A week after the events related in the last chapter Katherine Hunt was standing in her pretty sitting-room. It was about eleven o'clock in the morning. She had ordered her carriage to come round at half-past eleven. She meant to do a round of shopping, and afterwards to visit a hospital in which she took an interest, in East London. She was already dressed, in a smart jacket and pretty hat. She was drawing on her gloves, when the servant threw open the door and announced Miss Hepworth, and Kitty Hepworth came in.
Kitty's face was white, and all the joy and happiness which had beamed in it when Katherine first made its acquaintance, on the night of the fancy ball, had left it. She came up to Katherine, clasped both her hands, and said impulsively,—
"If you cannot help me, no one can."
"Do sit down, Miss Hepworth. Your visit astonishes me very much," said Katherine.
"When I tell you what I have come about, you will be still more astonished. I want you to do something great—tremendous. I dreamt of you last night. I dreamt of you three times running, and every time yours was the helping hand, yours the sustaining touch. I came to you without telling Aunt Louisa. I have come alone. Are you going out?"
"Yes; will you come with me?"
"You must not go out; we can talk best here. Countermand your carriage—that is, if you are going to drive. I claim this morning from you. You have forced yourself into my affairs, and I claim this morning; it is my right."
"I have forced myself into your affairs!" said Katherine Hunt. "What do you mean?"
For answer Kitty plunged her hand into her pocket.
"Here is your purse," she said. "You got back the money, and now here is the purse. Pretty, is it not?—soft Russian leather, and your initials in silver! Here it is back."
"My pretty, pretty purse!" said Katherine. She took it up, handling it with affection, and then put it down. "Now, what does this mean, Miss Hepworth?"
"Call me Kitty. We must be friends in future. Don't you want to ask me something?"
Miss Hunt thought for a moment; then she crossed the room and rang the bell. The servant appeared.
"Send a message to the stables, Jameson, and say that I shall not require the brougham this morning," said the young lady. "And, Jameson," she added, as the servant was about to withdraw, "don't admit any one. I shall be particularly engaged for the next hour or so."
The man promised compliance, and left the room.
"Now, Miss Hepworth, I am at your service," said Katherine Hunt.
Kitty was still standing. She was a forlorn-looking little figure. Without a word, she now raised her hand, pulled the pin from her hat, and put the hat on the table. Her pretty, curly hair was all tossed and untidy. The pallor in her small face was very marked, the black shadows under her big, dark eyes very apparent. Her sweet lips, too, had a sorrowful droop. But there was a queer, strange determination about the little creature which Katherine Hunt, knowing her story, as to a great extent she did, could not help, in a curious manner, respecting.
"You saw me a little over a week ago at Kenmuir House," continued Kitty. "You saw me on the happiest, the greatest night of my life—the night of my engagement."
"Ah! did Captain Keith propose for you that night?"
"He did; and I accepted him. I hoped he would propose that night. I hoped the dress would do the business. That was why I—" she turned very white, but her words came out bravely—"that was why I stole your purse."
"Sit down, Kitty," said Katherine, "sit down. If you grow any whiter you will faint, and I don't want you to faint on my hands."
"You knew that I stole the purse, and that was why you told me the story of it," said Kitty then.
"I did not know, but I wanted to know. I beg your pardon for my unwarrantable and cruel curiosity."
"Another person would have been still more cruel. And you may know; I don't mind your knowing. I did it because I love him."
"You will forgive me, Miss Hepworth, but it was a strange way of showing your love! Were you so poor—in such distress—that you must take my purse? Did you realize that you might get the driver of the hansom into serious trouble?"
"I never thought of the driver of the hansom; I only thought that the money which I needed was put into my hands by Providence."
"Rather say by the devil!"
"Very likely. And yet," said Kitty, "it did achieve its purpose."
Katherine Hunt was silent.
"Shall we agree," she said then, after a long pause, "not to speak of this any more? You know, and I know, and Captain Keith knows. Whatever your motive was, the deed is done. The money has been restored to me; even the purse has been restored. Shall I forget, and will you forget? I think he at least will act as if he forgets."
"But he can never forget—never, never!" said Kitty Hepworth.
"We must all act—we three who know must act as if we forgot," continued Katherine Hunt. "You may rest assured with regard to me. I did not respect you the other night—I will own it—but I respect you now. You were brave to bring back the purse, and you were still braver to acknowledge that you did what you did. I respect you, and I will act as if I quite forgot. Is that why you have come? If so, rest assured—all is well."
"I came for this; but this is only a small matter compared with what I want to say now," said the girl. "Don't you wonder—that is, if you think of anything at all in connection with me—why I am here to-day?"
"No; why should I wonder?"
"And yet I told you I was engaged to Captain Keith!"
"You told me, and he told me. By-the-way," continued Katherine Hunt, "of course I ought to wonder. He has left, has he not?"
"He sailed on Saturday, and my sister Mollie, who is one of the nursing sisters, has gone too. Gavon is ordered to Dundee, in the neighbourhood of Ladysmith, and Mollie is ordered straight to Ladysmith, where there is a hospital, and where the wounded are to be taken. I wanted to go with Mollie, but she would not hear of it; I wanted to go with Gavon, but that also was impossible."
"I thought there was a possibility of your being married before he left?"
"I wanted it, but Aunt Louisa would not hear of it. Gavon left me to her care, and he left her to my care. I have said good-bye to him, and he thinks I shall not see him until the war is over; and he knows that there is a great, a dreadful possibility of his never coming back. But he does not know me after all, for I cannot rest under such terrible conditions. I must follow him."
"But, Miss Hepworth, surely this is madness! If you love him, you will sacrifice your own feelings rather than put him to needless pain."
"I love him," said Kitty, and there was an obstinate note in her voice, "but not in that noble, heroic sort of fashion. I love him—I suppose selfishly. I cannot keep away from him; I must be close to him—by his side. Sometimes I am visited by a fear—oh, I won't tell you; there may be nothing in it—but I don't want him to be alone with—with Mollie. And I want to go—to be close to him! I will go to Ladysmith. He is certain to get to Ladysmith sooner or later. I shall sail in the next ship that goes to Durban, and get to Ladysmith by hook or by crook!"
"You are plucky," said Katherine, "only I don't think you are right. On the contrary, I think you are wrong; but, all the same, you are plucky."
"I am glad you think me plucky," replied Kitty. "And now I come to my great request—my request—and the reason of this visit."
"Well, my dear?"
"I want you to come with me."
"I!" said Katherine Hunt. "What in the world do you mean?"
"Oh, you must, you must! I have thought it all out, and I am determined to win you over; for women like you, strong, and brave, and daring, are wanted in a time of war. You must go in some capacity—in some fashion. Oh, won't you, Miss Hunt, won't you? And won't you take me with you? You are rich, and strong, and young. Won't you, won't you go?"
"You are mad, Kitty Hepworth!"
"Perhaps I am. Anyhow, I want you to go. If you don't, I will go alone, and then perhaps I shall fail. I may never get to Ladysmith, for the country is already, they say, in the hands of the enemy; but if you come with me I shall succeed. Think of it; think it over for twenty-four hours. We must leave here on Friday. Oh, will you come? You have nothing, surely, to keep you at home; and it means so much to me. Will you promise?"
"You ask me, calmly and coolly, a girl whom you scarcely know, to leave my father and go with you on a wild-goose chase!"
"It is not a wild-goose chase. It would be in your case an act of nobility. You can make some excuse to your father; you can arrange things. I will give you just twenty-four hours; then I will come for your answer. If you go with me, I shall be all right; if you don't go with me, I shall go alone. Now think it over; don't say no at present." As Kitty spoke she rose. "I dreamed of you three times last night," she said, "and you seemed to be the way out—the only way out. I feel, somehow, that you will go."
As she said the last words she held out her hand to Katherine Hunt. Katherine grasped it; then she looked into the little face, so childish, so obstinate, so weak, and yet so strong. She drew Kitty towards her, and laid a light kiss on her forehead.
"Although you stole my purse I kiss you," she said. "Now, never again will we allude to this."
"And you will think it over?"
"You certainly are the most startling, original, impossible child!"
"But you will think it over?"
"I will think it over."
"And may I come to see you to-morrow?"
"Come at this hour; but don't be too terribly disappointed, Kitty, if I am obliged to say no."
Kitty smiled; her smile was radiant. She raised Katherine's hand, pressed it to her lips, and ran out of the room.
Kitty let herself out of the great house. Katherine Hunt was so stunned that she forgot the ordinary duties of hostess. It was only when she heard the slight bang of the hall door, which Kitty made in shutting it after her, that she seemed to awake from a sort of dream. She sank down on a sofa, clasped her long, slender fingers together, and was lost in thought. How long she thought she never knew, but she was roused at last by the servant announcing lunch.
She went into the dining-room. Her father often came home to lunch, and he was present to-day.
"My dear Kate," he said, "are you well? Is anything the matter?"
"I am well," replied Katherine, "but there is a great deal the matter."
"My child, what?"
"I will tell you to-night, father. Shall you be dining at home to-night?"
"Yes, if you wish it. I had thought of dining at the club; but if you wish it, Kate, I will come home."
"I should like you to come home; I may have something to talk over."
Mr. Hunt agreed.
"Just as you like, of course," he said. He looked hard at her, and an uneasy sensation stirred within him.
She was the idol of his life; she was all the child he had ever had; she represented everything that made his money valuable. He was a rough diamond—a rough sort of man in every sense of the word. But he was tender, and gentle, and chivalrous to Katherine. He had always been tender and chivalrous to her. He respected her; she was a good girl, and he knew it. He trusted her implicitly. If he had a dread in life, it was that some day she might leave him; she might do what in his opinion all worthy women did—seek a husband and a home of her own. He did not want this. The thought of her marrying did not annoy him, but the thought of her leaving him was almost unbearable. If only he could secure a son-in-law who would be submissive—who would be satisfied to live at home, to share the big house with Katherine and himself—then, indeed, he would consider himself a lucky man. But no such son-in-law had ever loomed across his horizon, and he was not the man to seek one. He was a keen business man, but he could do nothing towards making an establishment for Katherine. His dread now, as he looked into her face, was that a son-in-law of the undesirable sort—a man who would want to take his one ewe lamb away from him—had appeared; that Katherine had found her mate, and was going to leave him.
"For if she does want to go, I can't refuse her," he thought. "Although it break my heart, I can't refuse her anything."
So he went away a little anxious and slightly perturbed. Katherine would not ask him to come home to dinner for a mere nothing.
Meanwhile that young lady thought out her thoughts, and having arranged them compactly and neatly to her own satisfaction, she proceeded to act. She was very sensible, very wise. She was also very clever. From her earliest days she had possessed a talent for writing. She had written smart articles more than once for the different newspapers. She was rather in request as society correspondent to a weekly, which, for the purposes of this story, we will call The Snowball. The Snowball had on several occasions published a series of papers by this young lady, and now Katherine Hunt drove straight to the office in order to interview the editor.
Times were busy for newspaper people. Newspaper proprietors and editors were at their wits' end as to how to shove and push into their papers all the interesting items with regard to the war which were pouring in by Reuters and every other telegraphic agency. The editor of The Snowball would not have seen any other outside correspondent that day; but Katherine Hunt was a valuable contributor to his paper, and he sent a message that he would spare her a few moments. She entered his office in her usual bright, brisk fashion, and came to the point at once.
"I want to make a request, Mr. Henderson," she said.
"What is that, Miss Hunt? We have no room for your special line of work just now; every scrap of available space is required for war intelligence. Where this war will end God only knows! The impression amongst most people is that with a small force we shall bring the Boers to their senses; but I, for one, think that the future of the war is larger, and involves more serious issues, than most of my confrères seem to think. What can I do for you?"
"I called to say that I am going to South Africa on Friday," said Katherine Hunt.
"You!"
"Yes. I want you to give me the proud position of your war correspondent at Ladysmith."
"Miss Hunt!"
"I should make a good correspondent, and will send you the news as direct as I can."
The editor hesitated.
"Our circulation is scarcely large enough to warrant our meeting your expenses," he said then. "I could not pay much for the articles."
"It is not a question of money," said Katherine, rising. "Pay me what you think fair; but the remuneration need not stand in the way. If you decline my offer, I shall go to the office of The Sparrow and make the same proposal to its editor. I should like to write for you, or for some paper, because I should go out to South Africa in a more assured position as a war correspondent. That is all."
A moment or two later Katherine left the office, having got the post she coveted. The editor knew that he would be a madman to refuse so golden a chance.
Mr. Hunt came home in good time. Katherine was an excellent housekeeper, and she had the sort of dinner which he loved. Rich as they were, Katherine was not by any means too proud to see after small domestic matters herself. It is true she had a chef as cook, but that did not matter. He and she consulted every morning with regard to the bill of fare. The man respected the girl, and the girl was not unreasonable to the man; they pulled well together. Such was the case with all Katherine's servants. She was free-handed, but firm; she was liberal, not extravagant. They liked her because they respected her, and they respected her because they liked her. The wheels of the establishment were well oiled, and went smoothly. Katherine never parted with her servants except for marriage or ill-health.
The father and daughter now sat down to their nicely-appointed meal. They were alone. Hunt had resisted the temptation to bring home a couple of his own special cronies to dinner. Katherine and her father always dressed in the evening. Katherine's dress was simple and girlish, but her neck was bare, and she wore short sleeves. Hunt, in his immaculate white tie and expanse of shirt front, looked imposing, and even handsome. He was the sort of man who may be described as lion-like. He had a big head and a bushy beard. His eyebrows were bushy also, and his dark, well-open eyes were very like his daughter's. He had a firm, massive sort of appearance altogether, and looked what he was—a John Bull of the old type. During dinner he was hungry and a little tired, and while enjoying his meal he did not talk much. Towards the end of dinner, however, he was sufficiently refreshed to look across the table at his handsome daughter.
Certainly Kate was looking her best to-night—the colour in her face was absolutely brilliant; she did not often have such a mantle of crimson to add to her charms. Her eyes were very bright and very dark, and her lips were remarkably firm.
"There's something in the wind," thought Hunt; "she does not wear that mouth for nothing. What can it be?"
The uneasiness which visited him destroyed his appetite for the rest of the dinner.
"By George," he said to himself, "if she is going to come over me with the news of some impossible marriage, I'll—I'll oppose it tooth and nail."
But as Hunt thought of opposing the child so like himself in all her characteristics, he owned to himself that he would have a tough time before him.
Dessert was placed on the table, and the servants withdrew. The moment they had done so Hunt looked straight across at his daughter.
"Have it out, Katie," he said; "don't beat about the bush. What's up? what's wrong? Why are you wearing your mouth in that particular angle? I know you. You are up to mischief, Katie. But out with it, for any sake! Don't beat about the bush."
"It isn't what you think, father," replied Katherine.
"And how do you know what I think, miss?"
"You are imagining," said Katherine, and she gave a smile which was very sad, and which took on the instant all the hardness, and almost all the firmness, out of her mouth—"you are imagining that I am going to tell you that I love somebody better than you, dear old man, and that I am going to leave you for him. But that's not the case, daddy mine—that is by no means the case."
"Then nothing matters," said David Hunt—"nothing." He took out his large white silk handkerchief and mopped his forehead. "I got a bit of a fright," he said. "I will own it—I got a considerable bit of a fright. You don't wear that mouth for nothing."
"I wish you would leave my mouth alone, father. My lips must form themselves into any curves they like."
"They don't go down at the corners for nothing," said the obstinate old man.
"If they were down at the corners during dinner, they had good reason to be," she replied. "I am not going to do what you feared, but I am going to do something else you won't like."
"You are always doing things I don't like. You are at once my worry and my blessing. I don't like your going out so late in the evening to visit the slums; don't like your having those old women from the workhouse to tea once a week; I don't like your—"
"Don't go on, father. You know you do like me to visit the slums, and you do like the old women to come to tea. And perhaps, father, we might arrange for them to come in my absence. Marshall, my maid, knows them almost as well as I do; and on their day out from the workhouse they have nowhere to go, poor darlings, and they do so love their cup of tea and their chat with me, and to sit in a warm room and look at a bright fire."
Katherine paused abruptly; in the midst of her glowing picture she caught sight of her father's face.
"In your absence!" he said—"your absence! What does this mean?"
Katherine paused for a moment. Hunt jumped to his feet.
"I tell you," he said, "you are not to beat about the bush. You have got something at the back of your head. Out with it!"
"I have a very big thing," answered the girl—"the biggest thing in all my life; and there's no going back on it, father. There's no changing my mind. It's got to be done, and I am not prepared with any special reasons. You've got to bear it, daddy."
"What in all the world have I got to bear?"
"I am going out to South Africa, father, as special war correspondent to The Snowball."
Katherine made her announcement quietly after all. The beating about the bush had ceased. The blow had fallen with a vengeance! As she spoke she rose, and now she stood a foot or so away from her father, confronting him. Her long arms hung at her sides; her slim figure was drawn up to its fullest height; her eyes flashed defiance and resistance into the eyes of the old man. But the hard lips were no longer hard—they trembled. Hunt's face turned from red to white, and from white to red again, and then he put his hand with a sudden gesture over his heart, and sank into a chair.
"Wha—what did you say?" was his first remark.
Katherine repeated her intelligence. Then she said, after a pause,—
"We sail on Friday."
"Whom do you mean by 'we'? I cannot go with you."
"No; you must stay at home and look after the dollars. You were always a dear old daddy, and the dollars are necessary to our existence. I shall want a good few to take with me. 'We' means Miss Katherine Hepworth and myself."
"Who is Katherine Hepworth?"
"A girl I met at Lady Marsden's—a girl I am interested in. She is also going to Ladysmith, and I am going with her."
"But why to Ladysmith?"
"Because a considerable contingent of our army is assembled in that neighbourhood. We go to be in the thick of—the fun."
"Fun, Katherine!"
"Oh, it is only a word, father. It means one thing to you and another to me."
"And you leave me—you absolutely leave me for this?"
"For no slight thing I leave you," said the girl.
"You are of age; I don't suppose I can legally prevent you."
"You cannot. But, all the same, I would ask your blessing before I go."
"You would leave me, really?"
"For no light thing do I leave you, daddy. Our men, the flower of our manhood, are going to encounter a tough time, and every woman who has a spark of womanly feeling in her ought to help them if she can. I am one of the women who can."
"You are not a nurse," he answered. "This is all tomfoolery—mere sentiment. I am surprised at you, Katherine."
"I am not a nurse; but I have got what every nurse does not possess—enormous health, enormous animal spirits, enormous courage—and I won't fail; I will succeed. And oh, daddy, daddy darling, I am going! Yes, I am going on Friday; and you can't—no, daddy, even if you cried to me—even if you went on your knees to me—you can't keep me back."
"Leave the room," said Hunt.
He pointed towards the door. Katherine, who had come close to him, started back.
"What does this mean?"
"Leave the room; I cannot bear your presence just now. I will come to you by-and-by."
Then she saw that she had caused some emotion within him too mighty to be held down. She knew he wanted solitude, and she left him. She went into her little private sitting-room—the one where she had seen Kitty Hepworth that morning—and there she fell on her knees. She did not sob, but she prayed.
In about a quarter of an hour Hunt came in. His face was quite white.
"Let us talk about pros and cons," he said.
Katherine pushed a chair towards him.
"What a dear daddy you are!" she said. "Few would treat my wilfulness as you are doing."
He winced when she said a tender word.
"There's a thing that I want to say," he remarked then, "and afterwards I'll be silent."
"What is it, father?"
"You think you are doing your duty. You are very—painfully modern. The old ideas with regard to 'Honour thy father and mother' are exploded in this end of the nineteenth century. It is a dull sort of task to stay at home with the old man, and it is heroic, and glorious, and grand to step out of your place and go where God knows you may not be wanted. It is a grand thing to make a fuss, and think that you can help, when all the time you are only hindering. It's a mistaken idea of duty, according to my way of thinking. The old man wants you far more than the army wants you. The old man may—break down." He paused as he spoke, and looked full at Katherine.
She clasped her hands together, and her nails were hurting her tender skin; but the colour in her face did not alter, nor did her eyes fall beneath her father's gaze. He gave a quick sigh, and then resumed his remarks.
"God knows why you go, but you yourself think it heroic—you think you will help?"
"I shall help," she answered. "There is a task to be done, and if I do not undertake it, two lives may be ruined."
"Why don't you confide in me fully, Katherine?"
"Because I can't. Up to the present you have always taken me on trust; you must take me on trust now."
Hunt jumped to his feet.
"I have had my say," he remarked. "To me it is the reverse of filial; to me it savours of sentiment, not of duty. But you go, I take it, in spite of my feelings."
"I am sorry, father, but I do go in spite of your feelings."
"Then we will cease to talk over why you go. We have too little time to talk of the way in which you go. You are a rich woman, Katherine."
"I know it, father."
"Since your mother died I have toiled for you; I have added pound to pound, and hundred to hundred, and thousand to thousand—and all has been for you. And if I died to-morrow, you would find yourself one of the greatest heiresses in London. You would have a cool million of your own—yes, a cool million—to do exactly what you liked with. And if I live another ten years, God only knows how many millions you may have. The American heiresses will be nothing to you. And it's money in consols, mind you, as safe as the Bank of England. And I have done it—I, your father, David Hunt."
"There never was such a daddy," said the girl.
"It seems to me that you don't think much of him. But there, I am getting personal, and I don't wish to be that. But you will understand that, as you have made up your mind to do this foolhardy, mad, and reckless thing, you must do it comfortably—you must do it in the best possible way. There is to be no stint, mind you. When you want to draw on me, draw. I will give you a cheque book, and I'll sign every cheque, and you can fill in any amount you fancy. Can I do more than that?"
"No one else would do as much," she said.
"And you will take care of yourself, Kate? you won't run needlessly into risk? you won't try to catch that abominable fever, which they say tracks our armies like the plague, will you, Kate?"
"I will do my utmost to keep well for two reasons: first, because of you—because I want to come back to you; because each single hour I spend away from you, my heart will be drawn and drawn, as if a great pain were pulling me to your side."
"Don't, Kate; you are abominably sentimental."
But Hunt stretched out his big hand as he spoke, and patted his daughter on her shoulder.
"And also I will take care of myself because I honestly wish to live. I wish to do big things if I can; if not, small ones. But anyhow I want to live, and not to die. And I want to make my life as useful as possible."
"Then sit down, and let us go over the list of things you will require," said Hunt.
When Kitty Hepworth came to see Katherine Hunt the next morning, Katherine Hunt told her that she was going with her.
"And you will never know—never to your dying day—what it has cost me," said Katherine Hunt. "Don't keep me now. Go and make your preparations."
Kitty's face, which had been white when she entered the room, grew rosy as the dawn. She rushed to Katherine, clasped her hands, and kissed them frantically.
"You are so big and so strong," she said, "you are as good as a man. And you are going with me! There are no words in the English language to tell you how passionately I love you!"
"Love me as much as you like, Kitty; all I ask is that, you should not be foolish, and that you should keep yourself straight. If you mean to marry a man like Captain Keith, you have great reason to keep yourself straight. And now go and make your preparations. We leave here on Friday; we have only to-day and to-morrow in which to do what is necessary."
Kitty hurried back to Mrs. Keith, and Katherine began the arduous task of getting ready to leave the country in about forty-eight hours. Without unlimited money it would have been almost impossible, but with boundless resources the task was comparatively easy. And Hunt, having given his consent to his daughter's going, suddenly became almost mild and certainly thoroughly amiable on the point.
He insisted on being with her during those two days. He accompanied her from shop to shop, and made, with the marvellous common-sense which always characterized him, and which his daughter inherited, the most useful purchases. It was necessary to take as little luggage as possible, so "condensation" was his favourite word. "Boil down, condense. Do the thing in the most expensive, but also in the tiniest compass," he would say; and he planned the sort of trunks she ought to have, and the luggage which should go into them: and not one single thing which was necessary to the comfort of a girl travelling through an enemy's country did he neglect.
Finally, on Friday morning, the two girls, both bearing the same initials, met at Waterloo Station, en route for Southampton. Hunt was there, and also Mrs. Keith. Mrs. Keith looked broken down and very sorrowful; but whatever Hunt's feelings were, he kept them to himself. Kitty's face was radiant, and Katherine's face was strong. Katherine clasped Kitty's small hand, and bent towards Mrs. Keith, and said earnestly,—
"I will take great care of her. It is a venturesome thing that she is doing; but, on the whole, perhaps she is right."
"Her presence may keep Gavon from risking too much," said the widow; "that fact is my only consolation."
Then the train moved out of the station, and the deed was done.
Two girls were standing in a plain, barely-furnished room in the best hotel in Ladysmith. A trunk made of condensed cane was open, and the taller of the two was bending over it and taking out a white muslin dress. She shook it as she removed it from its place in the trunk, and then laid it on a tiny bed which stood in one corner of the room.
"I will put this on," she said; "then perhaps I shall feel cool. I never knew anything like the heat."
"It is the dust that tries me," said the other girl. "See, I put this blouse on not half an hour ago; and look at it now."
The white blouse looked no longer white; it was speckled all over with a sort of red dust.
"It blinds my eyes," said Kitty Hepworth, "and it makes my throat sore. I tasted it on the bread and butter and in the tea we had downstairs. But after all," she added, "it does not matter; nothing matters now that we are safe here."
"We were very lucky to get through," said Katherine Hunt. "They have moved the camp into Ladysmith, and the siege has practically begun."
"You have not heard, have you, whether Captain Keith is here?" asked Kitty.
The words seemed to stick in her throat. She looked full up at Katherine with a pathetic and longing expression in her pretty eyes.
"I don't know. If he is not here, he will be soon. All the forces are to collect in Ladysmith. We are lucky to have arrived safely. Don't let us think of anything else just now."
"I cannot help thinking of him; you know I have come out for his sake."
"I will make inquiries about him as soon as possible, dear. Now, do lie down and rest. Try to have a little faith too, Kitty. Remember how lucky we were to have got here at all. We should not have been able to do it were I not one of the special war correspondents. There was an awful moment at Durban when I thought we could not go forward another mile. Don't you want to see your sister? I am told that she is occupied all day long in the central hospital. I will go over there presently, and tell her that we have arrived."
"She will be very much startled," replied Kitty. "I don't know that I want her to hear anything about us just yet. I am anxious to see Gavon. Oh, if only I could find out something about him!"
"I will find out all I can about him, and also about your sister. Now, do lie down and rest."
"I suppose I must. How imperious you are getting!"
"I said I would take care of you; and yours is a character which must be subdued, or you will get into trouble. Now lie flat down and shut your eyes."
Kitty made a show of resistance, but was, all the same, rather glad to yield to Katherine's entreaties. She had not been an hour in Ladysmith, and she was as tired as a delicately-nurtured girl could be who had gone through a terrible time in the armoured train. She had been frightened on her dreadful journey from Durban to Ladysmith; she had been hot and choked with dust; she had wondered if her life was to be the forfeit of her rashness. But, strange to say, although some of the convoy were killed, the passengers in the train remained unhurt. And here she was now in the midst of the enemy's forces, having come forward, and being unable to go back. She was in Ladysmith, knowing little of the perils and trials which lay before her. She was tired—dead tired; and as she lay with her eyes closed, she thought with a feeling of satisfaction,—
"Not all the tears of every soul who ever cared for me could take me back to England. Did not the men who brought us here in the train say that in perhaps twenty-four hours no one would be able to get out of Ladysmith? Well, we are in—in for everything now—and Gavon cannot be far away."
In a few moments the tired girl fell asleep. Katherine, who was moving softly about the room, drew down a blind, opened the door, and went out. She was anxious to consider the position. She herself would have been more than delighted to see Mollie. She had not yet seen her; but Kitty's description of her sister was very emphatic, and she believed that she would recognize her if they were to meet.
She ran down to the entrance of the hotel, where some officers of the 5th Lancers and the Imperial Light Horse were eagerly talking. They all looked at her with some curiosity, and suddenly a familiar face started out of the crowd. A man came quickly forward, and Katherine found herself shaking hands with Major Strause.
"By all that's wonderful," he said, "what has brought you here, Miss Hunt?"
"What brings many another Englishwoman," was her answer—"a soupçon of curiosity, a soupçon of common-sense, and a soupçon of folly."
"Well answered," he replied, and he laughed. He brought one or two of his brother officers and introduced them to Katherine. "I believe," he said then, "that the common-sense will be in the ascendant, and that you will be useful to us. But how did you get here, and when did you arrive?"
A young lieutenant rushed into an adjoining room and brought out a camp stool.
"Sit down," he said. "We all honour you for coming here. We are very glad to see you, and if you are fresh from home, perhaps you can give us some news."
They all looked eagerly at her. A cloud of the horrible red dust entered at the open door. Katherine coughed, and took out her handkerchief to wipe the dust from her face.
"You will find it as beastly as we all do," said the young fellow who had brought the camp stool: "but in time you will get accustomed to it. One does get accustomed to everything, particularly in Ladysmith. We breathe and eat that dust, and we wash our faces in it. In some ways it is capable of doing more mischief even than Long Tom."
He laughed as he spoke, and the words had scarcely passed his lips before a loud report, followed by a screaming noise, filled the air. There was an explosion not far off, but still out of sight. Katherine, unprepared, started to her feet.
"That comes from Long Tom's ugly muzzle," said the young officer; "I call it one of his kisses. He has been very affectionate for the last few hours. But our battery is turned on him now, and will pour deadly shrapnel on him hour after hour. He shall have kiss for kiss."
They chatted a little longer on different matters. The young men were very cheerful, and although it was all too plain to every one that Ladysmith was practically besieged, they did not think that the siege would last long.
By-and-by the other officers went out, and Katharine found herself alone with Major Strause. Strause was looking thinner than when last she saw him, and his face wore a worried expression. Leaning against the nearest wall, he gave her a sentimental glance.
"Well," he said, "it is strange that we should meet here. When last we saw each other, was it not at Lady Marsden's ball?"
"It was," replied Katherine.
"Had you any idea then of flinging yourself into the heart of this war?"
"Not the remotest idea; why should I?"
"Then why have you come? What does Hunt think about it?"
"My father is a brave Englishman, and after the first disappointment he is not sorry that his only child should do her little best for her country. But, Major Strause, you must treat me with respect. I am here as one of the special war correspondents. Without that delightful occupation I doubt if my friend and I could have got here."
"Oh, you have not come alone?"
"No; I have come with a girl, a friend of mine."
Strause looked his curiosity. Katherine had no idea of gratifying it at the present moment. After a time she spoke.
"I am glad to see an old friend," she said, and her big brown eyes had never looked more kindly than they did as they rested on Strause's face at that moment. "I am glad to see an old friend, and when I write to my father, which I mean to do immediately, I shall tell him you are here."
"Do," said Strause, a look of gratification causing his face to look almost good-natured for the time being. "And tell him also that as far as Major Strause can, he will try to make things endurable for you. And now, pray let me know if there is anything I can do at the present moment? You have of course, secured rooms for yourself and your friend here?"
"I have. We are accommodated with the best bedroom in the house, and a very tolerable sitting-room."
"I am glad of that, and this hotel is as comfortable as any. But we are in for an exciting time, Miss Hunt. There is no doubt whatever of that. Our enemy is not to be despised; he has pluck and perseverance, and he is about the best marksman in the world. How long we shall have to stay in this horrid place Heaven only knows. I do declare I think the red dust is our greatest trial."
"Are there many cases of illness here at present, and is the nursing staff well supplied?" Katherine next asked.
"I don't know anything about that. I fancy there are a few nurses, but probably nothing like as many as will soon be required. Many of our men are suffering from the change of life and food, and Ladysmith has an evil reputation besides. Last year there was a good deal of enteric, and there is fever now, and dysentery even, among the regulars. Of course wounded soldiers are being brought in every day, and the central hospital has a good many cases already."
"Have you Red Cross nurses here?"
"One or two. I only know one personally—the finest woman I ever met in my life."
"Her name, please?" said Katherine.
"Hepworth. She is a sister of the pretty little girl whom I always associate with Gavon Keith. By-the-way, we are expecting him with his company any day. Well, this nurse is sister to the little girl Keith is engaged to."
"May I trust you with a secret, Major Strause?" said Katherine suddenly. "That girl is here."
"What!"
"Yes, Kitty Hepworth is here. She has come out with me. She is devoted to Captain Keith; and as she could not come with him, it being against the rules of warfare, she has followed him. Now, I should like to see her sister, and just at first I don't want to say anything to her about Kitty's arrival. Do you think you can help me?"
"Bless me, this is news indeed!" said Strause. "I don't know whether I am glad or sorry."
He paused, and a peculiar expression flitted across his face. He was wondering how he could use Katherine's somewhat startling information for his own benefit. It seemed to him that he saw daylight.
"On the whole, I am thoroughly pleased," he said. "And you want to see Miss Hepworth—Sister Mollie, as we call her? That is a very easy matter. There is no infectious illness at the hospital. If you like to come with me now, I will walk across to it with you and introduce you to her."
Katherine jumped up with alacrity.
"I shall be greatly obliged to you," she said.
She and Major Strause went down the long, irregular street, and entered the hastily put up military hospital. There was at that early stage of the siege a special ward for the enteric cases; surgical cases were attended to in a ward by themselves. The stores and ammunition, and the different comforts for the sick, had arrived, and the nurses were flitting noiselessly about, attending to one case after another.
Katherine entered the long ward, where about a dozen poor fellows were lying in different stages of enteric fever. A girl in a nurse's uniform, carrying a basin of gruel in her hand, was coming down the ward towards her. The girl had Kitty's face, and Katherine recognized her at once. Kitty's face, but with a difference. All the beauty was there, and none of the weakness. The full, dark eyes, the curving sweet lips, the delicate contour of the finely-marked brows, the chiselled and delicate features, were all present. But on Mollie's brow and in Mollie's eyes might have been seen that perfect and absolute self-abnegation which always brings out the noblest qualities of a true woman. She was deeply interested in her cases, and scarcely saw Katherine as she stood in the entrance of the long ward.
Major Strause went softly down the ward, and said a word to the nurse. Katherine saw her give a slight start of surprise; then she handed to the major the basin of gruel which she was carrying. He carried it across the ward, and seating himself on a low stool, began to feed, spoonful by spoonful, a young subaltern who, alas, would never live to see his twentieth year! Mollie came eagerly forward to where Katherine was standing.
"You are Mollie Hepworth; how do you do?" said Katherine Hunt.
"And you are a brave Englishwoman who has come over here to share our ill fortunes and our good," replied Mollie.
She looked Katherine all over. She noted the strength of Katherine's face, and the girl's upright, bold carriage.
"You will be invaluable," said Sister Mollie. "Welcome to Ladysmith. We are sure to have a tough time, but I think in the end we shall be victorious. Anyhow, there is that in us which will never say die. If it were not for these poor fellows—my boys I call them—I think I could bear anything. I am in charge of this ward, but, of course, I have nurses to work under me. I shall claim your services, Miss Hunt."
"And most gladly will I give them," replied Katherine. "I can come to you almost at any time. When shall it be?"
"The sooner the better. But Major Strause tells me that you have not come here alone—that there is another lady."
"So there is."
"Will she help us also?"
"I don't know. Perhaps. I will tell you about her presently."
Ladysmith was hemmed in. Sir George White sent a message to Joubert, asking leave for the non-combatants, women, and children, to go to Maritzburg. Joubert refused. The wounded, women, and children, and other non-combatants, might be collected in a place about four miles from the town, but would not be allowed to go further. All those who remained would be treated as combatants. Sir George White advised the town to accept the proposal, but his advice was indignantly rejected. Everybody's life was in danger, therefore, for the Queen. The proposal to leave the town was flung back with defiance. There was no more going out. Until help came, the inhabitants of Ladysmith were besieged by the enemy.
Meanwhile, day after day, Long Tom did his deadly work. Shell after shell entered Ladysmith and exploded, carrying consternation and death with it. Then people became quiet and submissive. Even to danger one can get accustomed. The excitement had subsided to something not exactly like despair, and not resembling indifference, but to a state of mind midway between the two. The inhabitants of Ladysmith tried to go about their usual occupations. The women still kept their houses tidy, and their children washed and well fed; and every one hoped that relief would come any day or any hour. And the soldiers fought as only English soldiers can fight; and the Boers were brave as enemy could be, and more and more closely surrounded the town. Even the Naval Brigade, splendid fellows all of them, could not deliver Ladysmith, although beyond doubt they kept the enemy in check.
Meanwhile Kitty remained in her rooms. She became a sort of mystery to the other people in the hotel. Mollie Hepworth had not the slightest idea that her sister was close to her. Gavon Keith, with a contingent of his men, had arrived. Kitty longed to see him; but the strangest nervousness was over her. What with the dust and the heat, and all her fears, and the dangers through which she had travelled, the girl was suddenly prostrated with a kind of malarial fever. There was a time when Katherine feared that it would turn to enteric; but watching Mollie Hepworth's patients, she soon saw that she had nothing to apprehend on that score, and resolved to nurse Kitty herself.
She could not understand the wayward girl, so plucky, so determined to join her lover while in England, and yet now so overcome with nervous terrors that she dreaded him to know of her arrival. Whenever a shell exploded in Ladysmith, Kitty screamed, covered her face with her hands, sat up in bed trembling all over, and asked Katherine, who seldom left her, if the hotel were still intact.
Katherine had much ado to put up with Kitty's fears, and quite longed for the time when the girl would be well enough to leave her enforced imprisonment and take what small pleasure lay before her in the beleaguered city.
There had come a day of general attack. Early in the morning Long Tom had spoken, and Lady Anne and all the other Naval Brigade guns replied at once. The firing went on for hours, and finally the enemy were repulsed. But it was a day of horror to all in the brave little town; and when night came, Katherine, who had been busy helping Mollie with the sick and wounded, and doing all that woman, could to lighten the strained situation, came into Kitty's room. She had left Kitty much better—had given her all that was absolutely necessary for her comfort; had cheered her up as best she could; had offered her a yellow-backed novel to read, and left her, hoping that she would drop asleep. She came back to find the frightened girl partly dressed, half fainting, and leaning against the wall of the room.
"Now, Kitty, what is it?" said Katherine, in a tone of expostulation. "You know you are not fit to get up. What is the matter?"
"I had an awful dream," said Kitty. "After you went I fell asleep as you meant me to do, and I dreamed a long, terrible dream all about Gavon. I thought he was killed. Is he killed? Is it true? I believe it is. Oh, I was so terrified! Is it true?"
"It is not true," replied Katherine.
"But I am so frightened; and there is something in your face which makes me think you are hiding something. He has been wounded!"
"Kitty, sit down," said Katherine. "Sit down and stay quiet. You had no right to try to get up; you are too weak."
"I am a miserable, good-for-nothing girl, but I will be good if only you will tell me that he is safe."
"You ought to have seen him long ago. Now that you are here, I cannot understand your attitude. Your illness has made you nervous."
"I will be good if only you will tell me the truth. Is he—is he wounded?"
"I will tell you the truth," said Katherine, in a brave voice. She looked at the trembling, weak, terrified creature with eyes large with compassion. "Here, drink this," she said. She poured out a restorative which had always a soothing effect on Kitty, and brought it to her. "Drink it, my dear; you will want your courage. But things are by no means so very bad. Captain Keith has had a slight wound—nothing at all dangerous. He is in hospital. He must remain there for a few days, and—"
"And Mollie is nursing him?"
"Thank God, your brave sister is there, doing all she can for every one."
"Don't look at me as if you meant to despise me, Katherine. I sometimes see that look in your eyes, and it makes me so sick."
"I don't understand you, Kitty. I admired you in London, for I thought that, whatever happened, yours was a true and a great love, and I always respect sincerity in anybody or in anything. But since you came here—"
"It is all my nerves," said the poor girl. "It is the bursting of the horrible shells, and the terror that one will come through the roof."
"Well, and if it does come through the roof?"
"Katherine! Why, we should all be killed."
"What of that? we can but die once. Oh, you must lose your fear of death if you are to be any good at all in Ladysmith. And look here, Kitty, I mean you to be good—I mean you to be of use. What is a woman, strong and in her youth, doing in a place of this sort if she is not of use? We are going to have a very terrible time; I don't pretend to deny it. We are hemmed in closer every day. The enemy are coming up in greater and greater numbers. The Boers are no fools, let me tell you. They know how to fight, and they know how to endure. They have the courage, some of them, of ten men, and they are fighting for their country. And they mean—yes, Kitty, they mean to take Ladysmith if they can. Of course they won't take it, for we will never, never give in. But if there were many of us like you in this place, why, we'd be indeed a poor lot!"
Kitty turned white. Her handkerchief was lying near; she took it up and wiped the moisture off her brow.
"I wish I was not so—shaky," she said, in a tremulous voice.
"You poor little thing! I am sorry I spoke harshly, but I have been seeing so very much of real life all day. Those poor fellows—not a murmur out of them! And oh, the agony some of them have endured! And then I come here, and I see you with a whole skin, in a comfortable room with food and water within reach, crying because you have a fit of the nerves. But I know people who get these nervous attacks are to be pitied. And I do pity you, poor little Kitty; only I want to stimulate you to courage."
"I will be good," said Kitty faintly. "Help me to dress."
Katherine hesitated for a moment. It was between nine and ten at night; the heat of the day was mitigated. Long Tom had ceased firing; until morning there would be comparative peace. She took Kitty's wrist between her finger and thumb, and felt her pulse.
"Your fever has gone," she said; "you are only weak, I have got some bovril here. I will make you a cup, and then—"
"Yes, what?"
"Then I am going to take you to the hospital."
"O Katherine!"
"Yes; to see Captain Keith and your sister Mollie. I hope you will be helping Mollie this time to-morrow night."
Kitty was so excited at Katherine's daring proposal that the colour mounted at once into her pale cheeks.
"I wonder if I dare," she said.
"Dare or not, you have got to come—and to-night. Here's your bovril." Katherine brought her a cup. She had heated the water with her spirit-lamp. "Drink it. That is a good girl."
"Things are so horrid!" Kitty moaned; "I have no appetite for the coarse food here."
"O Kitty, you are very lucky to have any food. The supplies are by no means unlimited, although at present we have not felt the stint. Now, then, I will help you to dress."
She went to one of the trunks of crushed cane and brought out a white skirt and white blouse. She helped Kitty to put them on, and she herself brushed out the girl's dark, pretty hair, and arranged it becomingly around her head.
"There, now," she said. "Have you got a blue sash anywhere? A girl in white with a blue sash will be a sort of angel in the wards to-night. The moment you enter one of the wards, if you are worth anything at all, Kitty Hepworth, you will forget yourself."
"And you are quite, quite certain that none of the awful shells will come into Ladysmith to-night?"
"Quite certain; we have some hours of peace and safety."
Kitty looked fragile and lovely when Katherine had dressed her. She herself also put on a neat and becoming dress, but she took care that Kitty's beauty should be the chief focus of attraction. She then took the girl's hand and led her downstairs. The mystery about the sick English girl had come almost to fever height amongst the officers and nurses, who principally inhabited the hotel. Many people glanced now at Katherine, whose face was quite familiar, and at Kitty, whose face was unknown, as they went slowly by. Major Strause suddenly burst out of the smoking-room.
"I say!" he exclaimed. "Miss Hepworth, you here!"
He pretended that he had not until now known of Kitty's arrival in Ladysmith.
She gave him her hand indifferently, raised her pretty eyes to his face, and then dropped them.
"I am going to Gavon," she said. "He is wounded, and I must go to him."
"Only a flesh wound—nothing of any importance. He must lie up for a day or two.—Shall I go across to the hospital with you, Miss Hunt?"
"No, thank you," replied Katherine; "Kitty and I can manage nicely alone.—Now, Kitty," she said, as the girls went down the street, "you must remember that Sister Mollie knows nothing of your arrival here. She will be very much astonished when you walk into the ward, and perhaps a little hurt with you for keeping things dark from her."
"I shall like to see her," replied Kitty; "and if she is nursing Gavon, I of course will help her. It is my place to nurse him, is it not, Katherine?"
"I should say yes. I am glad you feel it in that way."
Katherine could not help a note of sarcasm coming into her voice.
She and Kitty entered the hospital. A moment later they found themselves in the long ward. Kitty's face turned white. Had she thought of herself, she might have fainted; but just then her eyes were arrested by seeing a girl bending over a sick man, holding a stimulant to his lips, and speaking cheering words. The girl was her sister; the man she was bending over was Captain Keith.
With a cry—a curious mingling of delight, and suffering, and absolute self-forgetfulness—Kitty, in her white dress and blue sash, looking something like a fashionable London girl and also something like an angel, ran down the long ward and approached the side of the sick man.
"Gavon," she said, "Gavon, I am here! I have come.—Mollie, I have come—Kitty has come."
Mollie Hepworth had often said that nothing could ever take her by surprise—that she was, owing to her education, and perhaps also to her temperament, prepared for any emergency—but she was sorely tested at the present moment. Her first wild thought was that Kitty was dead, and that this was her wraith come to visit the sick ward in the beleaguered town of Ladysmith; but one glance at Kitty showed her that it was a very living girl with whom she had to deal. She stifled the inclination to cry out; she showed no surprise, and putting her finger to her lips, gave a warning glance at the excited girl.
"He is very weak from loss of blood," she said; "don't startle him."
Gavon Keith had been looking full up at Mollie while she was ministering to him. Her touch brought him comfort, the look in her eyes brought him strength. The next instant he encountered eyes like hers, a face like hers, but without the strength, without the power to give comfort. He had a sick feeling all over him that in his heart of hearts he had no welcome for Kitty; and then, weak as he was, he struggled to subdue it. His eyes lit up with a faint smile; but the effort was too much—he fainted away.
"Sit down quietly," said Mollie—"there, in that corner, where he can't see you when he comes to. Of course you shall be with him. But I have no time to ask any questions now.—Miss Hunt, give me the brandy, please, and that bottle of smelling-salts."
Katherine Hunt brought the necessary restoratives, and Mollie bent over the wounded man just as if Kitty did not exist. The faint was a bad one, but after a time he recovered consciousness. Mollie held his hand and stroked it gently.
"Did I dream anything? Was it all a mistake?" he said, in a low whisper.
She bent over him.
"It is no dream," she said. "Your little Kitty, whom you are engaged to marry, is here. She has come out all the way from England for love of you. She has encountered grave danger and difficulty and the possibility either of death or imprisonment all for love of you. She will stay by you part of to-night. Welcome her, won't you?"
"Kitty!" said the wounded man; and then Kitty bent forward, and he smiled at her, this time without fainting.
After this incident Kitty Hepworth was established as one of the extra nurses in the central hospital. Mollie secured her this post, and on the whole it did her good. There was no time in Ladysmith for fainting or hysterics. The minor ills of life had to be put out of sight, for the men and women in that town were face to face with a great tragedy.
Just about this time there was a curious change observable in Major Strause. Hitherto his character had been all that was contemptible. He was deep in debt; he was met at every turn by money difficulties. He was also a confirmed gambler. In order to keep himself in any degree straight, he had stooped to the lowest of crimes, and was in every sense of the word a most selfish man. Nevertheless, at the present moment no one could consider Major Strause selfish. When he was not absolutely engaged in his military duties, he spent his time in the hospital. He turned out to be not only a clever but also a tender nurse. He did exactly what Sister Mollie told him; he even sat with her worst cases at night; and was, she could not help expressing it, invaluable.
The fact was, two things had happened to Major Strause. In the first place, at Ladysmith his most pressing creditors could not trouble him; therefore, for the time being at any rate, he was not up to his ears in money difficulties. The second thing was this: he had fallen in love, passionately in love, with Sister Mollie. He was not a particularly young man—in fact, his years were very little short of forty—but until he met Mollie he had never honestly and truly, and as he thought unselfishly, cared for any one. He was not a marrying man, and if he thought of matrimony at all, he certainly thought of it as an aid to a fortune. If he met a rich, very rich girl who would have him, why, then, his money troubles might cease to exist. He certainly would not, under any circumstances, marry a poor one.
But love will work wonders even in natures like Major Strause's, and he no longer thought of money in connection with a possible wife. He knew well that Sister Mollie had little or no private means. He was fond of saying to himself that, when he looked at her brave and noble face, he ceased to think of money. The more he thought of her, the more deeply did he love her. He dreamed of her at night; to be in her society by day was heaven to him.
This was the real secret of the change in the major. It was because of Mollie he had become unselfish, a useful nurse, an invaluable servant of the Queen. Mollie improved him not only as a nurse, but also as an officer. He would rather do anything than catch the scorn in her eyes. So he fought bravely, and led his men to the front in the sorties made against the Boers. His brother officers began to like him, and even Keith, who quickly recovered from his wound, wondered what had come to the major. He was an old enough man to keep his emotions to himself, and neither Mollie herself nor Keith—who listened for Mollie's slightest footfall, who lived on her smile, who was consoled by her touch—guessed for a single moment that Strause cared for her.
Both Keith and Strause just then were playing a difficult game: for Keith, while engaged to one girl, devotedly loved another; and Strause was endeavouring by every means in his power to hide that part of him which was unworthy from Sister Mollie's eyes. Both men, after a fashion, were succeeding. Mollie, in the stress and strain of her present life, had more or less forgotten the curious story Keith had told her with regard to Strause. She was destined to remember it all too vividly by-and-by, but just then she was glad of his help. She learned to lean upon him, and to consult him with regard to those cases of delirium and extreme danger which were brought into the little hospital day by day.
The other nurses all depended more or less on Mollie, and she took the lead in this time of great peril.
As to Keith, his task was even more difficult than that the major had assigned to himself; for if ever there was an exigeante and jealous girl on the face of God's earth, it was Kitty Hepworth. She expected the undivided attention of the man she was engaged to. He liked her, and was intensely sorry for her. He was touched by her devotion to himself, and he did all that man could to render her stay in the beleaguered town as happy as it could be. He did not know until afterwards how much he was indebted to Katherine Hunt for his measure of success. She was possessed of enormous tact. She had the wisdom of ten ordinary women. When she was not writing accounts of the siege for The Snowball, she was attending on the sick and wounded, visiting the inhabitants of the town, cheering up the frightened mothers, comforting the children, helping to give out the rations. There was nothing that this clever and unselfish girl could not put her hand to; there was nothing she did not do more or less well.
As to Keith, he rejoiced when he saw her entering the hotel. He could be affectionate to Kitty, who had very little to say, and listen to Katherine's brilliant conversation; and Kitty could not be jealous of Katherine, try hard as she might. After the first week she got a fresh return of the malarial fever, and was from that moment more or less exempt from giving her services to the sick men in the hospital. Thus she seldom saw Keith in her sister's presence, and in consequence her fears slumbered, and she tried to believe that she was the happiest girl on earth, and that no one could be more loved than she.
But with such dangerous elements at work it was scarcely to be expected that this time of peace and apparent security could be of long continuance. Strause was not the man to hold himself in check long, and Keith began to find the yoke which tied him to Kitty more galling every day. When all was still at night he often went across to the hospital; he felt safe to go there then. Kitty was asleep in her room in the hotel, Long Tom was not troubling anybody; but the sick and dying were wanting help and consolation, and, what was more important to Keith, although he did not dare to whisper it even to himself, Mollie was there. He might do some trifle for her; he might help her in an hour of need.
There came a night after one of the many battles when such a number of wounded had been brought to the hospital that every nurse in the town was requisitioned to look after them. The enteric cases were also getting more and more numerous; there was not a bed to spare. Keith resolved to sit up all night in order to give what help he could. He met Mollie at the door of the enteric ward.
"I am at your service for to-night," he said.
"Thank God," she answered. "We shall need all the help we can get."
"Which ward shall I go to—the surgical or enteric?"
She looked around her. They were standing just then at the entrance to the surgical ward: the doctors, two or three of whom were present, were busy attending to the suffering patients; an amputation was going on behind a screen in a distant corner; the groans of the dying reached the ears of the man and woman as they stood so close together, and yet so truly far from each other. Keith, even at that extreme moment, thought of the tie which bound him to Kitty; and Mollie, as she raised her eyes to look into his face, felt a great throb of her heart. How manly he was, how brave, how all that a woman could love and worship!