After the bursting of the shell over the roof of the Town Hall hospital, it was decided that it was no longer a safe hospital for the sick. Some were removed to the Congregational Chapel; others to a camp specially provided for their safety; and others, again, to the field hospital at Intombi. Mollie, to her great distress, was ordered to Intombi. She went with a number of the sick and wounded, and she tried, in the full absorption of her new duties, to forget the anxieties which surrounded her personal life. In some ways this was easy, in others it was difficult. She was now effectually parted from Katherine Hunt and from Kitty. She was also not likely to see either Captain Keith or Major Strause; for although they might manage to get to Intombi, the way there, lying as it did through the enemy's lines, was difficult.
Meanwhile she wondered what the major had decided to do. She resolved, as far as she was concerned, not to leave a stone unturned to extricate Keith from the dilemma which surrounded him. But having been ordered so unexpectedly to Intombi, the strong step which she had meant to take, supposing the major did not comply with her wishes, was now almost impossible to carry out. Meanwhile her duties absorbed every moment of her time. The hospital at Intombi consisted of about two hundred bell tents, together with one or two marquees which the medical staff used. A train went from the town every day to the hospital camp. It took the wounded to the hospital, and also took what supplies could possibly be spared.
Mollie missed the close companionship which had been hers in the beleaguered town. The site chosen for the hospital was anything but desirable, and the patients were both anxious and flurried. Good news affected them favourably; but if the news was depressing, many more on those days were added to the list of deaths. They were within constant hearing of the guns, and although they were supposed to be safe at Intombi, yet the shock to the nerves was very trying. The comforts needed for the sick were almost impossible to be had. They were terribly short of all wholesome and nourishing food. They wanted changes of linen and all sorts of comforts. Many of the sick were obliged, for lack of camp beds, to lie upon the damp ground. The nurses were at their wits' end to keep things going at all. The deaths increased daily. The enteric cases became more and more numerous. Relief seemed far off. Despair came nigh, and hope sank very low.
The food both in Ladysmith and at Intombi was now of the worst type. In Ladysmith the bread degenerated to ground mealies of maize. It was quite indigestible, and caused inflammation of the stomach.
Meanwhile Major Strause considered his strange position, and for a time did nothing. Should he or should he not secure Mollie Hepworth on her own terms? Over and over again, when he lay down for a few hours' rest on his hard bed in his miserable hut, his thoughts turned to her; and his passion and desire to obtain her grew so great that he felt he would even give up every chance of ever appearing straight with his fellow-men for her sake. He knew well that if by a few words—words which, in spite of himself, must give his position away—he did what she required, she would be true to her promise. She would become his wife, and neither reproach him nor bring up his ugly past to him. She would be, what he had always hoped, his faithful and true wife. He felt certain he could make her love him. He did not believe love so great as what he called his feeling for her could be unreturned. She would forget Keith, and give up her entire life to him. And yet again, when daylight broke and he moved amongst his brother officers, he felt that Mollie's conditions were beyond his strength. If he had hated Keith before, the bare mention of his name was enough to madden him now. He was torn between the desire to obtain Mollie and the terror of humiliating himself. He was weak, too, from many hardships, from sundry small wounds, and from insufficient food.
Kitty was confined altogether to her room. She was not ill enough to go to hospital, nor was there any hospital for her to go to, and Katharine was absorbed with her. Captain Keith avoided Strause, and went moodily about his duties. He was often seen wending his way to Observation Hill. He often consulted the heliograph. He would come gravely back, his face more sallow day by day, his step more languid. Major Strause learned to watch for him. Although he hated him, he could scarcely now endure himself except when Captain Keith was in sight. Mollie's absence from Ladysmith made it altogether a terrible spot to both the men who loved her. Yes, they both loved her, each after his own fashion; but Keith's love was unselfish, Strause's the reverse.
Keith now called daily to see Kitty. He went to her room when she was well enough, and sat by her bedside and talked to her cheerily. The little girl answered him in her gentlest fashion. She no longer showed the unworthy terrors which had possessed her on her arrival at Ladysmith. She expected very little, and did not talk as much as formerly about her future. It did not seem to Kitty now that anything mattered. She had to a great extent given up hope. With the absence of hope she became gentler and more bearable—less selfish too. She seemed to have got untold relief from the absence of Mollie. It was impossible for Captain Keith to go very often to Intombi. That he did go from time to time she knew, but now she could rest happily in the knowledge that he was not visiting Mollie daily. In his presence she was very patient, and no longer grumbled. Some of his old love for her returned. He liked to sit with her, to watch her slow-coming smiles, and to talk over matters with Katherine Hunt. He felt very much at home with Katherine, who showed herself a braver and finer woman each day.
Katherine managed to get the very best rations which the beleaguered town could afford for Kitty's use, and she often gave Captain Keith a nourishing meal. He accepted her ministrations without a word. He knew that for Kitty's sake, and perhaps for Mollie's also, he ought not to throw away his life. He was also fully confident that relief would come, sooner rather than later.
"We shall survive this," he said. "Buller is making way, not a doubt of it, and the Boers are only sitting down hoping to starve us out. As long as there is a horse left in Ladysmith we won't be starved."
He had taken quite kindly to his chevral, and tried to induce Kitty to take it. This she would not do. She burst into tears whenever it was offered to her, and in the end Katherine and Keith resolved that she should not be worried to take it. Keith spent almost all his available money in buying eggs and other dainties for the sick girl. Eggs rose to something like four shillings a piece, and even at that they were scarcely worth eating. But Kitty had what few there were to be obtained. Keith had another reason now for liking to be with Kitty and Katherine Hunt. Katherine Hunt had heard nothing of those rumours which were making his life a hell on earth, neither had Kitty. In their presence he could still feel himself a gallant soldier of Her Majesty. He could still look squarely into the faces of these two women, and knew deep down in his inmost heart that they were not ashamed of him. But outside Kitty's sick-room things were otherwise. This was not a time when one brave soldier could be rude to another, but still marked preferences were shown, also marked aversions. Keith was more or less sent to Coventry. Even his own men heard the rumours which were rife about him, and were not quite as obliging and ready to obey his orders as formerly.
One day, about a month after Mollie had been ordered to Intombi, Captain Keith went up to Observation Hill. He wanted, if possible, to send off a heliograph. To his surprise he saw Major Strause coming slowly up the hill. The two met at the top. It was impossible for Keith to turn away. Before he could in any manner make his escape the major called him.
"I want to say a word to you," was his remark. "Don't go. I have something to communicate which will give you both pleasure and pain."
"You don't look very fit, Major Strause," answered Keith. "Is anything wrong?"
"I have been having a fresh touch of fever—a touch of the sun, I suppose. For the last few days I have been in the hospital down here—the Congregational Chapel: a beastly hole—no comforts of any sort; not a decent nurse in the place. I was looked after, if you can call it being looked after, by one or two orderlies. You may be sure I left as soon as I could. Oh what I suffered!"
"You look like it," said Keith.
"General White seems more hopeful," pursued Strause. "He is confident that relief will be ours before long. And have you noticed that the Boers are beginning to trek?"
"No, I have not. Is that the case?"
"Beyond doubt. If you look now, you will see something."
The two men went to the top of the hill, and noticed a long line, more than a mile in length, of wagons, slowly but surely going away from Ladysmith. Then they saw heavy dust clouds. The wagons were crowded with people. They went twining like snakes round the hillsides. They certainly looked like a beaten army in full retreat.
Keith's eyes sparkled. There came a streak of red into his sallow cheek.
"It can't be true!" he said. "We have waited so long for good news that now I can scarcely realize it!"
"It may or may not come," said Strause. "The general is confident. Another good sign is that there is no more horse-flesh ordered for the men, and we are put on full rations."
"Still I can scarcely believe it," answered Keith.
"The next few days will solve all our doubts," was Strause's answer. "But we are not out of the wood yet—by no means. For my part, I want a hand-to-hand fight. I would rather end the thing than go on as I have been doing. It is maddening. Everything has been maddening here lately," he added, with a sneer, and in a peculiar tone.
Keith looked at him. His face, which had assumed a kindly and interested expression while he and the major were watching the great trek from Ladysmith, now stiffened. It turned white.
"To what do you allude?" he said.
"I allude to the absence of the one woman who made Ladysmith bearable."
Keith made no answer. The major looked full at him.
"I did you a beastly wrong."
Keith stared.
"I am going to put it right. I cannot stand these things any longer. I dreaded for a time turning the opprobrium which has been your portion on myself, but I don't care that for a man's opinion any longer. Men live for the women they love, not for other men. I don't care what my colonel or my brother officers think. But I care all God's earth, the warmth of His sun, and the cheer of life for a woman's smile, and I mean to get it."
"Explain yourself," said Keith.
"I can do so in a few words. What was wrong shall be put right. I cannot tell you any more. What was wrong shall be put quite right. That is about all as far as you are concerned."
Keith turned his head away. His one desire was to get past Major Strause and go back to Ladysmith. Strause laid a detaining hand on his shoulder.
"I don't suppose you think well of me," he said, "although I am about to do the hardest thing a man like myself could ever do. I am going to bring myself down in order that you may show in your true colours. And I hate you, Captain Keith, as I hate no other man on earth. It would be a satisfaction to me to put a bullet through you! But there, I am going to put everything right for you; only I don't do it for your sake."
"Why do you detain me, Major Strause? I have urgent duties to perform. I will wish you good-morning."
"You must stay one minute. I am going to be square with you. I am going to do what I do, and you will be right, and I shall—"
He paused.
"Yes?" said Keith. His pulse beat rapidly. There had come a breeze something like health round his stagnant heart, his eyes had brightened, but now a cold and dreadful fear crept over him.
"Look," said the major—he pointed with his hand—"there lies the hospital."
"The Intombi hospital?" said Keith.
"There lies the hospital, and I go there."
"You—you are not ill!"
"If I can go in no other way, I shall pose as a sick man. It can be done, and I go. You would like to know why?"
"Yes," said Keith.
"I will tell you." The major moistened his dry lips. "I am going there to see the one woman who is all God's earth to me. I am going to—kiss her."
"You lie, you scoundrel!" said Keith.
"I may be a scoundrel, but on this occasion I do not lie. I go to kiss Nurse Mollie, and claim her as my promised wife."
"You lie!" said Keith again.
His face turned white as ashes. He trembled. It was with an effort he kept himself from falling. The major smiled at him—a strange smile of triumph. Then, without uttering another word, he strode past him, and was lost to view.
Captain Keith slowly returned to Ladysmith. He was stunned: there were a coldness and faintness round his heart; but he walked straight and stiff. Was he to get back his freedom at such a price as this? No; he would rather lie under the blackest cloud all his life. Was Mollie going to force the major's hand, and was his reward to be—herself? The thought was monstrous.
"She does not love him," thought Keith, "on the contrary, she hates him. And yet Major Strause would not have spoken as he did nor looked as he did if there had been no truth in the idea. Men like Major Strause do not suddenly turn into angels, nor humiliate themselves, for mere sentiment. Conscience is not the major's strong point. If he speaks the truth, he has a motive for his actions. Mollie gives herself to him that I may be cleared. It is like her, but I will not permit it."
Keith went straight to the hotel. He inquired for Katherine Hunt. She was in, and he went upstairs to the girls' sitting-room. He had resolved, in his extremity, to take Katherine into his confidence. When he entered the small room, he was relieved to find that Kitty was not there. There were folding doors between the sitting-room and the bedroom, and the folding doors were shut. After a moment they were opened, and Katherine Hunt came in. Kitty was lying on the bed in the other room. Katherine, without intending it, left the doors between the two rooms slightly ajar. Kitty noticed this. As soon as Katherine had disappeared, she raised herself on her elbow, slipped off the bed, and approached the door. She stood on the other side.
"I don't know why I am mean enough to listen," she thought, "but I will listen, come what may. Gavon has been very kind to me lately, but I am not sure of him."
Meanwhile Katherine had given her hand to Keith. She had looked full in his face, and said quietly,—
"Something is worrying you."
"Yes," answered Keith. "I am half maddened. I must confide in some one. No one can help me, unless you, Miss Hunt, will take pity on me."
"That I will," she replied, "and right gladly. Sit down, please."
He took no notice of this request.
"There is a rumour in the camp," he said, "that relief is not far off. There is also a rumour that the short rations are coming to an end. Both rumours may be wrong. You must know, however, Miss Hunt, that every one in Ladysmith holds his life in his hands. Our quietus may come to us at any moment."
"That, after a fashion, is true in all walks of life," she answered.
"Yes, but not to the same degree," he replied. "But at least, Miss Hunt," he continued, "while we live I hope we, who are soldiers of the Queen"—he bowed to Katherine as though to include her in the compliment—"will live with honour. Something happened to-day which affects my honour. I must tell you."
"Yes?" she said; "what is it?"
The door between the bedroom and the sitting-room creaked a tiny bit wider; but the two in the sitting-room were too absorbed with each other to notice it.
Katherine looked up into Keith's face. Her own was brave and strong. It had aged since she came to Ladysmith, but the lines of endurance seemed to bring out her true character. She had always in her the makings of a noble woman; now she was a noble woman. In this fact lay the difference between her old life and her present. She had been brought into a moral forcing-house, and the development of her courageous nature was enormous.
"Yes," she said again, "tell me."
Keith looked full at her.
"Things have happened," he said, "which in great measure have undermined my manhood. Things have been said for which I personally am not responsible. Rumours have been circulated with regard to me which make me in the eyes of my fellow-men not only a scoundrel wanting in honour, but a man on whom the hand of the law is heavily placed. According to my fellow-men in Ladysmith, I can be arrested at this instant for the blackest of all crimes. And yet, Miss Hunt, there is no man on God's earth more innocent of the crime to which I allude than I am."
"Then why do you fear?" said Katherine.
"Because circumstantial evidence is black against me, and because I am in the hands of one without honour and without conscience."
The little listener on the other side of the door gave a groan. It was a wonder Keith did not hear it.
"Miss Hunt, in connection with what I have just told you, I have heard a most terrible piece of news. This news is so terrible to me that my own unhappiness sinks quite out of sight by comparison. If it is true, before God steps must be taken. She shall not marry him in the dark."
"She! Whom do you talk of?" said Katherine.
Kitty clasped her hands together. The colour mounted in big spots on her cheeks; her dark eyes shone. Yes, Kitty knew to whom Gavon alluded. The next moment he had spoken the words she expected to hear.
"I have just seen Strause," said Keith. "He was on his way—that is, if he could get there—to Intombi. He tells me that he is all but engaged to Kitty's sister. He says she will marry him. And oh, he was going to kiss her! You can understand, I hope, Miss Hunt, that—"
Keith leaned suddenly against the wall; he raised his hand and wiped some drops from his forehead.
"You can understand," he continued, "that I—well, that I cannot permit this."
"I hope so," replied Katherine.
She felt glad that Kitty was not in the room.
"Even if I had never known Sister Mollie, I should be dismayed," he continued; "but as it is— I have no right to say anything more. She is Kitty's sister; let that be my excuse. Miss Hunt, it is hateful to speak against a brother officer; but the man is a scoundrel—he is worse!"
"It is hateful to speak against a brother officer; but the man is a scoundrel--he is worse!"
"It is hateful to speak against a brother officer; but the man is a scoundrel—he is worse!"
"What can you mean?" said Katherine.
"Things are so grave that I must speak. He has cast a shadow over me which in reality reflects on himself. Miss Hunt, the man is a—"
"What? I can't hear you," said Katherine.
The next words were spoken in the lowest whisper. Katherine gave a cry. Her cry was echoed in the next room. A sharp note of terror fell on both speakers' ears.
"What is that?" said Katherine. "Kitty! Kitty!"
She rushed across the room, she burst open the door, and there was Kitty, lying half fainting on the floor.
Gavon Keith and Katherine laid her on the bed.
"I must speak to you, Gavon," said the girl. "No, I am not quite fainting. I must speak to you.—Stay if you like, Katheriue, stay if you like, but I must speak to him."
"I will go into the other room," said Katherine.
She went away at once, leaving the door between the two rooms slightly ajar.
"Sit there, Gavon," said Kitty. "Oh, you may be just as shocked as ever you like, but I listened. Is it true what you said in so low a whisper?"
"All I said is true, Kitty."
"And Major Strause is—"
Kitty could not form the next word. Keith was silent for a moment.
"I will tell you about Major Strause," he said then.
He bent towards her, and in a few words gave his own history—the history of himself and Aylmer. He unfolded to her the black plot, and the cruel shadow which was made to rest upon his own head.
"I met him just now, Kitty," he said in conclusion, "and he told me that he was about to put the thing right. I don't know how he could do it without implicating himself; but that part scarcely matters. He would not say anything, I know, to put my life in peril, but he does not mind killing my reputation. He said something else, though, which cannot be permitted. Kitty, he said he was going to marry Mollie. If Mollie marries him, she does it to save me; and, Kitty, she must not do it. I would rather go under for ever."
Keith had scarcely uttered these words before there was a commotion on the stairs and a knock at the room door. He went to open it.
An orderly stood without. Captain Keith was wanted at headquarters immediately.
The two girls were left alone. Kitty raised herself from her pillow with a perfectly blanched face. After a long time Katherine went up and spoke to her.
"You must be brave," said Katherine. "There is great excitement—strange news every where. I believe there is a great battle imminent; and yet here are you and I and two men in this small camp absorbed in our own personal affairs. It seems monstrous."
"Personal affairs must come first," said Kitty, in a gasping voice. "I won't stand this—I can't; I see myself as I am. Katherine, Mollie would not do this but for me."
"But for you, Kitty!"
"I urged her to do it—I implored her to do it. I told her it was the only thing. O Katherine, she must not marry Major Strause. What am I to do—what am I to do?"
"I will come to you presently," said Katheriue. "I must go downstairs now. There are things to be done, and I must find out what is the matter. Listen to the shells bursting. You have had no dinner; I must see what I can find for you."
Katherine went out of the room. She did not like Kitty's face. There was a wildness in her eyes which alarmed her.
The moment she was alone, Kitty slipped across the bedroom into the sitting-room. She went straight to the window. To her surprise, she saw Katherine walking down the street. She wondered where she was going. Shells were dropping all over the place, bursting as they fell. Katherine passed within a few feet of one which burst with a tremendous roar. Kitty looked calmly on. The time had come when the bursting of shells mattered nothing to her. She went back to her bedroom.
"I will do it," she said to herself. "I don't care. I am desperate. I see everything now. She shall not sacrifice herself."
Kitty hastily put on her shoes; she laced them on her little feet. She pinned on her hat, went to a drawer where she kept her purse—now, alas! very light—slipped it into her pocket, and, just as she was, ran downstairs. Some men were talking in little knots. A woman now and then appeared at the end of a passage, looked anxiously at the men, and disappeared again. No one looked at Kitty as she went downstairs. The time had come when the intense general interest was so profound that small minor interests were of no account whatever. It mattered nothing to any one in the Royal Hotel that the slender girl who had for a long time been an invalid was going out with shells falling around her. Kitty left the hotel. She walked down the street. Her steps were very feeble. She met a woman, one of the townspeople. She went up to her.
"Can you and will you help me?" she said. Her voice was very shaky.
"Who are you?" said the woman.
"I want to go to Intombi. Can I go?"
"The train with the sick and wounded has just left," said the woman. "No one will be taken to Intombi until this time to-morrow. You are in danger here," she continued: "a shell might burst any moment."
"I must not die," said Kitty; "I have something to do before I die."
"Is it anything of great importance?"
"It is of tremendous importance—tremendous—and must be done. Will you help me? I will pay you."
"Poor child!" said the woman. "I don't want the money. But you ought to get into shelter. Where are you staying?"
"At the hotel—the Royal Hotel."
"It is not safe there. They are always firing at the hotel. They think to kill Sir George White or some other important officer. But I could take you to a place of safety. I rushed home to get a toy and some food for a child. We spend the day in the caves by the river-side. Come with me; we are quite safe there."
"Oh, will you—will you really take me in?"
"I will truly take you in. Come; please God, we will get back to the caves in safety."
Kitty was just starting with the woman when an idea struck her.
"Wait one moment, only one moment," she said.
Before the woman could reply she rushed away from her. She ran wildly back to the hotel; she dashed up to her own room. There she opened a drawer, took certain things from it, folded them in a bit of paper, and came back again to the woman. She was panting and out of breath, but there was a new light in her eyes, and she did not look anything like so weak as she had done an hour ago, when she lay feeble and exhausted on her bed.
"You are a plucky one," said the woman.
That any one should call Kitty that caused her to smile very faintly, but it also sent a certain stimulus round her heart.
"I plucky! that is all you know," she said.
Then the woman gave the girl her hand. She herself had been an inhabitant of Ladysmith for years. She was an Englishwoman, and she wanted to see the old country again before she died. She was the mother of stalwart boys, and the wife of a good, sensible, matter-of-fact tradesman. She had no daughters, and this girl, slim and small and pretty, appealed to her.
"I will look after you, you poor little thing," she said. "Whether you were plucky or not in the past, you are plucky now. Come; you will be safe in the caves with me and my family."
A few moments later the woman and the girl had found shelter in one of the caves by the river-side. These caves had been excavated in order to afford bomb-proof shelter during the great siege. The woman had a little part of one of the caves portioned off for herself and her family. It was fairly comfortable; there was even a little furniture here. Kitty was offered the best chair the place afforded. They could hear the firing; but no shells burst anywhere near them. There was very little to eat; but Kitty was not hungry. The one thing which absorbed all her faculties and all her powers was how she was to get to Intombi. She, a poor, defenceless little girl, could not run the gauntlet of the enemy's firing. But she had an idea which might possibly be successful, and which she dared not tell to any one.
Presently the daylight passed, and the night came on. As usual, the firing ceased, and the cave dwellers prepared to return to their homes. The woman who had befriended Kitty packed up her things with right good will.
"You are our guest now, so you will come home with us to-night," she said to Kitty.
But the girl did not move.
"I am going to stay here," she said; "I am not going back. I want to stay here, please."
"Oh, that is nonsense," said the woman. "You cannot stay alone in these awful, lonesome caves. There will be no one with you. You can't do it, my dear. A pretty young thing like you! it's impossible."
"You may go or not, just as you like," said Kitty, "but I am going to stay."
The woman's husband, a man of the name of Burke, now came up and expostulated with the girl.
"We're right glad to give you shelter, miss," he said, "if only you can prove yourself an Englishwoman; but to stay here all night—it can't be done, miss. Come, march!"
He went up roughly to the girl, and raised her to her feet. But Kitty could be obstinate.
"I am not going," she said; "I shall stay here. No one will know I am here; and I promise to be very, very quiet. Please let me stay."
"Come, husband," said the woman. "If she chooses to make a fool of herself, I don't suppose any harm will come to her. No one wants to come near these caves during the night—horrid, damp, gloomy places. We have too much of them in the daytime.—I'll leave you a chunk of bread, miss, and a little water; that's the most I can do for you."
"Thank you," said Kitty.
Presently the Burke family went back to the town. Other families were seen wending their way in the same direction. The gloom swallowed them up. Just now in Ladysmith darkness was welcome as no light could ever be. The people disappeared one after the other, and the caves, which had rung with sound and movement, became absolutely still. Only the water-rats were heard, and the sigh of the wind as it rippled over the water. Distant sounds, however, floated over the breeze—the constant booming of guns, which were fired, even though it was night, in order to make sure that all was well. Distant lights in the enemy's camps were also seen, and now and then a searchlight made a vivid path of whiteness in the direction of the town. Kitty fancied she saw a silent party moving quietly like grey ghosts in the distance. They passed the caves. She wondered what they were doing, but she was not greatly interested in them. Her thought of thoughts was, how was she, a lonely, defenceless little girl, to find her way through the enemy's lines to Intombi? Nevertheless, whatever the danger, she had made up her mind to go.
"I have drawn Mollie into this dreadful thing, and I alone must save her," she thought.
Presently she unfastened the little parcel which she had all this time kept by her side. She took from it a nurse's apron and the cap which the nurses of the Red Cross wear. She pinned the badge of the Red Cross on her arm, crept away from the caves, and began to go slowly, and with many qualms in her heart, in the direction of the town. Each sound made her start. She had the greatest difficulty in keeping herself from screaming; nevertheless a new courage filled her heart.
Presently she saw a soldier standing as if at attention about twenty yards distant. She wondered if he were a sentry on duty. Beyond doubt he saw her, and was interested in her. She also stood still, and the man wheeled round and looked full in her direction. It was so dark that he could only see the shadow of a woman. Presently his voice rang out, "Who goes there?" Kitty knew she could not escape him; was he going to be friend or foe? She felt for her purse. Holding it in her hand, she approached the soldier.
"Who are you?" he said, gazing at her in astonishment. "Have you lost your way? Go straight on, and you will get back to Ladysmith, but you must be quick. What are you doing wandering outside the town?"
"I am a Red Cross nurse," said Kitty, "and I have lost my way. I wanted to return to Intombi to-night, but I lost my way. Has the ambulance train gone yet?"
"It went not long ago, but they are making up a second."
"Please take me to it, I am so afraid to be alone. Please take me to the train. I am due at Intombi; they want me very badly." Here she held the apron and cap out to him. "See," she said. She pointed to the Red Cross badge on her arm.
The soldier whistled, and looked at her significantly.
"I was in hospital," he said, "at Ladysmith, and a rough enough time it wor. If it weren't for Sister Mollie—"
"I know Sister Mollie," said Kitty. She hesitated as to whether or not she should say she was Mollie's sister. "I know her well, very well," she continued. "I have nursed under her. She is expecting me back. I lost my way."
"I don't know how you could," said the man.
"But I did. Oh, don't question me any further. Get me to the ambulance train, please. You are not a sentry, are you?"
"No, I am not a sentry."
"Then you can take me. And see, you shall have all the money I possess."
As she spoke, she opened her little purse and emptied it into the soldier's palm. It contained three or four shillings and a couple of pence. He looked at the money as it lay in his hand. It would buy a dainty for his supper; and even with full rations, dainties in Ladysmith were not to be despised. Nevertheless he was an honest British soldier, and nothing would induce him to take her last shillings from a Red Cross nurse.
"Take back your money," he said; "I don't want it. If you come with me quick, you may catch the train, but you were a great fool to lose it."
In a very few moments they found themselves at the station. A moment or two longer and Kitty had taken her place in the train—no questions asked, her uniform and the badge on her arm being sufficient. She could scarcely believe in her own luck.
"Safe so far; success so far," thought the girl.
In process of time the train, with its sad load of wounded and dying, reached the great hospital at the base. Kitty got out with the others. Her excitement now knew no bounds. She did not wait to assist any of the wounded men. The nurses—there were none too many of them—came out, the orderlies did what they could, and the sick and wounded were brought one by one into the tents. The damp of the place was fearful. The flies were a torture. The red dust lay in patches everywhere. There were few comforts of any sort. How different from the Town Hall hospital, which, poor as it was, was at least the soul of order!
But Kitty noticed none of these things. She wanted Mollie. If she could save Mollie, the wounded and dying mattered nothing at all. Presently she saw her. She was in the forefront, as usual. She held a lamp in her hand. She was giving directions. Kitty ran up and touched her.
"I have come," she said, "to help you."
Mollie turned and glanced at her. She saw a light in the wild brown eyes, a smile round the lips, and she noticed a queer, new, and very foreign expression on the small face. But all she did was to clasp Kitty's hand for one instant.
"Nothing personal now," said Sister Mollie—"presently, presently."
Kitty fell back, stunned and ashamed. After a few minutes, however, Mollie showed that she had not forgotten her sister. She turned and said,—
"All hands are wanted. If you are useful, I am glad you have come. Go and help the other nurses. I will speak to you presently."
With something between a sob and a cry of joy Kitty turned and went. With the little cap and the big white apron, and the red cross on her arm, she felt herself truly a sister of the Red Cross. The thought ennobled and raised her. There was a sense of rest all over her. Her wild expedient had succeeded.
Kitty, to the longest day she lived, never forgot that night—that night when she was completely and absolutely carried out of herself; when weakness and hunger were forgotten, and when, until the dawn broke, she ministered to the sick, the wounded, and the dying. There was no time at the Intombi camp to wait for trained nurses. Any woman's hand was sustaining; any woman could at least give a glance of sympathy and a word of comfort.
While Sister Mollie and the surgeons attended to the more serious cases, Kitty fulfilled her full quota of work. It was not until the morning broke that she had an instant alone with her sister. The dreadful firing had recommenced. It sounded far louder at Intombi than it did at Ladysmith. In the pause between the firing of one shell and another, Kitty, who was leaning up against the post of one of the tents, having just ministered to the dying needs of a gallant young dragoon officer, felt a light hand on her shoulder. She turned her white face, and encountered the eyes of her sister. Mollie's clear, steadfast brown eyes looked full into hers.
"Well, little brave girl," said Mollie, "and now why have you come? You were of great use last night. But what is it, Kitty, what is it?"
Kitty put her hand to her forehead.
"I forget," she said.
"You must come and have something. I can give you a cup of tea—such an inestimable boon! You shall have it; you deserve it. Come with me now."
She took the girl's hand and led her across to one of the marquees in the centre of the hospital. Here she gave her some tea, and made her sit down while she drank it. Kitty swallowed the tea, and then looked full at her sister with big, frightened eyes.
"I know now," she said. "Have you done it?"
"Done what, dear?"
"Then you haven't done it! I am in time, and you haven't done it!"
"Done what, Kitty, what?"
Kitty again looked wildly round her.
"I have come," she said. "I told a lie to come. I said I was a Red Cross sister. I was not."
"In one sense you were. You have been plucky of the plucky last night. But why have you come, Kitty? and where is Katherine?"
"I know nothing about her. I had to come to—save you. Is Major Strause here?"
"Major Strause!" said Molly. A faint colour came into her tired face. "No," she said; "he would not be here unless he were wounded."
"Thank God! thank God! Then you are not engaged to him."
Kitty burst into tears. Mollie knelt by her.
"What do you mean, child?" she said. "Not engaged to him! But I thought you wished it."
"Not now. I have repented. I have heard something. Mollie, you must never, under any circumstances, marry him—never, never!"
"Thank God," was Mollie's answer.
She took the little slight figure in her arms. Presently she lifted the girl up and carried her into the hospital. There was an empty bed, from which a dead soldier had been removed for burial. She put a clean sheet on it and laid Kitty down.
"Sleep, little heroine," she said. "And did you really come straight through the enemy's lines to tell me this?"
But Kitty was too tired to reply; already she was sound asleep.
Major Strause had meant to go straight to Mollie from Observation Hill. He trusted to his luck to bring him safely through the enemy's lines to Intombi; but that luck was altogether against him. He soon saw that it would have been at the sacrifice of his life had he attempted to reach the girl he hoped to make his bride on that day. Sulky and miserable, therefore, he was obliged to return to Ladysmith.
There he found the whole place in a turmoil of excitement. The news that full rations had been ordered, joined to the hope of possible relief, and the fact beyond all doubt that the Boers were already making treks for safer quarters, filled every mouth. The women of the town came out in their best dresses and made holiday. The men talked and laughed, and stood about in groups. The women did their shopping just as if no shells were bombarding the place. The soldiers shouted hearty congratulations the one to the other.
"Have you heard the news? Full rations to-day—no horse-flesh."
Cheers in each case followed this announcement. The soldiers would, many of them, have gladly given five years of their lives for a full meal. For the time being the thought of the full meals seemed even more important than the relief of Ladysmith. The major heard them talking, and more than one officer came up and expressed satisfaction at the new hope which was filling every breast. But the major scarcely replied. His whole soul was centred on one desire—he must win Mollie's consent to be his wife. More than ever was it necessary if the siege was likely to be raised. He must see Mollie, whatever happened. How was he to get to Intombi camp?
But, after all, he did get there easily enough. He went there in the ordinary course; for when Kitty, in her shelter in one of the caves, had seen lines of shadowy figures stealing past in the darkness, although she knew it not, one of these figures belonged to Major Strause. He, with a contingent of Light Infantry and three companies of the Devon Regiment, had marched out in the hope of making a last sortie against the enemy. The immediate results, so far as this story is concerned, were as follows:—
Early the next day Major Strause was sent to Intombi, a dangerously-wounded man. Both legs were hopelessly shattered, and there was nothing for it but amputation. He was taken into one of the tents, which, as it happened, contained no other occupant at the time. The surgeons immediately put him under chloroform, and quickly performed their work. When the operation was over he was relieved from pain. He was given champagne, and even laughed as he drank it. He said he was free from all suffering.
There was a peculiar expression on his face, a sort of change—a lightness as well as a brightness. The surgeons looked at one another, and then they went out of the tent and whispered in the passage outside. They did not like the soldier's manner. Very few people survived double amputation. He must remain very quiet. What nurse could be spared to look after him?
Just as they were talking in this way, the small new sister of the Red Cross appeared in sight. She was refreshed by her sleep, and although she was very much dazed and puzzled, there was a new strength about her face. One of the surgeons called her at once.
"I do not know you," he said. "What is your name?"
The girl thought for a minute; then she said boldly,—
"Sister Kitty."
"Sister Kitty?" said the doctor.
"Yes, sister of Nurse Mollie."
"Ah," he said, "if you are anything like her, you are indeed welcome to Intombi! Can you undertake a case now—at once?"
Kitty longed to say, "No," but it was useless. She could not be at Intombi without taking up her appointed work.
"I will do anything you like," she said.
"It is a serious case," said the surgeon, dropping his voice. "There is a man in there who in all probability won't live long. There is also, of course, a vague hope that he may recover. Everything practically depends on his nurse. He must be kept cheerful but very quiet. He will want some one to be with him all the time, in case of hemorrhage setting in."
"What sort of case is it?" said Kitty.
"The man's legs were shattered. We have been obliged to perform double amputation. Come this way, nurse; there is no time to lose."
The doctor drew aside a curtain, and ushered Kitty into the tent where Major Strause was lying. He saw her, and uttered a quick exclamation. Kitty saw him, and every vestige of colour left her face.
"Why, you know each other!" said the surgeon, in some astonishment.
"Yes," said Major Strause swiftly. "Of all the nurses in the camp this young lady you have brought to me can be most useful. I want to say something to her. For mercy's sake, leave us for a little time, Dr. Watson."
The doctor gave one or two very brief directions to Kitty, and left the tent. As soon as he had done so, Major Strause called her to his side.
"Stoop down, little girl," he said.
Kitty bent over him. Then she remembered the words she had heard the day before, and started back.
"I can't nurse you," she said.
"Why not?"
"Because—I did not know what you were; but I know now."
"What do you know, little girl?"
"I cannot tell you."
The major looked full at her.
"Never mind what you know," he said, after a pause. "Do you see that champagne bottle? Fill me out half a glass. I have a sinking sensation; I am not accustomed to it. Hold the wine to my lips."
Kitty was forced to obey. The major sipped the stimulant slowly. Then he said with a sigh,—
"That has done me good. But what were the doctors saying? I heard them whispering outside."
"They said you were very ill," replied Kitty.
"I should rather think I am—both legs gone at a crash! Nothing but the stump of the old major for the future. Hoped I could retrieve my position. Felt nearly mad last night—thought that nothing mattered—wanted to get to Intombi, and could not. Have reached Intombi. Well, the curtain closes here, and perhaps it is best. I say, little girl, how did you run the gauntlet of the enemy?"
"I came in the ambulance train," said Kitty.
"A good thought. Very plucky. Why did you come?"
"To save Mollie. And I think," added Kitty, and a wild light filled her eyes, and she looked full at the major's flushed and yet paling face—"I think God is saving her."
"From me?"
"Yes."
"You are right. It was a plucky thing of you to do. Tell me something else."
"What?"
"Do the doctors think I will recover?"
"I—don't—know."
"Speak, child; do you think I am afraid? Speak out."
"They—"
"Speak out."
"They think that you are in—"
"Danger?"
"Yes."
"I believe them," reiterated the major. "A man rarely gets over this sort of operation. I have seen enough of it since I came to Ladysmith. Well, we must all join the great majority some time, and I suppose my turn has come."
Kitty was silent. She did not like the major enough even to give him false hope. She stood by the bedside, and the grey look crept up and up the dying soldier's face. He lay very still, his eyes staring straight before him.
"Sit down," he said at last.
The little figure dropped into a seat near the foot of the bed.
"You dislike me very much?" he said then.
"I—hate you," answered the girl.
There was another silence.
"It seems wrong to hate a poor chap who is dying, and who, after all, has given his life for his country," said the major then.
Kitty was silent.
"I would rather die without a woman in my presence who hates me," he said, after a pause.
"Shall I go?" said Kitty, rising.
"No. Bad as you are, you are better than no one; and I must have stimulants. I say, a little more champagne."
Kitty filled up the glass again. He sipped it.
"It doesn't seem to pull me round," he said then. "I want brandy; champagne is not strong enough. Do you know what it is, little girl, to sink?"
"No," said Kitty.
"Don't you?—to sink right through the tent, and through the ground beneath? That's what I feel. I am slipping, slipping over the brink. That is it—slipping over the brink, little girl. How dark it is getting! Why don't you come near me? Can you hate a dying soldier who has given his life for his country?"
"No," said Kitty, and she suddenly burst into tears. When her tears came she fell forward against the soldier's bed, and took hold of one of his hands and laid her cheek against it.
"No; forgive me," she said. "I—don't—hate you any longer."
Her words troubled the major; a new look came into his face.
"If you forgive me, little Kitty," he said, "I wonder if God Almighty will?"
"Let's ask Him," said Kitty.
She began there and then to pray.
"Dear Lord God in heaven, forgive Major Strause. He is a very bad man, and he is going to die."
"That's it, Kitty," said the major, "put it strong."
"A very bad man," repeated Kitty, "and he is about to die, but he is—sorry."
"That's it, Kitty," said the major again. "Put it stronger."
"He is very sorry," repeated Kitty.
There was a silence. Kitty's head dropped against the bed. The major breathed quick and hard.
"Where's your sister?" he said suddenly.
"You can't see her," cried Kitty.
"I must."
The girl sprang to her feet.
"You can't."
"One minute, little Kitty. If you will help me, we will both do something. I think we have done wrong in the past—you in your way, I in mine. But while your sins are comparatively venial, mine—O mercy! I seem to see his dying face, and he is reproaching me. It is poor Aylmer. Tell him to get away. He scares me. I did not think that I could be scared; but he looks at me, and he scares me.—I'll put it right, Aylmer; yes, I'll put it right.—Kitty, you must help me. You and I together, little girl, can put everything right."
"What do you mean?" said Kitty.
She trembled all over, but still she kept herself in check.
"Listen, child. There are two people whom you and I have done all that man and woman could to part. Suppose, now, I give them back to one another; suppose you give them back. I restore them with my death, and you with your life. How does that sound? Do you think you can do your part if I do mine?"
"I don't know."
"You have no time to think. Be quick. If you will do it, I will do it."
The major's eyes began to shine with fever.
"Be quick," he said. "I believe you will do it. Fetch Sister Mollie." And Kitty went.
Sister Mollie was indeed busy, for every tent in the hospital was full. If Major Strause survived another hour, soldiers would be brought to share his tent with him; but the surgeons had implored for an hour or two of perfect quiet in a case of so much danger. Kitty, with her white face and her startled eyes, rushed to her sister's side.
"Let them all go, let them all go!" she said. "It is life or death. Come at once—at once!"
"Yes, go, Sister Mollie; I will look after the cases," said another capable-looking nurse who stood near.
Mollie glanced at Kitty, read she knew not what in her eyes, and went with her.
"What are they firing about? what is the excitement?" said Mollie suddenly.
She stopped; then she ran to the door. Kitty ran with her.
"Why, what is it?" she said. "Who are those soldiers? Not Boers. No, our men, and galloping! No horses in Ladysmith have galloped for many days. O Kitty, Kitty, what does it mean?"
"I don't know," said Kitty. "But come; it is a case of life or death."
A wild, tremendous, all-inspiriting cheer burst at this moment on the air, and the galloping horses came nearer, and the sick men who were able to move in the hospital raised their languid heads, and the orderlies and doctors shouted, and even the nurses came out, as Lord Dundonald, with a small body of mounted troops, made a dash across the hills, and passed Intombi on his way to Ladysmith.
"'Lift up your heads; for your redemption draweth nigh,'" said Mollie.
She looked at Kitty, but Kitty had scarcely heard the words.
"Quick! quick!" she cried; "there is something to be done—something for you and something for him." And she led Mollie to the tent where Major Strause lay dying.
"What is that noise?" said the major; "a fresh battle, eh?"
"Relief! relief!" cried Mollie.
"The relief of—death?"
"The relief of life," said Mollie. "Lord Dundonald has just ridden past on his way to Ladysmith."
The major looked dimly round him.
"It is quite dark," he said. "I do—not seem—to—understand. I can scarcely see—your face. Are you really Mollie Hepworth?"
"Yes," she answered.
"Stoop down—come very close; I should like to look at you once again. You promised, on certain conditions, to marry me?"
"I did."
"Come still closer. Now I can see your face; yes, thank God, in my dying moments I can see it. It is good and strong, and like that of an angel—an archangel. Did you mean your words, archangel?"
"Yes."
"Thank God for that too. You, of all women on God's earth, could have made a good man of me, and for you alone on my death-bed I repent. Listen. The story I told you about Keith was false as hell. I wanted money, and I thought I could blackmail him, and I seemed to see my way when Aylmer was reported to be in danger. It was I who changed the medicines. I put a wrong label on each bottle. Little Kitty here is witness, and you are witness. I was at the bottom of that dastardly plot. It was I who caused the death of Aylmer. Keith is one of the best fellows living—yes, Mollie, one of the best; and take him, take him as your husband, for little Kitty and I give him to you."
"Yes, Major Strause and I give him to you," said Kitty, and she fell forward against the bed.
The major looked at her, and then he looked at Mollie, and he smiled and tried to put out his hand through the darkness to clasp Mollie's.
"The only good woman—I ever knew," he whispered once.
His hand relaxed its hold. He was dead.
Three months afterwards, in a London church there was a brief ceremony. A man and woman stood before the altar, and were united in the bonds of matrimony. The man had the proud carriage of a soldier, and bore the gallant distinction of V.C., won for valour in the fight, after his name. The woman owned that greatest badge that any woman could wear, the Red Cross, bestowed upon her by the sovereign of the land.
The words which were to make them one for all time were spoken, and they turned away, husband and wife at last. Standing a little way off, a bright colour in her cheeks, an intense light in her eyes, was a girl who resembled the bride, and yet did not resemble her. Another girl was also present; she was watching this slight and delicate girl's face with a mixture of admiration and pain. The bride and bridegroom, in many ways the most unselfish pair in the world, were for the time so absorbed in each other that they did not notice Kitty as Katherine Hunt noticed her.
They started on their wedding journey straight from the church, and those few guests who were invited to drink their healths at Mrs. Keith's house returned there. Last in the group came Kitty and Katherine Hunt.
"And now, Kitty, you will do it?" said Katherine Hunt, and she took both Kitty's hands in one of her own.
"Yes," said Kitty, "if you wish it."
"My father has bequeathed to me a large fortune, which I may spend during his lifetime as I think fit. My present intention is to start convalescent homes here and there over England—convalescent homes where brave soldiers, commissioned and non-commissioned, can get comforts, and healing, and rest. I want you to take the management of one, and I will take the management of another. You can do it, and you will be happy in doing it, and many soldiers from the Transvaal will soon fill the comfortable rooms, and enjoy themselves in the fresh air. Those who can pay shall pay a trifle, but those who cannot pay shall come without money, and all shall be honoured guests. And you, little Kitty, will be the sunbeam in the house which you will rule."
"But I am unfit to rule," said Kitty.
"I don't think that," replied Katherine. "Things will be made smooth for you. You have conquered so bravely in another instance—"
"Don't speak of it," said Kitty. She coloured, and clasped her hands very tightly. "I have not really conquered," she said in a low voice. "I feel—"
"We won't talk of feelings to-day," said Katherine. "I think you have conquered. And surely 'he that ruleth himself is better than he that taketh a city.' Mrs. Keith must let you come back with me to-night; there is much to discuss."
So Kitty and Katherine went back to Katherine's beautiful home in Bayswater together, and long into the night they talked and made their plans, and when Kitty laid her head on her pillow she was too tired to keep awake. The next day the first thought that came to her was the life-work which she had undertaken: for Katherine Hunt was a very rich woman, and when she undertook things, she did them on a princely scale; and Katherine in her own heart had decided that if Kitty had denied herself, she would be the means of placing her in a fuller and richer life than she had ever dreamt of when she selfishly tried to absorb the life of the man who did not love her.
Thus all things came well, and Kitty, although the convalescent homes are only just started, is once again a happy woman.
THE END.