So she sat darning the stockings and trying to prevent a sinking at

the heart.

From her verandah she could see the bustle and stir in the camp. The

next day one of the meadow stretches lay bare of tents. So the work of

embarkation must be close at hand. Aye, the bay was thronged with

transports! There was a sound of drums and fifes in the air. What room

for love and peace when war and strife were afoot? But any moment now

might bring Marmaduke, and that was enough for the present.

It was on the fourth day, when she was beginning to wonder if possibly

he had not found time, that an orderly appeared with a note. It was

not from Duke; it was from Andrew.

"DEAR MADAM,

"Please come. I have sent the Colonel's charger. He will carry a lady.

He is very ill."

She turned soul-sick as she read.

"Is he--is the Colonel very ill?" she asked.

"Verra ill indeed, m'm. It's the co-lira, and they're sayin' he's like

to dee--God forbid it!"

"Like to die!"

Well, it was best to know the truth. She put on her European dress and

started, remembering as she rode through the flower-set meadows how

they had planned this visit to his hut. How she should spend the day

there and be introduced to his friends. For though they never spoke of

the future or the past, living only in the present heaven, Marmaduke

had evidently never considered the possibility of separation and she

had been content to let such possibilities slide.

And now? She bit her lip to keep it from quivering as Andrew met her.

"He's lying in the arbour, m'm. And he's no worse, anyway."

Yes, there he was, lying--such a long length--on his camp-bed covered

with his plaid. Lying under the arbour of Jonah's gourd, about which

he had chattered so gaily as being a laughing-stock to the other

officers, though they dearly loved to sit in its shade. The ripe fruit

hung scarlet amid the yellowing leaves. It seemed to throw the blue

pallor of his face into louder warning that Death was in grips with

Life.

She knelt beside the bed and took his hand without one word. She had

seen too many cholera cases to hope for speech, but the eyelids

quivered and the fingers closed on hers.

"How long?" she asked.

"Since yesterday morning. He would not give in--we were to move

to-night, ye see----"

"Why didn't you----?" Words failed her for reproach.

"He wouldna let me send. I'm thinking he was afraid for ye."

There was a long pause. Her heart was full of regret, of bitterness.

Afraid for her--oh, Duke, Duke!

"And he has everything?"

"Aye, everything! The doctor will be here again the now."

He came and found his patient better. He opened his eyes and smiled.

Collapse had gone, the following fever had laid hold on him. Would his

heart stand it? All that day he lay in something like sleep--quiet, so

long as his hand could find that other hand. Once or twice she caught

a whispered word of command and once, urgent, came a call for

reinforcements. His mind was at battle--far, far from her. About an

hour before sunset he turned his head and looked at her.

"I've done it," he said faintly; "I've done it!"

The doctor came in many a time and oft. The orderlies were always

doing something; but her part was to hold his hand until the last. She

saw it coming clearly; she knew that it must be so.

Someone in the arbour suggested a clergyman, and they sent to fetch

one.

"He will be too late," half-whispered a voice.

Was it hers? Too late! As if it mattered? As if He who made----

Hark! A bird singing. It had come in after the fruit--perhaps he had

fed it, for he loved God's creatures--and now not five yards from

where he lay it was giving its heart out in full-throated song.

Hush! Listen! Listen!--it seemed to say.

The still figure was growing more still.

The slow breathing grew slower.

The touch of these cold fingers on hers grew colder.

Then their feeble clasp had gone, but the bird sang on.

She rose unsteadily, drew the plaid over his face, and left the tent.

She did not seem to realise the presence of others.

Andrew ran after her.

"Marrion, Marrion, whaur are ye gaun? Ye poor, poor thing!" he

whispered hoarsely in the extremity of his bewildered grief. "Bide a

wee, and I'll see ye haim."

"I am going to walk home," she said dully. "It will do me good. I

must--I must do something--and I must be alone."

So she walked over the meadows, crushing the drifts of purple

colchicum under her feet. What had he called the flower of death? Ah,

the iris! That would come in the spring. It would flower on his grave

perhaps. And all the time she felt his cold hand on hers, she heard

the bird's full song. How he would have loved to hear it! Perhaps he

had.

It was dark ere she reached the vine pergola where they had been so

happy, and she started when a tall officer in Highland costume came

towards her. Was it all a bad dream? Was she waking to find him still

her own? But he was only the bearer of a kindly message from the

regiment to say that the colonel was to be buried at dawn, and that if

Mrs. Marsden----

"Who told you I was Mrs. Marsden?" she asked sharply. "Andrew Fraser?"

The officer bowed and went on.

"As one of the colonel's oldest friends, would care----"

She shook her head. She was grateful. It was a kind thought. But

Colonel Muir was Colonel Muir and everybody loved him--he would have

enough friends.

"Madam," said the young officer, with a break in his voice, "when we

lower him into his solitary grave--he is to be buried on the hill

above his tent where he sat so often--we shall all know that the

finest fellow in the regiment, nay, in the whole army, has gone from

us."

She lay that night, her face crushed into the pillow without a sob.

Only once or twice she whispered to herself.

"Ah, Duke, Duke, I'm glad I made you happy--so glad--so glad!"

She was up betimes to take her stand on a neighbouring hill, where,

unobserved, she could watch him laid to his rest. Not a tent was to be

seen; the battalion had shifted quarters during the night; the forward

march to which he had looked with such longing had begun, and he----

Close by the belt of forest trees she could see his dismantled hut; a

heap of packed baggage piled close by with a sentry on guard beside

it. But the arbour hid what it held. So, as the sun rose, the leaden

beat of the Dead March rose, as the regiment, followed by detachments

from all and every regiment in Varna, drew up in a lane to let the

artillery with a gun-carriage draped with the colours pass up.

Just his coat, his plaid, his sword, his bonnet, that was all. And

after him his grey Arab--the one she had ridden--fully dressed. That

was Andrew on the one side, and the other three? Generals, she

supposed, by their uniforms.

What a crowd of officers! And the men, marching so slowly to the

muffled beat! Would they never reach the grave?

At last. Now there were some words of command--heard vaguely as

inarticulate cries--the long procession formed up, massed itself into

a hollow square.

They must be reading the service now.

"Being dead yet liveth--yet liveth--yet liveth----"

She held fast to that, as her eyes travelled where his had so often

rested in content--thank God for that--in sheer content.

So, as she looked at the wide expanse of hill and valley, lake and

sea, those half-heard words of his came back to memory--"I've done

it--I have done it!"

What had he done?

The sharp rattle of musketry roused her. Again, again! The Last Post

had been set. The last honour paid.

A minute's pause. Then the bands struck up their regimental marches,

orders followed sharp and incisive. So with a swing the men stepped

out, only a little knot of officers remaining to see the grave filled

in. She must wait till they had gone. Shifting her position to one of

greater ease, she rested her aching head upon a tussock of sweet thyme

that was shaded by a rugged scarp of rock.

And so, wearied out with her sleepless night, with utter despair and

misery she dozed off, sinking deeper and deeper into slumber, all

grief forgotten, peaceful as a child. The long hours passed, yet still

she slept.

When she awoke it was almost sun-setting. Over the far sea, shadowy

outlines and still more shadowy trails of smoke told that the argosy

of an army had started for the Crimea. Not a tent was to be seen. They

had folded their white wings and gone. Already the populace had

cleared away all that had been left behind. The hill-sides showed bare

without a trace of humanity. His very hut had disappeared, the arbour

was broken down, its scarlet fruits rifled. Only on the mossy plateau

below the scarp at her feet lay a heap of stones.

Her heart gave a great throb. She had not thought of that, but a cairn

was meet and fitting. And how many men of his regiment had gone there,

even amid their busy-ness, to throw one stone for the sake of their

love and respect!

She must throw one, too; at least, she could do that!

Her composure was almost terrible. She picked up a little moss-grown

quartz pebble, and, going down, laid it where she judged those folded

hands of his must rest.

"That's my heart, Duke!" she said. "It's cold--cold as a stone."

Steps behind her made her turn. It was Andrew Fraser, his lean face

all blistered with the tears he had shed.

"My puir lammie!" he said. "I thocht I might find you here when you

werna at the hoose, and the woman was wae to know what had become o'

you."

The very warmth of his sympathy roused antagonism.

"I was just going back. Do you want me?"

He looked at her almost pitifully.

"It'll be no comfort tae you to ken that I'm as fu o' grief as you,

Marrion. But I had tae see ye before we left. I got leave till the

last. Oh, my lassie, is there naethin' I can do for you?"

She shook her head.

"Nothing, Andrew, except hold your tongue. The past is gone for ever!"

And as she walked down the hill with him her clasped hands bit into

each other with bitter strength. Was it for this she had planned and

protected? But, thank God, she had made him happy at the last!

CHAPTER VIII

In after years the next four days appeared to Marrion as a blank. She

went on with her work, she shed no tears except when she was asleep.

She did not even think. In the late evenings, when work was over, she

would ride or drive to where the Highlanders' camp had stood and sit

silent for an hour or two on the cairn about Marmaduke's grave, doing

nothing. She brought no flowers, the sight of his grave gave her no

more poignant grief. Indeed, often as she looked out eastwards over

the sea, with all the glorious trending of sunlit, sun-shadowed hills

and dales towards it, she would feel calmly that he would have admired

it as much as she did.

Yet underneath all her calm lurked a regret that grew with the days.

He had been left behind, and he had been so eager to go. Even those

last words of his--"I have done it"--were poor comfort.

So, confusedly, out of this regret and the memory of those other words

of his--"I have found you, or rather I have found myself, for ever and

ever and ever"--arose the idea of getting to the Crimea herself, if

she could. She could at least follow the fortunes of the regiment of

which he had been so fond, so proud. Besides, home had no call for

her. She had no ties there and the prospect of a long life without

them was appalling. Far better to die out here as he had died. But the

interest of Varna had passed. The tragedy of the fire had ousted the

tragedy of disease and starvation. The cholera had ceased, the city

was almost depopulated, so the problem of many mouths and no food had

disappeared.

Once the idea of following the regiment presented itself to her it

became an obsession. She made up her mind that if it could be

compassed she would do what she could for its brave men; then if death

did not intervene--which she hoped it might--she could come back to

where Duke lay and tell him she had carried him in her heart all the

way. So she set to work to think out the means. Her shaven and shorn

head--as he had called it--might facilitate matters; for she might

pose as a youth of one of the many uncouth peoples gathered round by

greed of gain. Varna was a polyglot place, and she knew enough Turkish

now to render English unnecessary.

While still nebulous, however, her plans were suddenly settled for her

by the arrival in port of the very Turkish mail steamer in which she

had sailed from Marseilles. The little doctor naturally enough called

on his _protegee_, full of the fine reports he had heard of her from

old Achmet. The ship had been requisitioned and he was on his way to

Eupatoria with medical stores for the Turkish contingent, which

expected to land there. The opportunity seemed too good to be lost.

She begged him to arrange for her to go so far, pointing out that she

had proved her capacity for usefulness. After a few demurs he

consented. She left everything standing in Varna and three days

afterwards found herself surveying the beach at Kalamita Bay, a few

miles south of Eupatoria, which had been taken the night before by the

expedition without the exchange of a shot. It was a shingly beach or

bar but a few feet wide, behind which lay a long, narrow, sedge-set

lake of salt water. From this rose, with deafening clamour, thousands

upon thousands of wild fowl alarmed by the unaccustomed presence of

man, their wailing cries almost drowning the long surge of the sea

upon the shingly beach and the oaths and confusion inseparable from

the disembarkation of so many troops. Beyond this salt lake rose a

high bank of red clay serrated by many small ravines, while over this

again the wide plain, dotted with cattle, corn-ricks, and farmhouses,

showed a land where supplies should be plentiful. In the far distance

could be seen, dimly blue, the hills behind Sebastopol, which lay some

seven and twenty miles to the south. In deference to the little

doctor's recommendation she remained on board and was thus free to

watch the humour and difficulties of the disembarkation. Both were

numerous. The heavy surf made the passage of boats to the shore

dangerous, but the blue-jackets were over the sides almost before they

could foot bottom, and, aided by those landed before--who, naked as

the day they were born, rushed into the sea to help--generally

succeeded in beaching their cargo high and dry. To little purpose, so

far as the men were concerned, since it was "off uniform" in a second,

and into the water to help the next arrivals. Luckily the day was

sultry and warm. The landing of the cavalry horses presented the

greatest difficulty, for even after confinement on shipboard the dry

shingle was not sufficient bait to induce them to walk the plank

alone; so that they had to be ridden, and as three out of six went

souse into the sea it was provocative of much merriment--for even in

those days the British soldier was light-hearted. The men, therefore,

wrung their wet clothes out cheerfully, and the horses dried

themselves by rolling in the patches of sun-baked sand, for the day

was glorious. Yet the discomfort was hard, the work harder; but,

despite it all, Thomas Atkins found time to nickname the Crim-Tartar

population who came down, curious but friendly, to view the scene, by

the strangely inappropriate and colourless appellation of "Joey," one

which nevertheless stuck firm all through the Crimean War.

So the day passed; but the afternoon promised a storm, and Marrion was

anxious to get on shore and make arrangements, if she could, for

stopping there. As she was watching she saw a gig going ashore to the

Old Fort with a woman in it--a woman who was received with plaudits by

the whole army. At the time she could not conceive who it could be,

though she afterwards found out it was the Countess of Erroll. The

incident, however, gave her courage; she persuaded the little doctor

to allow her to land, and, accompanied by him and in her Turkish

dress, she found a night's lodging in one of the nearest farm-houses.

Nor had she to pay for it overmuch, for the Crim-Tartarians were

kindly, honest folk ready to welcome brothers and sisters of Islam.

Indeed, they looked upon the new-comers as a possible deliverance from

Russian rule. It was lucky this was so, thought Marrion, as with the

sinking of day a violent storm of wind and rain swept the beach,

drenching the fifty thousand men who were without tents. They dug

holes for themselves in the shingle, spread their greatcoats atop, and

joked away discomfort even though death stalked among them and the

terrible scourge, cholera, they hoped they had left behind them,

claimed not a few victims before morning.

They were cheerful as ever, nevertheless, next day while the work of

disembarkation went on. Marrion watched it from afar, finding a Varna

friend or two in the Turkish contingent, but sheering off from the

regiment for fear of recognition--especially by Andrew Fraser. She was

not ready for that yet. So three days passed and it was not till the

nineteenth that the army of some fifty thousand men moved on towards

Sebastopol. About a third of the way thither the enemy was said to be

strongly entrenched on the banks of the Alma river. Why he had not

attacked during the confusion of disembarkation was a subject of much

comment, and all agreed it must be because the position they held on

the river was supposed to be impregnable. Why, therefore, leave it?

"We shall see," said Lord Raglan succinctly.

He was an old man, as indeed were almost all the leaders in the

Crimean War, but he was full of the fire of youth.

The march was a gay one despite the fact that it was over stony barren

steppes; but the hares that started up so often seemed made to be

chivied, when, confused, they got between the men's legs, and many a

warrior strung one secretly under his knapsack against a savoury

supper. And songs were sung, the "Tipperary" of the time, and jokes

made with "Joey" who, all along the line, came out affably, ready to

trade.

But the sight of the red Alma cliffs that had to be stormed on the

morrow sobered some, and Marrion, from another farmhouse where she had

obtained shelter, watched the evening sun redden them still more, and

thought of the blood that would be shed on them tomorrow with sick

loathing.

It was grey dawn when she rose, slipped on a youth's dress she had

brought with her, and, packing a few necessaries in a small bundle,

waited for the reveille. But none came. On that fateful morning of the

20th September, 1854, the whole force of twenty thousand British

bayonets and sabres assembled in silence. For a watchful enemy awaited

them beyond the sluggish tortuous river that wound its way to the sea

amid sparse vineyards. Far away to the right the horizon of open sea

showed a massing of grey hulks and twinkling lights. That was the

Fleet ready to aid as it could. Further afield, beyond the debouching

of the cliffs, seven thousand Turkish troops prevented a flank attack.

Then came the French twenty thousand face to face with the most

formidable part of the cliff nearest the sea. After that the British.

Marrion, through her spy-glass, could see the Highlanders standing,

their faces set and determined. This was to be their first brush with

the enemy, and many of them had waited for it so long. Eight months

since Duke had brought her news of battle in the little London house!

And now he lay in his solitary grave while his men fought.

Still silence. It was past nine o'clock now, and the troops stood

motionless as if on parade. Here and there, in low scrub on the

opposite bank, an enemy's battery showed, ready no doubt for instant

action on the firing of the first shot. And, every now and then,

bayonet-points and the heads of men seen for a second or two against

the sky-line, told of infantry ready to receive attack. But there were

no skirmishers, no attempt to force on strife.

"No possible advance there," said the Chief of the Staff at the war

council that was being held in the open, as he pointed on the map to

the cliffs facing the sea. "I wish there were, for, so far as I can

see, Menschikoff has left it unguarded."

A Colonel of the Zouaves looked critically at the contours, then

turned to the Marquis St. Arnaud--

"My children are good climbers, sir; may we not try?"

"They shall," replied the French Commander-in-Chief. So the attack was

ordered. On the extreme right, the French were to throw out

skirmishers, tackle the cliff, charge over the first narrow plateau,

and so, up the next bank, reach the plain above. Then, when the attack

in flank had really commenced, the British would deliver a frontal

one.

As he rode back to his own lines the Marquis St. Arnaud paused to

take the British salute with the words, "I hope you will fight well

to-day." To which came rapid reply in a voice from the 56th

Regiment--"Don't you know we will?"

Whereat in long rolling reverberations from company to company, from

battalion to battalion, rose a deafening cheer. It was the first sound

of the battle of the Alma.

And hark! A disconnected rattle of rifle shots! The skirmishers are

out among the rocks; and now, like goats up invisible paths, their

full red pantaloons redder than the red clay, the Zouaves show in

single file--here, there, everywhere like streamlets of blood.

Incredible pluck! Astounding agility! But they are up. The first

vantage ground is gained; they pause to collect the skirmishers and

sound the _pas de charge_--that muffled pulse beat that, throbbing

destruction, grows louder and louder and louder, drowning all but

sheer lust of blood.

On they go, only to receive the fire from a Russian battery posted

above.

So the advance goes on, but it goes slower. That salvo on the Zouaves

opened the ball, and now, trundling among the ranks of the British,

come round shot and shrapnel, dealing death and disablement.

The _pas de charge_ continues, but it is perforce slow. "Pass the

order to lie down," says Lord Raglan; and, obedient, though straining

at the leash, the British troops lie down while the enemy's shot fall

among them still dealing death and disablement at every round.

"How goes the French attack?" he queries hastily, as an aide-de-camp

dashes up at 1.50 p.m.

"They are across and up, sir, but not sufficiently established to

warrant our starting."

Lord Raglan fumes. His blood was up, his men were being shot at

without reply.

"Give the order for general advance," he said, staking all, rashly

enough, on the hazard of brave troops; but if he staked rashly he

staked wisely. The serried masses of men rose with ringing cheers,

dashing on through a belt of fire from the opposite heights,

floundered somehow through the river, and paused for a second to take

breath in the vineyards below the steeps. But formation had been lost.

It was sheer onslaught. At the head of the advance rode Lord Raglan

himself, regardless of the gaps in his Staff. Sir George Brown,

leading the Light Division, goes down in a cloud of dust before a

Russian battery. "Go on, 23rd," he shouts; "I'm all right, but be sure

I'll remember this day, boys!"

Further to the left Colin Campbell in front of the Highlanders calls

back to them: "Keep yere fingers frae the triggers, men, till ye're

within a yaird o' them." And they did. Colin Campbell's horse is down

under him, but he is up again charging a battery on foot and calling

to the Guards who came up in support, "We want nane but Hie'land

bonnets here." But the Guards were firm. Steady, in even line, without

a waver in the black bearskins, they came on resistless, making one

man in the Light Division mutter under his breath, "D---- them,

wasting time in dressing up as if they were on a parade ground!" For

all that they had stormed the right end of the most powerful battery

almost before the Highlanders had got in on the left. A few minutes

later the 1st and 2nd divisions crowned the crest. The French, finding

their objective, turned their own guns upon the flying enemy. There

were a few faint struggles by the infantry, a few more rounds of

artillery, and the Russians were in full flight, leaving over four

thousand dead and wounded on the battlefield. So Alma's heights were

won, but at a cost which saddened the victory; for out of a total of

fourteen thousand British troops employed, one thousand four hundred,

or one in ten, were dead or wounded. The French had suffered as much,

so General Canrobert's face was grave as he rode up at the close of

the day to exclaim: "I ask of Fortune but this! May I command an

English corps for three short weeks, then could I die happy." And the

English commander's voice was graver still as he replied: "I could not

command a French corps. They would outpace me." And in truth the

Zouaves' rapid, flame-like spread from crag to crag, their ceaseless

fusillade meanwhile, had been all-astonishing and had paralysed the

foe completely. But now the laurel wreath of victory was fading, the

cypress garland of death was taking its place. It had been a three

hours' hand to hand infantry battle, and the late September sun was

sinking when the living turned to look after their fallen comrades,

for in those days ambulance corps were in their infancy and Red Cross

was not. The wounded soldier lay as he fell, dying, mayhap for want of

care, even for a drink of water. There were hundreds such upon the

heights they had won, as Marrion Paul, taking advantage of the fast

coming darkness, began her round. She was provided with water, brandy,

a few simple ligaments and bandages. At Varna she had had not a few

wounded Turkish soldiers from the Danube in old Achmet's hospital; but

this was different. There the wounds seemed a disease; here you felt

the keen horror of cold steel and rifle bullet close at hand; you

realised the futility, the wickedness of it. She avoided the salients

where the dead and wounded lay thickest, for there help was already

being given, and men were going to and fro with stretchers; but in one

or two of the little gullies she found someone to tend until, darkness

closing, she became more brave, and lighting the little lamp with

which she had provided herself, she ventured more into the open. Here

it was pitiful; the dead lay in clusters, their faces as a rule

upturned to the stars. The stretcher-bearers had come and gone,

leaving behind those to whom they were useless--as yet. She knelt

beside one dead man and wiped away a blood stain from his forehead. He

had been orderly once to Duke. Poor soul! Some woman would doubtless

wish she had been in her, Marrion's, place. And now the whole hillside

was lit up by wandering lights, the lights of men searching for their

bosom friends, for their officers. But there were other lights, too,

though she did not think of them as different--the lights of the

pilferers, the carrion crows, who crept about to rifle dead men's

pockets. There were more of them here on the level where the dead and

wounded Russians lay in heaps; some, supported by the bodies of

others, remained still in the attitude of firing, their rifles still

in their hands, their faces curiously peaceful. Well, they had died

doing their duty.

A faint call came from a man who lay, his head half-resting on the

breast of a dead comrade. She turned to him at once, throwing her

lamp-light on his face. Extraordinarily good-looking, so young, so

near death. She saw these things at a glance, guessing he was

shot through the lungs as his breath came in soft pitiful gasps.

She knelt to offer him a drink, but he shook his head. Evidently

his eyes were already dim, for he whispered in broken English:

"Good--gentlemens--take--take--my heart." She leaned closer to catch

his words, thinking bitterly as she did so that he took her for his

enemy--his enemy--while her whole heart was going out in pity for such

as he.

"I don't understand," she said tenderly. "Your heart--what do you

mean?"

"My heart," he gasped painfully--"here!" And his limp arm, lying

helplessly beside him, crooked itself in supreme effort, and the hand

fell on his breast.

A sudden comprehension came to her.

"You want me to take something from your heart?"

His dim eyes smiled faintly.

"Yes--good gentlemens," he whispered; it was almost a sigh, but it

held content. "Take--give!"

She understood now, though a faint shiver through the young body told

her that the speaking soul had gone. Here again was Love transcending

Death! Quietly she laid down the head she had been supporting, closed

the eyes, and opening the grey tunic began her search, her mind rapt

away from her surroundings by thoughts of Duke. Her hand had just

found a thin chain, when a rough clutch was laid on her shoulder and

she was wrenched to her feet with such force that the chain giving way

left her standing with something hanging from her hand.

"Caught in the act!" said a rough voice. "Shoot the young devil,

sergeant!"

Something cold touched her forehead. Her heart gave a great bound. Was

this death--oh, Duke--Duke!

The flash of a bull's-eye lantern turned full on her showed her face

deadly pale but firm.

"Hold hard!" cried another voice hastily. "The fellow carries a

water-bottle--of our pattern, too! Give the devil his due, Mac."

She could see faintly now. They were Highlanders; a search party

evidently, and the blood rushed back to heart and face.

"I'm doing no harm!" she cried hotly. "He asked me--to take and

give--his heart."

At her first word the cold nozzle of the revolver had left her

forehead.

"By God!" came in a murmur; but for the most part the little group of

men were startled out of speech and stood staring at the figure before

them, holding out in apology what it held.

It was only a pinchbeck locket with a woman's face in it--a pinchbeck

locket in the form of a heart.

"What the devil are you doing here in that kit, you young oaf?" said

an angry voice at last. "I as nearly shot you as a carrion crow as

ever----" It paused; something in the situation seemed to bring

silence. The stars overhead, the dead lover at their feet, the tall,

slim mysterious figure holding out the symbol of something that had

survived death.

"You had better go on, Mac," said the voice that had advised caution,

finally breaking the stillness. "I will use this young fool's lantern

and that will make two search parties. We have little time to spare.

I'll see him safe. You'd better take the orderlies with you. They have

appliances and will know what to do. I can manage."

"As you please, doctor," came the reply.

When they had gone the man they had called doctor took up Marrion's

lantern and seemed to examine its light, turning it finally full on

his face; and suddenly he spoke.

"Mrs. Marsden----" Marrion could not avoid a start.

"Mrs. Marsden!" she echoed faintly.

"Yes. You don't recognise me evidently. Indeed, I doubt if you ever

saw me, but I was with poor Muir when he died. Andrew Fraser had to

tell me--something--before I would let you come, and your face and

hair aren't easily forgotten. I guess why you are here; but it isn't

safe--in fact, it's impossible; but if you will go back now and come

to my hospital--Dr. Forsyth--in English dress, please--I think I can

settle you to work--something that will prevent your being taken for a

Crim-Tartar thief," he added grimly. "It's lucky I have a good memory

for faces."

"I don't think I should have cared," said Marrion, but he took no

notice of her defiance.

"As for this poor chap," he knelt down beside the Russian and laid his

hand over the heart. "Dead as a door nail, ceased to beat--wonder

where he wanted to send it. Is there a name at the back?"

Marrion bent to the light.

"A name and an address."

The doctor jumped up lightly.

"Being dead he yet speaketh," he remarked cheerfully. "Now if you will

please go back I will go on. We have to find poor Grant; he was last

seen on the crest leading his men, with Andrew Fraser--the colonel's

servant, you remember--just behind him."

"Andrew!" exclaimed Marrion, with a sort of sob. "Is he killed, too?"

"Killed or missing," called Dr. Forsyth, as he turned away to rejoin

his party.

CHAPTER IX

The scene which met Marrion's eyes when soon after daybreak she went

over to the hospital tents beggars description. The wounded, many of

them as yet untended, lay almost in heaps, stretcher-bearers were

hurrying along, slipping on the clotted blood from many wounds,

carrying those who had been seen to and could be moved to the boats

for removal to Scutari. There was a low inarticulate wail of moaning

in the air, broken by sudden screams of pain. Two or three women were

busy giving water, trying to soothe pain, and now and again a doctor

with bare arms incarnadined with blood passed hurriedly to more work.

"It is worse than I expected," said Dr. Forsyth over his shoulder to

Marrion. "Do what you can, will you?"

And she did, wondering vaguely that she had not noticed that curious

face when she had first seen it; the eyes alone were so unlike any she

had ever seen before--greeny gold, with a dark rim round the iris. A

hawk's eye, surely!

"Mrs. Marsden, I want you," came an imperative voice half an hour

later, "follow me."

He was there again, and she followed him blindly into a small tent.

"The ambulance and stores have been left behind somewhere," he said

bitterly. "God damn them! We have no chloroform left--they only served

us out a thimbleful, though Simpson demonstrated its absolute

necessity seven years ago--curse the lot--and now a case has just come

in. It's life or death and the others won't touch it, but I will. See

here, I was with Esdaile in India and I know it can be done. If only I

haven't the seats of the scornful by me--I think you'll believe--you

haven't your face for nothing, and I must have help. Give it me?"

He held out his thin nervous hands, so strangely full of grip, as he

spoke; his eyes found hers and held them.

"I will give you what I can," she said at once.

"That's right!" he replied, his buoyancy back in an instant. "But you

will need all your nerve, I tell you. Now help me to get the poor

fellow into position."

"Let me die, doctor," moaned the patient, who lay on the doctor's

truckle bed. "It is agony to move."

"No, it isn't!" replied Dr. Forsyth firmly. "You are making a mistake.

You have no pain, at least not much, and you are going to lose it

altogether soon. There! That's more comfortable, isn't it?"

He was busy now arranging knives and instruments on a clean towel.

"I've put them in the order I shall want them," he whispered, "and

don't be in a hurry--I shall want time. Now I'm going to mesmerise

him. You'll see he will pass into a deep sleep and feel no pain--none

at all."

It was almost as if he were assuring himself that it would be so. An

atmosphere of quiet confidence seemed to emanate from him.

Marrion found herself watching his passes with absolute faith,

listening to the quiet monotonous voice with absolute belief.

"Now you are really feeling better--you are inclined to sleep--if you

close your eyes you will go to sleep."

On and on went the voice insistently. The breathing grew slower, less

convulsive; the eyelids closed, and all the time the doctor's face was

as the face of the Angel of Death--kind, but relentless.

"Now we can begin," he said at last, resuming his quick decision. "You

won't faint, will you?" he added doubtfully, with a glance at

Marrion's pale cheek.

"I don't think so," she replied; "but _that_ seemed to hurt here." She

swept her hand across her forehead.

He scanned her narrowly.

"Umph!" he said, half to himself. "You'll make an excellent _aide_, I

expect. So now to business."

It was an awful operation. One impossible while consciousness

remained; but possible enough with the absolute stillness and lack of

hurry that unconsciousness brings.

And so far it was successful.

"He will sleep for some hours yet," said Dr. Forsyth, as he sorted his

implements. "You needn't stay with him all the time. Make yourself

useful elsewhere, but look in and bring me word when he wakes."

There was not one word of thanks; only as he left the tent he paused

to say--

"The lad was a great favourite of the colonel's. I'm glad we saved

him."

All that day Marrion lived in a dream of death; but those words went

with her. Yes, she was glad she had helped to save the lad, but how

much had she helped?

Three full days passed before she could get an answer to that

question. Days of grim determination to keep her head--not to give way

as some, even of the men, gave way. It was like living in a shambles.

She thought, amazed at the poverty of her own imagination, on the

dread with which she had first viewed the heights of Alma. But

this--this was inconceivable, unutterably beastly! Vaguely she felt

glad that Duke had been spared it, and with the thought of the singing

bird that had sung its little heart out in joy as he lay dying, the

first tears she had shed for him came to her eyes. And she worked on

with a lighter heart, until the first press and rush was over, till

the dead had been buried, the less severe cases shipped off, and tents

found for the others.

Then Dr. Forsyth sent for her. She found him in his tent. The lad whom

they had saved had been removed to a larger one and was doing well.

Though the flap was open, the tent was shadowy and the doctor's eyes

looked curiously light as he sat on the bed and motioned her to a seat

beside him.

"You have done very well, Mrs. Marsden," he said shortly, "and I think

you will do better. Now I am going to teach you some of the tricks of

the trade, and in the next action you will be able to work on your

own. Only don't talk about it. I believe all the doctors and most of

the men would rather die than be mesmerised; but then they never saw

Esdaile's hospital. I have."

"But perhaps I shan't be able," began Marrion.

"Yes, you will," he interrupted steadily, "and to begin with I am

going to call you by your right name, please. Marrion Paul."

She flushed.

"Did Andrew----"

"Nothing of the sort. My dear woman, I'm an Aberdeenshire man. Long

years ago, when I was a lad, I was at Drummuir and I saw your

father--possibly you also. No?--His was a face and figure you can't

easily forget. And I know the story. I heard Andrew, the Drummuir's

henchman, call you Marrion; your extraordinary likeness to your

father supplied the cues. And I was right, you see." His face was all

smiles at his own perspicacity. "Now, my mother was a Pole and I

believe your father was one. And that admixture seems favourable to a

certain force of character. You've always managed people--at least, I

guess so--and it is just that trick of suggestion that you require for

management--at least, so I think--that I want. Anyhow, we will try.

For the present the tyranny is overpast. We have wormed our way

through _sans_ everything; but the next action will be as bad, perhaps

worse. I think the letters we have written home about the scandalous

state of affairs may have had some effect--God knows! We British sleep

through a lot of bad dreams, but help can't be here in time. And the

stores they are landing! My God, if you could see them! Rotten

biscuits, putrid meat, drugs unusable! How the devils in hell will

kow-tow to the contractors when they get them as past-masters of

damnation. Anyhow, in the immediate future we have to depend on

ourselves, and if I can depend on you----" he looked at her and once

more stretched out those thin capable hands of his. "Come, is it a

bargain?"

She could not but say "Yes," and from that day he treated her as a

professor might treat his pupil--kindly, but autocratically.

"You are the only person who ever made me obey orders," she said,

half-resentfully one afternoon when he had driven her to rest in his

tent.

"Better for you if it had happened before," he replied curtly. "You

strike me as a woman who has managed too much. Do you know how old I

am?" he asked suddenly.

Seated as he was just outside the hut so that he could talk to her

within, he looked strangely young, but the grey hair and bronzed

wrinkles about his clean shaven face made her venture rather against

her own judgment--

"Fifty."

"Sixty-five," he replied.

"You don't look forty-five," she put in.

"No. That is because I never look ahead. I take what comes. If you

believe, as I do, in a Divinity that shapes our ends, it's waste of

time to hew. I learnt that early in life. You haven't learnt it yet.

Well, now I've got to go and cut a man's leg off."

And he went, leaving her wondering if he was right. All her life had

been spent in keeping Duke for the heirship of Drummuir, and now he

lay in his solitary grave at Varna. The pity of it was coming home to

her.

So after a few days, with a tent provided for her, she rode in a

baggage waggon towards Sebastopol. Cholera had begun again badly. The

fillip which the idea of campaigning and free fighting had given to

men jaded by hot weather and the discomforts of Varna was passing off.

As they neared the Russian town supplies were less easily obtainable,

and the commissariat was conspicuous by its inefficiency. The army,

meanwhile, starting on the 23rd, had found itself brought up seriously

at the next river. The enemy had established a work at the entrance

which made it impossible to use the bay, as had been hoped, for a

base. There was nothing for it but to change plans and act promptly.

And here, mercifully, was no delay, no mistakes. Forsaking the

seacoast the whole force plunged boldly into the mountains, marching

by compass, without road, without guides. Much of the way lay through

dense forest--there was no water; but, heartened up by a small brush

with a wandering division of the enemy, the men struggled on cheerful

as ever, up hill, down dale, during a long and toilsome march from

dawn till after nightfall on the 25th. But then came solace. On the

sea-coast below them--secure, unprepared--lay the town and harbour of

Balaklava, seven miles to the east of Sebastopol. They had

circumvented the enemy, they had taken him round the corner! But there

must be no cheering. Quiet as mice they lay among the barberry scrub,

waiting for the dawn of the 26th. And then there was nothing to be

done save to walk down and take possession--take possession of both

sea and land, for, punctual to the moment, her Majesty's ship

_Agamemnon_ sailed into the harbour, decks clear, guns ready for

action--a stroke of luck due to young Maxse who, arriving at the

Commander-in-Chief's with despatches the evening before, volunteered

to brave the forest again by night and tell his Admiral to come round

as sharp as he could.

So when the hospital tents and such medical stores as there were

arrived from Kalamita Beach they found the troops elated and pleased

with their new quarters. As is generally the way after a move, cholera

abated, almost disappeared, and for a time the weather was good.

Trench work began at once, yet progressed but slowly. Whether, as some

say, from lack of implements or from slackness in command, the French

had placed thirty-three siege guns before the English had finished

their fifteenth; and the doctor, coming in from a long round, would

shake his head and say that the business would be a longer one than

people thought.

And what was to be done with winter coming on--blankets wearing out, a

shortage of drugs, and the very ambulance-waggons still lying

forgotten on Kalamita Beach?

He used to watch the ships sailing in so gaily to the harbour and say

calmly, "I wonder what filth, what fraud, they bring?"

Still, even he grunted satisfaction over the news that Britain was

beginning to discover that all was not well with the Crimean

expedition--that there was talk of sending out nurses and more

doctors. So for nigh three weeks comparative peace reigned. There were

no shambles, and Marrion had time to pick up many wrinkles of nursing

from her patron; he taught her how to bring sleep for one thing, the

first duty of those who tend the sick. She had time also for regret.

Nothing had been heard of Andrew Fraser, though Captain Grant's body

had been duly found. It seemed to her as if the last link with the old

life had gone, and one day in sudden confidence she said as much to

the doctor. Again he shook his head.

"My dear good woman," he remarked, "no one ever gets away from their

past. It is what the Easterns call '_karma_.' You have to dree your

weird for it always."

"Even if it is not bad?" asked Marrion, feeling hurt at the very idea

that a life in which she was conscious of no self-seeking should be a

curse to her.

"I don't know," he replied, half-closing his strange eyes, "you may

have done something shocking. It is quite possible."

She wondered, afterwards, what had induced her to tell him what she

had done; but these strange fits of confidence are one of the

psychological puzzles of humanity. Tell him she did, however, while he

sat looking out over the sea with his veiled eyes, for they were

sitting on the heights and the whole panorama of Sebastopol, the

Allied Fleets, and the investing forces lay before them.

"What would you have done if Colonel Muir had lived?" he asked briefly

when she had finished.

She blushed a little.

"I have often wondered," she began.

"People who play Providence ought not to wonder. Well, I am glad he

died happy. That, at any rate, is to your credit." So he rose and left

her.

The days passed rapidly, full to the brim of work, and every day

brought her more and more admiration for the courage and cheeriness of

the men, more and more resentment at the ghastly way in which they

were treated by the authorities at home. Boots had already given out,

none were available in store, and in a whole officers' mess only one

subaltern had a holeless pair. And he was the son of a widow who had

half-ruined herself by sending her darling the two separate boots of a

pair by letter post. She would have held it worth more, could she have

seen his face of pride among his comrades.

On the night of the 18th of October a diversion arose which, when it

was over, caused much amusement.

A party of sappers and miners, losing their way, fell into a Russian

picket, which, possessed by the idea of a general assault,

incontinently skedaddled into the town and raised the alarm, thereby

causing much beating of drums and bugle calls. The Allied armies,

alarmed in their turn, instantly stood to arms, while gun after gun

boomed from the city forts, echoing and re-echoing among the

reverberating rocks. After an hour or two, however, the gunners seemed

to recognise that they were only, so to speak, shooting at their own

shadows or echoes, and gradually peace reigned, broken by roars of

laughter round many a camp fire.

But on the 25th something serious happened which brought the shambles

close once more. To the Turkish contingent had been assigned the

redoubts which protected the heights behind the entrenchments. On the

morning of the 25th the Russians, numbering some twenty thousand

troops, after following the same route by which the Allies had reached

Balaklava, appeared unexpectedly before these redoubts. The Turks

abandoned them without striking a blow and fled down the valley to the

plain in sheer panic. Nor did a volley from the 93rd Highlanders,

hastily formed up, stop them. For a short while confusion and courage

were conspicuous. The British, taken unawares, fought like heroes.

Finally there followed the famous Light Cavalry Charge of which the

French general, watching it, said "_C'est magnifique, mais ce n'est

pas la guerre_." By whose fault the order was given for a deed which

will stir the blood at every English heart even at the day of doom,

Heaven only knows. The man who brought it was the first to fall.

Briefly told--it needs no grand words--it amounted to this. Six

hundred men and horses charged uselessly, desperately, defiantly,

_because they were told to do so_, down an open valley exposed to a

cross fire from guns posted on either side of them, and to a frontal

fire from the evacuated and abandoned forts. The charge commenced at

11.10. It was barely 11.35 when a hundred and sixty men, many of them

wounded, rode back, having done what they were told to do. The rest

lay on the held.

But it was a victory for all that, and when night came, bringing an

hour or two of rest to Marrion, she spent it in going round with a

revolver she borrowed from Dr. Forsyth and putting wounded horses out

of their pain.

"Don't forget to give them their password," he said, as he gave the

weapon to her.

She looked at him uncomprehending. "I forgot you hadn't lived in the

East," he went on, with a smile. "Say 'In the name of the Most

Merciful God' before you shoot."

Once again there were tears in her eyes. She was learning much of this

strange man who looked on death so lightly, yet spent himself in

striving to evade it.

It was a busy time again after Balaklava; she had barely time to

think, scarcely time to rest. Yet ever and always, when her mind

travelled beyond the immediate present, those words with which Dr.

Forsyth had replied to her story came back to remembrance--

"People who play Providence ought not to wonder."

Was he right, she wondered, and then was ashamed of her own wondering.

"You will have to rest a little more," said the doctor to her one day

when she had been helping him. "You were quite wobbly just now. You

will be of no use, you know, unless you pull yourself together." And

he narrowed his eyes perplexedly. "You are not living in the present

somehow--you're reaching out to the future. Why?"

She laughed.

"Why should I--what can the future hold for me! I will take a blue

pill."

He grunted dissatisfaction, but was too busy to say more. Yet what he

said was true. She began to catch herself wondering, wondering. The

present was all-engrossing, of course; how could it be anything else

when she could do what she could do for the poor lads?--his poor lads,

who were so brave, so cheery. And then her mind would become vagrant,

and she would wake up from dreams with a start.

It was one day just before Inkerman, the 10th of November, that Dr.

Forsyth came to her and said:

"I want you. It's over at the cavalry hospital."

His eyes seemed to her stranger than ever, and when she came out of

her tent to join him he glanced at her, then said brusquely:

"You've forgotten to put on that diamond brooch of yours--the P.P.

one. Don't you remember when the sun glints on it, it's useful?"

It was true. Often and often the eyes that had been asked to fix their

gaze on it had become full of dreams, and then slept.

"Stupid of me," she replied lightly. "I'll put it on!"

CHAPTER X

The Cavalry Hospital was a little way out of the town, a quaint old

place with oleanders and orange trees set in tubs outside its white

verandahs. As they drove thither Dr. Forsyth told her something of the

case in which he wanted her help. It was a prisoner, presumably an

officer, but he refused name or rank. He had been found two days after

the battle, lying, with one leg smashed to bits, under his dead horse

in a little ravine. How he had lived was a marvel, for he was quite an

old man; but, not only had he done so, he had also retained

consciousness, and had addressed those who found him in perfect

English, congratulating them courteously on their marvellous exploit,

and saying he was proud to have crossed swords with them.

A game old fellow, worthy of his hospital nickname "The General." He

had actually begged, before they moved him, that someone would be good

enough to search in the holster of the dead horse beside him for a

gold snuffbox which he had been unable to reach, and the lack of which

had, he asserted, been his greatest discomfort.

"He has been snuffing away ever since," added the doctor, "so perhaps

he was right, for his leg was almost too crushed to belong to him. We

took it off at once; but now gangrene is setting in and if he is to be

saved we must have it off higher up. And the others won't risk it. He

is old--heart weak--and they say won't stand chloroform. I am going to

try. I've told him and he will take the risk. A good old chap, worth

saving. I don't believe he is a Russian. I think he is a Pole, and

blood is thicker than water."

Marrion's first look at the patient as he lay propped up by pillows in

the small room whither he had been carried made her agree with the

doctor.

It was a fine old face, curiously reminiscent of someone she had seen

somewhere, with its hint of ruddiness beneath the grey of the hair and

its bold bright daring look. And he was very tall; his long length

almost outstretched the trestle bed.

"Good morning, doctor!" he said, with a courteous salute which

included Marrion, and with a perfect English accent. "You have brought

your nurse, I see. Are we to begin at once?"

There was no anxiety in his voice; only gentle raillery.

"Not quite yet, General," replied Dr. Forsyth. "I want you to have a

rest and sleep first. You are looking a bit tired; and your pulse"--he

stopped to feel it--"is tired, too. So I've brought Nurse Paul to sit

with you. She is a curiously soporific person. I shall be back before

very long," he added, more to her than to the patient.

Left alone, Marrion went up to the bed, smoothed the rough pillows,

straightened the coarse blanket, which was all the bedding Balaklava

could produce, and said quietly--

"Now, if you will close your eyes I believe you would sleep."

But those sea-blue eyes--whose did they resemble?--someone she had

seen somewhere--remained wide, and watched her narrowly as she

returned to seat herself in the only chair. It was set full in the

sunlight, which showed her tall, slender, yet strong in her dark stuff

dress, a white handkerchief almost hiding her bright hair and pinned

to place by the little brilliant brooch beneath her chin. Truly those

keen eyes were over-watchful, and she was about again to suggest sleep

when his voice, full of insistent command, startled her.

"Where did you get that brooch?"

She replied at once with the truth.

"It belonged to my father."

"Indeed--who was he?"

"He was a valet; but if you would only close your eyes I think you

would go to sleep."

"Do you think so? I don't."

His eyes showed more awake than ever; there was a hint of a smile on

the handsome old face.

Still there was silence for full five minutes, and Marrion was just

about to make further suggestion of sleep when once more the voice

rose--

"Will you please give me my snuff-box?--it is under my pillow

somewhere."

She drew it out. A plain gold box with--her startled eyes caught the

old face--

"Yes!" he said, and his voice had a jeer in it. "'P.P.,' as you see.

That is my name. So you are Marrion Sim's child--and I suppose mine.

Queer, isn't it, how these old stories crop up when one had almost

forgotten them?" He scanned her face narrowly. "Now you are angry.

Why should you be? Your mother was my wife, I suppose. At least, I

hadn't any other then. I have sons now"--his voice softened as he

spoke--"yes, sons to come after me when I am gone, as I shall be soon,

for that gay doctor of yours can't conquer Fate; and it is Fate that

has brought me here!"

He lay looking at her with a certain kindly curiosity, while she,

startled out of herself, tried to realise that this was her

father--the father she had condemned and despised all her life.

It seemed almost as if he saw into her thoughts, for his next words

touched them.

"Perhaps it was cruel to leave her as I did; but I had no choice. If

you have anything belonging to us in you, you'll understand what the

call of the master means. And young Muir was never my master. He

befriended me, helped me to escape Siberia; but the other---- There's

a perfect passion of loyalty in our family which you may or may not

understand." He paused and a shiver of assent ran through Marrion.

"I--I think I do understand," she said, in a low voice.

Yes, from the very beginning, as a small child, this passion of

protection, of loyalty, had been hers. Strange legacy from an unknown

father! He smiled content.

"Glad to hear it. You're not a bit like your mother--you're like me,

and your brothers--half-brothers, I mean. So I had to go. It was just

after the break up of Europe and Napoleon, when half the political

refugees came to their own again--and he did amongst others. So I had

to go." Again he paused, and for the first time Marrion felt the touch

of kinship between them. He had to go; that was just it! She had had

to be loyal to Duke. "You are not in the least like your mother," he

said again suddenly, "you are like us." Yet again he paused. "Have you

anything you can give me to drink?" he asked. "I have something to say

to you, and I feel--limp."

She gave him a restorative and he brisked up. Time was passing, but

she had learnt many things during the last month and knew that

physical rest would be impossible until the mental rest was assured.

"Don't talk too much," she said. "I think I shall understand--what is

it?"

"This box," he said. "It holds--my credentials. There is a false

top--see, you press this spring--so."

As he spoke the lid appeared to part in two, disclosing a folded piece

of paper.

"Don't read it now--but it will tell you everything. I was on secret

service and it was of importance no one should know. It is of

importance still. If I hadn't met you I should have said nothing. But

now--you'll do me this good turn, I expect--for, after all, I am your

father."

A cynical smile curved his lips, his blue eyes met hers in a

challenge.

Almost staggered by the strangeness of what was happening, Marrion was

yet aware of something deep down in her which gave instant response to

this claim upon her.

"Yes," she said quietly, "I will do what you wish--father."

"I am obliged--daughter," he replied lightly. "Of course it is for

your eye alone. And now for heaven's sake give me some more of that

drink. I feel quite exhausted." He lay back smiling at her. "It is

better here," he remarked, "than in the north of Scotland." Then after

a pause, "I suppose I ought not to have married your mother; but she

was charming and it was very dull." After that he closed his eyes and

slept. The doctor, coming in after an hour, found him still sleeping,

while Marrion sat beside the bed holding the gold snuffbox in her

hand.

He bent over the slumbering face.

"I don't think there will be any operation," he said quietly. "The

others were right. His mind has ceased to insist upon his body

surviving and so there is rest. It is well."

Marrion looked up into his wise face.

"How did you guess?" she asked.

He shrugged his shoulders.

"There was no guess," he replied; "you remember I had seen your

father. Then your extraordinary likeness. When by chance I saw the

famous snuff-box yesterday it became a certainty. For a day I decided

to say nothing. Then I saw the old chap was fighting death--putting a

strain on himself about something, and I thought you had better have

your innings."

He did not ask any questions and she was grateful.

"Perhaps you would like to stay," he added gently. "I don't think he

will wake again."

And he did not. As the sunlight faded from the room the old man's

breathing became slower and ceased.

Marrion stood looking down on him for a moment before she called for

aid. All the time she had been watching she had been thinking,

thinking; but she had arrived at nothing. Only deep down in her was a

glad feeling of inheritance--a consciousness that the dead man had

given her something, something that she held in trust.

Was it only the gold snuff-box, she wondered vaguely, as, back in her

own tent, she touched the spring.

"The bearer of this, Prince Paul Pauloffski----" She sat staring at

the words.

Prince Paul Pauloffski was her father. Then she was gentle born. Then

she need not--

With a rush all the things she need not have done crushed in on her.

She buried her face in the pillow as she sat on the edge of her bed

and muttered--

"People who play Providence!"

Of a truth the wise man with the strange eyes was right. Your past was

_karma_. You could not escape from it.

After a time she sat up and began to decipher the rest. It was in

French, the _lingua franca_ of Eastern diplomacy. Noble-born, poor,

devoted, daring. That was the essence of the credentials. The other

paper simply gave the address of the ancestral home and that of two

sons in the army. A memorandum as to keys and papers filled up the

back of the latter. She replaced them, shut down the spring again,

then, remembering she could show no right to the snuff-box for which

inquiry was sure to be made, took them out again. Nothing, somehow,

seemed to matter now. She had made her mistake, she must suffer.

"You have all you want?" asked Doctor Forsyth, as she handed him

the box, and she flushed scarlet. Sometimes he seemed to her too

clever--he found out everything, everything!

"Thank you," she replied frigidly.

"Because--well, if you would like to possess it, I could buy it in for

you at the auction. The poor old general is--is unidentified,

remember."

"Yes, he is unidentified," she assented, remembering her father's

wishes, "but I should like to have it all the same."

He brought it to her a day or two after. "That's your fee," he said

lightly, "you've earned it well."

And he would take no refusal; so she replaced the papers in the secret

compartment and put the box away in her satchel against--what? That

future which was now always filling her mind. The present seemed

hardly to touch her at all. The doctor looked at her critically more

than once, but he said nothing.

Then came Inkerman. It was on the 5th of November--almost three

months, Marrion told herself, since that wonderful day when Duke's

love had come to her amid flame and fire.

It had been a disturbed night. A noise as of tumbrils had been heard

about the city. Was it possible that the enemy was taking advantage of

the dense night fog to run in commissariat or even ammunition? Nothing

could be done, however, save wait. So as the laggard day broke, the

advanced pickets looked keenly ahead. To no purpose. An impenetrable

wall of grey mist shut out all beyond a yard or two. Their very

comrades looked like shadows of men.

"London partickler," remarked one sentry, stamping his feet to keep

out the chill, for it had been raining all night.

"Not yeller enough, save down Chelsea way. My Gawd! I wish I was

ther," replied the next.

"I wish I wurr anywhere but eight thousand strong on the heights of

Inkerman," put in an Irishman. "Begorra, I've bin dhrier in a bog!"

"An' I've been wetter in the watter after the trooties on Don side,"

evened an Aberdeenshire man sturdily. "Mush me, it's weary wark!"

"An' thim ringing joy-bells for to spite us!" joked the Irishman, as

on the cold night air a carillon from every church in the city rang

out, echoing amongst the little scrub and wood-set ravines that went

to make up the valley of Inkerman. "Will it be a weddin', likely?

Begorra, I'd loose off me rifle as a salute if the powdther was dry!"

So through the early dawn the pickets, outwearied, wet through,

beguiled the time. And though the dawn brought light, the mist lay

thicker than ever. Thick and grey the colour of a Russian's coat.

"Dods, mon!" cried the Aberdeenshire man suddenly, "what's yon?"

Yon was indeed a Russian coat, not one but many, emerging out of the

fog not ten yards away.

A sharp volley of musketry followed on the instant. The pickets may

have been sodden, but they were no cowards. They fought desperately,

retreating inch by inch, the alarm of their rifles telling that sixty

thousand Russians were on them surging through the newly awakened camp

of eight thousand. It was everyone to the rescue. Not one regiment or

two, but every available man. Then followed eight long hours of such

desperate fighting as, till then, had never been seen. It was not a

battle--it was a hundred battles in one; for every little ravine had

its opposing armies, cut off from the rest by the enveloping mist.

Again and again the grey line would advance a yard or two, covered by

its superior fire; again and again a ringing British cheer and the

point of the bayonet would drive it back a yard or two. Sometimes the

fight became a _melee_ in which the British officers, dealing havoc

with their revolvers or swords, cut their way through the dense masses

of the enemy. No generalship was possible, each man fought for

himself, his Queen, his country, and wrote on the page of history a

record of undying pluck and almost incredible personal courage. But

the battle of Inkerman is, truly, beyond description. It was a day of

countless deeds of daring, of despairing rallies and desperate

assaults in the glens, the brushwood glades, the torrent beds of the

valley of the Tchernaya river. None knew how the balance swayed and

shifted. But a few were aware of the aid given in the nick of time by

the six thousand French troops who arrived at the double. None knew

whose was the victory till from the Russian ranks came the bugles of

retreat. And then, as the mist lifted, the whole hillside showed

strewn with corpses. But the eight thousand had kept at bay the sixty

thousand. Round Sandbag battery, from which the Guards were driven,

and which they retook four separate times, lay fifteen thousand

Russian dead, mute evidence of the hand to hand, back to back,

relentless tenacity with which the Household Brigade eventually fought

their way out of the surrounding masses of the foe. A little further,

where a single regiment held at bay over nine thousand Russians, the

broken stocks of the rifles showed how, when ammunition was gone, the

fight still continued.

"Will anyone be kind enough to lift me off my horse?" said old General

Strangways, when riding to an exposed position in the hope of being

able to see something of what his men were doing, a shell literally

blew off his leg. And someone lifted him down doubtless; but there

were eight generals to be seen to, and close on a hundred and fifty

officers.

As the official despatches read--

"It does not do to dwell upon the aspect of the battlefield." True,

indeed, when out of the eight thousand some two thousand six hundred

lay dead or wounded among the fourteen thousand Russians for whom they

had accounted.

Even Doctor Forsyth's pale, composed face grew paler, less composed,

and Marrion acting as his _aide_ could scarcely get through the awful

days. She could not work as she wished to work, but neither could she

rest. Her whole being seemed to go out in one vast pity for the world,

a vast desire to protect, to recreate.

"I am sorry my hand shook," she said, almost pitifully to the doctor,

when she held she had failed to give him all the help she should have

done over a young lad who had been brought in badly hurt. "But he

seemed so very young. It made me think of the time when all these poor

boys were babies in their mothers' arms, warm, secure, sheltered."

He looked at her gravely.

"You did very well," he said. "Not quite so well as usual, perhaps;

but better than others. For all that, I am going to send you for a

rest--only a week or two," he added hastily, seeing her face set

in denial. "And it's as useful as anything else. You know there are

quite a lot of soldiers' wives down in the town. There ought not

to be, of course, but there are---- Why, there is one, at least,

in the camp! And one, an Irishwoman, has just died with her third

baby--shock--husband killed. And there is no one to see to them and

others. You'd better go--you--you like children."

To tell the truth Marrion felt a strange gladness at the thought of

them, and the very idea of holding the newborn scrap of humanity in

her arms was enthralling.

"For a week," she demurred. "You see I haven't been sleeping well."

So down by the sea in a house built on the very rocks of the harbour

she went back to woman's normal life and rested for a while.

For the first time she had leisure to notice the beauties of the

cliff-set coast, of which the bay was a mere shallow curve. The

vessels lying at the roads bobbed and swayed when the wind ruffled the

water, almost as if they had been at sea. But it was fine to see them

there; ships of the line, merchantmen, gun-boats, mail-steamers, all

coming and going. When the two elder children were asleep, Marrion

would wrap the infant in a blanket and go and sit on the rocks in the

sunshine, watching the boats go backwards and forwards to the shore,

and thinking of the far-off Aberdeenshire days when she could pull an

oar with any man. The harbour itself, a mere inlet, was crammed with

vessels of all descriptions; you could scarcely distinguish one from

the other, but the thirty outside showed bravely.

"They say the anchorage is very treacherous," remarked Doctor Forsyth,

when he came to see how she was getting on, one evening. "I hear that

a captain of one of the transports has reported it dangerous; and has

been reprimanded for his trouble. He may have a chance of proving

himself right, for the barometer is going down steadily, I'm told; and

there is an uncanny feel in the air."

That was about six o'clock in the evening. But the night was calm,

warm for the time of the year. It was in the small hours of the 14th

that someone relieving watch on one of the ships looked again at the

barometer.

"My God!" he exclaimed, "it has fallen two inches in the watch."

Something was astir and the something came with appalling suddenness,

almost before the light spars could be shipped and things made taut.

And then? What was it? No storm ever seen equalled this boiling

cauldron of a sea, this furious blast of bitter wind that lashed the

waves of foam and sent them in driving clouds far over the heights.

The hawsers, the anchor chains, the cables strained and wrenched and

strained, while brave men, looking at the wicked rocks seen dimly by

the breaking dawn, knew that their only chance of life lay in the

holding of their anchors. An American ship was the first to go. She

drifted swiftly to the cliffs and disappeared, timbers and crew. The

next to follow was the ship whose captain had given the warning. It

made a brief fight for life. The port anchor held--masts, rigging,

were cut away. To no purpose. The cable parted, she drifted broadside

to the cliff, crashed against it once, twice. A few men were carried

by the breakers up the rocks, bruised, mangled. The captain himself

was crushed between the rocks and the ship, as he hung from a

life-line thrown by those on shore. Another and another and another

ship followed in quick succession. The roar of the tempest, the

crashing of timbers, the howling of the wind, the noise of the engines

straining full speed ahead to hold their anchorage against the storm,

drowned all outcry; the terror, the dismay, the despair of it passed

as it were in silence. Within the inlet harbour one vessel crashed

against the next and so, huddled in heaps, they drifted to pile

themselves in shivered hulks upon the shore. Helpless to help,

powerless to save, the spectators clinging like limpets to stone walls

and stanchions looked on while one after another the brave ships which

but the day before had seemed to spurn the waves in their pride were

beaten, buffeted, engulfed, submerged in the seething cauldron of surf

and spray and mad, infuriated billows, answering to the challenge of

the wind. The _Prince_, the finest vessel in the bay, new built,

powerfully engined, held out the longest. There were hopes for her,

but the sea willed otherwise. Slowly, slowly the anchor dragged, and

five minutes after she struck not a vestige of the good ship remained.

Meanwhile on shore the hurricane had brought disaster untold. Houses

were roofless, tents swept bodily into the deep ravines with their

occupants. It was noon ere the wind abated somewhat, allowing stock to

be taken of the damage. Far out at sea could be seen the hulls of the

vessels that had weathered the storm, mostly disabled, mastless; but

it was known that five-and-twenty vessels had gone down with

practically all on board.

As the tempest subsided the bodies of the drowned were dashed by the

breakers against the rocks or cast up in tiny creeks upon the beach.

Marrion had taken her charges to a place of safety, the house she was

in being too exposed; and then, thinking she might help, went down to

the harbour. The waves still ran dangerously high, and over on the

farther side Englishmen were busy with lifeboats, rescuing some of the

crews of the smaller ships which, having held their anchors so far,

were still in imminent danger of going down. As she passed a knot of

local fishermen on her way to where apparently help might be required,

her eyes followed theirs and she realised to her horror that they were

calmly looking at a man--a mere boy--who about sixty yards from the

shore was clinging to a stationary spar, part doubtless of some

submerged craft. His face was clearly visible, the agonised appeal

vitalising its exhaustion, its pallor. Only for a few minutes more

could that grip hold! She was alert in an instant.

"Go!" she cried vehemently in Russian. "Quick! A boat is there!

Quick--save--for Christ's sake, save!"

Urged more by her actions than her words, the men fell in with them.

Ready hands, besides her practised ones, ran down the boat.

But then, no one stirred! It was not an impossible task, it was only

dangerous. That, however, was enough. Why should they risk their lives

to save an unknown lad--a mere boy? But it was that very youth which

appealed to the woman, who stood for an instant with bitter anger at

her heart.

"Curse you for cowards!" she cried as she sprang in and seized the

oars. The boat, already afloat, shot out from the shore by her weight.

The next instant she had the oars in and was fighting for her

life--and his. For his--yes, fighting, fighting, fighting for life to

something unknown. She set her teeth and dreamed with the appalling

swiftness of dreams of the far Northern sea. Yes, she was afloat on it

with Duke--no! it was Duke she had to save. It was Duke, or someone

belonging to Duke, who clung to that spar now so close, so close----

On shore, a man passing along a quay hard by saw her, and ran down

with an oath.

Almost there--almost! She glanced behind her, saw the young face; but

only for a second. The hold of the clenched hands relaxed, the head

fell back, the body slid into the water. Too late!

No, not too late! Without one instant's hesitation Marrion was over

the side, keeping the oar in her left hand as she leapt.

Now she had gripped something floating for a second and was on the

surface again, rising within arm's grip of the oar.

In her ears a thousand voices seemed whispering--Safe, safe, safe! You

are the saviour, the creator, the protectress.--She struck out boldly.

Then a huge breaker took her to its breast and held her fast.

When she came to herself she was lying on a bed and looking round she

realised that she was in the very room of the cavalry hospital where

her father had died. It had been the nearest place, she supposed. The

sunlight was streaming in. She was quite alone. Doubtless everyone was

busy--they always were.

Then on a table within reach she saw a cup of milk and a glass. A

paper lay beside them. Scrawled on it, very large, was this advice--

"Take these and go to sleep again!"

It was Doctor Forsyth's writing and with a sense of safety she obeyed.

When she roused again it was evening; the room was almost dark, but a

figure stood at the window. In an instant remembrance came back to her

and raised a curiosity which had doubtless been lying dormant, as she

had been, for nigh six-and-thirty-hours.

"Did I save the boy?" she asked suddenly in a loud strong voice.

Doctor Forsyth, for it was he, smiled as he walked up to the bed.

"I really cannot say, my dear lady, whether you saved him or not. You

did your best, anyhow, and the same wave washed you both ashore." He

had been feeling her pulse as he spoke. "All right," he continued, "I

fancy you can get up if you choose. And you will be a bit busy, for

the mail steamer goes to-morrow and you should take the first

opportunity of getting home."

She stared at him.

"Home!" she echoed. "I am not going home. I want to work--and I should

like to die out here. What is there for me to do at home?"

Doctor Forsyth hesitated a moment. He was ciphering out conclusions.

The reason he had to give her was one which must, despite its joy,

give pain. Better therefore to speak out while her mind was still too

confused to grasp the immensity of either.

"My dear lady," he said, and his voice was gentleness itself, "I must

deny all your statements. You are going home. You do not want to die

out here, and you will have plenty to do at home looking after"--he

paused--"the colonel's child."

He turned and left her voiceless, but athrill to her finger-tips,

wondering why she had not guessed it before.

Then with a rush came remembrance. "People who play Providence----"

She gave a moan and turned her face to the wall.

CHAPTER XI

When Marrion arrived in England just before Christmas she found a

white world of snow. But it seemed to her not so white, so pure, so

chill as that soft pall which had lain on Marmaduke Muir's grave on

the Balkan heights, when, stopping at Varna on her way home on purpose

to visit it, she had found it unrecognisable under the heavy snow. For

the winter of '54-'55 was the severest on record, even in those

southern mountains.

There had seemed no room there for her tears, her remorse, her pitiful

plaint to be forgiven for trying to play Providence. So she had come

away more stunned than ever.

After all her long years of self-sacrifice to find that every step she

had taken was a mistake was bitter indeed; but to realise that if the

child lived--and this time she meant to ensure that there should be no

ransom of her life--she would have deprived Marmaduke's child of its

birthright was agony.

Yet there was no escape. Even if Andrew Fraser had been

forthcoming--and no news of him had come since Alma's heights were

won--she still would not have made a claim. That was over and done

with. She had promised the old man none should be made, she had

persuaded Duke to do the same, and they must stand by their word.

She brooded and brooded over this until once more self-sacrifice

became an obsession with her. Not even for the sake of his child

should Duke's honour be smirched. Besides it might be a girl, and then

it would not matter so much. Besides, and this clinched the question,

even with Andrew it would be hard to prove a marriage; for during

those few short years she had not troubled to act as a wife. The

knowledge that she was married had been enough for both her and Duke;

she had always been known as Mrs. Marsden. A lawsuit would be

dreadful--was unthinkable.

No, she could do nothing to rectify her past mistakes. She must dree

her weird--she could not get away from her past. In that, as in all

things else, the doctor had been right. When the time came nearer she

would follow his advice and go to Edinburgh to the man who had

invented chloroform. Doctor Forsyth had said he was kind. She would

tell him her story and beg him to let her die and save the child.

Meanwhile, there was the gold snuff-box, and it meant more to her now

than when it was given. It meant that there would be someone kin to

the child--someone who, perhaps, if her life was taken as toll, would

look after it. She must try while there was yet time; that was her

first charge.

She set to work at once, therefore, to arrange for a visit to Poland.

The extraordinary likeness to her father of which he himself had

spoken, which Doctor Forsyth had noticed, and which she also had seen,

was too valuable an asset to be wasted. Yes, she would go over to the

ancestral house, give the gold snuff-box into safe keeping, and ask,

even beg, for recognition. Even if her father had been a widower, one

of the sons might be married, there might be a woman with a pitiful

heart to listen and sympathise. But ere she went she must write to

Peter Muir. To begin with, she could assure him that his brother had

been well looked after. And then she had nothing, positively nothing,

of Marmaduke's; and Peter, knowing the care she had lavished on him

all those years, might give her something. The ring he had always worn

was what she craved most. In those long ago days, though there was not

so very much difference in their heights, what he wore on his little

finger had fitted her second. It had been too large for her third when

he had wanted her to wear it in place of a plain gold band; so she had

bidden him wear it instead--little tender memory which seemed so

precious now.

So she wrote in the fine slanting caligraphy of the day a somewhat

stilted little letter asking for what she wanted as a favour, not a

demand, since "though I have a claim, I have no right."

In reply she received a friendly note.

"DEAR MARRION,

"If you will come and see me I will give you the ring, _and something

else_."

She had sent her letter to Peter's club, but this was dated from a

house in Palace Yard. So she went there. It was a fine old house. A

footman opened the door, a butler advanced to meet her, a majordomo

out of livery stood half-way up the stairs. Very different this from

the old days when the two brothers had been more or less out at elbows

all the time; but now, of course, Peter was heir to the estates.

She found him, looking wretchedly ill, in a most luxurious study, and

his weak face lit up at the sight of her in the friendliest of

fashions.

"Sit down in a comfortable chair," he said, and there was a querulous

note in his voice. "Really, in times like these, when, as the

paraphrase runs, 'days are dark and friends are few,' and 'gathering

clouds' are the normal outlook, it is a duty to be comfortable and

bring up the average. When Marmaduke was--was here--he was for ever at

me for extravagance. Hated the Jews and used to borrow from old Jack

Jardine instead. Paid off something, but not all, I'm afraid; and

Pitt, the virtuous Pitt--he owed him thousands. However, as I was

saying, it's a duty nowadays to be comfortable, so I've any amount of

_post-obits_ out--to say nothing of kites. They're always coming back

wanting a longer string or a new tail. But I don't care. The old man

may outlast me, and anyhow I can't live long; so it's a short life and

a merry one."

Looking at his hectic flush and with a damp cold of his hands fresh on

the touch of hers Marrion did not feel inclined to combat his easy

philosophy.

"And your father?" she asked.

Peter shrugged his shoulders.

"As usual, only more so." He paused and spoke more seriously. "Of

course Marmaduke's death cut him to the quick. But I won't speak of

that--I can't. He was the only one--and I believe it was the same with

the Baron. He showed it in anger. Won't see or hear of me, yet I'd do

my best for him. 'Pon my soul, that old man has been the curse of all

our lives."

Marrion sat silent. In a way it was true. The old spider had enticed

more flies than he knew of into his net. But for her desire that

Marmaduke should not fall foul of his father----

But that way lay madness. She was beginning to learn that she could

scarcely trust her own judgment. The whole thing was so pitiful that

reason seemed impossible.

"And may I have the ring?" she asked, in order to change the _venue_.

"You can have that, and a good deal more besides," replied Peter Muir,

giving her a queer look as he rose to go to a despatch-box that lay on

the table and which Marrion recognised as Marmaduke's.

"When this thing came home," he continued, searching in it. "Oh,

here is the ring!" (He handed it to her, and she thrilled at the

touch of it, as she would have thrilled to the touch of the man who

had worn it.) "I did not look over the papers very carefully--I

hadn't the heart; but when I was looking for that ring yesterday, I

found--something--which interests you."

He held out an envelope and she took it indifferently; few things

really interested her nowadays. It was addressed to Major Muir at his

club, and a vague wonder as to what it could contain crossed her mind

as she took out the paper it contained.

Then she sat silent staring at it helplessly, for it was Duke's

counterpart of their marriage bond which she thought she had seen

burnt to ashes on that night when Marmaduke had said, "You have made

me feel like a scoundrel!"

How idle, how unreal this world was! Could one be sure of anything?

Could one be certain that everything was not a dream?

Peter's voice roused her.

"Of course it doesn't make much difference to us now. Marmaduke left a

very few pounds, and your third as wife wouldn't amount to anything.

But there is his portion when the peer dies, and I can't see why my

young oaf of a cousin who will come in eventually should have it; for

even if I outlive my father I shall have enough for my time. And you

were--well, you were a brick to Marmaduke--and to me, too. You always

denied this marriage: but I had a notion it was only denial. There is

no reason, therefore, why you shouldn't use this--it is proof positive

of marriage, and if I were you I would. You are the only survivor and

therefore have the action; besides, it would annoy the old man

extremely, and, upon my soul, he deserves all he can get."

He had struck the wrong chord. To Marrion, absorbed in the one

enthralling question as to whether Marmaduke had known of this

survival or whether he had not, the suggestion that she was the sole

arbiter came as a shock.

"We agreed," she said slowly, "to annul the marriage. He thought--I

know he thought--this paper had been burnt; and it doesn't make any

difference to our intention that it wasn't. And then we promised, we

both promised your father no claim should ever be made. Because Duke

is dead is that any reason----"

She rose suddenly, walked to the fireplace, and threw the envelope and

its contents on the fire.

"That is what Duke meant," she muttered to herself helplessly.

Peter Muir watched her with a half-cynical, half-admiring smile.

"Well, you know best, my dear. And, of course, I personally would

never let you come to want." The capable woman looked at him, the

incapable man, with wondering tolerance. "Still, I must say I am

disappointed. I should like to have seen the governor's face when you

sprang it upon him. Remember he is the villain of the piece and, as I

said, deserves everything he can get."

"That may be," replied Marrion, "but can't you see we were all at

fault? And we have to pay for it. We must--you can't get rid of the

past."

She said the words over and over to herself, and it was not till she

reached her lodgings that she realised fully that the past had claimed

the future. Yet what else could she have done? If she had only known

what Duke would have said! Had he found out the paper, or had he not?

Was that the reason why in those short ten days of heaven he had

never, never, never alluded to the past? And yet that heavenly present

had become the past too, and had stretched out into the future. Had

she been taken by surprise? Had she made another mistake?

She threw herself on her bed and cried quite foolishly, until

perforce, being physically unable to cry any more, her mind reasserted

itself and thought came again.

One thing seemed clear. She could not possibly tell what Duke knew or

did not know; she could not be sure what he would have thought; and

she would have no more of trying to impose her views on him.

That being so, the only person who had any say in the matter was Lord

Drummuir. For the sake of the heir he might absolve her of the

promise. But the child might be a girl, it might not live. Finally she

began to cry again softly, silently; the tears that count for utter

soul-weariness. And in truth she was weary--the one thing that seemed

clear being that she had failed; that she had mismanaged everything,

that everything seemed in a hopeless tangle. She was, in sober truth,

very near the limit of perfect sanity when, with a passport secured

through Peter Muir's Vienna influence, she started for Krakowitz, the

village on the Russian side of the Carpathians, near which the

Pauloffski estates lay. It was a difficult journey--one which she had

judged rightly had better be undertaken at once; but the change did

her good, and she was almost herself again before it came to a

conclusion; yet as the sledge with its tinkling bells and four horses

toiled up the last hill or two she felt depression come upon her

again. The outlook, supremely beautiful, was still melancholy to a

degree. Snow, snow everywhere. The towering peaks, the valleys, the

pine forests all burdened with it, like Marmaduke's grave had been. A

light burden, but so cold--so deathly cold!

As the sledge dashed up the steep narrow drive and the pine trees that

swept their snow layered branches overhead some of their burden fell

in soft masses on Marrion's furs.

The driver turned round with a smile and said in Russian:

"That is absolution from sin, Excellency."

Curious answer to her thoughts, and with the answer came a

remembrance, "Though your sins are as scarlet, they shall be as white

as snow."

And the remembrance brought confidence. Perhaps, after all, the tangle

consequent on her playing Providence might be going to be straightened

out.

The front door of the unpretentious tower, with a building like a barn

built on to it, that stood magnificently on a little plateau

overlooking the valley with a faint glimpse of plain beyond, was wide

open, and at it, standing against, but not leaning upon the pilaster,

was the most striking figure of a woman Marrion thought she had ever

seen. Extreme old age had set its mark on the lined face, with thin

white hair drawn under a lace lappet; but the figure was that of a

girl of twenty. Extraordinarily tall, massive in proportion, but

upright as a dart and with activity in every curve and line.

The lady gave a dignified bow as Marrion, still closely veiled as

protection from the bitter cold, came up the steps.

"Princess Pauloffski?" she asked tentatively in French, for it was

impossible to think the figure that of a servant.

"I am Princess Pauloffski," was the dignified reply in slightly

guttural French.

"Might I speak with you for a few minutes?" continued Marrion

nervously.

The Princess smiled.

"Ah, you are English! My son Paul was a long time in England or

Scotland," she replied in better English than her French. "You must be

cold; come in and take off your wraps."

A few rapid words in the country dialect sent driver and sledge round

to the stables while Marrion, with an unforeseen thrill of pleasure,

recognised that this beautiful old princess must be her grandmother.

"I was looking for my sons and daughters who are dead," said her

hostess quietly as she led the way into the house. "The dead always

come back with the snow--and I have so many."

Despite the warmth of the wide passage heated by a huge stove Marrion

felt a slight shiver run through her. How had her grandmother learnt

to speak of the dead as if they were alive?

As she passed on to a sitting-room where a great fire of pine logs was

burning on an open hearth Marrion removed her veil and threw off her

heavy fur cloak.

So, as she came out of the dark passage into the sunlight that

streamed through the sitting-room windows, she stood revealed. The

effect was not nearly as startling as she had anticipated, but it was

far more overwhelming.

The old face lit up with sudden pleasure, the thin old hands were

stretched out--

"Sacha!" she said. "Darling, after all these years! And you never came

before. Paul did--and he was your twin--though he has only just gone,

Sacha! I have wanted you so often."

The tears sprang to Marrion's eyes.

"Dear lady," she said, taking the outstretched hands and holding their

chilliness of age in her warm clasp, "I am not Sacha. I am Paul's

daughter!"

Princess Pauloffski drew back and passed her hand over her eyes.

"Excuse me. I forget. I live so much alone and my dead come to see me

so often when there is snow. But if you are not Sacha----" She took a

step forward and scanned her visitor narrowly. "You say you are Paul's

daughter--an English daughter--did he then marry over there? For it is

true you are his daughter--even his twin was not more like. Come, sit

down, child, and tell me how you come by Paul Pauloffski's face?"

It was almost incredible! Marrion as she obeyed her grandmother's

gesture felt inexpressible relief. Here there was no haggling, no

questioning. She was taken literally on her face value. It was a haven

of rest.

Together they sat on the quaint old settle as if they had known each

other for years, while Marrion told her tale. She produced the golden

snuff-box, with its glittering monogram, and laid it in the old

Princess's lap; but she merely glanced at it. Her chilly old hands

were busy detaining the hand that had laid it there--the hand that was

still alive.

"Yes, Paul is dead," she murmured, half to herself. "Sacha died first

when she was so beautiful, like you. And Paul's wife died, and now his

two sons are gone; there is none left but me, and I am very old. And

now you come--tell me more, child!"

And Marrion went on with the story. It was like a dream to be sitting

there in the streaming sunlight heart to heart as it were with someone

of whose very existence she had been unaware but one short half-hour

before.

"Was he a commoner or noble?" asked the old princess quickly, when

Marrion mentioned her marriage.

"He had no title then," began the latter.

The old fingers tightened their curiously protecting clasp.

"Then you are still Princess Pauloffski! I am glad," was interrupted

with satisfaction. "We of this house do not change our names when we

marry beneath us, as I did; for, my dear, this, the soil"--she

waved her other hand in an all-embracing gesture--"was my father's,

and my father's father's. My husband was a good kind man. I loved

him--but---- Go on, child."

And Marrion went on.

"Now, God be praised!--God in His High Heaven be praised!" cried the

old Princess exultantly. "And you here--braving the cold, spending

your life!" She seized a little brazen bell that lay on the table

beside her and rang it violently. A very old maid-servant appeared,

and was addressed volubly in patois. But that many orders were given

Marrion judged by the frequent bob curtsey of the domestic who finally

trotted out in great haste.

"Not one word more, darling!" cried the old woman, forgetful of

everything save abounding sympathy. "Quick, to the fire! Toast your

feet--so! Lean back on the cushions! Make yourself quite comfortable.

Remember you have to think of someone besides yourself." She dragged

an armchair closer to the hearth with all the strength of youth. She

bustled the cushions to shape; she removed Marrion's hat and finally

kissed her softly on the forehead with a murmured, "God bless you

both!"

It was too much. Marrion dissolved into slow quiet tears. For the

first time since Doctor Forsyth had told her why she must go home she

felt really that she was blessed amongst women--yea, amongst women

like this one!

"But you don't know!" she half sobbed. "You haven't looked to see. I

may be an impostor."

"Not with that face, dearie," beamed the old Princess. "Cry on! The

tears will warm your heart. It has been cold, I expect, and little

ones don't thrive when the heart above them is cold. Ah, here comes

Magda with the posset!"

And Marrion drank something hot and spicy and delicious while the

mistress discoursed to the old serving-maid and the old serving-maid

finally fell at Marrion's feet and positively worshipped her.

It was all so bewildering, so unexpected, that Marrion just lay back

and let the slow tears trickle down her cheeks in quiet orderly

fashion. The puzzledom, the regrets of the last few months, seemed to

vanish. For a while, in stress of these new emotions, she forgot even

her grief for Duke.

But as the two women, the old and the young one, sat and talked after

the sledge had been sent away, and Marrion had been simply commanded

to remain for at least a week to rest, there was enough of grief and

to spare in their conversation, besides Marmaduke's death--over which

the Princess was vaguely sympathetic--since, though he had been a

British soldier, he had, by the decree of Providence, not drawn his

sword as an enemy. And Marrion had been as an angel of mercy healing

Jews, Turks, infidels, and heretics without distinction. Had she not

closed the eyes of her own father?

"I knew that he was dead," said the firm old voice, "though he was

only reported as missing; for he came back as the children of this old

house always do come back to see it once more. Alexis and Danish both

came also--they were fine young fellows, and I wept when the news

came; but they died as Pauloffskis should die, fighting for the

master. And I have wept--dear heart! how I have wept to think that

never again would a real son of the real race rule over the barren

acres; for, see you, there are no near collaterals. The Pauloffski men

die young, fighting, as my sons and grandsons died. But now"--she

clasped her hands ecstatically--"now there will be an heir."

"Supposing it is a girl," suggested Marrion, half laughing, half

crying.

The old woman swept her hands out in an indignant unconcern.

"What matters it? A child is ever a child! Ever a chip of the old

block, ever a fresh root of an old race. We have no Salic law here in

Russia. A princess is as a prince; mayhap better for the old acres, as

she does not spend so much money!"

Marrion, accustomed to the rigid rules made by men, listened amazed

and interested; but indeed every word that fell from Princess

Pauloffski's lips seemed to tighten the bond between them.

She had often wondered when she found herself--as she had done so

often--at loggerheads with her _milieu_ whether she was like her

father. Now she knew that she had inherited even her faults from this

strange weird old woman who lived a lonely life amongst the pine

forests, who saw dead people and yet ruled her domains with absolute

despotism. Marrion had never had a really intimate woman friend

before. She found one here, and, as if by magic, all her doubts and

fears vanished. There was but one thing she kept to herself, and that

was the possible difficulty which might arise in proving the future

little Prince or Princess Pauloffski's title, if legal proof of his or

her parents' marriage was not forthcoming. But it was only a possible

difficulty. For all she knew in this land where women seemed to stand

equal with men, a right coming to a child through its mother might be

inalienable. She did not know. She did not care to ask. For the time

being, she was happy as never before in all her life she had been

happy. The ten days' paradise with Duke had not been of this world.

But even so it had been restless. The happiness had been felt. Here

one did not think, did not feel. One was content.

So she wandered with the old Princess, her grandmother--who, though

she was past eighty, still walked like a girl--through the pine woods.

She visited the peasants' cottages where, after voluble discoursings,

the women always fell at her feet and worshipped her. She came back to

frugal meals and quiet evenings, when the Princess would discourse

over every subject under the sun; for she was a great reader and

brought a shrewd feminine wit to bear on most problems. And the most

startling thing about it was that never for one instant did she admit

the slightest inferiority due to her sex.

"Men think so," she would say, "but they are wrong. By nature they are

hunters and fighters and thinkers. It is the women who manage the

affairs. It will be better for the world when this is recognised."

In those days this was rank heresy, and even Marrion hesitated to

admit its truth. But the most remarkable thing about her grandmother

was the stable youthfulness of her outlook. Nothing seemed to affect

it. Death itself made way for her strong personality.

So the days passed to weeks, the weeks to more than a month, and

Marrion still lingered. A very different heritage this from the

storm-set cliffs, the rich fields of Aberdeenshire. And a different

ancestress this from the wild, wicked old man, spinning his

spider's-web round his very children.

Should she, after all, go and ask him to let her break her promise for

the sake of the heir? Would it not be better to let the heirship of

evil slip, and choose the heirship of good?

The question was still undecided when, after many delays, she set foot

on English ground again. And then the first thing to meet her eyes in

the newspaper was the death of Marmaduke, sixteenth Baron Drummuir.

There was a whole column about his many virtues; a vague reference to

"sprightly youth" summing up his vices. The article ended thus: "The

title descends to the late peer's third son Peter, who, we regret to

learn, is in a very delicate state of health. None of the late lord's

sons having any issue, the heir presumptive is a distant cousin, etc."

Marrion felt vaguely relieved. Unless Andrew Fraser turned up--and he,

she knew, if he saw Marmaduke's child, would move heaven and earth to

establish his claim to the title--she was quit of Drummuir. But had

she any right to be quit of it? The old arguments for and against came

back; she began to worry over them once more, especially when the

verdict of the Edinburgh specialist to whom she told her tale with

passionate assurances that a child's life was always more valuable

than a woman's, came succinctly and to the point.

"In this case, my dear lady, the question does not appear to me to

enter. With care I see no reason why both should not survive."

It was something of a shock, for it materialised many doubts, many

difficulties.

CHAPTER XII

The spring had passed to early summer when Marrion, with her little

son in her arms, sat in a sheltered nook among the cliffs on the

Aberdeenshire coast, looking northwards over the curved sea-line

towards the promontory some fifteen miles away, on which she knew the

old castle of Drummuir stood as it had stood for centuries. But she

could not see it with her physical eyes, and even in her mental ones

it bulked but little.

For the great protective possession of motherhood had overwhelmed her,

and her very regret and remembrance of Marmaduke only made her hug her

child closer--as his, and hers.

At first when she realised that life spread before both her and the

little Marmaduke she had agonised over the thought that by her own act

she had deprived him of his birthright; but by degrees she became more

content as she persuaded herself that that fateful envelope could

scarcely have remained in Marmaduke's despatch-box without his

knowledge. Yet he had never mentioned it. If he had repented of the

action which at the time he had said made him feel like a scoundrel he

could have amended it. And he had not done so. Never, never had he

breathed one word to show that he held her, whom he had so tardily

learnt to love, as his wife.

And here in her chain of reasoning she always stopped; for she knew--how

could she help knowing?--that if he had lived--if--if---- Always that

if, and if life had to be lived, it must be set aside. And life had to

be lived.

This brought her back to the child in her arms, and she dreamt happily

enough of the future.

It was not as if the boy had no home. As long as Princess Pauloffski

ruled over the pine woods, the quaint homely farmhouses, and the

devoted peasants, little Marmaduke would have more than welcome; for

every week brought ecstatic letters from that entrancing personality

which had already made such a mark on Marrion's character. In a way

she felt that she had never understood her own womanhood until she had

met with the all-embracing femininity of the brave, wise, old mind

which seemed to hold a grip of the whole world in its very isolation

and solitude.

Yes, the child could have no better home; and even when the

commanding, lovable figure passed, it might be that he would remain as

heir.

So Marrion was in a fever to have the child there, yet at the back of

her mind was a vague regret; and she had chosen the little

Aberdeenshire fishing village as the place for her convalescence

because from it she could see the view of her childhood and

girlhood--see right away to Rattray Head and beyond it----? The North

Pole!

She was not afraid of being recognised. Fifteen miles in the country

effaces all familiarity, and she kept much to herself, taking the

child down with her day after day, to some sheltered sandy nook, where

in the hot June weather she could sit and dream--rather idly, it must

be confessed, for the sheer delight of living to have a living child

had absorbed her mind. So the days passed, until for the last time she

carried it down to her favourite beach.

The dry warm sand was a perfect cradle for the child. She scraped a

little hollow in it at her feet, laid her treasure down, and sat on a

boulder beside it, in absolute worship. The waves, always restless on

the North Sea, tinkled a lullaby on the rocks hard by.

She was roused by the sound of a footstep. So few folk ever passed

that she looked up surprised. Then she gave a glad cry and stood up

holding out both hands; for it was Andrew Fraser. He also held out a

hand, for one empty sleeve of his coat was pinned to his breast. He

came rapidly towards her, seemingly unobservant of the child, till

within a few feet of her. Then he stopped dead and stared at what lay

at her feet.

"I didna know," he said, brokenly at last. "They didna say---- God,

but I'm glad, Marrion! Oh, Marrion, I'm glad!"

Then without waiting to greet her he knelt down for a closer look.

"He's a real Drummuir," he went on ecstatically, "and he is Drummuir!

Ah," he added, a trifle irrationally, "that the colonel could ha'

lived to see little Lord Drummuir!"

Something gripped at Marrion's heart.

"Don't let us speak of that now, Andrew," she said hastily. "I want to

know--everything--your poor arm----"

But Andrew for the time being was entranced.

"It's me," he said, "is wanting to know! And how old will he be? And

why did the doctor fellow no tell me when he tauld me aboot you?"

It was not easy to beguile him from the subject, but bit by bit

Marrion got from him a sparse account of how, he had been a Russian

prisoner, how he had lost his arm, had been exchanged as disabled, and

in Balaklava had come across Doctor Forsyth, who had given him an

address in Edinburgh where he would be sure to hear of Marrion. How it

was a doctor fellow who had been too busy to do more than supply him

with the name of the village, whither he had come to find----

Here Marrion, recognising that all roads must lead to the one point,

took heart of grace and said gently--

"Me and my child. It has made me very happy, Andrew. And I am so glad

you found me to-day, for I am going away to-morrow."

Andrew stood up.

"Goin' whaur?" he asked sharply. "Tae Drummuir? An' why are ye not

there the now?"

"Because I have no right there, Andrew," she replied, feeling herself

tremble, despite the boldness of her words.

"Ye may have nane, woman," he broke in sternly, "but your child has

the right to all! Are ye gain' tae steal it frae him? An' it's

foolishness tae talk your way; ye ken fine that before God and man

ye're the colonel's wife!"

"That may be," she retorted, "but as I told you long ago there is no

legal proof of it--and I do not choose--I have settled what I think

right, and I can have no interference."

"An' is it what _you_ wish that is tae take the birthright from an

innocent wean that canna speak for himself?" burst in Andrew

passionately. "I tell ye, Marrion, that neither you nor the

colonel--God rest him for a brave gentleman--have any right tae order

yon poor scrap o' God's makin'. I tell ye he was born to be Drummuir

o' Drummuir, an' Drummuir o' Drummuir he'll be till the last trump!"

He paused, breathless with anger and resentment while Marrion stood

speechless, the babe between them lying placidly asleep.

"But Andrew----" she began helplessly.

"But I'll no thole it," he continued, his whole ugly face aflame

with an emotion which made it almost beautiful. "See here, Marrion

Muir--for that you are--I've lived my life thinkin' ye were abune me,

but ye'll be beneath me if ye steal the very name from that poor

bairn. But ye sall not do it. I'll awa to Peter Muir and tell him----"

The threat roused her and she turned on him.

"You can do as you like, Andrew; but it will be no use. You can't do

anything without me. I wish you would be reasonable and listen! We

promised--the colonel and I promised--we both promised--and we

promised each other----"

"Ye had na the right tae promise!" he interrupted fiercely. "An' I'll

hear nae mair o' your woman's clatter. Yon babe's my master's son an'

Lord Drummuir, sae I doff ma cap to him."

Which he did in the stateliest fashion, and then stalked away without

another word, leaving Marrion confronted with a host of new

difficulties.

She lifted the child up and carried him back to her lodgings, feeling

she could do nothing to save the situation. There was little hope of

getting Andrew to listen to--no, not to reason, that had long ceased

to have any part in the strange catalogue of mistakes--but to listen

to what she had to say.

And what had she to say? Her mind began laboriously on the past,

counting her own mistakes. Why had she done this? Why had she done

that? It was fear that had made her do everything--fear of the old man

who sat like a spider in his web, the old man whom his own son had

wished her to anger, because he had been throughout the villain of the

piece! But would he have been so if she had given him the chance?

"I am sorry the little chap died; he would have been game."

The memory of those parting words stung her to the quick. What a fool

she had been I Why had she not gone at once to Lord Drummuir and told

him the truth? She had meant to do so, but she had been too late--too

late! Well, there was no use crying over spilt milk.

So she sat going over and over the whole thing again, and yet again,

until late in the evening the little lassie of the lodgings brought

her a message that a man who was lying at Mistress McMurdo's was

feelin' ill and would like to see her just for a little. The child

being asleep she slipped over to the cottage to find Andrew Fraser

once more a prey to his old enemy, tropical fever--a quaint, insistent

enemy which, after lying low for years, will seize advantage of any

disturbance of mind or body to reassert itself.

So there he was, as she had seen him before, trembling and shaking,

with a glitter in his eyes and a flush on his face, lying huddled up

under his military cloak on the sofa. Once again he slipped his feet

apologetically to the ground as he saw her and essayed to stand

straight--a pathetic sight, his body weak, his mind strong--so strong!

"I'm sorry, ma'am," he said, with studied ceremony, "if I, was

over-heated the day, for you're my master's wife. But it's no oorsels,

ye see. It's just Providence, an' we daurna play Providence. It's

dangerous work. Sae I couldna help it, ma'am. The wean's Drummuir o'

Drummuir----"

And there he was going over the old ground again and again.

She could but try to soothe him and leave him, knowing in her

heart of hearts that nothing she could say would ever move him one

hair's-breadth from what he thought right.

She spent a restless night; she could scarcely do otherwise.

"Are you gaun to steal the very name frae the puir bairn?" was

sufficient to keep her awake. Once more she found herself in a

maelstrom of doubt. Wearied out, the first blink of dawn rising clear

and lucent over the dark sea seemed to her a godsend. She crept out of

her bed leaving the child asleep, and, dressing herself, wrapped a

cloak about her, and so seating herself on a rock at the very edge of

the cliff within earshot of the cottage where she lodged, set herself

once more to watch the peaceful coming of light, which had so often

brought her wisdom.

So had it looked that dawning when she and Duke--ah! always, always

she and Duke! How curiously Fate had joined them. Yet she had

disregarded Fate's handiwork even while she had told herself she had

been aiding it.

Far over in the east the light was growing. So it had grown that

morning when she and Duke swam----

She seemed to feel his arm on her shoulders, the touch of her arm on

his neck, the cold kiss of the bitter sea stinging soul and body to

new joyous life. She saw his happy face alight with laughter.

"Look! Isn't it worth it?"

Yes, it had been worth it, well worth it! And even as on that distant

June morning while she looked, the restless dark horizon of the sea

seemed to melt and soften, and the path of radiant gold sent by the

first ray of the rising sun seemed to touch her feet and bring her

answer--

Yes, life was well worth it indeed!

Who was she to cavil at what Fate had done? Who was she to worry over

what she thought she had done? Comprehension came to her, she saw a

clear and ordered sequence in which even her mistakes bore their

fitting fruit. Life seemed to hold no cares, no errors, no

animosities.

What was it Duke had said about taking too much wine that night?

"I shan't do it again, but I shouldn't have had this perfectly

stunning time if I hadn't, should I?"

So it was in her life. She had had joy through her mistakes. She and

her Love had been alone in the Great Sea of Time battling with the

waves as best they could.

Nothing else mattered. They might be waifs on that sea, but they were

together.

She slipped to her knees and watched the sun rise. Over how many

mistakes, how many wasted minutes and opportunities and lives!

Wasted? No--not wasted. Even mistakes had their appointed place. Even

the old man who had made the castle over yonder a spider's-web of evil

was part of the Great Plan.

Slowly the light grew. The cottages below in the tiny fishing village

began to send up thin blue threads of smoke. The figure of a man or a

woman began to pass along the narrow causeway. And someone came up the

steps towards her cottage, then paused, seeing her.

"Ye'll be Mistress Marsden likely," he said, "for I've no seen ye

before. There's a saxpence tae pay, but ye can gie it to the lassie

for me till I come back."

The postman handed her a letter as he spoke and went on his way, for

his round was a long one.

She looked at the envelope curiously. The original address was almost

undecipherable, being defaced with innumerable new ones, or brief

notices, "Gone away;" "Try so and so."

Still the name was hers. A bill likely, sent to her old London address

and forwarded to the Crimea and back again. Twice, so it seemed to her

as she tried to decipher the postmarks.

Then she opened it, noting with a vague spasm of memory that a curious

embossed presentment of foxhounds in full cry ran right across the

flap. Where had she seen that device before?

Surely on some envelope that Marmaduke--

The writing too was vaguely familiar. The writing of a person with

brains, but strangely shaky and irregular:

"DEAR MADAM,

"Since my son Marmaduke has chosen to deprive me of the possibility of

an heir by dying--not even on the field of battle--out at Varna, I

return the enclosed. I don't know why I kept it. To have a hold over

the young man at bottom, I expect. Perhaps for other reasons. One

doesn't often meet women of your description. Anyhow, I haven't.

"You can now claim your position and dowry, which my d----d cousin can

very well afford to pay.

"Besides, you are worth providing for; more, at any rate than my Lady

and Penelope, and I have done that. So I die quits; except for my son

Peter. Why didn't he get cholera instead of Marmaduke? I could have

spared him.

"Yours,

"DRUMMUIR."

The enclosure was the copy of the marriage lines which she thought she

had seen the old lord in the act of destroying as she had left the

room.

Yes, across the middle fold the beginning of a tear slit the paper.

She sat with the letter in her hand until the cry of a child made her

rise hastily and go to her task of motherhood.

L'ENVOI

"And you mean to say," said Peter Muir, when he had heard her tale,

"that knowing this imp," he looked at the child she carried, "who is

to turn me out, was on the way you burnt that paper found in

Marmaduke's despatch-box? I give up. Thank God one does not often meet

women of your description!"

But as he spoke he was looking in the child's face.

"He will be the image of his father," he remarked at last, "and, dash

it all! but I am glad, yes, glad he's here!" Then, with a shrug of his

shoulders, he turned away. "It will be a sell for the Jews, I'm

afraid, though it serves the horse-leeches very well right!"

"It need not be a sell at all," replied Marrion. "The child shall have

the title--he must have that--but not one penny of the money shall he

take till the debts are paid, Mr. Peter! I know the law. I have

studied it to find out where I stand; and you are the boy's natural

guardian. I"--she spoke bitterly--"am only the mother. I have no

say. But I am going to buy freedom from you. Live here--promise me

that--use the monies as your own. Keep the old place up for the child;

but I will take him for myself. I will bring him up away from the evil

traditions of this old house, and when he comes back to it, a man

grown, he will be different--even from his father--even, I hope, from

me!"

So she said then, but as the years passed little Lord Drummuir came

more than once to visit his invalid uncle, for Peter, away from the

excitements of town life, defied the doctors for a time. And from the

Carpathian pine woods the little lad travelled more than once to a

solitary cairn on the Balkan hills by the side of which Andrew

Fraser--who never ceased rejoicing that his plain speaking had shown

Marrion the wickedness of stealing the bairn's name--would tell him

marvellous tales of the dead colonel, his father, and of his prowess

in every way.

The honest fellow had but one care. The double title was the fly in

the honey-pot, and when the old Princess would ask, "Where is Prince

Pauloffski?" Andrew would invariably reply: "Lord Drummuir is waiting

on his mother."

Thus the game of life went on and it was well worth it.

But perhaps, as Marrion often told herself, the honours lay with one

who in that life had been the curse of his family.

* * * * *

BILLING AND SONS, LTD., PRINTERS, GUILDFORD ENGLAND