Chapter XXIII: Dark Days

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

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

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

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

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

Mollie went out.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"NURSE MOLLIE."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He shuddered.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You think so?" said Strause.

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

Strause's face turned livid.

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