CHAPTER XVIII.
GEORGE FORESTER'S DEATH.
Ronald Mervyn led so active a life for some months after the departureof Mr. Armstrong and his daughter, that he had little time to spend inthought, and it was only by seizing odd minutes between intervals ofwork that he could manage to send home a budget at all proportionate insize to that which he regularly received. When the courier came up withthe English mails there had been stern fighting, for although theBritish force was raised by the arrival of reinforcements from India andEngland to over 5,000 men, with several batteries of artillery, it waswith the greatest difficulty that it gradually won its way into theKaffir stronghold. Several times the troops were so hardly pressed bythe enemy that they could scarcely claim a victory, and a large numberof officers and men fell. The Cape Mounted Rifles formed part of everyexpedition into the Amatolas, and had their full share of fighting.Ronald had several times distinguished himself, especially in the fightin the Water Kloof Valley, when Colonel Fordyce, of the 74th, and Careyand Gordon, two officers of the same regiment, were killed, togetherwith several of their men, while attacking the enemy in the bush. He wasaware now that his secret was known to the men. He had fancied thatsearching and inquisitive glances were directed towards him, and thatthere was a change in the demeanour of certain men of his troop, thesebeing without exception the idlest and worst soldiers. It was SergeantMenzies who first spoke to him on the subject. It was after a hard day'smarch when, having picketed their horses and eaten their hastily cookedrations, the two non-commissioned officers lit their pipes and sat downtogether at a short distance from the fire.
"I have been wanting to speak to you, lad, for the last day or two.There is a story gaining ground through the troop that, whether it istrue or whether it is false, you ought to know."
"I guessed as much, Menzies," Ronald said. "I think I know what thestory is, and who is the man who has spread it. It is that I boreanother name in England."
"Yes, that's partly it, lad. I hear that you are rightly CaptainMervyn."
"Yes, that's it, Menzies, and that I was tried and acquitted for murderin England."
"That's the story, my lad. Of course, it makes no difference to us whoyou are, or what they say you have done. We who know you would notbelieve you to have committed a murder, much less the murder of a woman,if all the juries in the world had said you had. Still I thought I wouldlet you know that the story is going about, so that you might not betaken aback if you heard it suddenly. Of course, it's no disgrace to betried for murder if you are found innocent; it only shows that somefools have made a mistake, and been proved to be wrong. Still, as it hasbeen talked about, you ought to know it. There is a lot of feeling inthe regiment about it now, and the fellow who told the story has had arough time of it, and there's many a one would put a bullet into him ifhe had the chance. What they say is, whether you are Captain Mervyn ornot is nothing to anybody but yourself. If you were tried and acquittedfor this affair it ought to have dropped and nothing more been saidabout it, and they hold that anyhow a man belonging to the corps oughtto have held his tongue about anything he knew against another who issuch a credit to us."
"The man might have held his tongue, perhaps," Ronald said, quietly;"but I never expected that he would do so. The fellow comes from myneighbourhood, and bore a bad character. A man who has shot a gamekeeperwould be pretty sure to tell anything he knew to the disadvantage of anyone of superior rank to himself. Well, sergeant, you can only tell anyone who asks you about it that you have questioned me, and that Iadmitted at once that the story was true--that I was Captain Mervyn, andthat I was tried for murder and acquitted. Some day I hope my innocencemay be more thoroughly proved than it was on the day I was acquitted. Idaresay he has told the whole of the facts, and I admit them freely."
"Well, lad, I am glad you have spoken. Of course it will make nodifference, except perhaps to a few men who would be better out of thecorps than in it; and they know too well what the temper of the men isto venture to show it. I can understand now why you didn't take acommission. I have often wondered over it, for it seemed to me that itwas just the thing you would have liked. But I see that till this thingwas cleared up you naturally wouldn't like it. Well, I am heartily sorryfor the business, if you don't mind my saying so. I have always beensure you were an officer before you joined us, and wondered how it wasthat you left the army. You must have had a sore time of it. I am sorryfor you from my heart."
Ronald sat quiet for some time thinking after Sergeant Menzies left him,then rose and walked towards the fire where the officers were sitting.
"Can I speak with you a few minutes, Captain Twentyman?" he said. Theofficer at once rose.
"Anything wrong in the troop, sergeant?"
"No, sir; there is nothing the matter with the troop, it is somebusiness of my own. May I ask if you have heard anything about me,Captain Twentyman?"
"Heard anything! In what way do you mean, sergeant?"
"Well, sir, as to my private history."
"No," the officer said, somewhat puzzled.
"Well, sir, the thing has got about among the men. There is one of themknew me at home, and he has told the others. Now that it is known to themen, sooner or later it will be known to the officers, and therefore Ithought it better to come and tell you myself, as captain of my troop."
"It can be nothing discreditable, I am quite sure, sergeant," theofficer said, kindly.
"Well, sir, it is discreditable; that is to say, I lie under a heavycharge, from which I am unable to clear myself. I have been tried for itand found not guilty, but I am sure that if I had been before a Scotchjury the verdict would have been not proven, and I left the courtacquitted indeed, but a disgraced and ruined man."
"What was the charge?"
"The charge was murder," Ronald said, quietly. Captain Twentymanstarted, but replied:
"Ridiculous. No one who knew you could have thought you guilty for amoment."
"I think that none who knew me intimately believed in my guilt, but I amsure that most people who did not so know me believed me guilty. Idaresay you saw the case in the papers. My real name, Captain Twentyman,is Ronald Mervyn, and I was captain in the Borderers. I was tried forthe murder of my cousin, Margaret Carne."
"Good Heavens! Is it possible?" Captain Twentyman exclaimed. "Of courseI remember the case perfectly. We saw it in the English papers somewhereabout a year ago, and it was a general matter of conversation, owing, ofcourse, to your being in the army. I didn't know what to think of itthen, but now I know you, the idea of your murdering a woman seemsperfectly ridiculous. Well, is there anything you would wish me to do!"
"No, sir; I only thought you ought to be told. I leave it with you tomention it to others or not. Perhaps you will think it best to saynothing until the story gets about. Then you can say you are aware ofit."
"Yes, I think that would be the best," Captain Twentyman said, afterthinking it over. "I remember that I thought when I read the account ofthat trial that you were either one of the most lucky or one of the mostunfortunate men in the world. I see now that it was the latter."
A few days later, an hour or two before the column was about to march,a flag hoisted at the post-office tent told the camp that the mail hadarrived, and orderlies from each corps at once hurried there. As theybrought the bags out they were emptied on the ground. Some of thesergeants set to work to sort the letters, while the officers stoodround and picked out their own as they lay on the grass.
"Here, Blunt, here's one for you," Sergeant Menzies said, when Ronaldcame up.
Ronald took the letter, and sauntering away a short distance, threwhimself on the ground and opened it. After reading the first line or twohe leaped to his feet again, and took a few steps up and down, with hisbreath coming fast, and his hands twitching. Then he stood suddenlystill, took off his cap, bent his head, put his hand over his eyes, andstood for a few minutes without moving. When he put his cap on again hisface was wet with tears, his hands were trembling so that
when he tookthe letter again he could scarce read it. A sudden exclamation brokefrom him as he came upon the name of Forester. The letter was so longthat the trumpets were sounding by the time he had finished. He foldedit and put it in his tunic, and then strode back with head erect to thespot where the men of his troop were saddling their horses. As he passedon among them a sudden impulse seized him, and he stopped before one ofthe men and touched him on the shoulder.
"You villain," he said, "you have been accusing me of murder. You are amurderer yourself."
The man's face paled suddenly.
"I know you, George Forester," Ronald went on, "and I know that you areguilty. You have to thank the woman who once loved you that I do not atonce hand you over to the provost-marshal to be sent to England fortrial, but for her sake I will let you escape. Make a confession andsign it, and then go your way where you will, and no search shall bemade for you; if you do not, to-morrow you shall be in the hands of thepolice."
"There is no evidence against me more than against another," the mansaid, sullenly.
"No evidence, you villain?" Ronald said. "Your knife--the knife withyour initials on it--covered with blood, was found by the body."
The man staggered as if struck.
"I knew I had lost it," he said, as if to himself, "but I didn't know Idropped it there."
At this moment the bugle sounded.
"I will give you until to-morrow morning to think about it," and Ronaldran off to mount his horse, which he had saddled before going for hisletter.
Sergeant Menzies caught sight of his comrade's face as he sprang intothe saddle.
"Eh, man," he said, "what's come to you? You have good news, haven'tyou, of some kind? Your face is transfigured, man!"
"The best," Ronald said, holding out his hand to his comrade. "I amproved to be innocent."
Menzies gave him a firm grip of the hand, and then each took his placein the ranks. There was desperate fighting that day with the Kaffirs.The Cape Mounted Rifles, while scouting ahead of the infantry in thebush, were suddenly attacked by an immense body of Kaffirs. Musketscracked, and assegais flew in showers. Several of the men dropped, anddischarging their rifles, the troopers fell back towards the infantry.As they retreated, Ronald looked back. One of the men of his troop,whose horse had been shot under him, had been overtaken by the enemy,and was surrounded by a score of Kaffirs. His cap was off, and Ronaldcaught sight of his face. He gave a shout, and in an instant had turnedhis horse and dashed towards the group.
"Come back, man, come back!" Captain Twentyman shouted. "It's madness!"
But Ronald did not hear him. The man whose confession could aloneabsolutely clear him was in the hands of the Kaffirs, and must be savedat any cost. A moment later he was in the midst of the natives, emptyinghis revolvers among them. Forester had sunk on one knee as Ronald,having emptied one of his revolvers, hurled it in the face of a Kaffir;leaning over, he caught Forester by the collar, and, with a mightyeffort, lifted and threw him across the saddle in front of him, thenbending over him, he spurred his horse through the natives. Just at thismoment Captain Twentyman and a score of the men rode up at full speed,drove the Kaffirs back for an instant, and enabled Ronald to rejoin hislines. Three assegais had struck him, and he reeled in the saddle as,amidst the cheers of his companions, he rode up.
"One of you take the wounded man in front of you," Lieutenant Danielssaid, "and carry him to the rear. Thompson, do you jump up behindSergeant Blunt, and support him. There is no time to be lost. Quick,man, these fellows are coming on like furies."
The exchange was made in half a minute; one of the men took GeorgeForester before him, another sprang up behind Ronald and held him in hissaddle with one hand, while he took the reins in the other. Then theyrode fast to the rear, just as the leading battalion of infantry came upat a run and opened fire on the Kaffirs, who, with wild yells, werepressing on the rear of the cavalry.
When Ronald recovered his senses he was lying in the ambulance waggon,and the surgeon was dressing his wounds.
"That's right, sergeant," he said, cheeringly, "I think you will do. Youhave three nasty wounds, but by good luck I don't think any of them arevital."
"How is Forester?" Ronald asked.
"Forester?" the surgeon repeated in surprise, "Whom do you mean,Blunt?"
"I mean Jim Smith, sir; his real name was Forester."
"There is nothing to be done for him," the surgeon said. "Nothing cansave him; he is riddled with spears."
"Is he conscious?" Ronald asked.
"No, not at present."
"Will he become conscious before he dies, sir?"
"I don't know," the surgeon replied, somewhat puzzled at Ronald'squestion. "He may be, but I cannot say."
"It is everything to me, sir," Ronald said. "I have been accused of agreat crime of which he is the author. He can clear me if he will. Allmy future life depends upon his speaking."
"Then I hope he may be able to speak, Blunt, but at present I can't saywhether he will recover consciousness or not. He is in the waggon here,and I will let you know directly if there is any change."
Ronald lay quiet, listening to the firing that gradually became moredistant, showing that the infantry were driving the Kaffirs back intothe bush. Wounded men were brought in fast, and the surgeon and hisassistant were fully occupied. The waggon was halted now, and atRonald's request the stretchers upon which he and Forester were lyingwere taken out and laid on the grass under the shade of a tree.
Towards evening, the surgeon, having finished his pressing work, came tothem. He felt George Forester's pulse.
"He is sinking fast," he said, in reply to Ronald's anxious look. "But Iwill see what I can do."
He poured some brandy between George Forester's lips, and held a bottleof ammonia to his nose. Presently there was a deep sigh, and thenForester opened his eyes. For a minute he looked round vaguely, and thenhis eye fell upon Ronald.
"So you got me out of the hands of the Kaffirs, Captain Mervyn," hesaid, in a faint voice. "I caught sight of you among them as I wentdown. I know they have done for me, but I would rather be buried wholethan hacked into pieces."
"I did my best for you, Forester," Mervyn said. "I am sorry I was not upa minute sooner. Now, Forester, you see I have been hit pretty hard,too; will you do one thing for me? I want you to confess about what Iwas speaking to you: it will make all the difference to other people."
"I may as well tell the truth as not," Forester said; "though I don'tsee how it makes much difference."
"Doctor," Ronald said, "could you kindly send and ask Captain Twentymanand Lieutenant Daniels to come here at once? I want them to hear."
George Forester's eyes were closed, and he was breathing faintly whenthe two officers, who had ridden up a few minutes before with theircorps, came up to the spot.
The surgeon again gave the wounded man some strong cordial.
"Will you write down what he says?" Ronald asked Captain Twentyman.
The latter took out a note-book and pencil.
"I make this confession," Forester said, faintly, "at the request ofCaptain Mervyn, who risked his life in getting me out from among theKaffirs. My real name is George Forester, and at home I live nearCarnesford, in Devonshire. I was one night poaching in Mr. Carne'swoods, with some men from Dareport, when we came upon the keepers. Therewas a fight. One of the keepers knocked my gun out of my hand, and as heraised his stick to knock me on the head, I whipped out my knife, openedit, and stuck it into him. I didn't mean to kill him, it was just donein a moment; but he died from it. We ran away. Afterwards I foundthat I had lost my knife. I suppose I dropped it. That's all I have tosay."
"Not all, Forester, not all," said Ronald, who had listened withimpatience to the slowly-uttered words of the wounded man; "not all. Itisn't that, but about the murder of Miss Carne I want you to tell."
"The murder of Miss Carne," George Forester repeated, slowly. "I knownothing about that. She made Ruth break it off with me, and I nearlyki
lled Ruth, and would have killed her if I had had the chance, but Inever had. I was glad when I heard she was killed, but I don't know whodid it."
"But your knife was found by her body," Ronald said. "You must have doneit, Forester."
"Murdered Miss Carne!" the man said, half raising himself on his elbowin surprise. "Never. I swear I had nothing to do with it."
A rush of blood poured from his mouth, for one of the spears had piercedhis lung, and a moment later George Forester fell back dead. Thedisappointment and revulsion of feeling were too great for RonaldMervyn, and he fainted. When he recovered, the surgeon was leaning overhim.
_George Forester's death._]
"You mustn't talk, lad; you must keep yourself quite quiet, or we shallhave fever setting in, and all sorts of trouble."
Ronald closed his eyes, and lay back quietly. How could this be? Hethought of Mary Armstrong's letter, of the chain of proofs that hadaccumulated against George Forester. They seemed absolutely convincing,and yet there was no doubting the ring of truth in the last words of thedying man. His surprise at the accusation was genuine; his assertion ofhis innocence absolutely convincing; he had no motive for lying; he wasdying, and he knew it. Besides, the thing had come so suddenly upon himthere could have been no time for him to frame a lie, even if he hadbeen in a mental condition to do so. Whoever killed Margaret Carne,Ronald Mervyn was at once convinced that it was not George Forester.There he lay, thinking for hours over the disappointment that the newswould be to Mary Armstrong, and how it seemed more unlikely than everthat the mystery would ever be cleared up now. Gradually his thoughtsbecame more vague, until at last he fell asleep.
Upon the following day the wounded were sent down under an escort toKing Williamstown, and there for a month Ronald Mervyn lay in hospital.He had written a few lines to Mary Armstrong, saying that he had beenwounded, but not dangerously, and that she need not be anxious about himany more, for the Kaffirs were now almost driven from their laststronghold, and that the fighting would almost certainly be over beforehe was fit to mount his horse again. "George Forester is dead," he said."He was mortally wounded when fighting bravely against the Kaffirs. Ifear, dear, that your ideas about him were mistaken, and that he, likemyself, has been the victim of circumstantial evidence; but I will tellyou more about this when I write to you next."
While lying there, Ronald thought over the evidence that had beencollected against George Forester, and debated with himself whether itshould be published, as Mary had proposed. It would, doubtless, beaccepted by the world as proof of Forester's guilt and of his owninnocence; and even the fact that the man, when dying, had denied it,would weigh for very little with the public, for men proved indisputablyto be guilty often go to the scaffold asserting their innocence to thelast. But would it be right to throw this crime upon the dead man whenhe was sure that he was innocent? For Ronald did not doubt for a momentthe truth of the denial. Had he a right, even for the sake of Mary'shappiness and his own, to charge the memory of the dead man with theburden of this foul crime? Ronald felt that it could not be. Thetemptation was strong, but he fought long against it, and at last hismind was made up.
"No," he said at last, "I will not do it. George Forester was no doubt abad man, but he was not so bad as this. It would be worse to charge hismemory with it than to accuse him if he were alive. In the one case hemight clear himself; in the other he cannot. I cannot clear my name byfouling that of a dead man."
And so Ronald at last sat down to write a long letter to Mary Armstrong,telling her the whole circumstances; the joy with which he received hernews; his conversation with George Forester, which seemed wholly toconfirm her views; the pang of agony he had felt when he saw the man whohe believed could alone clear him, in the hands of the Kaffirs, and hisdesperate charge to rescue him; and then he gave the words of theconfession, and expressed his absolute conviction that the dying man hadspoken the truth, and that he was really innocent of Margaret Carne'smurder.
He then discussed the question of still publishing Ruth Powlett'sstatement, giving first the cause of George Forester's enmity againstMargaret Carne, and the threat he had uttered, and then the discovery ofthe knife.
"I fear you will be ashamed of me, Mary, when I tell you that, for atime, I almost yielded to the temptation of clearing myself at hisexpense. But you must make allowance for the strength of the temptation:on the one side was the thought of my honour restored, and of you won;on the other, the thought that, now George Forester was dead, this couldnot harm him. But, of course, I finally put the temptation aside; honourpurchased at the expense of a dead man's reputation would be dishonourindeed. Now I can face disgrace, because I know I am innocent. I couldnot bear honour when I knew that I had done a dishonourable action; andI know that I should utterly forfeit your love and esteem did I do so. Ican look you straight in the face now; I could never look you straightin the face then. Do not grieve too much over the disappointment. We arenow only as we were when I said good-bye to you. I had no hope then thatyou would ever succeed in clearing me, and I have no hope now. I havenot got up my strength again yet, and am therefore perhaps just atpresent a little more disposed to repine over the disappointment than Iought to do; but this will wear off when I get in the saddle again.There will, I think, be no more fighting--at any rate with the SandilliKaffirs--for we hear this morning that they have sent in to beg forpeace, and I am certain we shall be glad enough to grant it, for we havenot much to boast about in the campaign. Of course they will have to paya very heavy fine in cattle, and will have to move across to the otherside of the Kei. Equally of course there will be trouble again with themafter a time, when the memory of their losses has somewhat abated. Ifancy a portion of our force will march against the Basutos, whoseattitude has lately been very hostile; but now that the Gaikas havegiven in, and we are free to use our whole force against them, it isscarcely probable they will venture to try conclusions with us. If theysettle down peaceably I shall probably apply for my discharge, andperhaps go in for farming, or carry out my first idea of joining a partyof traders going up the country, and getting some shooting among the biggame.
"I know that, disappointed as you will be with the news contained inthis letter, it will be a pleasure to you to tell the girl you have madeyour friend, that after all the man she once loved is innocent of thisterrible crime. She must have suffered horribly while she was hidingwhat she thought was the most important part of the evidence; now shewill see that she has really done no harm; and as you seem to be reallyfond of her, it will, I am sure, be a great pleasure to you to be ableto restore her peace of mind in both these respects. I should think nowthat you and your father will not remain any longer at Carnesford, whereneither of you has any fitting society of any sort, but will go andsettle somewhere in your proper position. I would much rather that youdid, for now it seems absolutely certain that nothing further is to belearned, it would trouble me to think of you wasting your lives atCarnesford.
"You said in your last letter that the discovery you had made hadbrought you four years nearer to happiness, but I have never said a wordto admit that I should change my mind at the end of the five years thatyour father spoke of. Still, I don't know, Mary. I think my position isstronger by a great deal than it was six months ago. I told my captainwho I was, and all the other officers now know. Most of them came up andspoke very kindly to me before I started on my way down here, and I amsure that when I leave the corps they will give me a testimonial, sayingthat they are convinced by my behaviour while in the corps that I couldnot have been guilty of this crime. I own that I myself am lesssensitive on the subject than I was. One has no time to be morbid whileleading such a life as I have been for the last nine months.Perhaps----but I will not say any more now. But I think somehow, that,at the end of the five years, I shall leave the decision in your hands.It has taken me two or three days to write this letter, for I am notstrong enough to stick to it for more than half an hour at a time; butas the post goes out this afternoon I must close it now.
We have beenexpecting a mail from England for some days. It is considerablyoverdue, and I need not say how I am longing for another letter fromyou. I hear the regiment will be back from the front to-night; men andhorses want a few days' rest before starting on this long march toBasutoland. I shall be very glad to see them back again. Of course, theinvalids who, like myself, are somewhat pulled down by their wounds, aredisgusted at being kept here. The weather is frightfully hot, and evenin our shirt sleeves we shall be hardly able to enjoy Christmas day."
The Cape Rifles arrived at King Williamstown an hour after the post hadleft, and in the evening the colonel and several of the officers paid avisit to the hospital to see how their wounded were getting on. Ronald,who was sitting reading by his bedside, and the other invalids who werestrong enough to be on their feet, at once got up and stood atattention. Stopping and speaking a few words to each of the men of hisown corps, the colonel came on. "Mervyn," he said, as he and theofficers came up to Ronald, "I want to shake your hand. I have heardyour story from Captain Twentyman, and I wish to tell you, in my ownname and in that of the other officers of the regiment, that we are sureyou have been the victim of some horrible mistake. All of us areabsolutely convinced that a man who has shown such extreme gallantry asyou have, and whose conduct has been so excellent from the day hejoined, is wholly incapable of such a crime as that with which you werecharged. You were, of course, acquitted, but at the same time I thinkthat it cannot but be a satisfaction for you to know that you have wonthe esteem of your officers and your comrades, and that in their eyesyou are free from the slightest taint of that black business. Give meyour hand."
Ronald was unable to speak; the colonel and all the officers shook himby the hand, and the former said: "I must have another long talk withyou when we get back from the Basuto business. I have mentioned you verystrongly in regimental orders upon two occasions for extreme gallantry,and I cannot but think that it would do you some good in the eyes of thepublic were a letter signed by me to appear in the English papers,saying that the Sergeant Blunt of my regiment, who has so signallydistinguished himself, is really Captain Mervyn, who in my opinion andthat of my officers is a cruelly injured man. But we can talk over thatwhen I see you again."
After the officer left the room, Ronald Mervyn sat for some time withhis face buried in his hands. The colonel's words had greatly moved him.Surely such a letter as that which Colonel Somerset had proposed towrite would do much to clear him. He should never think of taking hisown name again or re-entering any society in which he would be likely tobe recognised, but with such a testimonial as that in his favour hemight hope in some quiet place to live down the past, and should heagain be recognised, could still hold up his head with such anhonourable record as this to produce in his favour. Then his thoughtswent back to England. What would Mary and her father say when they readsuch a letter in the paper? It would be no proof of his innocence, yethe felt sure that Mary would insist upon regarding it as such, and wouldhold that he had no right to keep her waiting for another four years.Indeed he acknowledged to himself that if she did so he would have noright to refuse any longer to permit her to be mistress of her ownfate.