A PARTING.
The sun had already set an hour when Ronald Mervyn reached the hospital,
but the moon had just risen, and the stars were shining brilliantly.
Mary Armstrong met him at the door.
"I saw you coming," she said, "and father advised me to come out for a
little turn, it is such a beautiful evening."
"I am glad you have come out, Mary; I wanted to speak to you."
Mary Armstrong's colour heightened a little. It was the first time he
had called her by her Christian name since that ride through the
Kaffirs. She thought she knew what he wanted to speak to her about, and
she well knew what she should say.
"Mary," Ronald went on, "you know the story of the poor wretch who was
devoured by thirst, and yet could not reach the cup of water that was
just beyond his grasp?"
"I know," Mary said.
"Well, I am just in that position. I am so placed by an inscrutable
Fate, that I cannot stretch out my hand to grasp the cup of water."
The girl was silent for a time.
"I will not pretend that I do not understand you, Ronald. Why cannot you
grasp the cup of water?"
"Because, as I said, dear, there is a fate against me; because I can
never marry; because I must go through the world alone. I told you that
the name I bear is not my own. I have been obliged to change it, because
my own name is disgraced; because, were I to name it, there is not a man
here of those who just at present are praising and making much of me,
who would not shrink from my side."
"No, Ronald, no; it cannot be."
"It is true, dear; my name has been associated with the foulest of
crimes. I have been tried for murdering a woman, and that woman a near
relative. I was acquitted, it is true: but simply because the evidence
did not amount to what the law required. But in the sight of the world I
went out guilty."
"Oh, how could they think so?" Mary said, bursting into tears; "how
could they have thought, Ronald, those who knew you, that you could do
this?"
"Many did believe it," Ronald said, "and the evidence was so strong that
I almost believed it myself. However, thus it is. I am a marked man and
an outcast, and must remain alone for all my life, unless God in His
mercy should clear this thing up."
"Not alone, Ronald, not alone," the girl cried "there, you make me say
it."
"You mean you would stand by my side, Mary? Thank you, my love, but I
could not accept the sacrifice. I can bear my own lot, but I could not
see the woman I loved pointed at as the wife of a murderer."
"But no one would know," Mary began.
"They would know, dear. I refused a commission the General offered me
to-day, because were I to appear as an officer there are a score of men
in this expedition who would know me at once; but even under my present
name and my present dress I cannot escape. Only this evening, as I came
here, I was taunted by a drunken soldier, who must have known me, as a
murderer of women. Good Heavens! do you think I would let any woman
share that? Did I go to some out-of-the-way part of the world, I might
escape for years; but at last the blow would come. Had it not been for
the time we passed together when death might at any moment have come to
us both, had it not been that I held you in my arms during that ride, I
should never have told you this, Mary, for you would have gone away to
England and lived your life unhurt; but after that I could not but
speak. You must have felt that I loved you, and had I not spoken, what
would you have thought of me?"
"I should have thought, Ronald," she said, quietly, "that you had a
foolish idea that because my father had money, while you were but a
trooper, you ought not to speak; and I think that I should have summoned
up courage to speak first, for I knew you loved me, just as certainly as
I know that I shall love you always."
"I hope not, Mary," Ronald said, gravely; "it would add to the pain of
my life to know that I had spoilt yours."
"It will not spoil mine, Ronald; it is good to know that one is loved by
a true man, and that one loves him, even if we can never come together.
I would rather be single for your sake, dear, than marry any other man
in the world. Won't you tell me about it all? I should like to know."
"You have a right to know, Mary, if you wish it;" and drawing her to a
seat, Ronald told her the story of the Curse of the Carnes, of the wild
blood that flowed in his veins, of his half-engagement to his cousin,
and of the circumstances of her death. Only once she stopped him.
"Did you love her very much, Ronald?"
"No, dear; I can say so honestly now. No doubt I thought I loved her,
though I had been involuntarily putting off becoming formally engaged to
her; but I know now, indeed I knew long ago, that my passion when she
threw me off was rather an outburst of disappointment, and perhaps of
jealousy, that another should have stepped in when I thought myself so
sure, than of real regret. I had cared for Margaret in a way, but now
that I know what real love is, I know it was but as a cousin that I
loved her."
Then he went on to tell her the proofs against himself; how that the
words he had spoken had come up against him; how he had failed
altogether to account for his doings at the hour at which she was
murdered; how his glove had borne evidence against him.
"Is that all, Ronald?"
"Not quite all, dear. I saw in an English paper only a few days ago that
the matter had come up again. Margaret's watch and jewels were found in
the garden, just hidden in the ground, evidently not by a thief who
intended to come again and fetch them, but simply concealed by some one
who had taken them and did not want them. If those things had been
found before my trial, Mary, I should assuredly have been hung, for they
disposed of the only alternative that seemed possible, namely, that she
had been murdered by a midnight burglar for the sake of her valuables."
Mary sat in silence for a few minutes, and then asked one or two
questions with reference to the story.
"And you have no idea yourself, Ronald, not even the slightest
suspicion, against any one?"
"Not the slightest," he said; "the whole thing is to me as profound a
mystery as ever."
"Of course, from what you tell me, Ronald, the evidence against you was
stronger than against any one else, and yet I cannot think how any one
who knew you could have believed it."
"I hope that those who knew me best did not believe it, Mary. A few of
my neighbours and many of my brother officers had faith in my innocence;
but, you see, those in the county who knew the story of our family were
naturally set against me. I had the mad blood of the Carnes in my veins;
the Carnes had committed two murders in their frenzy, and it did not
seem to them so strange that I should do the same. I may tell you, dear,
that this trial through which I have passed has not been altogether
without good. The family history had weighed on my mind from the time I
was a child, and at times I used to wonder whether I had madness in my
blood, and the fear grew upon me and embittered my life. Since that
trial it has gone for ever. I know that if I had had the slightest touch
of insanity in my veins I must have gone mad in that awful time; and
much as I have suffered from the cloud that rested on me, I am sure I
have been a far brighter and happier man since."
A pressure of the hand which he was holding in his expressed the
sympathy that she did not speak.
"What time do you march to-morrow, Ronald?"
"At eight, dear."
"Could you come round first?"
"I could, Mary; but I would rather say good-bye now."
"You must say good-bye now, Ronald, and again in the morning. Why I ask
you is because I want to tell my father. You don't mind that, do you? He
must know there is something, because he spoke to-day as if he would
wish it to be as I hoped, and I should like him to know how it is with
us. You do not mind, do you?"
"Not at all," Ronald said. "I would rather that he did know."
"Then I will tell him now," the girl said. "I should like to talk it
over with him," and she rose. Ronald rose too.
"Good-bye, Mary."
"Not like that, Ronald," and she threw her arms round his neck.
"Good-bye, my dear, my dear. I will always be true to you to the end of
my life. And hope always. I cannot believe that you would have saved me
almost by a miracle, if it had not been meant we should one day be happy
together. God bless you and keep you."
There was a long kiss, and then Mary Armstrong turned and ran back to
the hospital.
Father and daughter talked together for hours after Mary's return. The
disappointment to Mr. Armstrong was almost as keen as to Mary herself.
He had from the first been greatly taken by Harry Blunt, and had
encouraged his coming to the house. That he was a gentleman he was sure,
and he thought he knew enough of character to be convinced that whatever
scrape had driven him to enlist as a trooper, it was not a disgraceful
one.
"If Mary fancies this young fellow, she shall have him," he had said to
himself. "I have money enough for us both, and what good is it to me
except to see her settled happily in life?"
After the attack upon his house, when he was rescued by the party led by
Ronald, he thought still more of the matter, for some subtle change in
his daughter's manner convinced him that her heart had been touched. He
had fretted over the fact that after this Ronald's duty had kept him
from seeing them, and when at last he started on his journey down to the
coast he made up his mind, that if when they reached England he could
ascertain for certain Mary's wishes on the subject, he would himself
write a cautious letter to him, putting it that after the service he had
rendered in saving his life and that of his daughter, he did not like
the thought of his remaining as a trooper at the Cape, and that if he
liked to come home he would start him in any sort of business he liked,
adding, perhaps, that he had special reasons for wishing him to return.
After Ronald's rescue of his daughter, Mr. Armstrong regarded it as a
certainty that his wish would be realised. He was a little surprised
that the young sergeant had not spoken out, and it was with a view to
give him an opportunity that he had suggested that Mary should go out
for a stroll on the last evening. He had felt assured that they would
come in hand in hand, and had anticipated with lively pleasure the
prospect of paying his debt of gratitude to the young man. It was with
surprise, disappointment, and regret that he listened to Mary's story.
"It is a monstrous thing," he said, when she had finished. "Most
monstrous; but don't cry, my dear, it will all come right presently.
These things always work round in time."
"But how is it to come right, father? He says that he himself has not
the slightest suspicion who did it."
"Whether he has or not makes no difference," Mr. Armstrong said,
decidedly. "It is quite certain, by what you say, this poor lady did not
kill herself. In that case, who did it? We must make it our business to
find out who it was. You don't suppose I am going to have your life
spoiled in such a fashion as this. Talk about remaining single all your
life, I won't have it; the thing must be set straight."
"It's very easy to say 'must,' father," Mary said, almost smiling at his
earnestness, "but how is it to be set straight?"
"Why, by our finding out all about it, of course, Mary. Directly I get
well enough to move--and the doctor said this morning that in a
fortnight I can be taken down to the coast--we will follow out our
original plan of going back to England. Then we will go down to this
place you speak of--Carnesworth, or whatever it is, and take a place
there or near there; there are always places to be had. It makes no
difference to us where we go, for I don't suppose I shall find many
people alive I knew in England. We will take some little place, and get
to know the people and talk to them. Don't tell me about not finding
out; of course we shall be able to find out if it has been done by any
one down there; and as you say that the burglar or tramp theory is quite
disproved by the finding of these trinkets, it must be somebody in the
neighbourhood. I know what these dunderheaded police are. Not one in ten
of them can put two and two together. The fellows at once jumped to the
conclusion that Mervyn was guilty, and never inquired further."
"He says he had a detective down, father, for some weeks before the
trial, and that one has been remaining there until quite lately."
"I don't think much of detectives," Mr. Armstrong said; "but of course,
Mary, if you throw cold water on the scheme and don't fancy it, there's
an end of it."
"No, no, father, you know I don't mean that, only I was frightened
because you seemed to think it so certain we should succeed. There is
nothing I should like better; it will matter nothing to me if we are
years about it so that we can but clear him at last."
"I have no notion of spending years, my dear. Before now I have proved
myself a pretty good hand at tracking the spoor of Kaffirs, and it's
hard if I can't pick up this trail somehow."
"We will do it between us, father," Mary said, catching his confidence
and enthusiasm, and kissing him as he sat propped up with pillows. "Oh,
you have made me so happy. Everything seemed so dark and hopeless
before, and now we shall be working for him."
"And for yourself too, Miss Mary; don't pretend you have no personal
interest in the matter."
And so, just as the clock struck twelve, Mary Armstrong lay down on her
bed in the little ante-room next to her father's, feeling infinitely
happier and more hopeful than she could have thought possible when she
parted from Ronald Mervyn three hours before. Ronald himself was
surprised at the brightness with which she met him, when at six o'clock
he alighted from his horse at the hospital. "Come in, Ronald," she said,
"we were talking--father and I--for hours last night, and we have quite
decided what we are going to do."
"So you have come to say good-bye, Mervyn--for, of course, you are
Mervyn to us," Mr. Armstrong said, as he entered the room, "Well, my
lad, it's a bad business that my little girl was telling me about last
night, and has knocked over my castles very effectually, for I own to
you that I have been building. I knew you were fond of my girl; you
never would have done for her what you did unless you had been, and I
was quite sure that she was fond of you; how could she help it? And I
had been fancying as soon as this war was over--for, of course, you
could not leave now--you would be coming home, and I should be having
you both with me in some snug little place there. However, lad, that's
over for the present; but not for always, I hope. All this has not
changed my opinion of the affair. The fact that you have suffered
horribly and unjustly is nothing against you personally; and, indeed,
you will make Mary a better husband for having gone through such a trial
than you would have done had not this come upon you."
"I am sure I should," Ronald said, quietly; "I think I could make her
happy, but I fear I shall never have a chance. She has told you what I
said last night. I have been awake all the night thinking it over, and I
am sure I have decided rightly. My disgrace is hard enough to bear
alone; I will never share it with her."
"I think you are right, Mervyn--at least for the present. If, say in
five years hence, you are both of the same mind towards each other, as I
do not doubt you will be," he added, in reply to the look of perfect
confidence that passed between his daughter and Ronald, "we will talk
the matter over again. Five years is a long time, and old stories fade
out of people's remembrance. In five years, then, one may discuss it
again; but I don't mean Mary to wait five years if I can help it, and
she has no inclination to wait five years either, have you, child?" Mary
shook her head. "So I will tell you what we have resolved upon, for we
have made up our minds about it. In the first place somebody murdered
this cousin of yours; that's quite clear, isn't it?"
"That is quite clear," Ronald replied. "It is absolutely certain that it
was not a suicide."
"In the next place, from what she says, it is quite clear also that this
was not done by an ordinary burglar. The circumstances of her death, and
the discovery that her watch and jewels were hastily thrust into the
ground and left there to spoil, pretty well shows that."
"I think so," Ronald said. "I am convinced that whoever did it, the
murder was a deliberate one, and not the work of thieves."
"Then it is evident that it was the work of some one in the
neighbourhood, of some one who either had a personal hatred of your
cousin, or who wished to injure you."
"To injure me," Ronald repeated in surprise. "I never thought of it in
that way. Why to injure me?"
"I say to injure you, because it seems to me that there was a deliberate
attempt to fix the guilt upon you. Some one must have put your glove
where it was found, for it appears, from what you told Mary, that you
certainly could not have dropped it there."
"It might seem so," Ronald said, thoughtfully, "and yet I cannot believe
it; in fact, I had, so far as I know, no quarrel with any one in the
neighbourhood. I had been away on service for years, and so had nothing
to do with the working of the estate, indeed I never had an angry word
with any man upon it."
"Never discharged any grooms, or any one of that sort?"
"Well, I did discharge the groom after I got back," Ronald replied, "and
the coachman too, for I found, upon looking into the accounts, that they
had been swindling my mother right and left; but that can surely have
nothing to do with it. The glove alone would have been nothing, had it
not been for my previous quarrel with my cousin--which no one outside
the house can have known of--and that unfortunate ride of mine."
"Well, that may or may not be," Mr. Armstrong said; "anyhow, we have it
that the murder must have been committed by some one in the
neighbourhood, who had a grudge against your cousin or against
yourself. Now, the detective you have had down there, my daughter tells
me, has altogether failed in finding the clue; but, after all, that
shows that he is a fool rather than that there is no clue to be found.
Now, what Mary and I have settled upon is this: directly we get back we
shall take a pretty little cottage, if we can get one, down at the
village."
"What, at Carnesford?"
"Yes, Carnesford. We shall be two simple colonists, who have made enough
money to live upon, and have fixed upon the place accidentally. Then we
shall both set to work to get to the bottom of this affair. We know it
is to be done if we can but get hold of the right way, and Mary and I
flatter ourselves that between us we shall do it. Now that's our plan.
It's no use your saying yes or no, because that's what we have fixed
upon."
"It's very good of you, sir----" Mervyn began.
"It's not good at all," Mr. Armstrong interrupted. "Mary wants to get
married, and I want her to get married, and so we have nothing to do but
to set about the right way of bringing it about. And now, my boy, I know
we must not keep you. God bless you, and bring you safely through this
war, and I tell you it will be a more troublesome one than your people
think. You will write often, and Mary will let you know regularly how we
are getting on."
He held out his hand to Mervyn, who grasped it silently, held Mary to
him in a close embrace for a minute, and then galloped away to take his
place in the ranks of his corps.
The troop to which Ronald belonged was not, he found, intended to start
at once to the front, but was to serve as an escort to Colonel Somerset,
who had now been appointed as Brigadier-General in command of a column
that was to start from Grahamstown. At eight o'clock they started, and
arrived late in the afternoon at that place, where they found the 74th
Highlanders, who had just marched up from Port Elizabeth. They had
prepared for active service by laying aside their bonnets and plaids,
adopting a short dark canvas blouse and fixing broad leather peaks to
their forage caps. On the following morning the 74th, a troop of
Colonial Horse, the Cape Rifles, and some native levies, marched to
attack the Hottentots on the station of the London Missionary Society.
Joined by a body of Kaffirs, these pampered converts had in cold blood
murdered the Fingoes at the station, and were now holding it in force.
After a march of twenty miles across the plain, the troops reached the
edge of the Kat River, where the main body halted for a couple of hours,
the advance guard having in the course of the day had a skirmish with
the natives and captured several waggons. One officer of the native
levies had been killed, and two others wounded. A further march of five
miles was made before morning, and then the troops halted in order to
advance under cover of night against the position of the enemy, twelve
miles distant. At half-past one in the morning the Infantry advanced,
the Cavalry following two hours later. The road was a most difficult
one, full of deep holes and innumerable ant-hills; and after passing
through a narrow defile, thickly strewn with loose stones and large
rocks, over which in the darkness men stumbled and fell continually, the
Cavalry overtook the Infantry at the ford of the Kareiga River, and went
on ahead. In the darkness several companies of the Infantry lost their
way, and daylight was breaking before the force was collected and in
readiness for the assault.
The huts occupied by the enemy stood on one side of a grassy plain,
three-quarters of a mile in diameter, and surrounded by a deep belt of
forest. The Fingo levies were sent round through the bush to the rear of
the huts, and the Cavalry and Infantry then advanced to the attack. The
enemy skirmished on the plain, but the Cavalry dashed down upon them and
drove them into a wooded ravine, from which they kept up a fire for some
time, until silenced by two or three volleys from the Infantry. The main
body of the rebels was drawn up in front of their huts, and as soon as
the troops approached, and the Cavalry charged them, they took to
flight. A volley from the Fingoes in the bush killed several of them;
the rest, however, succeeded in gaining the forest. The village was then
burnt, and 650 cattle and some horses and goats, all stolen from
neighbouring settlers, were recovered.
The column then marched back to their bivouac of the night before, and
the following day returned to Grahamstown. There was no halt here, for
the next morning they marched to join the column from King Williamstown.
The road led through the Ecca Pass, where constant attacks had been made
by natives upon waggons and convoys going down the road; but without
opposition they crossed the Koonap River, and at the end of two days'
march encamped on a ridge where the Amatola range could be seen, and
finally joined the column composed of the 91st Regiment and the rest of
the Cape Mounted Rifles, encamped near Fort Hare.
Two days later, the whole force, amounting to 2,000 men, advanced to the
base of the Amatolas and encamped on the plains at a short distance from
the hills. The attack was made in two columns; the 74th, a portion of
the native levies, and of the Mounted Rifles, were to attack a
formidable position in front, while the 91st were to march round, and,
driving the enemy before them, to effect a junction at the end of the
day with the others. The Cavalry could take no part in the attack of the
strong position held by the Kaffirs, which was a line of perpendicular
cliffs, the only approach to which was up the smooth grassy incline that
touched the summit of the cliff at one point only. The 74th moved
directly to the attack, the native levies skirmishing on both flanks.
The enemy, who could be seen in large numbers on the height, waited
until the Highlanders were well within range before they opened fire.
The Cavalry below watched the progress of the troops with anxiety. They
replied with steady volleys to the incessant firing of the enemy,
advancing steadily up the slope, but occasionally leaving a wounded man
behind them. Two companies went ahead in skirmishing order, and climbing
from rock to rock, exchanged shots with the enemy as they went. They
succeeded in winning a foothold at the top of the cliff and drove off
the defenders, who took refuge in a thick forest a few hundred yards in
the rear.
As soon as the rest of the regiment had got up, they advanced against
the wood, from which the enemy kept up a constant fire, and pouring in
steady volleys, entered the forest and drove the enemy before them foot
by foot, until the Kaffirs retreated into a thick bush absolutely
impenetrable to the soldiers. On emerging from the forest the troops
were joined by the other column, which had driven the enemy from their
position on the Victoria heights, and had burned two of their villages.
While the fighting was going on between the first division and the
enemy, the second division had been engaged in another portion of the
hills, and had penetrated some distance. Skirmishing went on during the
rest of the day, but at nightfall the troops returned to the camp that
they had left in the morning. The Kaffirs had suffered considerable loss
during the day, two of their leading chiefs being amongst the slain, and
Sandilli himself narrowly escaped being taken prisoner.
The Cape Mounted Rifles attached to the 74th had taken no part in the
affair, for the ground had been altogether impracticable for cavalry.
The troops, when they returned, were utterly exhausted with the
fatigues that they had undergone, but were well satisfied with the
events of the day.
"It is well enough for a beginning," Ronald said to Sergeant Menzies;
"but what is it? These hills extend twenty or thirty miles either way,
at the very least--twice as far, for anything I know. They contain
scores of kraals--I don't suppose I am far out when I say hundreds. We
have burnt three or four, have marched a mile or two into the woods,
have killed, perhaps, a hundred Kaffirs at the outside, and have lost in
killed and wounded about fifty of our own men. I suppose, altogether,
there are fifteen or twenty thousand Kaffirs there. They have no end of
places where our fellows can't possibly penetrate. There's no holding a
position when we have taken it. The columns may toil on through the
woods, skirmishing all the way, but they only hold the ground they stand
on. Why, sergeant, it will take a dozen expeditions, each made with a
force three or four times larger than we have now, before we can produce
much effect on the Amatolas."
"I am afraid it will, Blunt," the sergeant said, "before we break down
the rebellion. There is one thing--they say that the Kaffirs have got
twenty or thirty thousand cattle among the hills. If we can drive them
off, we shall do more good than by killing Kaffirs. The chiefs care but
little how much their followers are shot down, but they do care mightily
for the loss of their wealth. Cattle are the one valuable possession of
the Kaffirs. Shooting men has very little effect on those who are not
shot; as for driving them out of one part of the country, it makes no
difference to them one way or another; they can put up their kraals
anywhere. The one point on which you can hit them is their cattle. A
chief's consequence depends on the number of bullocks he owns. A young
Kaffir cannot marry unless he has cattle to buy a wife with. Putting
aside their arms and their trumpery necklaces and bracelets, cattle are
the sole valuables of the Kaffirs. You will see, if we can capture their
cattle, we shall put an end to the war; but no amount of marching and
fighting will make any great impression upon them."
The prognostications of the two soldiers proved correct; it was only
after six invasions of the Amatolas by very much larger forces, after
hard fighting, in which the troops did not always have the best of it,
after very heavy losses, and after capturing some 14,000 cattle, that
the conquest of the Amatolas was finally achieved.
So far, Ronald had heard nothing more as to the discovery of his
identity by one of the men of his troop. He thought that the man could
not have mentioned it to any one else, for he felt sure that had it
become generally known he must have heard of it. He would have noticed
some change in the manner of the men, and it would certainly have come
to the ears of Menzies or one of the other non-commissioned officers,
who would, of course, come to him to inquire whether there was any truth
in the report; besides, the man must have known him from the time he
joined the troop, and could have mentioned it before if he had wanted to
do so. Ronald supposed, then, that he had kept silence either because he
thought that by originating the report to the disadvantage of a popular
man in the corps he might, though it proved to be true, be regarded with
general hostility, or, that the man might intend to keep his secret,
thinking that some day or other he might make it useful to him. No doubt
he never would have said what he did had he not been excited by liquor.
Ronald hardly knew whether to be glad or sorry that the secret was still
kept. It would, he felt sure, come out sooner or later, and in some
respects he would rather have an end of the suspense, and face it at
once. His position was a strong one, his officers were all markedly kind
to him, and his expedition into the Amatolas had rendered him the most
popular man in the corps among his comrades. The fact, too, as told by
Colonel Somerset to his officers, and as picked up by the men from their
talk, that he had refused a commission, added to his popularity; the men
were glad to think that their comrade preferred being one of them to
becoming an officer, and that the brave deed they were all proud of had
not been done to win promotion, but simply to save women in distress.
There had been sly laughter among the men when their comrades told them
how pretty was the girl Ronald had brought back; and there had been keen
wagering in the regiment that there would be a wedding before they
marched, or at any rate that they should hear there would be one on
their return from the war. The one contingency had not occurred. The
other it seemed was not to take place, for in answer to a question as to
how the wounded colonist was going on, Ronald had said carelessly that
he was mending fast, and would be well enough to be taken down to the
coast in a fortnight, and that the doctor thought by the time he reached
England he would be completely set up again. So the bets were paid, but
the men wondered that their sergeant had not made a better use of his
opportunities, for all agreed that a girl could hardly refuse a man who
had done so much for her, even if her father were a wealthy colonist,
and he only a trooper in the Mounted Rifles.