CHAPTER XV.
A PARTING.
The sun had already set an hour when Ronald Mervyn reached the hospital,but the moon had just risen, and the stars were shining brilliantly.
Mary Armstrong met him at the door.
"I saw you coming," she said, "and father advised me to come out for alittle turn, it is such a beautiful evening."
"I am glad you have come out, Mary; I wanted to speak to you."
Mary Armstrong's colour heightened a little. It was the first time hehad called her by her Christian name since that ride through theKaffirs. She thought she knew what he wanted to speak to her about, andshe well knew what she should say.
"Mary," Ronald went on, "you know the story of the poor wretch who wasdevoured by thirst, and yet could not reach the cup of water that wasjust beyond his grasp?"
"I know," Mary said.
"Well, I am just in that position. I am so placed by an inscrutableFate, that I cannot stretch out my hand to grasp the cup of water."
The girl was silent for a time.
"I will not pretend that I do not understand you, Ronald. Why cannot yougrasp the cup of water?"
"Because, as I said, dear, there is a fate against me; because I cannever marry; because I must go through the world alone. I told you thatthe name I bear is not my own. I have been obliged to change it, becausemy own name is disgraced; because, were I to name it, there is not a manhere of those who just at present are praising and making much of me,who would not shrink from my side."
"No, Ronald, no; it cannot be."
"It is true, dear; my name has been associated with the foulest ofcrimes. I have been tried for murdering a woman, and that woman a nearrelative. I was acquitted, it is true: but simply because the evidencedid not amount to what the law required. But in the sight of the world Iwent out guilty."
"Oh, how could they think so?" Mary said, bursting into tears; "howcould they have thought, Ronald, those who knew you, that you could dothis?"
"Many did believe it," Ronald said, "and the evidence was so strong thatI almost believed it myself. However, thus it is. I am a marked man andan outcast, and must remain alone for all my life, unless God in Hismercy should clear this thing up."
"Not alone, Ronald, not alone," the girl cried "there, you make me sayit."
"You mean you would stand by my side, Mary? Thank you, my love, but Icould not accept the sacrifice. I can bear my own lot, but I could notsee the woman I loved pointed at as the wife of a murderer."
"But no one would know," Mary began.
"They would know, dear. I refused a commission the General offered meto-day, because were I to appear as an officer there are a score of menin this expedition who would know me at once; but even under my presentname and my present dress I cannot escape. Only this evening, as I camehere, I was taunted by a drunken soldier, who must have known me, as amurderer of women. Good Heavens! do you think I would let any womanshare that? Did I go to some out-of-the-way part of the world, I mightescape for years; but at last the blow would come. Had it not been forthe time we passed together when death might at any moment have come tous both, had it not been that I held you in my arms during that ride, Ishould never have told you this, Mary, for you would have gone away toEngland and lived your life unhurt; but after that I could not butspeak. You must have felt that I loved you, and had I not spoken, whatwould you have thought of me?"
"I should have thought, Ronald," she said, quietly, "that you had afoolish idea that because my father had money, while you were but atrooper, you ought not to speak; and I think that I should have summonedup courage to speak first, for I knew you loved me, just as certainly asI know that I shall love you always."
"I hope not, Mary," Ronald said, gravely; "it would add to the pain ofmy life to know that I had spoilt yours."
"It will not spoil mine, Ronald; it is good to know that one is loved bya true man, and that one loves him, even if we can never come together.I would rather be single for your sake, dear, than marry any other manin the world. Won't you tell me about it all? I should like to know."
"You have a right to know, Mary, if you wish it;" and drawing her to aseat, Ronald told her the story of the Curse of the Carnes, of the wildblood that flowed in his veins, of his half-engagement to his cousin,and of the circumstances of her death. Only once she stopped him.
"Did you love her very much, Ronald?"
"No, dear; I can say so honestly now. No doubt I thought I loved her,though I had been involuntarily putting off becoming formally engaged toher; but I know now, indeed I knew long ago, that my passion when shethrew me off was rather an outburst of disappointment, and perhaps ofjealousy, that another should have stepped in when I thought myself sosure, than of real regret. I had cared for Margaret in a way, but nowthat I know what real love is, I know it was but as a cousin that Iloved her."
Then he went on to tell her the proofs against himself; how that thewords he had spoken had come up against him; how he had failedaltogether to account for his doings at the hour at which she wasmurdered; how his glove had borne evidence against him.
"Is that all, Ronald?"
"Not quite all, dear. I saw in an English paper only a few days ago thatthe matter had come up again. Margaret's watch and jewels were found inthe garden, just hidden in the ground, evidently not by a thief whointended to come again and fetch them, but simply concealed by some onewho had taken them and did not want them. If those things had beenfound before my trial, Mary, I should assuredly have been hung, for theydisposed of the only alternative that seemed possible, namely, that shehad been murdered by a midnight burglar for the sake of her valuables."
Mary sat in silence for a few minutes, and then asked one or twoquestions with reference to the story.
"And you have no idea yourself, Ronald, not even the slightestsuspicion, against any one?"
"Not the slightest," he said; "the whole thing is to me as profound amystery as ever."
"Of course, from what you tell me, Ronald, the evidence against you wasstronger than against any one else, and yet I cannot think how any onewho knew you could have believed it."
"I hope that those who knew me best did not believe it, Mary. A few ofmy neighbours and many of my brother officers had faith in my innocence;but, you see, those in the county who knew the story of our family werenaturally set against me. I had the mad blood of the Carnes in my veins;the Carnes had committed two murders in their frenzy, and it did notseem to them so strange that I should do the same. I may tell you, dear,that this trial through which I have passed has not been altogetherwithout good. The family history had weighed on my mind from the time Iwas a child, and at times I used to wonder whether I had madness in myblood, and the fear grew upon me and embittered my life. Since thattrial it has gone for ever. I know that if I had had the slightest touchof insanity in my veins I must have gone mad in that awful time; andmuch as I have suffered from the cloud that rested on me, I am sure Ihave been a far brighter and happier man since."
A pressure of the hand which he was holding in his expressed thesympathy that she did not speak.
"What time do you march to-morrow, Ronald?"
"At eight, dear."
"Could you come round first?"
"I could, Mary; but I would rather say good-bye now."
"You must say good-bye now, Ronald, and again in the morning. Why I askyou is because I want to tell my father. You don't mind that, do you? Hemust know there is something, because he spoke to-day as if he wouldwish it to be as I hoped, and I should like him to know how it is withus. You do not mind, do you?"
"Not at all," Ronald said. "I would rather that he did know."
"Then I will tell him now," the girl said. "I should like to talk itover with him," and she rose. Ronald rose too.
"Good-bye, Mary."
"Not like that, Ronald," and she threw her arms round his neck."Good-bye, my dear, my dear. I will always be true to you to the end ofmy life. And hope always. I cannot believe that you would have
saved mealmost by a miracle, if it had not been meant we should one day be happytogether. God bless you and keep you."
There was a long kiss, and then Mary Armstrong turned and ran back tothe hospital.
Father and daughter talked together for hours after Mary's return. Thedisappointment to Mr. Armstrong was almost as keen as to Mary herself.He had from the first been greatly taken by Harry Blunt, and hadencouraged his coming to the house. That he was a gentleman he was sure,and he thought he knew enough of character to be convinced that whateverscrape had driven him to enlist as a trooper, it was not a disgracefulone.
"If Mary fancies this young fellow, she shall have him," he had said tohimself. "I have money enough for us both, and what good is it to meexcept to see her settled happily in life?"
After the attack upon his house, when he was rescued by the party led byRonald, he thought still more of the matter, for some subtle change inhis daughter's manner convinced him that her heart had been touched. Hehad fretted over the fact that after this Ronald's duty had kept himfrom seeing them, and when at last he started on his journey down to thecoast he made up his mind, that if when they reached England he couldascertain for certain Mary's wishes on the subject, he would himselfwrite a cautious letter to him, putting it that after the service he hadrendered in saving his life and that of his daughter, he did not likethe thought of his remaining as a trooper at the Cape, and that if heliked to come home he would start him in any sort of business he liked,adding, perhaps, that he had special reasons for wishing him to return.
After Ronald's rescue of his daughter, Mr. Armstrong regarded it as acertainty that his wish would be realised. He was a little surprisedthat the young sergeant had not spoken out, and it was with a view togive him an opportunity that he had suggested that Mary should go outfor a stroll on the last evening. He had felt assured that they wouldcome in hand in hand, and had anticipated with lively pleasure theprospect of paying his debt of gratitude to the young man. It was withsurprise, disappointment, and regret that he listened to Mary's story.
"It is a monstrous thing," he said, when she had finished. "Mostmonstrous; but don't cry, my dear, it will all come right presently.These things always work round in time."
"But how is it to come right, father? He says that he himself has notthe slightest suspicion who did it."
"Whether he has or not makes no difference," Mr. Armstrong said,decidedly. "It is quite certain, by what you say, this poor lady did notkill herself. In that case, who did it? We must make it our business tofind out who it was. You don't suppose I am going to have your lifespoiled in such a fashion as this. Talk about remaining single all yourlife, I won't have it; the thing must be set straight."
"It's very easy to say 'must,' father," Mary said, almost smiling at hisearnestness, "but how is it to be set straight?"
"Why, by our finding out all about it, of course, Mary. Directly I getwell enough to move--and the doctor said this morning that in afortnight I can be taken down to the coast--we will follow out ouroriginal plan of going back to England. Then we will go down to thisplace you speak of--Carnesworth, or whatever it is, and take a placethere or near there; there are always places to be had. It makes nodifference to us where we go, for I don't suppose I shall find manypeople alive I knew in England. We will take some little place, and getto know the people and talk to them. Don't tell me about not findingout; of course we shall be able to find out if it has been done by anyone down there; and as you say that the burglar or tramp theory is quitedisproved by the finding of these trinkets, it must be somebody in theneighbourhood. I know what these dunderheaded police are. Not one in tenof them can put two and two together. The fellows at once jumped to theconclusion that Mervyn was guilty, and never inquired further."
"He says he had a detective down, father, for some weeks before thetrial, and that one has been remaining there until quite lately."
"I don't think much of detectives," Mr. Armstrong said; "but of course,Mary, if you throw cold water on the scheme and don't fancy it, there'san end of it."
"No, no, father, you know I don't mean that, only I was frightenedbecause you seemed to think it so certain we should succeed. There isnothing I should like better; it will matter nothing to me if we areyears about it so that we can but clear him at last."
"I have no notion of spending years, my dear. Before now I have provedmyself a pretty good hand at tracking the spoor of Kaffirs, and it'shard if I can't pick up this trail somehow."
"We will do it between us, father," Mary said, catching his confidenceand enthusiasm, and kissing him as he sat propped up with pillows. "Oh,you have made me so happy. Everything seemed so dark and hopelessbefore, and now we shall be working for him."
"And for yourself too, Miss Mary; don't pretend you have no personalinterest in the matter."
And so, just as the clock struck twelve, Mary Armstrong lay down on herbed in the little ante-room next to her father's, feeling infinitelyhappier and more hopeful than she could have thought possible when sheparted from Ronald Mervyn three hours before. Ronald himself wassurprised at the brightness with which she met him, when at six o'clockhe alighted from his horse at the hospital. "Come in, Ronald," she said,"we were talking--father and I--for hours last night, and we have quitedecided what we are going to do."
"So you have come to say good-bye, Mervyn--for, of course, you areMervyn to us," Mr. Armstrong said, as he entered the room, "Well, mylad, it's a bad business that my little girl was telling me about lastnight, and has knocked over my castles very effectually, for I own toyou that I have been building. I knew you were fond of my girl; younever would have done for her what you did unless you had been, and Iwas quite sure that she was fond of you; how could she help it? And Ihad been fancying as soon as this war was over--for, of course, youcould not leave now--you would be coming home, and I should be havingyou both with me in some snug little place there. However, lad, that'sover for the present; but not for always, I hope. All this has notchanged my opinion of the affair. The fact that you have sufferedhorribly and unjustly is nothing against you personally; and, indeed,you will make Mary a better husband for having gone through such a trialthan you would have done had not this come upon you."
"I am sure I should," Ronald said, quietly; "I think I could make herhappy, but I fear I shall never have a chance. She has told you what Isaid last night. I have been awake all the night thinking it over, and Iam sure I have decided rightly. My disgrace is hard enough to bearalone; I will never share it with her."
"I think you are right, Mervyn--at least for the present. If, say infive years hence, you are both of the same mind towards each other, as Ido not doubt you will be," he added, in reply to the look of perfectconfidence that passed between his daughter and Ronald, "we will talkthe matter over again. Five years is a long time, and old stories fadeout of people's remembrance. In five years, then, one may discuss itagain; but I don't mean Mary to wait five years if I can help it, andshe has no inclination to wait five years either, have you, child?" Maryshook her head. "So I will tell you what we have resolved upon, for wehave made up our minds about it. In the first place somebody murderedthis cousin of yours; that's quite clear, isn't it?"
"That is quite clear," Ronald replied. "It is absolutely certain that itwas not a suicide."
"In the next place, from what she says, it is quite clear also that thiswas not done by an ordinary burglar. The circumstances of her death, andthe discovery that her watch and jewels were hastily thrust into theground and left there to spoil, pretty well shows that."
"I think so," Ronald said. "I am convinced that whoever did it, themurder was a deliberate one, and not the work of thieves."
"Then it is evident that it was the work of some one in theneighbourhood, of some one who either had a personal hatred of yourcousin, or who wished to injure you."
"To injure me," Ronald repeated in surprise. "I never thought of it inthat way. Why to injure me?"
"I say to injure you, because it seems to me that there
was a deliberateattempt to fix the guilt upon you. Some one must have put your glovewhere it was found, for it appears, from what you told Mary, that youcertainly could not have dropped it there."
"It might seem so," Ronald said, thoughtfully, "and yet I cannot believeit; in fact, I had, so far as I know, no quarrel with any one in theneighbourhood. I had been away on service for years, and so had nothingto do with the working of the estate, indeed I never had an angry wordwith any man upon it."
"Never discharged any grooms, or any one of that sort?"
"Well, I did discharge the groom after I got back," Ronald replied, "andthe coachman too, for I found, upon looking into the accounts, that theyhad been swindling my mother right and left; but that can surely havenothing to do with it. The glove alone would have been nothing, had itnot been for my previous quarrel with my cousin--which no one outsidethe house can have known of--and that unfortunate ride of mine."
"Well, that may or may not be," Mr. Armstrong said; "anyhow, we have itthat the murder must have been committed by some one in theneighbourhood, who had a grudge against your cousin or againstyourself. Now, the detective you have had down there, my daughter tellsme, has altogether failed in finding the clue; but, after all, thatshows that he is a fool rather than that there is no clue to be found.Now, what Mary and I have settled upon is this: directly we get back weshall take a pretty little cottage, if we can get one, down at thevillage."
"What, at Carnesford?"
"Yes, Carnesford. We shall be two simple colonists, who have made enoughmoney to live upon, and have fixed upon the place accidentally. Then weshall both set to work to get to the bottom of this affair. We know itis to be done if we can but get hold of the right way, and Mary and Iflatter ourselves that between us we shall do it. Now that's our plan.It's no use your saying yes or no, because that's what we have fixedupon."
"It's very good of you, sir----" Mervyn began.
"It's not good at all," Mr. Armstrong interrupted. "Mary wants to getmarried, and I want her to get married, and so we have nothing to do butto set about the right way of bringing it about. And now, my boy, I knowwe must not keep you. God bless you, and bring you safely through thiswar, and I tell you it will be a more troublesome one than your peoplethink. You will write often, and Mary will let you know regularly how weare getting on."
He held out his hand to Mervyn, who grasped it silently, held Mary tohim in a close embrace for a minute, and then galloped away to take hisplace in the ranks of his corps.
The troop to which Ronald belonged was not, he found, intended to startat once to the front, but was to serve as an escort to Colonel Somerset,who had now been appointed as Brigadier-General in command of a columnthat was to start from Grahamstown. At eight o'clock they started, andarrived late in the afternoon at that place, where they found the 74thHighlanders, who had just marched up from Port Elizabeth. They hadprepared for active service by laying aside their bonnets and plaids,adopting a short dark canvas blouse and fixing broad leather peaks totheir forage caps. On the following morning the 74th, a troop ofColonial Horse, the Cape Rifles, and some native levies, marched toattack the Hottentots on the station of the London Missionary Society.Joined by a body of Kaffirs, these pampered converts had in cold bloodmurdered the Fingoes at the station, and were now holding it in force.
After a march of twenty miles across the plain, the troops reached theedge of the Kat River, where the main body halted for a couple of hours,the advance guard having in the course of the day had a skirmish withthe natives and captured several waggons. One officer of the nativelevies had been killed, and two others wounded. A further march of fivemiles was made before morning, and then the troops halted in order toadvance under cover of night against the position of the enemy, twelvemiles distant. At half-past one in the morning the Infantry advanced,the Cavalry following two hours later. The road was a most difficultone, full of deep holes and innumerable ant-hills; and after passingthrough a narrow defile, thickly strewn with loose stones and largerocks, over which in the darkness men stumbled and fell continually, theCavalry overtook the Infantry at the ford of the Kareiga River, and wenton ahead. In the darkness several companies of the Infantry lost theirway, and daylight was breaking before the force was collected and inreadiness for the assault.
The huts occupied by the enemy stood on one side of a grassy plain,three-quarters of a mile in diameter, and surrounded by a deep belt offorest. The Fingo levies were sent round through the bush to the rear ofthe huts, and the Cavalry and Infantry then advanced to the attack. Theenemy skirmished on the plain, but the Cavalry dashed down upon them anddrove them into a wooded ravine, from which they kept up a fire for sometime, until silenced by two or three volleys from the Infantry. The mainbody of the rebels was drawn up in front of their huts, and as soon asthe troops approached, and the Cavalry charged them, they took toflight. A volley from the Fingoes in the bush killed several of them;the rest, however, succeeded in gaining the forest. The village was thenburnt, and 650 cattle and some horses and goats, all stolen fromneighbouring settlers, were recovered.
The column then marched back to their bivouac of the night before, andthe following day returned to Grahamstown. There was no halt here, forthe next morning they marched to join the column from King Williamstown.The road led through the Ecca Pass, where constant attacks had been madeby natives upon waggons and convoys going down the road; but withoutopposition they crossed the Koonap River, and at the end of two days'march encamped on a ridge where the Amatola range could be seen, andfinally joined the column composed of the 91st Regiment and the rest ofthe Cape Mounted Rifles, encamped near Fort Hare.
Two days later, the whole force, amounting to 2,000 men, advanced to thebase of the Amatolas and encamped on the plains at a short distance fromthe hills. The attack was made in two columns; the 74th, a portion ofthe native levies, and of the Mounted Rifles, were to attack aformidable position in front, while the 91st were to march round, and,driving the enemy before them, to effect a junction at the end of theday with the others. The Cavalry could take no part in the attack of thestrong position held by the Kaffirs, which was a line of perpendicularcliffs, the only approach to which was up the smooth grassy incline thattouched the summit of the cliff at one point only. The 74th moveddirectly to the attack, the native levies skirmishing on both flanks.The enemy, who could be seen in large numbers on the height, waiteduntil the Highlanders were well within range before they opened fire.
The Cavalry below watched the progress of the troops with anxiety. Theyreplied with steady volleys to the incessant firing of the enemy,advancing steadily up the slope, but occasionally leaving a wounded manbehind them. Two companies went ahead in skirmishing order, and climbingfrom rock to rock, exchanged shots with the enemy as they went. Theysucceeded in winning a foothold at the top of the cliff and drove offthe defenders, who took refuge in a thick forest a few hundred yards inthe rear.
As soon as the rest of the regiment had got up, they advanced againstthe wood, from which the enemy kept up a constant fire, and pouring insteady volleys, entered the forest and drove the enemy before them footby foot, until the Kaffirs retreated into a thick bush absolutelyimpenetrable to the soldiers. On emerging from the forest the troopswere joined by the other column, which had driven the enemy from theirposition on the Victoria heights, and had burned two of their villages.While the fighting was going on between the first division and theenemy, the second division had been engaged in another portion of thehills, and had penetrated some distance. Skirmishing went on during therest of the day, but at nightfall the troops returned to the camp thatthey had left in the morning. The Kaffirs had suffered considerable lossduring the day, two of their leading chiefs being amongst the slain, andSandilli himself narrowly escaped being taken prisoner.
The Cape Mounted Rifles attached to the 74th had taken no part in theaffair, for the ground had been altogether impracticable for cavalry.
The troops, when they returned, were utterly exhausted with thefatigues that
they had undergone, but were well satisfied with theevents of the day.
"It is well enough for a beginning," Ronald said to Sergeant Menzies;"but what is it? These hills extend twenty or thirty miles either way,at the very least--twice as far, for anything I know. They containscores of kraals--I don't suppose I am far out when I say hundreds. Wehave burnt three or four, have marched a mile or two into the woods,have killed, perhaps, a hundred Kaffirs at the outside, and have lost inkilled and wounded about fifty of our own men. I suppose, altogether,there are fifteen or twenty thousand Kaffirs there. They have no end ofplaces where our fellows can't possibly penetrate. There's no holding aposition when we have taken it. The columns may toil on through thewoods, skirmishing all the way, but they only hold the ground they standon. Why, sergeant, it will take a dozen expeditions, each made with aforce three or four times larger than we have now, before we can producemuch effect on the Amatolas."
"I am afraid it will, Blunt," the sergeant said, "before we break downthe rebellion. There is one thing--they say that the Kaffirs have gottwenty or thirty thousand cattle among the hills. If we can drive themoff, we shall do more good than by killing Kaffirs. The chiefs care butlittle how much their followers are shot down, but they do care mightilyfor the loss of their wealth. Cattle are the one valuable possession ofthe Kaffirs. Shooting men has very little effect on those who are notshot; as for driving them out of one part of the country, it makes nodifference to them one way or another; they can put up their kraalsanywhere. The one point on which you can hit them is their cattle. Achief's consequence depends on the number of bullocks he owns. A youngKaffir cannot marry unless he has cattle to buy a wife with. Puttingaside their arms and their trumpery necklaces and bracelets, cattle arethe sole valuables of the Kaffirs. You will see, if we can capture theircattle, we shall put an end to the war; but no amount of marching andfighting will make any great impression upon them."
The prognostications of the two soldiers proved correct; it was onlyafter six invasions of the Amatolas by very much larger forces, afterhard fighting, in which the troops did not always have the best of it,after very heavy losses, and after capturing some 14,000 cattle, thatthe conquest of the Amatolas was finally achieved.
So far, Ronald had heard nothing more as to the discovery of hisidentity by one of the men of his troop. He thought that the man couldnot have mentioned it to any one else, for he felt sure that had itbecome generally known he must have heard of it. He would have noticedsome change in the manner of the men, and it would certainly have cometo the ears of Menzies or one of the other non-commissioned officers,who would, of course, come to him to inquire whether there was any truthin the report; besides, the man must have known him from the time hejoined the troop, and could have mentioned it before if he had wanted todo so. Ronald supposed, then, that he had kept silence either because hethought that by originating the report to the disadvantage of a popularman in the corps he might, though it proved to be true, be regarded withgeneral hostility, or, that the man might intend to keep his secret,thinking that some day or other he might make it useful to him. No doubthe never would have said what he did had he not been excited by liquor.
Ronald hardly knew whether to be glad or sorry that the secret was stillkept. It would, he felt sure, come out sooner or later, and in somerespects he would rather have an end of the suspense, and face it atonce. His position was a strong one, his officers were all markedly kindto him, and his expedition into the Amatolas had rendered him the mostpopular man in the corps among his comrades. The fact, too, as told byColonel Somerset to his officers, and as picked up by the men from theirtalk, that he had refused a commission, added to his popularity; the menwere glad to think that their comrade preferred being one of them tobecoming an officer, and that the brave deed they were all proud of hadnot been done to win promotion, but simply to save women in distress.
There had been sly laughter among the men when their comrades told themhow pretty was the girl Ronald had brought back; and there had been keenwagering in the regiment that there would be a wedding before theymarched, or at any rate that they should hear there would be one ontheir return from the war. The one contingency had not occurred. Theother it seemed was not to take place, for in answer to a question as tohow the wounded colonist was going on, Ronald had said carelessly thathe was mending fast, and would be well enough to be taken down to thecoast in a fortnight, and that the doctor thought by the time he reachedEngland he would be completely set up again. So the bets were paid, butthe men wondered that their sergeant had not made a better use of hisopportunities, for all agreed that a girl could hardly refuse a man whohad done so much for her, even if her father were a wealthy colonist,and he only a trooper in the Mounted Rifles.