RUTH POWLETT CONFESSES.
Upon the morning after the conversation with his daughter, Mr. Armstrong
had just started on his way up the village when he met Hiram Powlett.
"I was just coming to see you, Mr. Armstrong, if you can spare a
minute."
"I can spare an hour--I can spare the whole morning, Mr. Powlett. I have
ceased to be a working bee, and my time is at your disposal."
"Well, I thought I would just step over and speak to you," Hiram began,
in a slow, puzzled sort of a way. "You know what I was telling you the
other day about my girl?"
"Yes; I remember very well."
"You don't know, Mr. Armstrong, whether she has said anything to your
daughter?"
"No; at least not so far as I have heard of. Mary said that they were
talking together, and something was said about Miss Carne's murder; that
your daughter turned very pale, and that she thought she was going to
faint."
"That's it; that's it," Hiram said, stroking his chin, thoughtfully,
"that murder is at the bottom of it. Hesba thinks it must be that any
talk about it brings the scene back to her; but it does not seem to me
that that accounts for it at all, and I would give a lot to know what is
on the girl's mind. She came in yesterday afternoon as white as a sheet,
and fainted right off at the door. I shouldn't think so much of that,
because she has often fainted since her illness, but that wasn't all.
When her mother got her round she went upstairs to her room, and didn't
come down again. There is not much in that, you would say; after a girl
has fainted she likes to lie quiet a bit; but she didn't lie quiet. We
could hear her walking up and down the room for hours, and Hesba stole
up several times to her door and said she was sobbing enough to break
her heart. She is going about the house again this morning, but that
white and still that it is cruel to look at her. So I thought after
breakfast that I would put on my hat and come and have a talk with you,
seeing that you were good enough to be interested in her. You will say
it's a rum thing for a father to come and talk about his daughter to a
man he hasn't known more than two months. I feel that myself, but there
is no one in the village I should like to open my mind to about Ruth,
and seeing that you are father of a girl about the same age, and that I
feel you are a true sort of a man, I come to you. It isn't as if I
thought that my Ruth could have done anything wrong. If I did, I would
cut my tongue out before I would speak a word. But I know my Ruth. She
has always been a good girl: not one of your light sort, but earnest and
steady. Whatever is wrong, it's not wrong with her. I believe she has
got some secret or other that is just wearing her out, and if we can't
get to the bottom of it I don't believe Ruth will see Christmas," and
Hiram Powlett wiped his eyes violently.
"Believe me, I will do my best to find it out if there is such a secret,
Mr. Powlett. I feel sure from what I have seen of your daughter, that if
a wrong has been done of any kind it is not by her. I agree with you
that she has a secret, and that that secret is wearing her out. I may
say that my daughter is of the same opinion. I believe that there is a
struggle going on in her mind on the subject, and that if she is to have
peace, and as you say health, she must unburden her mind. However, Mr.
Powlett, my advice in the matter is, leave her alone. Do not press her
in any way. I think that what you said to me before is likely to be
verified, and that if she unburdens herself it will be to Mary; and you
may be sure whatever is the nature of the secret, my daughter will keep
it inviolate, unless it is Ruth's own wish that it should be told to
others."
"Thankee, Mr. Armstrong, thankee kindly; I feel more hopeful now. I have
been worrying and fretting over this for months, till I can scarce look
after my work, and often catch myself going on drawing at my pipe when
it's gone out and got cold. But I think it's coming on; I think that
crying last night meant something, one way or the other. Well, we shall
see; we shall see. I will be off back again to my work now; I feel all
the better for having had this talk with you. Hesba's a good woman, and
she is fond of the child; but she is what she calls practical--she looks
at things hard, and straight, and sensible, and naturally she don't
quite enter into my feelings about Ruth, though she is fond of her too.
Well, good morning, Mr. Armstrong; you have done me good, and I do hope
it will turn out as you say, and that we shall get to know what is
Ruth's trouble."
An hour later, Mary Armstrong went down to the mill to inquire after
Ruth. She found her quiet and pale.
"I am glad you have come in, Miss Armstrong," Hesba said, "our Ruth
wants cheering up a bit. She had a faint yesterday when she got back
from your place, and she is never fit for anything after that except
just to sit in her chair and look in the fire. I tell her she would be
better if she would rouse herself."
"But one cannot always rouse oneself, Mrs. Powlett," Mary said; "and I
am sure Ruth does not look equal to talking now. However, she shall sit
still, and I will tell her a story. I have never told you yet that I was
once carried off by the Kaffirs, and that worse than death would have
befallen me, and that I should have been afterwards tortured and killed,
if I had not been rescued by a brave man."
"Lawk-a-mussy, Miss Armstrong, why you make my flesh creep at the
thought of such a thing? And you say it all happened to you? Why, now,
to look at you, I should have thought you could hardly have known what
trouble meant, you always seem so bright and happy; that's what Ruth has
said, again and again."
"You shall judge for yourself, Mrs. Powlett, if you can find time to
sit down and listen, as well as Ruth."
"I can find time for that," Hesba said, "though it isn't often as I sits
down till the tea is cleared away and Hiram has lit his pipe."
Mary sat down facing the fire, with Ruth in an arm-chair on one side of
her, and Mrs. Powlett stiff and upright on a hard settle on the other.
Then she began to tell the story, first saying a few words to let her
hearers know of the fate of women who fell into the hands of the
Kaffirs. Then she began with the story of her journey down from King
Williamstown, the sudden attack by natives, and how after seeing her
father fall she was carried off. Then she told, what she had never told
before, of the hideous tortures of the other two women, part of which
she was compelled to witness, and how she was told that she was to be
preserved as a present to Macomo. Then she described the dreary journey.
"I had only one hope," she said, "and it was so faint that it could not
be called a hope; but there was one man in the colony who somehow I felt
sure would, if he knew of my danger, try to rescue me. He had once
before come to our aid when our house was attacked by Kaffirs, and in a
few minutes our fate would have been sealed had he not arrived. But for
aught I knew he was a hundred miles away, and what could he do against
the three hundred natives who were with me? Still, I had a little ray of
hope, the faintest, tiniest ray, until we entered the Amatolas----they
are strong steep hills covered with forest and bush, and are the
stronghold of the Kaffirs, and I knew that there were about twenty
thousand natives gathered there. Then I hoped no longer. I felt that my
fate was sealed, and my only wish and my only longing was to obtain a
knife or a spear, and to kill myself."
Then Mary described the journey through the forest to the kraal, the
long hours she had sat waiting for her fate with every movement watched
by the Kaffir women, and her sensations when she heard the message in
English. Then she described her rescue from the kraal, her flight
through the woods, her concealment in the cave, her escape from the
Amatolas, the ride with the trooper holding her on his saddle, and the
final dash through the Kaffirs.
Her hearers had thrown in many interjections of horror and pity, loud on
the part of Hesba, mere murmurs on that of Ruth, who had taken Mary's
hand in hers, but the sympathetic pressure told more than words.
"And you shot four of them, Miss Armstrong!" Hesba ejaculated, in
wide-eyed astonishment. "To think that a young girl like you should have
the death of four men on her hands! I don't say as it's unchristian,
because Christians are not forbidden to fight for their lives, but it
does seem downright awful!"
"It has never troubled me for a single moment," Mary said. "They tried
to kill me, and I killed them. That is the light I saw it in, and so
would you if you had been living in the colony."
"But you have not finished your story," Ruth said, earnestly. "Surely
that is not the end of it!"
"No; my father recovered from his wound, and so did the soldier who
saved me, and as soon as my father was able to travel, he and I went
down to the coast and came home."
"That cannot be all," Ruth whispered; "there must be something more to
tell, Mary."
"I will tell you another time, Ruth," Mary said, in equally low tones,
and then rising, put on her hat again, said good-bye, and went out.
"Did you ever, Ruth?" Hesba Powlett exclaimed as the door closed. "I
never did hear such a story in all my life. And to think of her shooting
four men! It quite made my flesh creep; didn't it yours?"
"There were other parts of the story that made my flesh creep a great
deal more, mother."
"Yes, it was terrible! And she didn't say a single word in praise of
what the soldier had done for her. Now that seems to me downright
ungrateful, and not at all what I should have thought of Miss
Armstrong."
"I suppose she thought, mother, that there was no occasion to express
her opinion of his bravery or to mention her gratitude. The whole story
seemed to me a cry of praise and a hymn of gratitude."
"Lord, Ruth, what fancies you do take in your head, to be sure! I never
did hear such expressions!"
Two days passed without Ruth going up to the Armstrongs'; on the third
day Mary again went down.
"Well, Ruth, as you have not been to see me, I have come to see you
again."
"I was coming up this afternoon. If you don't mind, I will go back with
you now, instead of your staying here. We are quieter there, you know.
Somehow, one cannot think or talk when people come in and out of the
room every two or three minutes."
"I quite agree with you, Ruth, and, if you don't mind my saying so, I
would very much rather have you all to myself."
The two girls accordingly went back to the cottage. Mary, who was rather
an industrious needlewoman, brought out a basket of work. Ruth, who for
a long time had scarcely taken up a needle, sat with her hands before
her.
When two people intend to have a serious conversation with each other,
they generally steer wide of the subject at first, and the present was
no exception.
"I think it would be better for you, Ruth, to occupy yourself with work
a little, as I do."
"I used to be fond of work," Ruth replied, "but I don't seem to be able
to give my attention to it now. I begin, and before I have done twenty
stitches, somehow or other my thoughts seem to go away, and by the end
of the morning the first twenty stitches are all I have done."
"But you oughtn't to think so much, Ruth. It is bad for any one to be
always thinking."
"Yes, but I can't help it. I have so much to think about, and it gets
worse instead of better. Now, after what you said to me the other night,
I don't know what to do. It seemed right before. I did not think I was
doing much harm in keeping silence; now I see I have been, oh, so
wrong!" and she twined her fingers in and out as if suffering bodily
pain.
"My poor Ruth!" Mary said, coming over to her and kneeling down by her
side. "I think I know what is troubling you."
The girl shook her head.
"Yes, dear, I am almost sure you have known something all along that
would have proved Captain Mervyn was innocent, and you have not said
it."
Ruth Powlett did not speak for a minute or two, then she said, slowly:
"I do not know how you have guessed it, Mary. No one else even seems to
have thought of it. But, yes, that is it, and I do so want some one to
advise me what to do. I see now I have been very wicked. For a long time
I have been fighting against myself. I have tried so hard to persuade
myself that I had not done much harm, because Captain Mervyn was
acquitted. I have really known that I was wrong, but I never thought how
wrong until you spoke to me."
"Wait, Ruth," Mary said; "before you tell me your secret I must tell you
mine. It would not be fair for you to tell me without knowing that. You
remember the story I was telling you about my being carried off?"
A fresh interest came into Ruth's face.
"Yes," she said, "and you promised you would tell me the rest another
time. I thought you meant, of course, you would tell me that when this
war out there is over, you would some day marry the soldier who has done
so much for you."
"I was going to tell you, Ruth, why I am not going to marry him."
"Oh, I thought you would be sure to," Ruth said in a tone of deep
disappointment. "It seemed to me that it was sure to be so. I thought a
man would never have risked so much for a woman unless he loved her."
"He did love me, Ruth, and I loved him. I don't think I made any secret
of it. Somehow it seemed to me that he had a right to me, and I was
surprised when the time went on and he didn't ask me. When the last day
came before he was to march away to fight again, I think that if he had
not spoken I should have done so. Do not think me unmaidenly, Ruth, but
he was only a sergeant and I was a rich girl, for my father is a great
deal better off than he seems to be, and I thought that perhaps some
foolish sort of pride held him back, for I was quite sure that he loved
me. But he spoke first. He told me that he loved me, but could never ask
me to be his wife; that he could never marry, but he must go through the
world alone to the end of his life."
"Oh, Mary, how terrible!" Ruth said, pitifully, "how terrible! Was he
married before, then?"
"No, Ruth, it was worse than that; there was a great shadow over his
life; he had been tried for murder, and though he had been acquitted,
the stigma was still upon him. Go where he would he might be recognised
and pointed out as a murderer; therefore, unless the truth was some day
known and his name cleared, no woman could ever be his wife."
Ruth had given a little gasp as Mary Armstrong began, then she sat rigid
and immovable.
"It was Captain Mervyn," she said, at last, in a low whisper.
"Yes, Ruth. Sergeant Blunt was Captain Mervyn; he had changed his name,
and gone out there to hide himself, but even there he had already been
recognised; and, as he said--for I pleaded hard, Ruth, to be allowed to
share his exile--go where he would, bury himself in what out-of-the-way
corner he might, sooner or later some one would know him, and this story
would rise up against him, and, much as he loved me--all the more,
perhaps, because he loved me so much--he would never suffer me to be
pointed at as the wife of a murderer."
"You shall not be," Ruth said, more firmly than she had before spoken.
"You shall not be, Mary. I can clear him, and I will."
It was Mary Armstrong's turn to break down now. The goal had been
reached, Ronald Mervyn would be cleared; and she threw her arms round
Ruth and burst into a passion of tears. It was some time before the
girls were sufficiently composed to renew the conversation.
"First of all, I must tell you, Mary," Ruth began, "that you may not
think me more wicked than I am, that I would never have let Captain
Mervyn suffer the penalty of another's crime. Against the wish, almost
in the face of the orders of the doctor, I remained in court all through
the trial, holding in my hand the proof of Captain Mervyn's innocence,
and had the verdict been 'guilty' I was ready to rush forward and prove
that he was innocent. I do not think that all that you suffered when you
were in the hands of the Kaffirs was worse than I suffered then. I saw
before me the uproar in court: the eyes that would be all fixed upon me;
the way that the judge and the counsel would blame me for having so long
kept silence; the reproach that I should meet with when I returned
home; the shame of my dear old father; the way in which every soul in
the village would turn against me; but I would have dared it all rather
than that one man should suffer for the sin of another. And now, having
told you this first, so that you should not think too hardly of me, I
will tell you all."
Then Ruth told her of her girlish love for George Forester; how she had
clung to him through evil report, and in spite of the wishes of her
father and mother, but how at last the incident of the affray with the
gamekeepers had opened her eyes to the fact that he was altogether
reckless and wild, and that she could never trust her happiness to him.
She told how Margaret Carne had spoken to her about it, and how she had
promised she would give him up; then she told of that meeting on the
road on the way to church; his passionate anger against herself; the
threats he had uttered against Miss Carne for her interference, and the
way in which he had assaulted her.
"I firmly believe," Ruth said, "he would have murdered me had he not
heard people coming along the road." Then she told how she found the
open knife stained with blood at Margaret Carne's bedside, and how she
had hidden it. "I did not do it because I loved him still, Mary," she
said. "My love seemed to have been killed. I had given him up before,
and the attack he made upon me had shown me clearly how violent he was,
and what an escape I had had; but I had loved him as a boy, and it was
the remembrance of my girlish love, and not any love I then had, that
sealed my lips; but even this would not have silenced me, I think, had
it not been for the sake of his father. The old man had always been
very, very kind to me, and the disgrace of his son being found guilty of
this crime would have killed him. I can say, honestly, it was this that
chiefly influenced me in deciding to shield him. As to Captain Mervyn,
I was, as I told you, determined that though I would keep silent if he
were acquitted, I would save him if he were found guilty. I never
thought for a moment that acquittal would not clear him. It seemed to me
that the trouble that had fallen on him was thoroughly deserved for the
way in which he had spoken to Miss Carne; but I thought when he was
acquitted he would take his place in his regiment again, and be none the
worse for what had happened. It was only when I found that he had left
the regiment, and when Mrs. Mervyn and her daughters shut up the house
and went to live far away, that I began to trouble much. I saw now how
wicked I had been, though I would never quite own it even to myself. I
would have told then, but I did not know who to tell it to, or what good
it could do if told. Mr. Forester was dead now, and the truth could not
hurt him. George Forester had gone away, and would never come back; you
know they found a verdict of wilful murder against him for killing the
keeper. Somehow it seemed too late either to do good or harm. Every one
had gone. Why should I say anything, and bring grief and trouble on my
father and mother, and make the whole valley despise me? It has been
dreadful," she said, wanly. "You cannot tell how dreadful. Ever since
you came here and tried to make a friend of me, I have been fighting a
battle with myself. It was not right that you should like me--it was not
right that any one should like me--and I felt at last that I must tell
you; you first, and then every one. Now after what you have told me it
will not be so hard. Of course I shall suffer, and my father will
suffer; but it will do good and make you and Captain Mervyn happy for
the truth to be known, and so I shall be able to brave it all much
better than I should otherwise have done. Who shall I go to first?"
"I cannot tell you, Ruth. I must speak to my father, and he will think
it over, and perhaps he will write and ask Ronald how he would like it
done. There is no great hurry, for he cannot come home anyhow till the
war is finished, and it may last for months yet."
"Well, I am ready to go anywhere and to tell every one when you like,"
Ruth said. "Do not look so pitiful, Mary. I am sure I shall be much
happier, whatever happens, even if they put me in prison, now that I
have made up my mind to do what is right."
"There is no fear of that, I think, Ruth. They never asked you whether
you had found anything; and though you certainly hid the truth, you did
not absolutely give false evidence."
"It was all wrong and wicked," Ruth said, "and it will be quite right if
they punish me; but that would be nothing to what I have suffered
lately. I should feel happier in prison with this weight off my mind.
But can you forgive me, Mary? Can you forgive me causing such misery to
Captain Mervyn, and such unhappiness to you?"
"You need not be afraid about that," Mary said, laying her hand
assuringly on Ruth's shoulder. "Why, child, you have been a benefactor
to us both! If you had told all about it at first, Ronald would never
have gone out to the Cape; father and I would have been killed in the
first attack; and if we had not been, I should have been tortured to
death in the Amatolas; and, last of all, we should never have seen and
loved each other. Whatever troubles you may have to bear, do not reckon
Ronald's displeasure and mine among them. I shall have cause to thank
you all the days of my life, and I hope Ronald will have cause to do so
too. Kiss me, Ruth; you have made me the happiest woman in the world,
and I would give a great deal to be able to set this right without your
having to put yourself forward in it."
Ruth was crying now, but they were not tears of unhappiness. They talked
for some time longer, sitting hand in hand; and then, as Mr. Armstrong's
step was heard coming up to the cottage, Ruth seized her hat and shawl.
"I dare not see him," she said; "he may not look at it as you do."
"Yes, he will," Mary said. "You don't know my father; he is one of the
tenderest hearted of men." But Ruth darted out just as the door opened.
"What is it?" Mr. Armstrong asked in surprise. "Ruth Powlett nearly
knocked me down in the passage, and rushed off without even the ordinary
decency of apologising."
"Ruth has told me everything, father. We can clear Ronald Mervyn as soon
as we like." And Mary Armstrong threw her arms round her father's neck.
"I thank God for that, Mary. I felt it would come sooner or later, but I
had hardly hoped that it would come so soon. I am thankful, indeed, my
child; how did it all come about?"
Mary repeated the story Ruth Powlett told her.
"Yes, there's no doubt about it this time," her father said. "As you
say, there could be no mistake about the knife, because she had given it
to him herself, and had had his initials engraved upon it at Plymouth. I
don't think any reasonable man could have a doubt that the scoundrel did
it; and now, my dear, what is to be done next?"
"Ah, that is for you to decide. I think Ronald ought to be consulted."
"Oh, you think that?" Mr. Armstrong said, quickly. "You think he knows a
great deal better what ought to be done than I do?"
"No, I don't exactly mean that, father; but I think one would like to
know how he would wish it to be done before we do anything. There is no
particular hurry, you know, when he once knows that it is all going to
be set right."
"No, beyond the fact that he would naturally like to get rid of this
thing hanging over him as soon as he can. Now, my idea is that the girl
ought to go at once to a magistrate and make an affidavit, and hand over
this knife to him. I don't know how the matter is to be re-opened,
because Ronald Mervyn has been acquitted, and the other man is goodness
knows where."
"Well, father, there will be time enough to think over it, but I do
think we had better tell Ronald first."
"Very well, my dear, as you generally have your own way, I suppose we
shall finally settle on that, whether we agree now or three days hence.
By the way, I have got a letter in my pocket for you from him. The Cape
mail touched at Plymouth yesterday."
"Why did you not tell me of it before, father?" the girl said,
reproachfully.
"Well, my dear, your news is so infinitely more important, that I own I
forgot all about the letter. Besides, as this is the fourth that you
have had since you have been here, it is not of such extreme
importance."
But Mary was reading the letter and paid no attention to what her father
was saying. Presently she gave a sudden exclamation.
"What is it, my dear; has he changed his mind and married a Kaffir
woman? If so, we need not trouble any more about the affair."
"No, papa; it is serious--quite serious."
"Well, my dear, that would be serious; at least I should have thought
you would consider it so."
"No, father; but really this is extraordinary. What do you think he
says?"
"It is of no use my thinking about it, Mary," Mr. Armstrong said,
resignedly, "especially as I suppose you are going to tell me. I have
made one suggestion, and it seems that it is incorrect."
"This is what he says, father: 'You know that I told you a trooper in my
company recognised me. I fancied I knew the man's face, but could not
recall where I had seen it. The other day it suddenly flashed upon me;
he is the son of a little farmer upon my cousin's estate, a man by the
name of Forester. I often saw him when he was a young fellow, for I was
fond of fishing, and I can remember him as a boy who was generally
fishing down in the mill-stream. I fancy he rather went to grief
afterwards, and have some idea he was mixed up in a poaching business in
the Carne woods. So I think he must have left the country about that
time. Curious, isn't it, his running against me here? However, it cannot
be helped. I suppose it will all come out, sooner or later, for he has
been in the guardroom several times for drunkenness, and one of these
times he will be sure to blurt it out.'"
"Isn't that extraordinary, father?"
"It is certainly an extraordinary coincidence, Mary, that these two
men--the murderer of Miss Carne and the man who has suffered for that
murder should be out there together. This complicates matters a good
deal."
"It does, father. There can be no doubt of what is to be done now."
"Well, now I quite come round on your side, Mary; nothing should be done
until Mervyn knows all about it, and can let us know what his views are.
I should not think that he could have this man arrested out there merely
on his unsupported accusation, and I should imagine that he will want an
official copy of Ruth Powlett's affidavit, and perhaps a warrant sent
out from England, before he can get him arrested. Anyhow, we must go
cautiously to work. When Ruth Powlett speaks, it will make a great stir
here, and this Forester may have some correspondent here who would write
and tell him what has happened, and then he might make a bolt of it
before Ronald can get the law at work and lay hold of him."
"I should rather hope, for Ruth's sake, that he would do so, father.
She is ready to make her confession and to bear all the talk it will
make and the blame that will fall upon her; but it would be a great
trial to her to have the man she once loved brought over and hung upon
her evidence."
"So it would, Mary, so it would; but, on the other hand, it can be only
by his trial and execution that Mervyn's innocence can be absolutely
proved to the satisfaction of every one. It is a grave question
altogether, Mary, and at any rate we will wait. Tell Mervyn he has all
the facts before him, and must decide what is to be done. Besides, my
dear, I think it will be only fair that Ruth should know that we are in
a position to lay hands on this Forester before she makes the
confession."
"I think so too, father. Yes, she certainly ought to be told; but I am
sure that now she has made up her mind to confess she will not draw
back. Still, of course, it would be very painful for her. We need not
tell her at present; I will write a long letter to Ronald and tell him
all the ins and outs of it, and then we can wait quietly until we hear
from him."
"You need not have said that you will write a long letter, Mary," Mr.
Armstrong said, drily, "considering that each time the mail has gone out
I have seen nothing of you for twenty-four hours previously, and that I
have reason to believe that an extra mail cart has had each time to be
put on to carry the correspondence."
"It's all very well to laugh, father," Mary said, a little indignantly,
"but you know that he is having fights almost every day with the
Kaffirs, and only has our letters to look forward to, telling him how we
are getting on and----and----"
"And how we love him, Mary, and how we dream of him, etc., etc."
Mary laughed.
"Never mind what I put in my letters, father, as long as he is satisfied
with them."
"I don't, my dear. My only fear is that he will come back wearing
spectacles, for I should say that it would ruin any human eyes to have
to wade through the reams of feminine handwriting you send to him. If he
is the sensible fellow I give him credit for, he only reads the first
three words, which are, I suppose, 'my darling Ronald' and the last
four, which I also suppose are 'your ever loving Mary.'"
The colour flooded Mary Armstrong's cheeks.
"You have no right even to guess at my letters, father, and I have no
doubt that whether they are long or short, he reads them through a dozen
times."
"Poor fellow, poor fellow!" Mr. Armstrong said, pityingly.
"Nevertheless, my dear, important as all these matters are, I do not
know why I should be compelled to fast. I came in an hour ago, expecting
to find tea ready, and there are no signs of it visible. I shall have to
follow the example of the villagers when their wives fail to get their
meals ready, and go down to the 'Carne's Arms' for it."
"You shall have it in five minutes, father," Mary Armstrong said,
running out. "Men are so dreadfully material that whatever happens their
appetite must be attended to just as usual."
And so three days afterwards a full account of all that Ruth Powlett had
said, and of the circumstances of the case, was despatched to "Sergeant
Blunt, Cape Mounted Rifles, Kaffirland."