and put you in the cells."
The man hesitated a moment, and then muttering to himself, reeled off
towards the barracks. Had the blow come a month before, Ronald Mervyn
would have felt it more, for absorbed in his active work, on horseback
the greater portion of his time, the remembrance of the past had become
blunted, and the present had occupied all his thoughts. It was only
occasionally that he had looked back to the days when he was Captain
Mervyn, of the Borderers. But from the hour he had brought Mary
Armstrong safely back to her father, the past had been constantly in his
mind because it clashed with the present.
Before, Ronald Mervyn and Harry Blunt had almost seemed to be two
existences, unconnected with each other; now, the fact of their
identity had been constantly in his thoughts. The question he had been
asking himself over and over again was whether there could be a
permanent separation between them, whether he could hope to get rid of
his connection with Ronald Mervyn, and to continue to the end of the
chapter as Harry Blunt. He had told himself long before that he could
not do so, that sooner or later he should certainly be recognised; and
although he had tried to believe that he could pass through life without
meeting any one familiar with his face, he had been obliged to admit
that this was next to impossible.
Had he been merely a country gentleman, known only to the people within
a limited range of distance, it would have been different; but an
officer who has served ten years in the army has innumerable
acquaintances. Every move he makes brings him in contact with men of
other regiments, and his circle goes on constantly widening until it
embraces no small portion of the officers of the army. Then every
soldier who had passed through his regiment while he had been in it
would know his face; and, go where he would, he knew that he would be
running constant risks of detection. More than one of the regiments that
had now arrived at King Williamstown had been quartered with him at one
station or another, and there were a score of men who would recognise
him instantly did he come among them in the dress of an officer. This
unexpected recognition, therefore, by a trooper in his own corps, did
not come upon him with so sudden a shock as it would have done a month
previously.
"I knew it must come," he said to himself bitterly "and that it might
come at any moment. Still it is a shock. Who is this man, I wonder? It
seemed to me, when he first came up, that I had some faint remembrance
of his face, though where, I have not the least idea. It was not in the
regiment, for he knows nothing of drill or military habits. Of course,
if he had been a deserter, he would have pretended ignorance, but one
can always tell by little things whether a man has served, and I am sure
that this fellow has not. I suppose he comes from somewhere down home.
"Well, it can't be helped. Fortunately, I have won a good name before
this discovery is made, and am likely to reap the benefit of what doubt
there may be. When a man shows that he has a fair amount of pluck, his
comrades are slow to credit him with bad qualities. On the whole,
perhaps it is well that it should have come on this evening of all when
I had quite made up my mind as to my course, for it strengthens me in my
decision as to what I ought to do. It is hard to throw away happiness,
but this shows how rightly I decided. Nothing will shake me now. Poor
little girl! it is hard for her, harder by far than for me. However, it
is best that she should know it now, than learn it when too late."