A Sister of the Red Cross: A Tale of the South African War

CHAPTER XV.

THE GIRL HAD KITTY'S FACE. "There's a thing that I want to say," he remarked then, "and afterwards I'll be silent." "What is it, father?" "You think you are doing your duty. You are very— painfully modern. The old ideas with regard to 'Honour thy father and mother' are exploded in this end of the nineteenth century. It is a dull sort of task to stay at home with the old man, and it is heroic, and glorious, and grand to step out of your place and go where God knows you may not be wanted. It is a grand thing to make a fuss, and think that you can help, when all the time you are only hindering. It's a mistaken idea of duty, according to my way of thinking. The old man wants you far more than the army wants you. The old man may—break down." He paused as he spoke, and looked full at Katherine. She clasped her hands together, and her nails were hurting her tender skin; but the colour in her face did not alter, nor did her eyes fall beneath her father's gaze. He gave a quick sigh, and then resumed his remarks. "God knows why you go, but you yourself think it heroic—you think you will help?" "I shall help," she answered. "There is a task to be done, and if I do not undertake it, two lives may be ruined." "Why don't you confide in me fully, Katherine?" "Because I can't. Up to the present you have always taken me on trust; you must take me on trust now." Hunt jumped to his feet. "I have had my say," he remarked. "To me it is the reverse of filial; to me it savours of sentiment, not of duty. But you go, I take it, in spite of my feelings." "I am sorry, father, but I do go in spite of your feelings." "Then we will cease to talk over why you go. We have too little time to talk of the way in which you go. You are a rich woman, Katherine." "I know it, father." "Since your mother died I have toiled for you; I have added pound to pound, and hundred to hundred, and thousand to thousand—and all has been for you. And if I died to-morrow, you would find yourself one of the greatest heiresses in London. You would have a cool million of your own—yes, a cool million—to do exactly what you liked with. And if I live another ten years, God only knows how many millions you may have. The American heiresses will be nothing to you. And it's money in consols, mind you, as safe as the Bank of England. And I have done it—I, your father, David Hunt." "There never was such a daddy," said the girl. "It seems to me that you don't think much of him. But there, I am getting personal, and I don't wish to be that. But you will understand that, as you have made up your mind to do this foolhardy, mad, and reckless thing, you must do it comfortably—you must do it in the best possible way. There is to be no stint, mind you. When you want to draw on me, draw. I will give you a cheque book, and I'll sign every cheque, and you can fill in any amount you fancy. Can I do more than that?" "No one else would do as much," she said. "And you will take care of yourself, Kate? you won't run needlessly into risk? you won't try to catch that abominable fever, which they say tracks our armies like the plague, will you, Kate?" "I will do my utmost to keep well for two reasons: first, because of you—because I want to come back to you; because each single hour I spend away from you, my heart will be drawn and drawn, as if a great pain were pulling me to your side." "Don't, Kate; you are abominably sentimental." But Hunt stretched out his big hand as he spoke, and patted his daughter on her shoulder. "And also I will take care of myself because I honestly wish to live. I wish to do big things if I can; if not, small ones. But anyhow I want to live, and not to die. And I want to make my life as useful as possible." "Then sit down, and let us go over the list of things you will require," said Hunt. When Kitty Hepworth came to see Katherine Hunt the next morning, Katherine Hunt told her that she was going with her. "And you will never know—never to your dying day—what it has cost me," said Katherine Hunt. "Don't keep me now. Go and make your preparations." Kitty's face, which had been white when she entered the room, grew rosy as the dawn. She rushed to Katherine, clasped her hands, and kissed them frantically. "You are so big and so strong," she said, "you are as good as a man. And you are going with me! There are no words in the English language to tell you how passionately I love you!" "Love me as much as you like, Kitty; all I ask is that, you should not be foolish, and that you should keep yourself straight. If you mean to marry a man like Captain Keith, you have great reason to keep yourself straight. And now go and make your preparations. We leave here on Friday; we have only to-day and to-morrow in which to do what is necessary." Kitty hurried back to Mrs. Keith, and Katherine began the arduous task of getting ready to leave the country in about forty-eight hours. Without unlimited money it would have been almost impossible, but with boundless resources the task was comparatively easy. And Hunt, having given his consent to his daughter's going, suddenly became almost mild and certainly thoroughly amiable on the point. He insisted on being with her during those two days. He accompanied her from shop to shop, and made, with the marvellous common-sense which always characterized him, and which his daughter inherited, the most useful purchases. It was necessary to take as little luggage as possible, so "condensation" was his favourite word. "Boil down, condense. Do the thing in the most expensive, but also in the tiniest compass," he would say; and he planned the sort of trunks she ought to have, and the luggage which should go into them: and not one single thing which was necessary to the comfort of a girl travelling through an enemy's country did he neglect. Finally, on Friday morning, the two girls, both bearing the same initials, met at Waterloo Station, en route for Southampton. Hunt was there, and also Mrs. Keith. Mrs. Keith looked broken down and very sorrowful; but whatever Hunt's feelings were, he kept them to himself. Kitty's face was radiant, and Katherine's face was strong. Katherine clasped Kitty's small hand, and bent towards Mrs. Keith, and said earnestly,— "I will take great care of her. It is a venturesome thing that she is doing; but, on the whole, perhaps she is right." "Her presence may keep Gavon from risking too much," said the widow; "that fact is my only consolation." Then the train moved out of the station, and the deed was done. CHAPTER XV. THE GIRL HAD KITTY'S FACE. Two girls were standing in a plain, barely-furnished room in the best hotel in Ladysmith. A trunk made of condensed cane was open, and the taller of the two was bending over it and taking out a white muslin dress. She shook it as she removed it from its place in the trunk, and then laid it on a tiny bed which stood in one corner of the room. "I will put this on," she said; "then perhaps I shall feel cool. I never knew anything like the heat." "It is the dust that tries me," said the other girl. "See, I put this blouse on not half an hour ago; and look at it now." The white blouse looked no longer white; it was speckled all over with a sort of red dust. "It blinds my eyes," said Kitty Hepworth, "and it makes my throat sore. I tasted it on the bread and butter and in the tea we had downstairs. But after all," she added, "it does not matter; nothing matters now that we are safe here." "We were very lucky to get through," said Katherine Hunt. "They have moved the camp into Ladysmith, and the siege has practically begun." "You have not heard, have you, whether Captain Keith is here?" asked Kitty. The words seemed to stick in her throat. She looked full up at Katherine with a pathetic and longing expression in her pretty eyes. "I don't know. If he is not here, he will be soon. All the forces are to collect in Ladysmith. We are lucky to have arrived safely. Don't let us think of anything else just now." "I cannot help thinking of him; you know I have come out for his sake." "I will make inquiries about him as soon as possible, dear. Now, do lie down and rest. Try to have a little faith too, Kitty. Remember how lucky we were to have got here at all. We should not have been able to do it were I not one of the special war correspondents. There was an awful moment at Durban when I thought we could not go forward another mile. Don't you want to see your sister? I am told that she is occupied all day long in the central hospital. I will go over there presently, and tell her that we have arrived." "She will be very much startled," replied Kitty. "I don't know that I want her to hear anything about us just yet. I am anxious to see Gavon. Oh, if only I could find out something about him!" "I will find out all I can about him, and also about your sister. Now, do lie down and rest." "I suppose I must. How imperious you are getting!" "I said I would take care of you; and yours is a character which must be subdued, or you will get into trouble. Now lie flat down and shut your eyes." Kitty made a show of resistance, but was, all the same, rather glad to yield to Katherine's entreaties. She had not been an hour in Ladysmith, and she was as tired as a delicately-nurtured girl could be who had gone through a terrible time in the armoured train. She had been frightened on her dreadful journey from Durban to Ladysmith; she had been hot and choked with dust; she had wondered if her life was to be the forfeit of her rashness. But, strange to say, although some of the convoy were killed, the passengers in the train remained unhurt. And here she was now in the midst of the enemy's forces, having come forward, and being unable to go back. She was in Ladysmith, knowing little of the perils and trials which lay before her. She was tired—dead tired; and as she lay with her eyes closed, she thought with a feeling of satisfaction,— "Not all the tears of every soul who ever cared for me could take me back to England. Did not the men who brought us here in the train say that in perhaps twenty-four hours no one would be able to get out of Ladysmith? Well, we are in—in for everything now—and Gavon cannot be far away." In a few moments the tired girl fell asleep. Katherine, who was moving softly about the room, drew down a blind, opened the door, and went out. She was anxious to consider the position. She herself would have been more than delighted to see Mollie. She had not yet seen her; but Kitty's description of her sister was very emphatic, and she believed that she would recognize her if they were to meet. She ran down to the entrance of the hotel, where some officers of the 5th Lancers and the Imperial Light Horse were eagerly talking. They all looked at her with some curiosity, and suddenly a familiar face started out of the crowd. A man came quickly forward, and Katherine found herself shaking hands with Major Strause. "By all that's wonderful," he said, "what has brought you here, Miss Hunt?" "What brings many another Englishwoman," was her answer—"a soupçon of curiosity, a soupçon of common-sense, and a soupçon of folly." "Well answered," he replied, and he laughed. He brought one or two of his brother officers and introduced them to Katherine. "I believe," he said then, "that the common-sense will be in the ascendant, and that you will be useful to us. But how did you get here, and when did you arrive?" A young lieutenant rushed into an adjoining room and brought out a camp stool. "Sit down," he said. "We all honour you for coming here. We are very glad to see you, and if you are fresh from home, perhaps you can give us some news." They all looked eagerly at her. A cloud of the horrible red dust entered at the open door. Katherine coughed, and took out her handkerchief to wipe the dust from her face. "You will find it as beastly as we all do," said the young fellow who had brought the camp stool: "but in time you will get accustomed to it. One does get accustomed to everything, particularly in Ladysmith. We breathe and eat that dust, and we wash our faces in it. In some ways it is capable of doing more mischief even than Long Tom." He laughed as he spoke, and the words had scarcely passed his lips before a loud report, followed by a screaming noise, filled the air. There was an explosion not far off, but still out of sight. Katherine, unprepared, started to her feet. "That comes from Long Tom's ugly muzzle," said the young officer; "I call it one of his kisses. He has been very affectionate for the last few hours. But our battery is turned on him now, and will pour deadly shrapnel on him hour after hour. He shall have kiss for kiss." They chatted a little longer on different matters. The young men were very cheerful, and although it was all too plain to every one that Ladysmith was practically besieged, they did not think that the siege would last long. By-and-by the other officers went out, and Katharine found herself alone with Major Strause. Strause was looking thinner than when last she saw him, and his face wore a worried expression. Leaning against the nearest wall, he gave her a sentimental glance. "Well," he said, "it is strange that we should meet here. When last we saw each other, was it not at Lady Marsden's ball?" "It was," replied Katherine. "Had you any idea then of flinging yourself into the heart of this war?" "Not the remotest idea; why should I?" "Then why have you come? What does Hunt think about it?" "My father is a brave Englishman, and after the first disappointment he is not sorry that his only child should do her little best for her country. But, Major Strause, you must treat me with respect. I am here as one of the special war correspondents. Without that delightful occupation I doubt if my friend and I could have got here." "Oh, you have not come alone?" "No; I have come with a girl, a friend of mine." Strause looked his curiosity. Katherine had no idea of gratifying it at the present moment. After a time she spoke. "I am glad to see an old friend," she said, and her big brown eyes had never looked more kindly than they did as they rested on Strause's face at that moment. "I am glad to see an old friend, and when I write to my father, which I mean to do immediately, I shall tell him you are here." "Do," said Strause, a look of gratification causing his face to look almost good-natured for the time being. "And tell him also that as far as Major Strause can, he will try to make things endurable for you. And now, pray let me know if there is anything I can do at the present moment? You have of course, secured rooms for yourself and your friend here?" "I have. We are accommodated with the best bedroom in the house, and a very tolerable sitting-room." "I am glad of that, and this hotel is as comfortable as any. But we are in for an exciting time, Miss Hunt. There is no doubt whatever of that. Our enemy is not to be despised; he has pluck and perseverance, and he is about the best marksman in the world. How long we shall have to stay in this horrid place Heaven only knows. I do declare I think the red dust is our greatest trial." "Are there many cases of illness here at present, and is the nursing staff well supplied?" Katherine next asked. "I don't know anything about that. I fancy there are a few nurses, but probably nothing like as many as will soon be required. Many of our men are suffering from the change of life and food, and Ladysmith has an evil reputation besides. Last year there was a good deal of enteric, and there is fever now, and dysentery even, among the regulars. Of course wounded soldiers are being brought in every day, and the central hospital has a good many cases already." "Have you Red Cross nurses here?" "One or two. I only know one personally—the finest woman I ever met in my life." "Her name, please?" said Katherine. "Hepworth. She is a sister of the pretty little girl whom I always associate with Gavon Keith. By-the-way, we are expecting him with his company any day. Well, this nurse is sister to the little girl Keith is engaged to." "May I trust you with a secret, Major Strause?" said Katherine suddenly. "That girl is here." "What!" "Yes, Kitty Hepworth is here. She has come out with me. She is devoted to Captain Keith; and as she could not come with him, it being against the rules of warfare, she has followed him. Now, I should like to see her sister, and just at first I don't want to say anything to her about Kitty's arrival. Do you think you can help me?" "Bless me, this is news indeed!" said Strause. "I don't know whether I am glad or sorry." He paused, and a peculiar expression flitted across his face. He was wondering how he could use Katherine's somewhat startling information for his own benefit. It seemed to him that he saw daylight. "On the whole, I am thoroughly pleased," he said. "And you want to see Miss Hepworth—Sister Mollie, as we call her? That is a very easy matter. There is no infectious illness at the hospital. If you like to come with me now, I will walk across to it with you and introduce you to her." Katherine jumped up with alacrity. "I shall be greatly obliged to you," she said. She and Major Strause went down the long, irregular street, and entered the hastily put up military hospital. There was at that early stage of the siege a special ward for the enteric cases; surgical cases were attended to in a ward by themselves. The stores and ammunition, and the different comforts for the sick, had arrived, and the nurses were flitting noiselessly about, attending to one case after another. Katherine entered the long ward, where about a dozen poor fellows were lying in different stages of enteric fever. A girl in a nurse's uniform, carrying a basin of gruel in her hand, was coming down the ward towards her. The girl had Kitty's face, and Katherine recognized her at once. Kitty's face, but with a difference. All the beauty was there, and none of the weakness. The full, dark eyes, the curving sweet lips, the delicate contour of the finely-marked brows, the chiselled and delicate features, were all present. But on Mollie's brow and in Mollie's eyes might have been seen that perfect and absolute self-abnegation which always brings out the noblest qualities of a true woman. She was deeply interested in her cases, and scarcely saw Katherine as she stood in the entrance of the long ward. Major Strause went softly down the ward, and said a word to the nurse. Katherine saw her give a slight start of surprise; then she handed to the major the basin of gruel which she was carrying. He carried it across the ward, and seating himself on a low stool, began to feed, spoonful by spoonful, a young subaltern who, alas, would never live to see his twentieth year! Mollie came eagerly forward to where Katherine was standing. "You are Mollie Hepworth; how do you do?" said Katherine Hunt. "And you are a brave Englishwoman who has come over here to share our ill fortunes and our good," replied Mollie. She looked Katherine all over. She noted the strength of Katherine's face, and the girl's upright, bold carriage. "You will be invaluable," said Sister Mollie. "Welcome to Ladysmith. We are sure to have a tough time, but I think in the end we shall be victorious. Anyhow, there is that in us which will never say die. If it were not for these poor fellows—my boys I call them—I think I could bear anything. I am in charge of this ward, but, of course, I have nurses to work under me. I shall claim your services, Miss Hunt." "And most gladly will I give them," replied Katherine. "I can come to you almost at any time. When shall it be?" "The sooner the better. But Major Strause tells me that you have not come here alone—that there is another lady." "So there is." "Will she help us also?" "I don't know. Perhaps. I will tell you about her presently." CHAPTER XVI. WELCOME HER, WON'T YOU? Ladysmith was hemmed in. Sir George White sent a message to Joubert, asking leave for the non-combatants, women, and children, to go to Maritzburg. Joubert refused. The wounded, women, and children, and other non-combatants, might be collected in a place about four miles from the town, but would not be allowed to go further. All those who remained would be treated as combatants. Sir George White advised the town to accept the proposal, but his advice was indignantly rejected. Everybody's life was in danger, therefore, for the Queen. The proposal to leave the town was flung back with defiance. There was no more going out. Until help came, the inhabitants of Ladysmith were besieged by the enemy. Meanwhile, day after day, Long Tom did his deadly work. Shell after shell entered Ladysmith and exploded, carrying consternation and death with it. Then people became quiet and submissive. Even to danger one can get accustomed. The excitement had subsided to something not exactly like despair, and not resembling indifference, but to a state of mind midway between the two. The inhabitants of Ladysmith tried to go about their usual occupations. The women still kept their houses tidy, and their children washed and well fed; and every one hoped that relief would come any day or any hour. And the soldiers fought as only English soldiers can fight; and the Boers were brave as enemy could be, and more and more closely surrounded the town. Even the Naval Brigade, splendid fellows all of them, could not deliver Ladysmith, although beyond doubt they kept the enemy in check. Meanwhile Kitty remained in her rooms. She became a sort of mystery to the other people in the hotel. Mollie Hepworth had not the slightest idea that her sister was close to her. Gavon Keith, with a contingent of his men, had arrived. Kitty longed to see him; but the strangest nervousness was over her. What with the dust and the heat, and all her fears, and the dangers through which she had travelled, the girl was suddenly prostrated with a kind of malarial fever. There was a time when Katherine feared that it would turn to enteric; but watching Mollie Hepworth's patients, she soon saw that she had nothing to apprehend on that score, and resolved to nurse Kitty herself. She could not understand the wayward girl, so plucky, so determined to join her lover while in England, and yet now so overcome with nervous terrors that she dreaded him to know of her arrival. Whenever a shell exploded in Ladysmith, Kitty screamed, covered her face with her hands, sat up in bed trembling all over, and asked Katherine, who seldom left her, if the hotel were still intact. Katherine had much ado to put up with Kitty's fears, and quite longed for the time when the girl would be well enough to leave her enforced imprisonment and take what small pleasure lay before her in the beleaguered city. There had come a day of general attack. Early in the morning Long Tom had spoken, and Lady Anne and all the other Naval Brigade guns replied at once. The firing went on for hours, and finally the enemy were repulsed. But it was a day of horror to all in the brave little town; and when night came, Katherine, who had been busy helping Mollie with the sick and wounded, and doing all that woman, could to lighten the strained situation, came into Kitty's room. She had left Kitty much better—had given her all that was absolutely necessary for her comfort; had cheered her up as best she could; had offered her a yellow-backed novel to read, and left her, hoping that she would drop asleep. She came back to find the frightened girl partly dressed, half fainting, and leaning against the wall of the room. "Now, Kitty, what is it?" said Katherine, in a tone of expostulation. "You know you are not fit to get up. What is the matter?" "I had an awful dream," said Kitty. "After you went I fell asleep as you meant me to do, and I dreamed a long, terrible dream all about Gavon. I thought he was killed. Is he killed? Is it true? I believe it is. Oh, I was so terrified! Is it true?" "It is not true," replied Katherine. "But I am so frightened; and there is something in your face which makes me think you are hiding something. He has been wounded!" "Kitty, sit down," said Katherine. "Sit down and stay quiet. You had no right to try to get up; you are too weak." "I am a miserable, good-for-nothing girl, but I will be good if only you will tell me that he is safe." "You ought to have seen him long ago. Now that you are here, I cannot understand your attitude. Your illness has made you nervous." "I will be good if only you will tell me the truth. Is he—is he wounded?" "I will tell you the truth," said Katherine, in a brave voice. She looked at the trembling, weak, terrified creature with eyes large with compassion. "Here, drink this," she said. She poured out a restorative which had always a soothing effect on Kitty, and brought it to her. "Drink it, my dear; you will want your courage. But things are by no means so very bad. Captain Keith has had a slight wound—nothing at all dangerous. He is in hospital. He must remain there for a few days, and—" "And Mollie is nursing him?" "Thank God, your brave sister is there, doing all she can for every one." "Don't look at me as if you meant to despise me, Katherine. I sometimes see that look in your eyes, and it makes me so sick." "I don't understand you, Kitty. I admired you in London, for I thought that, whatever happened, yours was a true and a great love, and I always respect sincerity in anybody or in anything. But since you came here—" "It is all my nerves," said the poor girl. "It is the bursting of the horrible shells, and the terror that one will come through the roof." "Well, and if it does come through the roof?" "Katherine! Why, we should all be killed." "What of that? we can but die once. Oh, you must lose your fear of death if you are to be any good at all in Ladysmith. And look here, Kitty, I mean you to be good—I mean you to be of use. What is a woman, strong and in her youth, doing in a place of this sort if she is not of use? We are going to have a very terrible time; I don't pretend to deny it. We are hemmed in closer every day. The enemy are coming up in greater and greater numbers. The Boers are no fools, let me tell you. They know how to fight, and they know how to endure. They have the courage, some of them, of ten men, and they are fighting for their country. And they mean—yes, Kitty, they mean to take Ladysmith if they can. Of course they won't take it, for we will never, never give in. But if there were many of us like you in this place, why, we'd be indeed a poor lot!" Kitty turned white. Her handkerchief was lying near; she took it up and wiped the moisture off her brow. "I wish I was not so—shaky," she said, in a tremulous voice. "You poor little thing! I am sorry I spoke harshly, but I have been seeing so very much of real life all day. Those poor fellows—not a murmur out of them! And oh, the agony some of them have endured! And then I come here, and I see you with a whole skin, in a comfortable room with food and water within reach, crying because you have a fit of the nerves. But I know people who get these nervous attacks are to be pitied. And I do pity you, poor little Kitty; only I want to stimulate you to courage." "I will be good," said Kitty faintly. "Help me to dress." Katherine hesitated for a moment. It was between nine and ten at night; the heat of the day was mitigated. Long Tom had ceased firing; until morning there would be comparative peace. She took Kitty's wrist between her finger and thumb, and felt her pulse. "Your fever has gone," she said; "you are only weak, I have got some bovril here. I will make you a cup, and then—" "Yes, what?" "Then I am going to take you to the hospital." "O Katherine!" "Yes; to see Captain Keith and your sister Mollie. I hope you will be helping Mollie this time to-morrow night." Kitty was so excited at Katherine's daring proposal that the colour mounted at once into her pale cheeks. "I wonder if I dare," she said. "Dare or not, you have got to come—and to-night. Here's your bovril." Katherine brought her a cup. She had heated the water with her spirit-lamp. "Drink it. That is a good girl." "Things are so horrid!" Kitty moaned; "I have no appetite for the coarse food here." "O Kitty, you are very lucky to have any food. The supplies are by no means unlimited, although at present we have not felt the stint. Now, then, I will help you to dress." She went to one of the trunks of crushed cane and brought out a white skirt and white blouse. She helped Kitty to put them on, and she herself brushed out the girl's dark, pretty hair, and arranged it becomingly around her head. "There, now," she said. "Have you got a blue sash anywhere? A girl in white with a blue sash will be a sort of angel in the wards to-night. The moment you enter one of the wards, if you are worth anything at all, Kitty Hepworth, you will forget yourself." "And you are quite, quite certain that none of the awful shells will come into Ladysmith to-night?" "Quite certain; we have some hours of peace and safety." Kitty looked fragile and lovely when Katherine had dressed her. She herself also put on a neat and becoming dress, but she took care that Kitty's beauty should be the chief focus of attraction. She then took the girl's hand and led her downstairs. The mystery about the sick English girl had come almost to fever height amongst the officers and nurses, who principally inhabited the hotel. Many people glanced now at Katherine, whose face was quite familiar, and at Kitty, whose face was unknown, as they went slowly by. Major Strause suddenly burst out of the smoking-room. "I say!" he exclaimed. "Miss Hepworth, you here!" He pretended that he had not until now known of Kitty's arrival in Ladysmith. She gave him her hand indifferently, raised her pretty eyes to his face, and then dropped them. "I am going to Gavon," she said. "He is wounded, and I must go to him." "Only a flesh wound—nothing of any importance. He must lie up for a day or two.—Shall I go across to the hospital with you, Miss Hunt?" "No, thank you," replied Katherine; "Kitty and I can manage nicely alone.—Now, Kitty," she said, as the girls went down the street, "you must remember that Sister Mollie knows nothing of your arrival here. She will be very much astonished when you walk into the ward, and perhaps a little hurt with you for keeping things dark from her." "I shall like to see her," replied Kitty; "and if she is nursing Gavon, I of course will help her. It is my place to nurse him, is it not, Katherine?" "I should say yes. I am glad you feel it in that way." Katherine could not help a note of sarcasm coming into her voice. She and Kitty entered the hospital. A moment later they found themselves in the long ward. Kitty's face turned white. Had she thought of herself, she might have fainted; but just then her eyes were arrested by seeing a girl bending over a sick man, holding a stimulant to his lips, and speaking cheering words. The girl was her sister; the man she was bending over was Captain Keith. With a cry—a curious mingling of delight, and suffering, and absolute self-forgetfulness—Kitty, in her white dress and blue sash, looking something like a fashionable London girl and also something like an angel, ran down the long ward and approached the side of the sick man. "Gavon," she said, "Gavon, I am here! I have come.—Mollie, I have come—Kitty has come." Mollie Hepworth had often said that nothing could ever take her by surprise—that she was, owing to her education, and perhaps also to her temperament, prepared for any emergency—but she was sorely tested at the present moment. Her first wild thought was that Kitty was dead, and that this was her wraith come to visit the sick ward in the beleaguered town of Ladysmith; but one glance at Kitty showed her that it was a very living girl with whom she had to deal. She stifled the inclination to cry out; she showed no surprise, and putting her finger to her lips, gave a warning glance at the excited girl. "He is very weak from loss of blood," she said; "don't startle him." Gavon Keith had been looking full up at Mollie while she was ministering to him. Her touch brought him comfort, the look in her eyes brought him strength. The next instant he encountered eyes like hers, a face like hers, but without the strength, without the power to give comfort. He had a sick feeling all over him that in his heart of hearts he had no welcome for Kitty; and then, weak as he was, he struggled to subdue it. His eyes lit up with a faint smile; but the effort was too much—he fainted away. "Sit down quietly," said Mollie—"there, in that corner, where he can't see you when he comes to. Of course you shall be with him. But I have no time to ask any questions now.—Miss Hunt, give me the brandy, please, and that bottle of smelling-salts." Katherine Hunt brought the necessary restoratives, and Mollie bent over the wounded man just as if Kitty did not exist. The faint was a bad one, but after a time he recovered consciousness. Mollie held his hand and stroked it gently. "Did I dream anything? Was it all a mistake?" he said, in a low whisper. She bent over him. "It is no dream," she said. "Your little Kitty, whom you are engaged to marry, is here. She has come out all the way from England for love of you. She has encountered grave danger and difficulty and the possibility either of death or imprisonment all for love of you. She will stay by you part of to-night. Welcome her, won't you?" "Kitty!" said the wounded man; and then Kitty bent forward, and he smiled at her, this time without fainting. After this incident Kitty Hepworth was established as one of the extra nurses in the central hospital. Mollie secured her this post, and on the whole it did her good. There was no time in Ladysmith for fainting or hysterics. The minor ills of life had to be put out of sight, for the men and women in that town were face to face with a great tragedy. CHAPTER XVII. MAJOR STRAUSE. Just about this time there was a curious change observable in Major Strause. Hitherto his character had been all that was contemptible. He was deep in debt; he was met at every turn by money difficulties. He was also a confirmed gambler. In order to keep himself in any degree straight, he had stooped to the lowest of crimes, and was in every sense of the word a most selfish man. Nevertheless, at the present moment no one could consider Major Strause selfish. When he was not absolutely engaged in his military duties, he spent his time in the hospital. He turned out to be not only a clever but also a tender nurse. He did exactly what Sister Mollie told him; he even sat with her worst cases at night; and was, she could not help expressing it, invaluable. The fact was, two things had happened to Major Strause. In the first place, at Ladysmith his most pressing creditors could not trouble him; therefore, for the time being at any rate, he was not up to his ears in money difficulties. The second thing was this: he had fallen in love, passionately in love, with Sister Mollie. He was not a particularly young man—in fact, his years were very little short of forty—but until he met Mollie he had never honestly and truly, and as he thought unselfishly, cared for any one. He was not a marrying man, and if he thought of matrimony at all, he certainly thought of it as an aid to a fortune. If he met a rich, very rich girl who would have him, why, then, his money troubles might cease to exist. He certainly would not, under any circumstances, marry a poor one. But love will work wonders even in natures like Major Strause's, and he no longer thought of money in connection with a possible wife. He knew well that Sister Mollie had little or no private means. He was fond of saying to himself that, when he looked at her brave and noble face, he ceased to think of money. The more he thought of her, the more deeply did he love her. He dreamed of her at night; to be in her society by day was heaven to him. This was the real secret of the change in the major. It was because of Mollie he had become unselfish, a useful nurse, an invaluable servant of the Queen. Mollie improved him not only as a nurse, but also as an officer. He would rather do anything than catch the scorn in her eyes. So he fought bravely, and led his men to the front in the sorties made against the Boers. His brother officers began to like him, and even Keith, who quickly recovered from his wound, wondered what had come to the major. He was an old enough man to keep his emotions to himself, and neither Mollie herself nor Keith—who listened for Mollie's slightest footfall, who lived on her smile, who was consoled by her touch—guessed for a single moment that Strause cared for her. Both Keith and Strause just then were playing a difficult game: for Keith, while engaged to one girl, devotedly loved another; and Strause was endeavouring by every means in his power to hide that part of him which was unworthy from Sister Mollie's eyes. Both men, after a fashion, were succeeding. Mollie, in the stress and strain of her present life, had more or less forgotten the curious story Keith had told her with regard to Strause. She was destined to remember it all too vividly by-and-by, but just then she was glad of his help. She learned to lean upon him, and to consult him with regard to those cases of delirium and extreme danger which were brought into the little hospital day by day. The other nurses all depended more or less on Mollie, and she took the lead in this time of great peril. As to Keith, his task was even more difficult than that the major had assigned to himself; for if ever there was an exigeante and jealous girl on the face of God's earth, it was Kitty Hepworth. She expected the undivided attention of the man she was engaged to. He liked her, and was intensely sorry for her. He was touched by her devotion to himself, and he did all that man could to render her stay in the beleaguered town as happy as it could be. He did not know until afterwards how much he was indebted to Katherine Hunt for his measure of success. She was possessed of enormous tact. She had the wisdom of ten ordinary women. When she was not writing accounts of the siege for The Snowball , she was attending on the sick and wounded, visiting the inhabitants of the town, cheering up the frightened mothers, comforting the children, helping to give out the rations. There was nothing that this clever and unselfish girl could not put her hand to; there was nothing she did not do more or less well. As to Keith, he rejoiced when he saw her entering the hotel. He could be affectionate to Kitty, who had very little to say, and listen to Katherine's brilliant conversation; and Kitty could not be jealous of Katherine, try hard as she might. After the first week she got a fresh return of the malarial fever, and was from that moment more or less exempt from giving her services to the sick men in the hospital. Thus she seldom saw Keith in her sister's presence, and in consequence her fears slumbered, and she tried to believe that she was the happiest girl on earth, and that no one could be more loved than she. But with such dangerous elements at work it was scarcely to be expected that this time of peace and apparent security could be of long continuance. Strause was not the man to hold himself in check long, and Keith began to find the yoke which tied him to Kitty more galling every day. When all was still at night he often went across to the hospital; he felt safe to go there then. Kitty was asleep in her room in the hotel, Long Tom was not troubling anybody; but the sick and dying were wanting help and consolation, and, what was more important to Keith, although he did not dare to whisper it even to himself, Mollie was there. He might do some trifle for her; he might help her in an hour of need. There came a night after one of the many battles when such a number of wounded had been brought to the hospital that every nurse in the town was requisitioned to look after them. The enteric cases were also getting more and more numerous; there was not a bed to spare. Keith resolved to sit up all night in order to give what help he could. He met Mollie at the door of the enteric ward. "I am at your service for to-night," he said. "Thank God," she answered. "We shall need all the help we can get." "Which ward shall I go to—the surgical or enteric?" She looked around her. They were standing just then at the entrance to the surgical ward: the doctors, two or three of whom were present, were busy attending to the suffering patients; an amputation was going on behind a screen in a distant corner; the groans of the dying reached the ears of the man and woman as they stood so close together, and yet so truly far from each other. Keith, even at that extreme moment, thought of the tie which bound him to Kitty; and Mollie, as she raised her eyes to look into his face, felt a great throb of her heart. How manly he was, how brave, how all that a woman could love and worship! Just at this instant she raised her hand and laid it on his arm. "Will you not go and rest for an hour?" she said; "you look terribly spent." "And you?" he answered, "are you never tired out?" "Oh, don't think of me; I am happy in my work." "And I in mine," he replied. "It is for our country and our Queen. I can hold out; I won't leave you." "Thank God!" she could not help saying; and as she said the words, Keith for one instant, carried out of himself, laid his hand on hers. She coloured all over her face, looked full up at him, and her brown eyes filled with tears. Strause, who for the last hour had been busy and invaluable in the enteric ward, came upon this scene. His deep-set, dark eyes grew suddenly bloodshot. He gave an evil glance full at Keith, looked at Mollie, who did not even see him, and went back again to his duties. But the sleeping devil was awakened; and the man, although he did not fail for one instant during the livelong night to do what was necessary, and no sufferer within reach missed his accustomed nourishment or his necessary medicine, was all the time plotting and planning how he could best foil his enemy, Captain Keith. Having injured Keith for his own purposes—having cast the blackest of imputations upon his character—he was naturally the young man's enemy. And now Keith had dared to look with unmistakable fervour into the clear brown eyes of Nurse Mollie! Strause trembled all over as he thought of it. "He is a scoundrel. I need no longer feel remorse. He is engaged to one sister, but he loves the other," thought the major. "I will spoil his game for him. He shall never have my Mollie; she shall be engaged to me before twenty-four hours are over." In the early dawn of the coming day, just before Long Tom began his murderous work, Mollie stood for a moment outside the hospital. She was feeling faint after a night of great anguish and terror. Many souls had gone up above the clear stars to meet their Maker during the hours which had passed away. Mollie thought of the anguish which would fill hearts at home for the gallant and the brave who had given up their lives for their country. One poor young fellow, in particular, had given her a last message to his mother. "Cut off a bit of my hair," he had said, "and give it to me to kiss. Ah, thanks! that is all right. Tell her I was not a bit afraid, that I remembered the— prayer she used to teach me, and I feel somehow that—that it is all right, you know. Put the hair in a bit of paper and send it to her. Be sure you tell her it is all right. You know it is, don't you? Be sure you tell her." And Mollie had promised, and the boy had closed his blue eyes and gone off to sleep like a baby. Now he was dead, and Mollie had the little lock of hair pinned inside the bosom of her dress. She was standing so when Strause came up and stood by her side. He gave her a look, saw that she was very faint and tired, and rushed into the little surgery, where restoratives, beef tea, bovril, etc., were to be found. He mixed a cup of bovril, and brought it to her. "Drink this," he said. "You are doing more than mortal woman can be expected to do. You must go and lie down for a few hours." She drank the bovril and returned him the empty cup. "Thank you. How good you are!" she said. "Who would not be good to you?" he replied. She did not answer; she was looking far away. He doubted if she heard him. The utter calm, the quietness of her attitude, impressed while it maddened him. His passion rose in a great tide. He suddenly took her hand. "Don't you know?" he said—"don't you know?" "Don't I know what, Major Strause? I don't understand," she said, and she gave him a bewildered glance. "O Mollie!" he cried, "don't you know what I think of you? Don't you know that there is not in all this world a more magnificent woman than you? Mollie, I love you. Mollie, don't turn away. I worship you—I love you—I would die for you. I can't do more. Just give me a vestige of hope, and there is not a thing I would not do—not a thing. Say you love me back—say you love me back! Look at me. O my darling, my darling, how I love you!" "Hush!" she said then; "you have no right to use such words. And now, who can think of such things? Major Strause, forget you ever said them." "Forget," he said, "when my heart is on fire! I cannot see you without the maddest passion rising up in my heart. I have loved you from the first hour we met. Only give me hope, and I won't worry you until we are out of this horrid place." She turned white, and leaned against the wall. His words were just the straw too much, and the next instant she burst into a flood of tears. When the strong and the brave give way, it is always a painful sight, and now Mollie's tears were as the final straw to Strause. He could not stand them. The next instant he swept his strong arms round her. "You shall give me what I want," he said—"one kiss. Give it to me at once. You will drive me mad if you refuse." These words acted as a cold douche: she recovered her self-control in a moment. Disengaging herself from his embrace, she backed away from him. "I am sorry for you," she said. "You are mistaken. I could never by any possibility love you. Forget that you have spoken." "You can never love me!" he said. "Do you mean to tell me that you—reject me?" "We won't talk of it, Major Strause. But yes, it is only kind to put you out of your pain. I am sorry for you, very sorry, but I can never marry you." "Has any one been maligning me?" "No; and you have done splendidly since you came here. We have all admired you. You don't know what the nurses think of you, and how loud they are in your praise. Don't, don't spoil everything now, just for a personal feeling. Who can think of himself at moments like these. Be brave right on to the end, and let your conscience be your reward." "That is all too high for me," he cried. "It may suit you, Sister Mollie, but I am not made of that stuff. I came to the wards because of you, and for nothing else. Do you think I wanted to give my strength nursing those fellows, and sitting in those beastly smelling wards, drinking in enteric poison and all the rest? No; I did what I did for you, Sister Mollie, and you are bound to give me something as my reward. You had no right to encourage me." "I never did," replied the girl. "Didn't you though? Yes, and what's more, I believe you would have had me but for— Oh, I know what's up: you care for that other chap." "What do you mean?" "You are in love with Keith, although he is engaged to your sister. Now listen." "Hush!" replied Mollie. She was not white any longer; she was strong and rosy, and there was a proud light in her eyes and a firmness about her lips. "I won't listen to you," she said—"no, not another single word. I am utterly ashamed of you!" There was a scorn in her tone which stung him. He held out his hand to detain her, but she re-entered the hospital. For the rest of that day he saw nothing of her. He did not attempt to go back to the hospital. He retired to his own tin hut, where he cursed and swore, and finally drank himself into a state of oblivion. In the evening four companies marched across the open grass land towards Observatory Hill, and Major Strause was amongst them. They marched in fours towards the foot of the hill, and then began to climb up. Not a word was spoken, and the Boers did not give a sign till the men were within twenty feet of the top. Then the firing began. Our men fixed swords and charged to the top with splendid cheers. Major Strause was amongst the bravest of that gallant band, but all the time, while he fought and rushed forward and appeared to forget himself, he was thinking of Mollie Hepworth. What mattered his bodily sensations? There was a thirst which raged round his heart greater than any danger. He was determined to get Mollie. She must be his even if she did not love him. "I shall frighten her into it," he said to himself. "I have a good case, and I will put it to her. She cares for Keith; any one can see it. What are women made of? A spiritless chap without funds—I have drained most of that wretched legacy—and yet there are two women madly in love with him! It can't only be his handsome phiz; a woman like Mollie Hepworth wants more than mere beauty. Keith, in my opinion, is not half a man. If he were, he would never sit down under the imputation I have fastened on him. Well, he has done for himself now. It will stick like a burr when the time comes, and come it will if I can't get Mollie without its help." As Strause thought these thoughts he raised his eyes, and saw Keith with a company of his men a little way off. Keith was rushing forward—he and his men with their swords fixed. The Boers were firing heavily. Just by sheer dash and consummate bravery Keith and his men took the position, and the Boers were driven back. "It is because he believes that she loves him," thought the major. "If a man were sure of that, it would give him such courage that there would be nothing he would not dare. All the same, he did it bravely; I am the last to deny that fact. He will get his V.C., and then he'll be more a hero than ever with those two women. Once I get her I'll leave him alone. There are two things which I can do—two strong levers which must be brought to bear upon the position. They are like great siege guns in their way, and they will carry the fort, the fort of a woman's heart—yes, if I am not greatly mistaken." The major bided his time; and as though to aid him just then, there came an incident which certainly was in his favour. He had come unscratched out of the sortie, but he had caught a chill, and fever of a slight character supervened. He immediately suggested that he should be moved into hospital. There happened to be a vacant bed, and the major occupied it. Now Mollie would nurse him; she could not avoid him when he was ill and suffering. His eyes followed her as she walked about the ward. To his distress and dismay, however, she appointed Katherine Hunt to look after the angry major. Katherine was now almost as often in the ward as one of the trained nurses. She had a head on her shoulders, and could do anything that a girl might be supposed capable of doing. When the major was brought in, she had gone to Mollie and told her. "Your friend Major Strause is down with fever," she said: "I suppose you will take his case?" Mollie coloured, and a wistful look came into her eyes. "I think not," she answered. "I will look after him if you wish," said Katherine eagerly. "I should be so much obliged. I don't suppose he is very ill, and I cannot leave the surgical cases to-night." Accordingly Katherine was the one who gave Major Strause his medicines, his cooling drinks and his other comforts. He bore with her for a time. There had been a moment when he would have given ten years of his life to have Katherine Hunt, the daughter of the millionaire, waiting on him. But his passion made him impervious to money just now, and he felt that if all the riches of the world were to be offered him with Katherine, and Mollie were to come to him penniless, he would choose her. But next best to Mollie was Katherine Hunt, and he determined, if possible, to make her his friend. "Why does not Miss Kitty Hepworth do her share of the nursing?" he said towards morning, when Katherine had time to linger by his bedside for a moment. "Because she is not strong enough. We have had to forbid her to come to the hospital," replied Katherine. "She is a poor sort; don't you think so?" said the major. "I certainly do not," replied Katherine, with some indignation. He looked at her, and gave the ghost of a smile. "I know why she doesn't come," he said. "There is no mystery about it," replied Katherine. "She is anything but strong. We have to look after her." "When is she going to marry Keith? Why don't you hurry on the wedding?" "We don't have weddings in Ladysmith," was the girl's reply. "I don't see why you should not; there are parsons here, and all the rest. It would be about the best thing possible for Miss Kitty. I'll let her know as much when I see her." "I hope you won't do so much mischief, Major Strause. Kitty is content to be close to Gavon. No wedding could be contemplated for a moment." "She's likely to lose him if she doesn't look out." Katherine did not even ask him what he meant; she stood and fixed her eyes upon him. He shuffled under their clear gaze. "Look here," he said, "I'd like to do you a good turn. You are very fond of Miss Kitty Hepworth, are you not?" "Of course I am," replied Katherine. "You would not like her heart to be broken?" "Certainly not." "And in the most insufferable way," he added. "But I won't explain myself now, Miss Hunt. You and I have been good friends at home." "We have been acquaintances at home," replied Katherine. "I am afraid, Major Strause, I have no more time to give you just at present." "Oh, don't go, for mercy's sake!" He stretched out his hand and tried to catch her dress. She moved away from him. "You forget yourself," she said haughtily. "I don't," he replied. "But stoop down. I am a desperate man. Why are you nursing me?" "Why am I nursing you!" "Yes, why?" "Do you disapprove of my services?" "No; you are first-rate—a grand girl! I did not know it was in you when I saw you in town. I thought you were just one that was well supplied with worldly pelf. I did not know you had what I see you have. Now, Miss Hunt, if you will do me a good turn—why, one good turn deserves another, and you will never regret it, never. I want to see Sister Mollie. I have something that I wish to say to her—something which will save a great deal of trouble. Will you send her to me? At this hour most of the patients are quiet: anyhow, you can stay in the surgical ward. All I want you to do is to send her, and just keep the other nurses a little away. Will you?" "You are disturbing the patients, talking so much." "But will you?" "I will do nothing of the sort." "I'll get up then myself and find her." "Oh, don't talk nonsense, Major Strause. I believe you are delirious." "Yes, I am. I am very bad indeed—very bad. You are a good nurse, but you don't understand all cases of illness. Send Sister Mollie to me." His face was nearly purple, his eyes bloodshot. Katherine touched his arm—it burnt like a coal. She suddenly felt alarmed. "All right. Do stay quiet," she said. "Don't wake the other poor fellows. Ah! there's that poor boy Hudson; he has only just dropped asleep. Oh, I will do anything rather than disturb the ward. Stay quiet, and I will bring her to you."

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