CHAPTER XXI.
KITTY'S REQUEST.

Kitty was terribly upset when Lawson breathed his last. She made a painful scene by the deathbed. Her nerve gave way, and she went off into violent hysterics. The angry nurses made short work with her; two of them carried her right out of the hospital. Sister Eugenia said she would see her home.

"I will walk with you," she said, "as far as the hotel. A girl like you is worse than useless in Ladysmith."

The stinging words recalled Kitty to herself.

"Why won't you have any pity for me?" she gasped.

"No one has pity for moral weakness in Ladysmith," replied the sister. "You are worse than a coward; you are selfish. If you had come into the ward when you were asked for, you might have done some good, and the poor fellow would have died happy. But nothing can be done now. All the tears in the world won't alter things. And to make a fuss when there are soldiers dying, soldiers of the Queen—oh, I could shake you!"

Sister Eugenia's words were so full of passion that Kitty was aroused to be ashamed of herself. She turned when they were half-way up the street.

"I don't think I'll be afraid of the kisses," she said. "You can go back."

"Afraid of what?"

"Of Long Tom's shells."

"They are not likely to touch you," said the sister, in contempt. "They don't touch the selfish and the useless. You are safe. If you don't want me, I will go back."

She turned, and Kitty, putting wings to her feet, re-entered the hotel. For the rest of the day she was as miserable and remorseful as girl could be, but towards evening she began to recover. Once again her selfish nature came to the fore. She began to consider herself ill-used and neglected. Nothing would have been wrong had Mollie only loved her as she used to love her, and were Gavon only as true to her as he ought to be to his promised wife. Yes, she must see Mollie that evening. Things could not go on as they were doing any longer. Accordingly she wrote a tiny note, and sent it to the hospital.

The large hospital for the sick and wounded was at Intombi, a sheltered position about four miles away; but the Town Hall was largely used during the siege, and another hospital was in the Congregational Chapel. Mollie, with a few nurses under her, had charge of the Town Hall hospital. She received her sister's note late that evening, and went to her during the hour which she usually devoted to her supper.

Captain Keith was better. He sat up as Mollie passed his side.

"How white and tired you look!" he said. "Is anything troubling you?"

"I have had a note from Kitty. She wants me to go to her."

"I am sorry Kitty came out here," said Keith, in a grave tone. "I am sorry Miss Hunt brought her."

"Katherine Hunt is of immense use," said Mollie. "She is as good as any trained nurse."

"I know; but my poor little Kit is different."

"We all have different natures," replied Mollie, in a gentle tone. "Kitty was never accustomed to nursing. She has been very tenderly treated all her life, and perhaps just a little bit spoiled. We must have patience with her."

"You have patience with every one, I think," said the young man, and his eyes shone brightly as he spoke.

Mollie looked gently back at him.

"Are you better?" she asked.

"I am always better when you are by. You don't know what you are to me."

"Hush!" said Mollie. "I know exactly what I am—your sister, your friend, and nurse."

"You are far, far more. Oh, I can't help it!" he said under his breath. "You must know what you are to me; you must know what I feel for you. I am a coward to speak of it, but just now I—your presence, the look in your eyes, unmans me."

"Think of Kitty, and you will recover your manhood."

Mollie spoke hurriedly. She did not want him to say any more. She went out into the night. She was very tired, and the healing and comforting stars shone down upon her. The Boers were sending a searchlight over Ladysmith, and as Mollie quickened her steps she wondered whether they meant to send shells into the little town during the night. But no firing was heard. An orderly going past suddenly stopped and spoke quickly.

"Have you noticed anything, nurse?" he said.

"No," she replied; "what do you mean?"

The words had scarcely passed her lips before there came a sharp report, a screaming noise, and a loud explosion. Mollie turned in some astonishment.

"Pepworth Hill knows Long Tom no more," was the orderly's next remark. "He now reigns on Little Bulwan, below Lombard's Kop. His range is nearer. If this sort of thing goes on, Ladysmith will soon be taken."

"I don't believe it," answered Mollie.

She hurried past the orderly and went into the hotel. She ran upstairs at once to Kitty's room. Kitty was standing in the middle of the floor. Her face looked ghastly.

"What is the matter?" she said, the moment she saw her sister.

"Oh, I am so terribly frightened!"

"What of?" asked Mollie, speaking in a soothing tone.

"That awful report—the bursting of a shell at night. Oh, what does it mean?"

"I hope nothing to frighten you, Kitty; but, of course, you quite understand that all our lives are in danger. They are all in His hands, Kitty—in His hands who does nothing wrong; who has ordered the day and the hour, and the manner of our deaths, when death comes."

"I wish you wouldn't talk like that," said Kitty. "You terrify me—oh, how you terrify me!"

"You sent for me, Kitty," said Mollie.

She sat down by her trembling little sister, and took one of her small hands in hers.

"What have you done with your rings?" was her next remark.

"Gavon said that I ought not to wear them in the siege. I have taken off my bracelets too. Nothing matters. See how terribly my hand is stained, Mollie."

"Yes," said Mollie, "You did a very dangerous thing this morning. You made the lotion far and away too strong. It was lucky that Gavon is so healthy and that his skin is healing. It is healing, so you need not trouble."

"And you will let me go back to the hospital again, Mollie, and—and nurse the poor fellows. Oh, I promise—I really will promise—to be good. Will Gavon be at the hospital to-morrow, Mollie?"

"I hope not. He is much better to-night. Our soldiers do not stay in hospital for trifles, Kitty. My dear Kitty, why don't you too become a soldier of the Queen? A real soldier, I mean—one who fights as a woman should fight, with such brave weapons, my dear, such sympathy, such courage, such faith. Such a woman in Ladysmith now would be an angel of light. Why don't you try to become one, my poor little Kit?"

"I can't," said the girl, sobbing; "I am all selfish. I know I am. Mollie, when you hear why I really sent for you, you will hate me."

"I can never hate my only little sister."

"But you are so different," sobbed Kitty. "You are so brave and strong, and all—yes, all that constitutes an angel of light. Why were you made the way you are, Mollie? and why was I made the way I am? Oh, it was wrong of God, it was wrong!"

"Don't say that, Kitty. I feel God to be so near me now it hurts me to have even one word said in His dishonour. He made you for His glory, He made you for His praise, He made you for your own best, best happiness. Lift up your head, little Kitty, and take courage. Take courage, darling, and do better in the future."

"But you know how badly I behaved to-day. I was so selfish I would not go back to the hospital in time to receive poor Lawson's message."

"Perhaps he is able to give it himself now," said Mollie.

"What do you mean?"

"Nothing—it is only a thought; he may be able himself to convey the comfort he wanted to give to his poor sweetheart. Anyhow, Kitty, there is no looking back over that. In Ladysmith we have no time to look back. There are other poor fellows with sweethearts and mothers and sisters—others who are either dying now or who will have to die before this terrible siege is over—and you can comfort them."

As Mollie spoke she clasped Kitty in her arms, and laid the girl's tired, frightened head on her breast. There came another sharp, very sharp report, and the searchlight suddenly lit up the windows of Kitty's room. She gave a terrified scream.

"I wish I had never come to Ladysmith. I wish I could get away."

"Too late for that now; you are a little soldier, and must stand to your guns."

"I am a coward; I am the sort of soldier who runs away," said the girl.

Mollie was silent until the noise of the explosion ceased; then she said quietly,—

"This may mean more patients for me; I must hurry off again. What did you really want with me?"

Kitty raised her head and looked full at her sister.

"I have got something to confess," she said.

"What is that?"

"I came back to the hospital to-day because—not because I am a soldier of the Queen, not because I wanted to help anybody, but because—"

"Well, child, speak," said Mollie.

"Because I wished to watch you."

"What do you mean? To watch me, your sister!"

"Yes; to watch you and—and Gavon."

As Kitty said the last words, she forgot her fears with regard to Long Tom; she forgot everything but the wild passion, the jealous, miserable rage, which filled her. She sprang to her feet and faced her sister, she clasped her little stained fingers together and looked with her white face into Mollie's face, and then she hurled out her words impulsively.

"You love him—you know you do! And he loves you, and he—he is engaged to me. You have taken him from me. Oh, how I hate you! Oh, I shall die with misery!"

Mollie's face turned very nearly as white as Kitty's; she did not speak at all for a moment. Kitty, having hurled out her reproaches, waited, expecting Mollie to speak. Mollie still was silent. There came another screaming report, another explosion. Kitty was deaf to it. That fact alone impressed Mollie. She looked with almost reverence at her sister now. How great and strong, after all, were her love and her passion!

"It is true," said Kitty. "Why don't you speak? why don't you speak? You know it is true. I saw it in your eyes, and I saw it in his eyes; and if you were to tell me a thousand, thousand times that you don't love him, I would not believe you."

"But I am not going to tell you any such thing," replied Mollie.

"Then it is true," said Kitty; "you have confessed that it is true."

"No, I have not confessed it; I have said nothing."

"How can I bear you? I wonder I don't even try to kill you."

"Why so, Kitty? I have never done you any harm."

"You have: you have taken away the love of the man I am engaged to—the man I worship."

"Now listen to me, Kitty. You really must allow your common-sense to come to the fore. I am not going to tell you a lie. As you have put the question to me, I shall answer you frankly. Were you not engaged to Gavon Keith, did you not love Gavon, it is just possible—I do not say any more—that I might love him. But as you are engaged to him, the thought to me of taking him from you is as impossible as that I should be faithless now in Ladysmith to the Queen. Won't you understand that, little sister? won't you believe it? Have I ever to your knowledge done a downright mean thing, that you should think me capable of doing this greatest of all sins now?"

"Oh dear!" gasped Kitty. "But he is often in the ward with you, and I know that he—he cares for you."

"He has never been unfaithful to you; and what you have got to do is to keep well for his sake, and to be brave for his sake. You must try to learn so to live that he shall not think small things of you. Believe me, I am right in saying this. Your character must grow too, and your love shall make you noble. Won't you try, dear, to live differently in the future?"

"I can't! I can't! And your words don't comfort me a bit. What are words, after all? It is actions that I want."

"You want me to prove my words; in what way?"

"You must do something for me; you must do something to put matters straight between Gavon and me. Will you?"

"I will do anything in my power," replied Mollie, but her voice had grown suddenly tired and faint.

"Will you really and truly, and from your very heart, prove your love for me in that way?"

"Really and truly, and from my very heart."

"Then there is something you can do."

"What is it?"

"He has never told you that he loves you?"

"Never."

"But you think he does?"

Mollie was silent.

"But you think he does?" Kitty repeated.

"You have no right to ask that question, Kitty."

"I know without your telling me," replied Kitty. "He must learn to unlove you."

"What do you mean?"

"You must do something which will upset his faith in you—something which will astonish him very much."

Mollie's face now indeed turned pale. She ceased to regard her sister as a weak, hysterical girl. She stared at her with her wide-open brown eyes.

"Some one has been putting you up to this," she said. "Those words are not the words of my sister. Kitty, what is the matter?"

"There is so much the matter that only by doing exactly what I ask can you put things right. There is a man in Ladysmith who loves you. No, that man is not Gavon; I speak of another. He loves you, and you must marry him. You must marry him for my sake."

"Whom am I to marry?"

"Major Strause."

"Kitty, are you mad?"

"I am not mad; I am sane, It is the only possible way out. If you will marry him, I shall be saved; if you marry him, all will be right. Gavon is not the sort of man to love you as Major Strause's wife. Gavon does not like Major Strause, and I hope he won't like his wife, and he will turn back to me. Mollie, you must marry him. O Mollie, only thus can you save me—only thus, by marrying Major Strause."

"Kitty!"

"Yes; and you must marry him now, and here."

"I marry Major Strause now, and here—now, in this time of war, and famine, and siege, and misery! My dear little sister, you ask too much. If that is what you have sent for me for, I must leave you, and I cannot do what you ask. The sick and wounded are wanting me. This is not the time for personal feelings, or for marrying and giving in marriage."

"Then I am the most miserable girl in all the world," cried Kitty.

She fell on her knees, and looked passionately up in her sister's face.

"I can't give you the promise, Kitty. It is too much; you had no right to ask it."

With a quick movement Mollie tore herself from Kitty's embrace and rushed from the room.

CHAPTER XXII.
MOLLIE'S PERSECUTOR.

The next day the bombardment was severe. Long Tom at his nearer range was more formidable than ever, and no less than two hundred and fifty shells burst in the town and forts. Only the cave dwellers felt safe. Even the cattle were beginning to suffer. The noise caused by the constant firing was incessant. The wounded could not sleep, and the doctors and nurses found it impossible to do their difficult work properly. Rations for the sick, too, were running terribly short, and comforts and dainties for the convalescent were far to seek and impossible to find.

Mollie dreaded the time when the town hospital would be shut up, and she might be forced to go to the hospital at Intombi. This, for many reasons, she did not at all wish to do. The discomforts there were indescribable. The dust lay like a thick layer over everything. The noise of the firing was even more incessant than in the town of Ladysmith. The place was low, too, and damp, and in no possible sense of the word a fit situation for a hospital for men down with enteric or with gunshot wounds. Nevertheless at that moment there were nine hundred patients down with enteric at Intombi. Mollie hoped that her work might keep her in the town itself.

All the beds in the Town Hall hospital were now full. She ministered to the sick and dying as calmly and gently as though this were just an ordinary hospital in London or any other part of England. Her nerve was little short of marvellous. Mollie took complete control of the surgical ward; the enteric ward she did not often enter—she had not time. Kitty did not return to the hospital.

Captain Keith was much better, and went back to his usual work. Mollie was glad of that. After Kitty's revelation and her unreasonable jealousy, she felt that she must see as little as possible of Gavon Keith. Major Strause came early to the hospital. He looked anxious. There was an expression in his eyes which Mollie did not care to meet. He looked at her, but did not speak to her. He went straight into the enteric ward. He was coming to be regarded as quite a power among the nurses and doctors, and more than one poor fellow breathed his last and uttered his farewell words into the major's ears. The man was changed in spite of himself, and it was Mollie's doing.

"But I cannot marry him," thought the poor girl, "even to relieve Kitty's fears. That is quite impossible."

And then she was angry with herself for having any personal thoughts in those fateful days.

On this special day the dust was terrible. It came in thick showers through the windows, and disturbed the patients as much as the screams of Long Tom. About half-past five p.m. came the climax to all their woes. A shell burst into the roof of the hospital. It flung its bullets far and wide over the sick and wounded. One bullet hit one poor fellow right on the chest, went through his heart, and killed him immediately. Nine others were hit, and many were seriously wounded. The shock to the patients was terrible. There was no doubt whatever that the Boer gunners had deliberately aimed at the Red Cross flag, which, flying from the turret of the Town Hall, was visible for miles.

Mollie was standing close to the part of the hospital over which the shell burst, but, wonderful to relate, she was not hurt. Major Strause, however, was badly injured in the thigh. From being a help and support to the overworked nurses, he was now himself one of the wounded. It was no longer safe to remain in the Town Hall hospital, and the sick and wounded were conveyed to the Congregational Chapel, which was hastily turned into a hospital. Major Strause found himself here, and in the surgical ward.

"You are bound to see me now," he said to Mollie, and he smiled up into her face.

"I will do my best for you," she answered. "You are a very brave man."

A surgeon removed the splinters from the wound, and Major Strause bore the agonies without having recourse to chloroform. Alas! the supplies of chloroform were getting terribly short, and it was now only used for extreme cases. Mollie bent over the major when the operation was at an end, and did her best to make him comfortable. She was holding a refreshing drink to his lips, when he suddenly seized her hand.

"Oh, if you would only make me the happiest of men!"

"Don't, Major Strause," she answered. "How can you talk of these things now?"

"I only want your promise," he pleaded. "Oh, won't you promise me? I was a man almost lost, but you are saving me."

She tore her hand away, and went off to see to another patient. But now began a series of persecutions which tested the brave girl's courage to the very utmost. Major Strause seemed determined to carry on the siege by incessant small firing. He hardly ever let Mollie alone. He was always calling her on one pretence or another, and whenever she approached his side he told her how ardently he loved her, and what a good man she would make him if she fielded to his solicitations. Mollie, however, was firm. All this time he had never once alluded to her sister, nor to Captain Keith, nor to anything but the all-important fact that he loved Mollie, that he loved her with a true and constant heart, and that he wanted her to return his love.

One day when he had spoken in this tone she suddenly burst into tears. He was instantly full of contrition.

"What is the matter?" he said. "You cry! you, the brave, the constant, the indefatigable, give way!"

"You are making me cry; you are wearing me out," said the girl. "I can stand everything else—yes, everything else—but it lowers me when you talk to me as you do."

He looked at her with a world of consternation and self-reproach in his eyes.

"Is that true?" he said.

"Yes," she answered, sinking her voice to a whisper. A soldier in a bed opposite was looking at her; she observed that he did so, and turned her back on him. He turned away also, with the chivalry which belongs to most brave soldiers. "You make me a spectacle before the others," she continued. "Why do you make my life so wretched? Can't you be generous? Can't you see that you are showing the reverse of love when you act as you do?"

"Is there no hope at all for me?" he said.

"There is no hope—none," she answered. "I will be good to you; I would marry you even, if I could, just to make you happy, but I can't. Were I to marry you, you would be a very miserable man. I have no love for you; on the contrary—"

"Yes!" he said; "speak."

"I will not say what I was going to say; but no woman who feels as I do for you ought to marry you. It would be a mistake, and I will not do wrong that right may come."

"Is that your firm resolve?" he said. "Ah, but you may do wrong that right may come yet; you don't know all!"

She did not even ask him what he meant. He held out his hand.

"Take my hand," he said slowly.

There was something in his tone which made her obey him. She gave her small, white hand into his clasp for a moment.

"I promise that as long as I am ill I will not persecute you by word or deed," he said; and then, before she could prevent him, he raised her hand to his lips and kissed it.

No one saw the action. The Sister of the Red Cross went away with her cheeks on fire.

Meanwhile things were getting more and more gloomy in Ladysmith. The real privations of the siege had now well begun. Enteric fever and dysentery were steadily increasing, and food for both men and horses was becoming very scarce. Ammunition also would have to be used with care. The suffering amongst those who had no stores of their own to fall back upon was getting more and more serious. Eggs were half a guinea a dozen, potatoes one and six a pound, candles a shilling each. Nothing could be bought in the way of drink except lemonade and soda water, and the question of all questions was, what was to be done with the horses. The difficulty amongst the sick was not so much to carry them through their different crises, but to build up their strength afterwards. All the milk in Ladysmith had long been reserved for use in the hospitals, but even for the sick it was now running out. Those who were ill began to say that convalescence was the hardest time of all—there was nothing fit for them to eat. The question which agitated the nurses and all those who had the ordering of supplies was whether or not the horses should be boiled down for food.

Throughout all, however, Major Strause got steadily better. There came a day when he was well enough to leave the hospital. Mollie herself brought his things, and helped him once more to get into his uniform. He had faithfully kept his word, and since the day when he had kissed her hand, had never, even by a look, shown Mollie that he thought more of her than of any other woman. Nevertheless she had a feeling that he was only biding his time. She was too busy just then to see all she might have seen of Kitty, but whenever she met her little sister, Kitty invariably asked the same question—"Are you engaged yet to Major Strause?" And Mollie invariably replied in the negative; whereupon Kitty sighed and turned her head away.

The events of the last few weeks had affected not only Kitty, but Mollie. Kitty indeed seemed to get thinner and thinner, and her small face more and more white. There was a weary, very weary expression about her eyes. She was exigeante to Captain Keith when he came to see her or she was sullen, and scarcely spoke at all. It was with difficulty she could keep the words back from her lips: "You have never loved me; you love my sister, not me." But hitherto she had refrained from uttering these mad, wild words, and she hoped she would have self-control until the end.

Mollie was also looking pale and fagged. It was not the nursing; it was not the personal privations; it was not the long, weary hours when she knew no sleep, and was indefatigable in looking after the sick and wounded; but it was the trouble of her mind—the knowledge that she did love Gavon Keith, the further assurance deep down in her heart that he loved her, the dread fear that she was, after all, breaking Kitty's heart—the dim outlook in the future. What was she to do? Oh, she could not set things right by doing wrong—she could not do it!

On the day that Major Strause quitted the hospital Gavon Keith went to see Kitty. He had not been with her for two or three days. He had been very much occupied. The sorties against the Boers were more and more frequent; and when in camp he had much to do, for each officer had now to bear his part, if in no other way, in cheering up the soldiers and making the best of things all round. Keith, too, was feeling the effects of the siege. From time to time he had received slight although nasty wounds, and the one on his leg, which Kitty had injured by her application of the too strong lotion, had never quite healed. It gave him incessant pain, and he limped slightly as he came now into the girl's presence. Her heart was in her mouth; all the misery and nervousness of the last few days were reflected in her small, thin face. Keith had come away from a very anxious discussion regarding ways and means with the other officers of his regiment. It had just been decided that the cavalry horses were to be let loose. There was great trouble amongst all the cavalry officers in consequence. Keith, who belonged to an infantry regiment, had not, of course, his own special horse, but he felt the trouble almost as much as the others. When would relief come? When would Buller get any nearer? It was not a moment for a girl's petty jealousy, for a girl's silly fears. The moment he looked at Kitty—Kitty whom he did not really love—and saw the expression on her small face and the discontent round her lips, it seemed to the young officer that this was the last straw.

"Why have you not come in to see me before?" was her first remark.

"You may be thankful that I could come now," was his answer. "I have been too busy. I have not had a single moment to devote to personal matters."

"I am glad you think anything connected with me personal," was her answer, and she went and stood, with her back to him, looking out of the window. A shell burst a few yards away. She started, and glanced nervously at Keith. "Why don't you speak?" said the girl. "It is bad enough to be away for a few days, but then to come and—and to say nothing! And you have not even kissed me!"

He strode up to her, laid a hand on each of her shoulders, drew her towards him, and kissed her lightly on the forehead.

"Poor Kitty!" he said, "you are more to be pitied than any other woman in Ladysmith. There are fifteen thousand people in the town all told, and I don't believe there is a woman here more wretched than yourself!"

"Why do you say that?"

"I say it because I know it. Why won't you do things? You might copy Katherine Hunt, for instance."

"Or Mollie," she said. She coloured crimson as she spoke, and then her face turned white.

"Or Mollie, brave Nurse Mollie," answered Keith, and a rich colour dyed his cheeks and mounted to his brow.

Kitty looked at him. She saw the expression in his eyes, and every remnant of self-control deserted her.

"Gavon," she said, "I will have the truth. Oh, I should not be miserable were it not for you! You come to see me when you cannot help it; but you don't love me—you never loved me!"

He was silent; his lips took that hard, firm line which they wore at times, but which Kitty had seldom seen; his eyelids narrowed slightly, and he watched Kitty with a curious expression on his face. She was too mad with rage and misery to be checked even by that look.

"You are recommended for your V.C.," she said; "and you will get it, I suppose. Oh, I know you are brave, very brave against the Boers, but you can hurt a woman who loves you for all that. You can be false and faithless!"

"That is not true," he answered.

"It is true!" cried the girl. "You are busy, and you don't care; but I am not busy, and I do care. You have no time to think; I have all the long, long hours to think, and I think and think, and I know and know. You don't love me; my heart will break. I came out here to be near you, and ran untold dangers just to be by your side; but I am left in this miserable hotel, and you come to see me only when you must."

"I come to see you when I can," he replied.

"It is not true," she said. "If you loved me as I love you, your heart would be drawn to me. But it never, never is drawn to me; you only come to see me when you must—and you love Mollie, not me. Deny it, Gavon; tell me to my face that I am telling you a lie, and I will believe you. I will believe no one else. But oh, you can't. You love Mollie, and Mollie loves you, and it is cruel—oh, it is cruel! It is the hardest fate that could overtake a poor girl—to love a man, and for that man to love her sister. Oh, I am a miserable, most miserable girl!"

"Stop, Kitty; you have said enough," cried Keith. "Now listen to me." He spoke with great decision and suppressed passion, and there was a power in his voice which arrested the weak, half-hysterical girl. "I forbid you, Kitty, if we are to remain engaged to each other, ever to say again what you have said to-day. I decline to answer your accusation. If you don't wish for me as I am, give me up; but if you do wish for me—and I have thought you did, Kitty—if you do wish for me, you must take me as I am, with my faults, with the measure of love I can give you—just as I am. When this siege is over (if it ever is over), when we leave Ladysmith (if we ever do leave it), I will marry you, and be as good a husband to you as God gives me grace to be; but I will not answer your base accusations. If you believe what you say you believe, why don't you give me back my freedom? why do you remain engaged to me? I decline to answer your insinuations. And now good-bye, Kitty. I will come back to see you, when perhaps you will be in a better frame of mind."

He turned and left the room. He was in his full uniform, and he had never looked more handsome. Kitty was terribly frightened when he left her.

"I never meant to say that to him! Now he will never forgive me! But I mean to marry him whether he loves Mollie or whether he does not," said the desperate girl to herself.

She thought for a minute, and then, carried out of herself, pinned on her hat, and ran, just as she was, to the new hospital. She entered, and stood waiting near the surgical ward. She saw Mollie in the distance. Mollie was very busy; she was attending to several patients. Major Strause had, as she hoped, gone quite away without saying anything. Kitty did not attempt to call her sister; she kept looking at her. To her jealous eyes each movement of Mollie's was torture. She had to admit that beside Mollie she herself cut but a poor figure. Even her very beauty, owing to her selfishness and self-indulgence, was getting to be of the very poorest and shabbiest order. There was no self-renunciation on her face; there was no light of courage in her eyes: there was scarcely another woman in Ladysmith who did not show to advantage against poor Kitty. And Mollie, who had beauty as well, how splendid she looked this morning! How erect was her form, how stately was her step, how firm and courageous and grand her nerve!

"No wonder he loves her; he can't help himself. Oh, I wish I were out of the world!" thought the wretched girl.

Just at this moment Mollie caught sight of her. She had not seen Kitty for two or three days. She gave a brief direction to a nurse who stood near, and walked down the ward.

"Well, Kitty?" she said.

She went up to Kitty and took her hand; the girl pushed her back.

"I have come to say something."

"What is it, dear? Anything wrong?"

"Everything is wrong. I saw Gavon this morning, and he—I know now what I guessed before. There is only one way to save me, and you won't take it. You won't be troubled by me long; I cannot endure this. I have come to say that this is good-bye."

She turned away as she spoke; she did not wait for any remarks from Mollie. Mollie went to the door of the hospital and called the girl's name; but Kitty had put wings to her feet, and was running back to the hotel. Shells fell around her as she ran, but nothing wounded or touched her.

Katherine Hunt was standing in the door of the hospital. She had been up all night, and was tired.

"Aren't you ever going to rest, Sister Mollie?" she said.

"Some day," replied Mollie, with a sigh.

"You are fretting about that silly little sister of yours. She's not worth it."

"I am rather anxious about her," said Mollie. "She is very desperate and very unhappy. I have no time to go over to her, or I would."

"I am off duty for two or three hours. I will go to the hotel and look after her."

"She bade me good-bye. She means something desperate," said Mollie.

"No, you need not be alarmed; that is not Kitty's way. Take care of yourself, and don't yield," said Katherine Hunt.

Katherine put on her hat, and prepared to go back to the hotel. Mollie returned to her duties. About noon there was a brief lull, and she went out to take a little air. She had scarcely been two minutes in her post of observation, where she could watch both her cases and the street beyond, when Major Strause strode up to her side. He looked around, saw that they were alone, and said briefly,—

"The day and the hour have come. As long as I was in hospital I kept my word. Will you marry me, Mollie Hepworth?"

"No, Major Strause," she replied.

"I will ask you once more. Will you, when the siege is over, be my faithful and true wife?"

"I will never be your wife."

"Is that your final answer?"

"Yes."

"I have asked you to be my wife for more than one reason," continued Major Strause. He stood in such a position that she could not get away from him. "I have hitherto not declared my reasons. Now I am prepared to go fully into the matter. You can say 'yes' or 'no' afterwards. I have just seen your sister. She is terribly unhappy. Her brain is not too strong, and it has been very much shaken by the terrors and misery she has undergone since she came to Ladysmith. She loves Captain Keith."

"She is engaged to Captain Keith," interrupted Mollie.

"Yes, yes; but that is a trifle. The fact is that she loves him desperately, as I love you. He does not love her; he loves you."

"You have no right—" began Mollie.

He interrupted her by a hasty ejaculation.

"No right," he said, "when the whole thing is as plain—as plain as that there is a sun in the sky! The man loves you as men will love women like you, Sister Mollie; and you love him back. Your sister is mad with trouble. There is only one way to save her—marry me!"

"And believing such a thing to be true, would you really take me to be your wife?" said Mollie.

"I would."

"Then you would be a very miserable man."

"That would be my affair. I would take you as my wife; and, before God, I would be the best man on earth. Yes, Mollie Hepworth, the best, for you have power over me. I was born, I think, with a devil inside me; but in your presence he lies quiet, he does not trouble. You have the effect of sending him to sleep."

"That is little," said Mollie, "if he is there. I cannot marry a man with a devil in his heart."

"Can you not? will nothing induce you?"

"Nothing."

"Not even to save your sister from suicide?"

"She will not commit suicide," said Mollie, a startled expression crossing her face. "I don't believe that for a single moment. No, you cannot frighten me with that. Kitty will marry Gavon. He will be good to her, and she will be happy, if ever we leave Ladysmith alive."

"The provisions are getting weak, and enteric is gaining strength," said the major gloomily. "Ten fresh cases have been brought into hospital this morning. Do you happen to know that?"

"I had not heard it."

"They are making beds on the floor now; there are not enough bedsteads. There is a sad lack of nurses, too. These are dark days for Ladysmith. But outside the Boers are rejoicing. Buller does not get any nearer. We are left to our fate. That being the case, may we not be happy while we can? Your sister would be relieved if she knew that you were engaged to me. Keith would scarcely give you another thought when he learned that you were to be the wife of his—" Major Strause bent lower, and hissed the last words into the girl's ear—"his enemy!"

"And why are you Gavon Keith's enemy?" said Mollie.

"Will you say that you will marry me?"

"I will not."

"If you say it, I need never tell you; if you don't say it, I mean to tell you, and now."

"Now, now," said Mollie—"now?"

"Sister Mollie, you are wanted," said Sister Eugenia, coming out of the hospital.

"Oh, for shame!" said Mollie, turning to Major Strause; "for shame, to keep me now to talk of these things.—Yes, Sister Eugenia."

"I will wait till you come out, or it will be the worse for Gavon Keith," said Major Strause, in a very firm voice.

Mollie looked at him in absolute terror. She went back to the hospital, where her services were urgently needed. But all the time, as she attended to this patient and the other, her thoughts were with Major Strause, and she remembered his words—"It will be the worse for Gavon Keith."

Presently she had a moment's leisure, and seeing the major standing outside, she went back to him.

"I am prepared to listen to you to the very end," she said. "All I ask of you is that you will be brief."

"I must tell you something that will pain you very much," he replied. "You think well of Keith? You have no reason to."

"Speak!" said Mollie.

"About a year ago a very shady circumstance occurred in connection with Gavon Keith. A young man, a cousin of mine, was in our regiment. We were stationed near Netley at the time, and this young fellow—he was extremely rich—became a great friend of Keith's. He came of rather a delicate family. His father and mother were both dead. He had unlimited means—"

"Is the story going to be very long?" interrupted Mollie.

"It shall be as short as I can make it. I need not trouble you with many particulars. He was devoted to Keith, and Keith, for reasons of his own, did all he could to keep young Aylmer from my society."

"Why?" asked Mollie.

"He had what he supposed were good reasons, but it was naturally annoying to me, as I was Aylmer's cousin. However, the long and short of it was that Aylmer was devoted to Keith, and the two were inseparable. Aylmer became very ill; I offered to nurse him. Keith arrived suddenly on the scene, and took my patient from me. I could not help myself, for Aylmer loved Keith and disliked me. Aylmer's illness was supposed to be progressing favourably; nevertheless there were reasons to fear the possibility of a fatal result. Keith came to nurse him one afternoon. It was arranged that he was to spend the night with him. In the night Aylmer died suddenly. The doctor gave the usual death certificate, and poor Aylmer was buried. His will was read, and it was found that he had left Captain Keith ten thousand pounds. This was a large legacy; still no one said anything. Keith was a favourite in the regiment, and people were glad that the young man had remembered him. They are glad to this day. They shall be glad, if you so will it, to the end of time; for Keith and I alone know the truth."

"What do you mean?" said Mollie. Her face was very white—white as death. "What do you mean?"

"I happened to go into the sick-room the morning after Aylmer's death. Now listen—listen hard. Aylmer was ordered two medicines: one was what they call an alterative, or fever mixture—you know the kind?"

Mollie nodded.

"Aylmer was to take two tablespoonfuls of the alterative medicine every two hours. He suffered intense pain from some obscure internal inflammation, and a sedative, which contained a large quantity of opium, was also to be given at stated intervals—a teaspoonful at a time. Those were the two medicines. When I went into Aylmer's room on the following morning, I found that Keith had given Aylmer the wrong medicine—he said by mistake. Anyhow, Aylmer had taken two tablespoonfuls of the sedative and one teaspoonful of the fever mixture. The consequence was that he died. You must admit that a very ugly finger of suspicion points to Captain Keith, more particularly as I found out, after careful inquiries, that he wanted that ten thousand pounds badly just then."

"And you think—"

"I don't think; I know. I have more to say. Keith was very ill after Aylmer's death—shock the doctors called it; but I, having made my discovery, knew better. I carried the bottles away with me. I have them still. When Keith was a little better I went to see him, and told him what had happened. I invited him to take the matter up and make inquiries; but he preferred to hush the whole thing into oblivion."

"And your part, Major Strause?"

"My part is of no consequence. Had I been less soft-hearted, I should have gone straight to the coroner and told him what I had discovered. But I could not bear to ruin the career of a brave soldier, and I let things lie."

"And you—you received nothing?" asked Mollie, her cheeks on fire, her eyes glowing.

"I wanted a little money badly, and Keith gave me some out of his legacy. I could not resist the temptation of asking him for it. I don't want for a moment to pretend that I acted the hero. I did not; but compared with a man who could take the life of another, I was—"

"Very white indeed," said Mollie, with a curious, half-strangled laugh.

"Yes," he answered, "very white. We need not discuss that point. All this time I have lain low, and Keith has got on and forgotten the ghastly thing—he has engaged himself to a pretty young girl, and I have never said a word, and I never will say a word; on the contrary, I will do something else. On your wedding day I will make you, Mollie Hepworth, a present. I will give you those bottles out of which the medicines were taken. You shall destroy them, and so save Gavon Keith for ever. Will you marry me under these conditions?"

"If I say 'no'?"

"If you say 'no,' I never repeat my offer; and to-night the whisper begins in Ladysmith that one of the heroes of the hour, a man who is to be recommended for his V.C., has committed a secret murder."

"You will do that?"

"I will do that for you, Mollie Hepworth; for you, because I want to win you at any cost. If you say 'yes,' Gavon Keith need fear nothing from me. He will marry your sister—he will cease to care for you; he will marry Kitty, and Kitty will be happy, and you will have saved him. You can never marry him, because I mean to ruin him if you do not marry me. Now you know what I require. I will come back for my answer to-night. Good-bye for the present."

He left her. She put up her hand to her forehead. She felt it was very wet. She did not quite know why the heavy moisture stood on it. She was almost incapable of thought.

CHAPTER XXIII.
DARK DAYS.

That evening Molly was sent for in a hurry to visit Kitty. One of the servants from the hotel had rushed across to the hospital, and told her that her sister was ill, was in a most nervous condition, and ought not to be left.

"What am I to do?" said Mollie. She turned to Katherine Hunt.

"Don't go to her; leave her to me," said Katherine, her cheeks first flushing and then turning pale. "Yes," she continued, "leave her to me. She could not have come out here but for me. She must not disturb your grand, your magnificent work. I am the one who ought to look after her."

"There are one or two cases that I ought not to leave to-night," said Mollie. "Even if Kitty were dying, I ought not to leave those cases; for I am a servant of the Queen, and her service ought to come first."

"It ought, and must, and shall," replied Katherine Hunt. "Go to her for a few minutes, Mollie; I will follow you."

Mollie went out.

"If I told her now that I was going to marry Major Strause, she would get better," thought Mollie.

But although she knew that, she shrank back—she had shrunk back all day. She had felt the sacrifice demanded of her too terrible. Until this morning, although she had not had one particle of regard for the major, still she had thought that in some ways there were a certain bravery, dash, and fineness about him. She had noticed his tender touch with the sick men—his devotion to her service could not but in a measure touch her; but when he unfolded his scheme, he showed her all the blackness of his heart, and Mollie recoiled from the sight.

"Not only to love another man who is white as snow beside him—not only to love that man, but to hate Major Strause as I must hate all wickedness; and then—then, with that knowledge in my heart, to become his wife—it is too monstrous! I cannot do it!" thought the Red Cross nurse.

She reached the hotel, and went up to Kitty's room. Kitty was lying in bed. She looked very white and feeble; there was a curious expression about her—an absence of excitement and also of life. She was all alone in her bedroom. When Mollie entered, she raised her heavy eyelids; she saw Mollie, and uttered a feeble cry.

"I tried to do it," she said, "but I couldn't. I took some, but not enough. I could not go on. Do you think I am poisoned?"

"O my dear Kitty, my dear Kitty! what has happened?" said Mollie.

"I got some laudanum—I stole it from the hospital—and I swallowed some, but not enough. I could repeat the dose, and then it would be all over, but I am frightened. When I took a certain amount I got frightened. I have been very sick, and I thought I was going to die, and—oh, I couldn't do it. I would have made it all right for you if I could have done—it; but I couldn't."

"My dear, dear Kitty, how wicked and dreadful of you! Oh, God was with you to prevent this most terrible thing! But I am not going to scold you now; only you must not be left alone."

"You won't tell that I tried to do it?" said Kitty.

"No, darling Kitty; but I must take the laudanum away at once."

Mollie's lips were trembling; her strong frame was shaken to its depths. Kitty pointed to a shelf over her bed where a small bottle of laudanum stood. Mollie put it into her pocket. Then she tried to make her sister more comfortable, and talked to her cheerily. When Katherine Hunt arrived, Mollie left her in that young lady's charge, and went downstairs. Her firm nerves were upset. Still, her resolution was fixed to have nothing to do with Major Strause. He was coming for his answer that night; she would not have an interview with him. She went back to the hospital, and wrote him a short note,—

"Don't trouble me any more. Go your own wicked way. God will protect the innocent.

"NURSE MOLLIE."

This note she gave to an orderly, to deliver to the major when he made his appearance. She did not even ask the orderly whether he had come, or whether the note had been given to him; but she did not get it back again.

The next few days passed quietly. There were no messages from the outside world. Rations grew shorter. The stricken town lay quiet, preparing for its death agonies. After a hurried consultation, it was decided to kill only three hundred of the cavalry horses, and to turn the others out on to the flat beyond the racecourse, and let them survive if they could. This was done; and several of the soldiers said that it was one of the most pitiable events in all the war to see the astonishment and terror of the horses, particularly when they were not allowed to come home to their accustomed lines at night. The poor creatures looked like skeletons, and had scarcely strength to hold themselves upright. At night they came back in groups, hoping to get their food and grooming as usual. They had to be driven away by Basutos with long whips; and then they seemed to recognize that it was useless, and wont wearily back to spend the night on the bare hillside. They were too weak and wanting in energy even to look for fodder.

Meanwhile death was busy. Men fell ill daily and hourly. More died from enteric and dysentery and sunstroke than from wounds. Chevral, a preparation of horse meat, was now in daily use. At first the sick and wounded refused to touch it, but afterwards they took it greedily; and it seemed to stem the tide of mortal illness, and to bring back strength.

Mollie had not seen her sister since the dreadful evening when she found her half poisoned in her room. Katherine Hunt gave up nursing the soldiers for the sake of one weak and troublesome girl whom she, in a fit of generosity, had brought to Ladysmith. How often in the days that were at hand did she regret this step!

Meanwhile the major was, to all appearance, silent. What he did only God and his own conscience knew. Nevertheless, it takes but a little whisper to set an evil report circulating; and just about this time—in the midst of the danger, starvation, and anxiety—there was spoken of in the Royal Hotel, at the officers' mess, and wherever groups of Englishmen congregated together, a curious rumour, sufficiently out of the common, even in a moment like the present, to arouse attention. The days were long gone by when any one smiled or laughed much in Ladysmith; the days for recreation, football, races, or any other amusements no longer existed. But the time is never too gloomy for an evil report to find its listeners, and the report now in circulation gained in strength and credence day by day. It had something to do with Gavon Keith. Brave, fearless, handsome Gavon, already recommended for his V.C., had done something shady, very shady in the past. He did not look the thing a bit; even his enemies acknowledged that. He had a clear eye, a frank gaze, an upright look. He did not drink, nor even smoke, to excess. He was unselfish, and willing to share any small comforts he himself possessed with his men. Where his own life was concerned he was reckless. To save a company of his men in the last sortie, he had himself crossed the plain in order to draw off the attention of the enemy and let his men get under cover. The bullets had rained like hail all round him, but none had touched him; and he had got back again to shelter, having done what he intended to do, without so much as a scratch.

Yes, whatever his past, he was a brave soldier now. But what was this dark thing of the past? The old proverbial saying came into force where he was concerned, "There is no smoke without fire." Was it true that Keith had received a large legacy from a brother officer who had died? Was it true that he had officiously undertaken the nursing of this young man, when a proper hospital nurse was wished for by the doctor in attendance? Was it true that the friend had died suddenly, and Keith had secured his legacy? And was it—could it be—true that a wrong medicine had been given to the sick man by Keith—oh, of course, by mistake; yes, only by mistake? Was there any truth at all in this curious story?

Each person to whom it was told said that he, for one, did not believe a word of it; nevertheless, he, for one, was interested in it, and looked askance at Keith the next time he appeared on the scene. The men of Keith's own regiment were eagerly questioned. Yes, they knew something—they knew about Aylmer. He had died, poor chap, quite young, and very suddenly; and he and Keith were tremendous friends. Yes, Strause was Aylmer's cousin. No one liked Strause; they were all glad when he left the regiment. Of course, he was a very brave officer—no one could say a word against him now; but he had not been popular in the North Essex Light Infantry. Keith had certainly received a large legacy, and at the time there was a little cloud over him; he had not been himself—his nerves wrong. People had wondered, but suspicion had long died away. He was very popular. There was nothing in the story; of course there was nothing in it. The man who questioned also said that there was nothing in it; but he looked grave, and whispered it to his brother officer, and the brother officer whispered it to another; and so it came to pass that, except Sir George White and one or two others high in command, every one in Ladysmith knew the rumour about Keith. And even this might not have mattered much if Keith himself had not known it; but he did. The cloud fell about him like a winter fog. It dogged his footsteps; it surrounded him when he lay down and when he rose. At first he could not understand what this cold breath, this dullness in the air, meant; but at mess one day his eyes were cruelly opened. A man who had always sat near him got up and took a seat at the extreme end of the table. Keith asked a brother officer what it meant. This man looked at him hard, and after a slight hesitation said,—

"We have been listening to a story about you."

"A story about me!" said Keith; and then, he did not know why, but the colour rushed up into his face. "What is the story?" he said, after a pause.

"It is not my affair," said the man. "If it is false, you had better never hear it; if it is true—well, I leave it to your conscience."

Keith would have insisted on a further inquiry, but at that instant he received a message from his colonel, and was obliged to go off. He intended to go back afterwards and demand a full explanation; but he was depressed after a very hard day's work and want of sufficient food, and instead of going to the messroom he turned aside and went to see Mollie. He had avoided her since Kitty's all too frank words; but now she drew him, as the wretched and starving are drawn to food, and the cold and miserable to the sun.

Mollie gave him a quick, bright glance, and invited him into a little corner which was curtained off for herself. He sat down, and she spoke quickly,—

"What is the matter? Have you got a fresh wound? Oh, I know—you have had nothing to eat. You must have a cup of bovril."

"Not for the world," he answered. "We shall want every scrap of nourishing food for the sick and dying."

"For the sick, truly; but the dying do not matter," she answered. "But if you won't have bovril, there is plenty of chevral; it isn't bad."

He shuddered.

"I could not bring myself to taste it," he said.

"Don't be sentimental," she answered. "Try it now. Believe me, it is first-rate."

She left him, prepared a cup of the mixture, and brought it to him.

"Shut your eyes," she said, "and drink it off."

He did as she told him, and the trembling which had tried him so inexplicably no longer thrilled through his frame.

"And now tell me what is up," she said.

He was silent for a minute; then he told her just what had occurred in the messroom that day. He started when he saw the expression on her face. It had grown white as death, and her eyes shone with a strange light.

"Do you know anything about this?" he asked, amazed at her look.

"I would rather not say," she replied. "But I have to ask you an urgent question. You know it is false; can you live it down?"

"To be suspected of the most ghastly crime by the men I care for is just the drop too much now," he answered.

"It shall be put right," she replied at once.

A light flashed into her eyes, the colour returned to her face, her lips grew red.

"But you cannot put it right, Nurse Mollie."

"It shall be put right. Don't be afraid."

She laid her hand on his shoulder as she spoke, and looked into his eyes. Then she said, in a hoarse voice which he scarcely recognized as hers,—

"Leave me—you are better; leave me. I have something to do at once."

As soon as ever he had gone, Mollie sent an orderly from the hospital to desire Major Strause to come to see her without a moment's delay. The man said that he had never seen Nurse Mollie so imperative. He rushed off immediately to do her bidding, and in half an hour Major Strause was in her presence.

"I must speak to you where we can be alone," said the girl.

"We can be alone there," he said, and he motioned to a little lobby just outside one of the wards.

"Yes, I think we can," she answered. "Come."

She went before him. He did not know whether he was frightened or whether hope filled his heart at her curious manner and at the expression in her face. As soon as ever they got into the lobby, she turned and faced him.

"Major Strause," she said, "you have won. You have been doing the devil's work, and you have won. On certain conditions I will promise to be your wife."

"Oh!" said the major, "is it true? Will you? Oh, I cannot realize it!"

He trembled all over; his face turned ghastly white. He looked as if he meant to devour her with kisses, but she held up a restraining hand.

"No," she said, "you don't kiss me—you don't make love to me; but I will be your promised wife. When the siege is over, if we are alive, then I will marry you. I am your promised wife—but no courting in Ladysmith. That is one of the conditions."

"I submit," he said. "I shall court you in my own heart; I shall think of you when I lie down and when I rise up. You will be my good angel in the battlefield; you will help me when I am starving; you will bring me luck. I shall escape out of this net spread by the fowler. I shall escape, and so will you, brave Nurse Mollie. And we will marry, and be happy; yes, we will be happy!"

"Leave that to the future," said Mollie; "we have to do with the present. I yield to you because I must, and because the weapon you carry is too mighty—because you are too cruel. But I am not going to reproach you; I am going to give you my conditions. You may not accede to them. On no other conditions do I marry you."

"Make your own conditions, my darling; whatever you say shall be done. I would go through fire and water for you."

"Major Strause, you have spread a black, black lie against one of the bravest officers in Her Majesty's service. You have spread that lie now in Ladysmith. You have got to eat your own words. You have got to go to the sources from whence the ugly lie has arisen, and clean them out, and put them straight, and allow the truth—God's truth—to go through them. You have got to go to every man who now suspects Gavon Keith, and tell those men that it was a foul lie, and that Gavon is as innocent as an unborn babe of the crime you imputed to him."

"You think so?" said Strause.

"I know it, Major Strause. On no other condition do I marry you."

Strause's face turned livid.

"And if you don't go," said Mollie, "then I will go, and I will tell an ugly story where you have told an ugly one. I will tell of a day when I found a young officer of the North Essex Light Infantry lying by the roadside insensible; but not drunk, Major Strause, not drunk, but drugged! I, a nurse, can prove that. I myself saw Captain Keith. It was there I found him, and it was then I first learned to love him. I will tell the story just as he told it to me. Your lie can be refuted with my truth—here, now, in Ladysmith. Choose, Major Strause. Set your ugly lie right; blot it out as though it had never existed. I don't tell you how to do it; I only say it must be done. And if you do it, and the rumour dies away, and Gavon Keith is known to be what he is—brave of the brave, good of the good, pure and honourable of the pure and honourable—then I give myself away. I have done that which God meant me to do, and my pain and my misery mean nothing at all. I marry you, and I do not reproach you; and I try, God helping me, to be a good wife to you, if we get away from Ladysmith. Now go; you know what you have to do. You have to choose. If you don't do it—and I shall soon find out—then I do what I said I would do, and you go under for ever."