Chapter Nine.

Chapter Nine.Despair Calls.“It is not the perfect but the imperfect that have need of love.”As I followed the little pathway which led from the house to the post-office buildings, where we were all to be shut in for the night, some one came running towards me and I presently recognised Mr Maurice Stair.“Where are the other ladies?” he cried. “Is that you, Miss Saurin? Colonel Blow is fearfully annoyed that you aren’t all in long ago. There has been a warning sent in from the patrol and it’s quite on the cards that we may be attacked to-night.”As he reached me I saw that there was another man behind him. The light was not good but I was able to distinguish a short, thick figure, and a puffy, fiery face. Upon the evening air I also recognised that faint sickening aroma of spirits I had already learned to associate with complexions of such radiant hue.“This is Mr Skeffington-Smythe. He was so anxious about his wife that he left the column at Charter and has come down here to stay inlaagerand look after her.” Mr Stair was at no pains to conceal the note of irony in his voice, but it appeared to be quite lost upon his companion.So this was the gallant dare-devil Monty!“Where is the poor little woman?” he confidentially enquired, lurching towards me. But I withdrew hastily beyond his radius, and moved on, waving my hand towards the house I had just left.“You’ll find them all there—and Mr Stair, bring my dressing-case will you? I’ve come without it.”I had indeed come without anything, and without an idea of where I was to sleep or spend the night. It is true that I had seen Adriana piling up rugs and mattresses, mine amongst them, and carrying them out, but I could not suppose that Mrs Valetta had given any special directions for my comfort.The post-office was humming like a beehive. Men were hastily finishing the barricades, and Colonel Blow was shouting instructions with a sandwich in one hand and a sand-bag in the other. Evidently he had had no time to dine. Lanterns flickered everywhere, and a group of men were getting a Hotchkiss into position on top of a piece of raised ground. One man was hopping about, groaning and swearing because the wheel of the carriage had gone over his toe. Others were struggling with barbed wire of which an entanglement was being made for an outer defence.I passed through the doors of the building, and going along a wide passage came out into a verandah which gave on to a large court-yard. This was the prison yard, and away at the other end of it were the cells—a line of strong doors and barred windows. A fire near by had a three-legged pot upon it which gave up a smell of stew; and another fire had a large kettle boiling over it from a tripod.All round the inside of the walls ran a wooden balcony. This had been roughly erected during the past week, but it was sufficiently strong to support the men who would have to stand to the walls, and fire over them in case of an attack at close quarters.In the centre of the yard tents had been pegged out. Mrs Skeffington-Smythe’s, a red-and-white-striped affair dominated the situation, and struck a gay sort of sea-side note; several children were frolicking in and out of it, diving under the flaps and showering laughter. The Dutch women had slung all their things against the wall and were sitting on the heap, one of them nursing a baby, the other feeding a small child with bits cut off a strip ofbiltong. Many piles of rugs and blankets were lying about on the gravelled ground, and by the dim light of several paraffin lamps suspended from the verandah I recognised Mrs Marriott turning over pile after pile, evidently in search of her own. Near me in the verandah a little group of Fort George women were standing. They had the quiet air of sensible, self-possessed women, prepared for any emergency, and there was no fuss or excitement about them at all. They behaved as though sleeping inlaagerwas an everyday affair. I heard Mrs Grant say that Colonel Blow had just told her that the alarm had been a false one occasioned by some stray oxen which had approached the outlying picket; and Mrs Burney said casually that she had felt sure it was something of the kind and that there was no likelihood of an attack until the mainimpishad been engaged with some of our men. They dismissed the subject carelessly. Another woman said:“My Cliffie and your boy Dick are rather big to put in among the little ones, so I’ve fixed them up in a little dormitory by themselves behind the prisoners’ dock.”“My chicks are fast asleep already, and now that we’ve got that curtain up don’t you think it would be as well if we all went off to bed?”“It will certainly leave the coast clear for the other women.”“Yes: that is what I mean.”“Oh, and Mrs Grant have you got those biscuits for your little Allie?”“Everything belonging to us is in there, and I’ve brought my spirit-lamp to make tea in the morning. I expect we shall have to turn out early.”“At seven thirty Colonel Blow told me. Three of those tents are for the hospital sisters—they are coming intolaagertoo—but not until the last thing at night, and they’re to go first thing in the morning; there will be a strong guard round the hospital all night.”As I listened to these gentle, simple souls how I wished it had been to their set I belonged instead of to the set that looked over their heads and called them frumps and dowds. With their families of young children round them most of them had parted with a husband whom she might never see again. Yet here they were with cheerful faces making their plans and fixing up their children to take up as small amount of room and be as little nuisance as possible. I realised that as Dr Jameson had said, these were the real pioneers and patriots. These were the people Mr Rhodes needed for his new bit of Empire!As they were leaving the verandah one of them gave a glance down the yard and stopped.“There’s poor Mrs Marriott! I wonder if—couldn’t we ask her to come in with us?”They discussed the matter softly amongst themselves.“I’m afraid she wouldn’t, Mrs Burney. Poor thing, she is so frightfully sensitive—she might think we were pitying her.”“We’ll chance that. I’ll go and ask her—shall I?”She went quickly to where Mrs Marriott was now sitting with her hands in her lap, on an unshapely roll of blankets.“Mrs Marriott—do let me help you get your things in,” she said. “And have you settled on a place yet? Won’t you come in with Mrs Grant and Mrs Shannon and me? We’re packed like sardines, with the children, but I’m sure we can make room for one sardine more—”“Oh! no. No, thank you,” stammered the other woman. “I prefer being alone. It doesn’t matter where I am. I can manage without any one’s help.”She had begun by being emotional and ended by being rude: but Mrs Burney did not take offence.“Well, be sure and come to us if you find that you’re not comfortable,” she said cheerily as she hurried away.A Dutch woman’s husband presently appeared and helped to sort out the children and various utensils from the Dutch domestic heap. It became plain that they were to be bestoweden blocfor the night in one of the prison cells. Whilst I was watching them make atrekto the end of the yard, a large stately woman, who looked like a dowager duchess, staggered in under the weight of many bundles, followed by a haughty satellite with a Wellington nose, who might have been at least a princess of the blood, so scornful was her air and the swish of her petticoat. I had never seen these imposing people before and wondered who they could possibly be, but they evidently had the advantage of me in this matter, for I distinctly heard my name whispered between them. They surveyed me curiously as if glad to have an opportunity of inspecting me so closely. I returned their gaze tranquilly and at last they went away.Eventually there was no one left in the yard but Mrs Marriott and myself. I looked at her. She sat absolutely still on her untidy heap of clothes, her body slightly bent forward, both hands tucked down in her lap. A straw sailor-hat was pulled over her face, and her lank, heavy, dark hair lay in a dreary sort of knot far down the nape of her neck, shewing, between hat and hair, a long, unbeautiful line that had a kind of despair in it. Her thin figure in a well-fitting gown might have been pretty and temperamental, but in the faded pink blouse, and now historical grey skirt, soiled and shapeless and frayed at the edges, she was merely thin and shabby and utterly unattractive. I never saw a more hopeless look worn by any woman. It was not only that she was shabby—she was as spiritless as a dead crow. Her clothes drooped upon her as the leaves of a withering pumpkin flower droop in the sun. Her face wore the terrible look of uninteresting, unloved middle-age that even despair cannot mark with distinction. Yet she must once have had good looks far above the average. The traces of them were on her still—but they were only traces.Presently Mrs Valetta and her party arrived. Adriana, loaded like a beast of burden, brought my dressing-case to me immediately, but the others when they saw me turned and fled as if from the yellow peril. Mrs Skeffington-Smythe, extraordinarily pale and subdued, made her way to her striped tent, followed by her husband who talked vivaciously and fondly to the back of her gown. He had a very thick-lipped mouth with a tiny straw-coloured moustache perched upon it, whilst around it a smile hovered unceasingly. He seemed to breathe the spirit of good-will andcamaraderie(mingled with other spirits) towards all the world: but it was evident that Mrs Skeffington-Smythe was not under his spell. She kept on, saying nothing. Only, as she went to pull down the flap of the tent I saw her eyes snapping, and she pulled so hard that the tent flapped over on her and her devoted husband, whereupon a number of strange words issued in muffled tones from under the billowing canvas; and they were not all uttered in a man’s voice. Later, whilst they were at the business of pegging it out again, Mrs Valetta came on to the verandah and called out that she and Miss Cleeve had found a small room for themselves. Mr Skeffington-Smythe blithely responded:“Ah! Good—That is good.—very good. I will come and see what I can do for you presently when I have fixed up my dear little woman.”But Mr Skeffington-Smythe uttered never a word. Only, when next her Monty addressed a fond remark to her she very briefly and violently replied:“Oh, shut up!”It was plain that I was to be left to my fate. Adriana had brought some rugs and thrown them on to my dressing-case, and I seated myself upon them to consider the matter of accommodation for the night. A slight drizzle of rain began to fall, making the fires hiss softly, and throwing a sad little veil over everything.Perhaps I looked nearly as hopeless and forlorn as Mrs Marriott, but I was far from feeling so. I had the light heart of the woman who loves and is beloved again, with the whole of life stretching out beautifully before me, and it would have taken more than all the rain out of heaven to drench the joy out of me that night. All the same it behoved me to be up and doing. There was no sense in getting wet and it also seemed indicated that I should rescue Mrs Marriott from a watery fate.Certainly, I had heard her refuse to have anything to do with that nice, kind little Mrs Burney, but Mrs Burney had not had a passionate flame of love and faith re-lit in her heart that very night as I had. I felt loving-kind to all the world, and as though I could simply feed on snubs if only they came from some one who was really unhappy—not merely cross or spiteful.And surely this poor woman sitting on the rugs was unhappy, and had cause to be. I remembered Dr Marriott’s face as he turned to the west, and the new light that had been lit in his doomed eyes by the strong, kind action of Anthony Kinsella—myAnthony Kinsella.We were alone in the big yard now—Mrs Marriott and I; and silence reigned, except for the murmur of Mr Skeffington-Smythe’s voice inside the closed tent. Perhaps he was explaining to his dear little woman why he was the only man in the town not out on patrol or helping with the barricades.I moved stealthily in the direction of my premeditated attack.“Mrs Marriott!” I said in a pathetic way I have. “I do wish you would take care of me and let me stay with you to-night. I’ve been left out in the cold by the other women.”She turned a pair of utterly tragic eyes upon me. Her mouth was the mouth of a woman with whom things had always gone wrong.“I would rather be alone,” she said in her cold, dull way. This was not encouraging but I persisted, and my voice became very wistful indeed.“Oh,dobe friendly. I am a stranger here and I feel utterly lost. What does one do inlaager?”She looked at me vaguely.“I don’t know. It is a new kind of misery to me, too.”“Well, let’s beat it out together, shall we? We ought to be able to find a corner somewhere. Will you come with me to search?”She stared at me for a moment, then stood up hesitatingly. I made haste to lead the way. After making a tour of the verandah and looking into every window we came to, we went inside and tried all the doors. Most of them were locked, signifying that the room was full-up. At last there was no place left except to try the room where the sorting and storing of mails went on. The main part of this was a wide passage with a door at each end—an impossible place to camp out in. However, there was a counter with a wooden partition above it, and going behind this I discovered quite a cosey little retreat. It had rather a mail-baggy smell, but that was a trifle to be ignored in such times of stress as these.“We can make ourselves quite comfy here,” I said. “When we have locked both doors in case the postmaster unexpectedly returns. Now let us get our mattresses and rugs, shall we?”She had no mattress: only a few striped coloured blankets of the kind that the natives drape around themselves. However, I had plenty of rugs, and my mattress though narrow was wide enough for two at a pinch. But she jibbed at sharing it.“Why should I make you uncomfortable?” she said.I stared at her and laughed. “Dear Mrs Marriott, I shall be ever so much more uncomfortable if you don’t. Now be a brick and do as I ask you.”For some unknown reason her eyes filled with tears and her mouth began to quiver in a queer way. I turned away hastily, and having bolted the outside door began to barricade it with a heap of empty mail-bags. Whilst I was rummaging I came quite by accident upon the postmaster’s little private supply of stores, and in the spirit of martial-law I immediately commandeered them for the public benefit. There were sugar, tea, candles, some tins of “bully beef” and a canister of delicious-smelling coffee.“Banzai! We’ll be able to make some coffee to keep their spirits up—they must be jolly tired. Come along, Mrs Marriott, let’s go and commandeer some of that crockery and the kettle of water in the yard.”She seemed quite keen, so we unbarred and unbolted again and went out to the yard-fire where the kettle was still lustily boiling, and in five minutes we had two large jugs full of excellent coffee ready. There is a saying that Boers come to coffee as theasvogelscome to dead ox. Very disgusting, but evidently true, for the smell of our coffee woke up the Boer family in their prison cell and they came meandering forth, sat down in a ring round the fire, and looked so wistfully and eloquently at the big jug that we had to give them some all round, especially as we were using their crockery. Afterwards they lent us their beakers and enamel cups and we made a forced march to the barricades. When the barricaders also smelt thearôme de Javaon the breeze and saw the big jugs we were carrying they raised a cheer, and the postmaster said:“By the Lord, that’s my coffee, or I’m a Boer!”We gave him a cup for forgiveness’ sake, and Colonel Blow too, and afterwards the rest of them came up in parties and we ministered to them, washing the cups after each lot in a pail of water. When all the white men had finished, we served the black constables and convicts a beakerful apiece, Colonel Blow having sent to their quarters for their own beakers. The convicts, melancholy-looking fellows, surveyed me with a shy curiosity, I suppose because I was a newcomer. But Colonel Blow for some reason seemed to resent their looking at me, for as soon as he noticed it he gave a rough order in the native tongue that made them all look hurriedly in another direction.I told the postmaster that we had invaded his sanctum, but he was quite charming about it, and at once bestowed upon us the freedom of the post-office. He said we could even use the postage stamps if they were of any use to us.Later Mrs Marriott and I returned to our lettery retreat. When we were at last tucked in under our rugs with the candle out I asked her to give me her advice about what I should do next day.“But I don’t understand, quite,” she said. “Aren’t you staying with the Salisbury ladies?”“I was,” said I. “Mrs Valetta is supposed to be chaperoning me in the absence of my sister-in-law, but she has thrown up the position.”“But—what have—what could you have done to offend her?”“She has offendedme.”“But—can’t it be patched up? Can’t you overlook her offences? I don’t see how a young girl like you can live alone here.”“I’m quite willing to patch up,” said I. “She and Mrs Skeffington-Smythe and Miss Cleeve were all very rude to me, but—because of certain circumstances I canalmostforgive them. However, I’m afraid they mean to declare war.”“Well, but—forgive me for asking—what could you have done?”“Weren’t you out seeing the patrol go off to-night?” I ventured.“No!” she said in an abrupt kind of way, and I remembered then that I had not seen her in the crowd. She had of course said good-bye to her husband at home.“I hardly know any of the men here,” she presently continued, “except Major Kinsella, and he came in during the afternoon to say good-bye. I thought it particularly nice of him to remember me—but then he is always kind.”“It is about Major Kinsella that all the trouble is,” I said in a low voice. I thought I had better tell her the real story instead of letting her hear an embroidered version from some one else. She was silent.“Anthony Kinsella and I love each other,” I said. “Before he rode away I kissed him good-bye before every one,”—I could not go on. The thought of that wonderful moment, and then, the sadness and bitterness of losing my lover overwhelmed me; my voice trembled and broke. A thin nervous hand grasped mine and held it tightly under the rugs. Yet her voice sounded doubtful when she spoke.“He is a splendid fellow—any girl would be proud and happy to get him; but isn’t he—? I seem to have heard somewhere that he is—”“Oh, don’t!” I cried. “Don’t! I’m sick of hearing it.Thatis what they all say.Thatis my offence against the manners and morals of this place—kissing a married man—” My hand was suddenly loosed and I could feel her draw away from me in the darkness. “But I don’t believe it for one moment!” I cried almost violently. “And I refuse to let these odious people poison my heart with their lies. I know he is a free man. He is incapable of lying.”“Oh!” she said quickly and warmly, “if he told you he is free it is surely true. I do not believe either that he would lie.” She took my hand again and squeezed it.“He did not tell me in words,” I said. “But his eyes could not lie to me. Oh, Mrs Marriott, he has such brave true eyes—”“I know—” she began, and then fell silent again.“Ah! you are like the rest,” I burst out bitterly, throwing her hand away from me, “ready to believe evil of a man whom you admit you have never known to be anything but kind and generous.”“Don’t say that—it is not that I wish to believe evil, but I know men—a little, and my experience is that the best of them are terribly weak—and you are a very lovely girl. It is not impossible to think that he may have lost his head—”“No, no, no!” I cried, “it is not so. I tell you I saw his eyes when he said good-bye to me. I will believe them against all the world.”I felt that I had convinced her, too, even against her will—that was something. She never again chilled me with unbelief in my man.But as to getting any advice out of her about my immediate course of action—it was simply hopeless. The poor woman’s unhappiness seemed to have dimmed her perception of what was going on round her in a place where she had lived for eight months. She knew of no place where I could stay. Did not even know if there were any hotels, or how many! I had to give her up as a guide and preceptor; but I was glad of the nervous pressure of her thin hand again before we slept, and something she said left my heart thrilling with happiness even while it ached for her.“The men up here are all kind—but Major Kinsella’s kindness to me has been so different—there has never been anypityin it—you don’t know what that has meant to me—and his way with Rupert! He treats him as though he is still—Oh! perhaps you can understand?”“As though he is still a man!”—that is what she would have said but her lips would not say it.Poor soul! hers was the fag-end of a romance indeed!

“It is not the perfect but the imperfect that have need of love.”

“It is not the perfect but the imperfect that have need of love.”

As I followed the little pathway which led from the house to the post-office buildings, where we were all to be shut in for the night, some one came running towards me and I presently recognised Mr Maurice Stair.

“Where are the other ladies?” he cried. “Is that you, Miss Saurin? Colonel Blow is fearfully annoyed that you aren’t all in long ago. There has been a warning sent in from the patrol and it’s quite on the cards that we may be attacked to-night.”

As he reached me I saw that there was another man behind him. The light was not good but I was able to distinguish a short, thick figure, and a puffy, fiery face. Upon the evening air I also recognised that faint sickening aroma of spirits I had already learned to associate with complexions of such radiant hue.

“This is Mr Skeffington-Smythe. He was so anxious about his wife that he left the column at Charter and has come down here to stay inlaagerand look after her.” Mr Stair was at no pains to conceal the note of irony in his voice, but it appeared to be quite lost upon his companion.

So this was the gallant dare-devil Monty!

“Where is the poor little woman?” he confidentially enquired, lurching towards me. But I withdrew hastily beyond his radius, and moved on, waving my hand towards the house I had just left.

“You’ll find them all there—and Mr Stair, bring my dressing-case will you? I’ve come without it.”

I had indeed come without anything, and without an idea of where I was to sleep or spend the night. It is true that I had seen Adriana piling up rugs and mattresses, mine amongst them, and carrying them out, but I could not suppose that Mrs Valetta had given any special directions for my comfort.

The post-office was humming like a beehive. Men were hastily finishing the barricades, and Colonel Blow was shouting instructions with a sandwich in one hand and a sand-bag in the other. Evidently he had had no time to dine. Lanterns flickered everywhere, and a group of men were getting a Hotchkiss into position on top of a piece of raised ground. One man was hopping about, groaning and swearing because the wheel of the carriage had gone over his toe. Others were struggling with barbed wire of which an entanglement was being made for an outer defence.

I passed through the doors of the building, and going along a wide passage came out into a verandah which gave on to a large court-yard. This was the prison yard, and away at the other end of it were the cells—a line of strong doors and barred windows. A fire near by had a three-legged pot upon it which gave up a smell of stew; and another fire had a large kettle boiling over it from a tripod.

All round the inside of the walls ran a wooden balcony. This had been roughly erected during the past week, but it was sufficiently strong to support the men who would have to stand to the walls, and fire over them in case of an attack at close quarters.

In the centre of the yard tents had been pegged out. Mrs Skeffington-Smythe’s, a red-and-white-striped affair dominated the situation, and struck a gay sort of sea-side note; several children were frolicking in and out of it, diving under the flaps and showering laughter. The Dutch women had slung all their things against the wall and were sitting on the heap, one of them nursing a baby, the other feeding a small child with bits cut off a strip ofbiltong. Many piles of rugs and blankets were lying about on the gravelled ground, and by the dim light of several paraffin lamps suspended from the verandah I recognised Mrs Marriott turning over pile after pile, evidently in search of her own. Near me in the verandah a little group of Fort George women were standing. They had the quiet air of sensible, self-possessed women, prepared for any emergency, and there was no fuss or excitement about them at all. They behaved as though sleeping inlaagerwas an everyday affair. I heard Mrs Grant say that Colonel Blow had just told her that the alarm had been a false one occasioned by some stray oxen which had approached the outlying picket; and Mrs Burney said casually that she had felt sure it was something of the kind and that there was no likelihood of an attack until the mainimpishad been engaged with some of our men. They dismissed the subject carelessly. Another woman said:

“My Cliffie and your boy Dick are rather big to put in among the little ones, so I’ve fixed them up in a little dormitory by themselves behind the prisoners’ dock.”

“My chicks are fast asleep already, and now that we’ve got that curtain up don’t you think it would be as well if we all went off to bed?”

“It will certainly leave the coast clear for the other women.”

“Yes: that is what I mean.”

“Oh, and Mrs Grant have you got those biscuits for your little Allie?”

“Everything belonging to us is in there, and I’ve brought my spirit-lamp to make tea in the morning. I expect we shall have to turn out early.”

“At seven thirty Colonel Blow told me. Three of those tents are for the hospital sisters—they are coming intolaagertoo—but not until the last thing at night, and they’re to go first thing in the morning; there will be a strong guard round the hospital all night.”

As I listened to these gentle, simple souls how I wished it had been to their set I belonged instead of to the set that looked over their heads and called them frumps and dowds. With their families of young children round them most of them had parted with a husband whom she might never see again. Yet here they were with cheerful faces making their plans and fixing up their children to take up as small amount of room and be as little nuisance as possible. I realised that as Dr Jameson had said, these were the real pioneers and patriots. These were the people Mr Rhodes needed for his new bit of Empire!

As they were leaving the verandah one of them gave a glance down the yard and stopped.

“There’s poor Mrs Marriott! I wonder if—couldn’t we ask her to come in with us?”

They discussed the matter softly amongst themselves.

“I’m afraid she wouldn’t, Mrs Burney. Poor thing, she is so frightfully sensitive—she might think we were pitying her.”

“We’ll chance that. I’ll go and ask her—shall I?”

She went quickly to where Mrs Marriott was now sitting with her hands in her lap, on an unshapely roll of blankets.

“Mrs Marriott—do let me help you get your things in,” she said. “And have you settled on a place yet? Won’t you come in with Mrs Grant and Mrs Shannon and me? We’re packed like sardines, with the children, but I’m sure we can make room for one sardine more—”

“Oh! no. No, thank you,” stammered the other woman. “I prefer being alone. It doesn’t matter where I am. I can manage without any one’s help.”

She had begun by being emotional and ended by being rude: but Mrs Burney did not take offence.

“Well, be sure and come to us if you find that you’re not comfortable,” she said cheerily as she hurried away.

A Dutch woman’s husband presently appeared and helped to sort out the children and various utensils from the Dutch domestic heap. It became plain that they were to be bestoweden blocfor the night in one of the prison cells. Whilst I was watching them make atrekto the end of the yard, a large stately woman, who looked like a dowager duchess, staggered in under the weight of many bundles, followed by a haughty satellite with a Wellington nose, who might have been at least a princess of the blood, so scornful was her air and the swish of her petticoat. I had never seen these imposing people before and wondered who they could possibly be, but they evidently had the advantage of me in this matter, for I distinctly heard my name whispered between them. They surveyed me curiously as if glad to have an opportunity of inspecting me so closely. I returned their gaze tranquilly and at last they went away.

Eventually there was no one left in the yard but Mrs Marriott and myself. I looked at her. She sat absolutely still on her untidy heap of clothes, her body slightly bent forward, both hands tucked down in her lap. A straw sailor-hat was pulled over her face, and her lank, heavy, dark hair lay in a dreary sort of knot far down the nape of her neck, shewing, between hat and hair, a long, unbeautiful line that had a kind of despair in it. Her thin figure in a well-fitting gown might have been pretty and temperamental, but in the faded pink blouse, and now historical grey skirt, soiled and shapeless and frayed at the edges, she was merely thin and shabby and utterly unattractive. I never saw a more hopeless look worn by any woman. It was not only that she was shabby—she was as spiritless as a dead crow. Her clothes drooped upon her as the leaves of a withering pumpkin flower droop in the sun. Her face wore the terrible look of uninteresting, unloved middle-age that even despair cannot mark with distinction. Yet she must once have had good looks far above the average. The traces of them were on her still—but they were only traces.

Presently Mrs Valetta and her party arrived. Adriana, loaded like a beast of burden, brought my dressing-case to me immediately, but the others when they saw me turned and fled as if from the yellow peril. Mrs Skeffington-Smythe, extraordinarily pale and subdued, made her way to her striped tent, followed by her husband who talked vivaciously and fondly to the back of her gown. He had a very thick-lipped mouth with a tiny straw-coloured moustache perched upon it, whilst around it a smile hovered unceasingly. He seemed to breathe the spirit of good-will andcamaraderie(mingled with other spirits) towards all the world: but it was evident that Mrs Skeffington-Smythe was not under his spell. She kept on, saying nothing. Only, as she went to pull down the flap of the tent I saw her eyes snapping, and she pulled so hard that the tent flapped over on her and her devoted husband, whereupon a number of strange words issued in muffled tones from under the billowing canvas; and they were not all uttered in a man’s voice. Later, whilst they were at the business of pegging it out again, Mrs Valetta came on to the verandah and called out that she and Miss Cleeve had found a small room for themselves. Mr Skeffington-Smythe blithely responded:

“Ah! Good—That is good.—very good. I will come and see what I can do for you presently when I have fixed up my dear little woman.”

But Mr Skeffington-Smythe uttered never a word. Only, when next her Monty addressed a fond remark to her she very briefly and violently replied:

“Oh, shut up!”

It was plain that I was to be left to my fate. Adriana had brought some rugs and thrown them on to my dressing-case, and I seated myself upon them to consider the matter of accommodation for the night. A slight drizzle of rain began to fall, making the fires hiss softly, and throwing a sad little veil over everything.

Perhaps I looked nearly as hopeless and forlorn as Mrs Marriott, but I was far from feeling so. I had the light heart of the woman who loves and is beloved again, with the whole of life stretching out beautifully before me, and it would have taken more than all the rain out of heaven to drench the joy out of me that night. All the same it behoved me to be up and doing. There was no sense in getting wet and it also seemed indicated that I should rescue Mrs Marriott from a watery fate.

Certainly, I had heard her refuse to have anything to do with that nice, kind little Mrs Burney, but Mrs Burney had not had a passionate flame of love and faith re-lit in her heart that very night as I had. I felt loving-kind to all the world, and as though I could simply feed on snubs if only they came from some one who was really unhappy—not merely cross or spiteful.

And surely this poor woman sitting on the rugs was unhappy, and had cause to be. I remembered Dr Marriott’s face as he turned to the west, and the new light that had been lit in his doomed eyes by the strong, kind action of Anthony Kinsella—myAnthony Kinsella.

We were alone in the big yard now—Mrs Marriott and I; and silence reigned, except for the murmur of Mr Skeffington-Smythe’s voice inside the closed tent. Perhaps he was explaining to his dear little woman why he was the only man in the town not out on patrol or helping with the barricades.

I moved stealthily in the direction of my premeditated attack.

“Mrs Marriott!” I said in a pathetic way I have. “I do wish you would take care of me and let me stay with you to-night. I’ve been left out in the cold by the other women.”

She turned a pair of utterly tragic eyes upon me. Her mouth was the mouth of a woman with whom things had always gone wrong.

“I would rather be alone,” she said in her cold, dull way. This was not encouraging but I persisted, and my voice became very wistful indeed.

“Oh,dobe friendly. I am a stranger here and I feel utterly lost. What does one do inlaager?”

She looked at me vaguely.

“I don’t know. It is a new kind of misery to me, too.”

“Well, let’s beat it out together, shall we? We ought to be able to find a corner somewhere. Will you come with me to search?”

She stared at me for a moment, then stood up hesitatingly. I made haste to lead the way. After making a tour of the verandah and looking into every window we came to, we went inside and tried all the doors. Most of them were locked, signifying that the room was full-up. At last there was no place left except to try the room where the sorting and storing of mails went on. The main part of this was a wide passage with a door at each end—an impossible place to camp out in. However, there was a counter with a wooden partition above it, and going behind this I discovered quite a cosey little retreat. It had rather a mail-baggy smell, but that was a trifle to be ignored in such times of stress as these.

“We can make ourselves quite comfy here,” I said. “When we have locked both doors in case the postmaster unexpectedly returns. Now let us get our mattresses and rugs, shall we?”

She had no mattress: only a few striped coloured blankets of the kind that the natives drape around themselves. However, I had plenty of rugs, and my mattress though narrow was wide enough for two at a pinch. But she jibbed at sharing it.

“Why should I make you uncomfortable?” she said.

I stared at her and laughed. “Dear Mrs Marriott, I shall be ever so much more uncomfortable if you don’t. Now be a brick and do as I ask you.”

For some unknown reason her eyes filled with tears and her mouth began to quiver in a queer way. I turned away hastily, and having bolted the outside door began to barricade it with a heap of empty mail-bags. Whilst I was rummaging I came quite by accident upon the postmaster’s little private supply of stores, and in the spirit of martial-law I immediately commandeered them for the public benefit. There were sugar, tea, candles, some tins of “bully beef” and a canister of delicious-smelling coffee.

“Banzai! We’ll be able to make some coffee to keep their spirits up—they must be jolly tired. Come along, Mrs Marriott, let’s go and commandeer some of that crockery and the kettle of water in the yard.”

She seemed quite keen, so we unbarred and unbolted again and went out to the yard-fire where the kettle was still lustily boiling, and in five minutes we had two large jugs full of excellent coffee ready. There is a saying that Boers come to coffee as theasvogelscome to dead ox. Very disgusting, but evidently true, for the smell of our coffee woke up the Boer family in their prison cell and they came meandering forth, sat down in a ring round the fire, and looked so wistfully and eloquently at the big jug that we had to give them some all round, especially as we were using their crockery. Afterwards they lent us their beakers and enamel cups and we made a forced march to the barricades. When the barricaders also smelt thearôme de Javaon the breeze and saw the big jugs we were carrying they raised a cheer, and the postmaster said:

“By the Lord, that’s my coffee, or I’m a Boer!”

We gave him a cup for forgiveness’ sake, and Colonel Blow too, and afterwards the rest of them came up in parties and we ministered to them, washing the cups after each lot in a pail of water. When all the white men had finished, we served the black constables and convicts a beakerful apiece, Colonel Blow having sent to their quarters for their own beakers. The convicts, melancholy-looking fellows, surveyed me with a shy curiosity, I suppose because I was a newcomer. But Colonel Blow for some reason seemed to resent their looking at me, for as soon as he noticed it he gave a rough order in the native tongue that made them all look hurriedly in another direction.

I told the postmaster that we had invaded his sanctum, but he was quite charming about it, and at once bestowed upon us the freedom of the post-office. He said we could even use the postage stamps if they were of any use to us.

Later Mrs Marriott and I returned to our lettery retreat. When we were at last tucked in under our rugs with the candle out I asked her to give me her advice about what I should do next day.

“But I don’t understand, quite,” she said. “Aren’t you staying with the Salisbury ladies?”

“I was,” said I. “Mrs Valetta is supposed to be chaperoning me in the absence of my sister-in-law, but she has thrown up the position.”

“But—what have—what could you have done to offend her?”

“She has offendedme.”

“But—can’t it be patched up? Can’t you overlook her offences? I don’t see how a young girl like you can live alone here.”

“I’m quite willing to patch up,” said I. “She and Mrs Skeffington-Smythe and Miss Cleeve were all very rude to me, but—because of certain circumstances I canalmostforgive them. However, I’m afraid they mean to declare war.”

“Well, but—forgive me for asking—what could you have done?”

“Weren’t you out seeing the patrol go off to-night?” I ventured.

“No!” she said in an abrupt kind of way, and I remembered then that I had not seen her in the crowd. She had of course said good-bye to her husband at home.

“I hardly know any of the men here,” she presently continued, “except Major Kinsella, and he came in during the afternoon to say good-bye. I thought it particularly nice of him to remember me—but then he is always kind.”

“It is about Major Kinsella that all the trouble is,” I said in a low voice. I thought I had better tell her the real story instead of letting her hear an embroidered version from some one else. She was silent.

“Anthony Kinsella and I love each other,” I said. “Before he rode away I kissed him good-bye before every one,”—I could not go on. The thought of that wonderful moment, and then, the sadness and bitterness of losing my lover overwhelmed me; my voice trembled and broke. A thin nervous hand grasped mine and held it tightly under the rugs. Yet her voice sounded doubtful when she spoke.

“He is a splendid fellow—any girl would be proud and happy to get him; but isn’t he—? I seem to have heard somewhere that he is—”

“Oh, don’t!” I cried. “Don’t! I’m sick of hearing it.Thatis what they all say.Thatis my offence against the manners and morals of this place—kissing a married man—” My hand was suddenly loosed and I could feel her draw away from me in the darkness. “But I don’t believe it for one moment!” I cried almost violently. “And I refuse to let these odious people poison my heart with their lies. I know he is a free man. He is incapable of lying.”

“Oh!” she said quickly and warmly, “if he told you he is free it is surely true. I do not believe either that he would lie.” She took my hand again and squeezed it.

“He did not tell me in words,” I said. “But his eyes could not lie to me. Oh, Mrs Marriott, he has such brave true eyes—”

“I know—” she began, and then fell silent again.

“Ah! you are like the rest,” I burst out bitterly, throwing her hand away from me, “ready to believe evil of a man whom you admit you have never known to be anything but kind and generous.”

“Don’t say that—it is not that I wish to believe evil, but I know men—a little, and my experience is that the best of them are terribly weak—and you are a very lovely girl. It is not impossible to think that he may have lost his head—”

“No, no, no!” I cried, “it is not so. I tell you I saw his eyes when he said good-bye to me. I will believe them against all the world.”

I felt that I had convinced her, too, even against her will—that was something. She never again chilled me with unbelief in my man.

But as to getting any advice out of her about my immediate course of action—it was simply hopeless. The poor woman’s unhappiness seemed to have dimmed her perception of what was going on round her in a place where she had lived for eight months. She knew of no place where I could stay. Did not even know if there were any hotels, or how many! I had to give her up as a guide and preceptor; but I was glad of the nervous pressure of her thin hand again before we slept, and something she said left my heart thrilling with happiness even while it ached for her.

“The men up here are all kind—but Major Kinsella’s kindness to me has been so different—there has never been anypityin it—you don’t know what that has meant to me—and his way with Rupert! He treats him as though he is still—Oh! perhaps you can understand?”

“As though he is still a man!”—that is what she would have said but her lips would not say it.

Poor soul! hers was the fag-end of a romance indeed!

Chapter Ten.Charity Calls.“To know anything about one’s self one must know all about others.”The big main doors of the post-office were thrown open at an early hour of morning but the inmates oflaagerdid not rise with the lark. They trickled forth at intervals, according to their use in life and the duties to be performed by them. When I came out on the verandah facing the barricades I found it strewn with the sleeping forms of men.I stood for a moment looking at the landscape glowing and scintillating under the sparkling morning sunlight. Across the veldt a small body of horsemen came cantering towards the town; the men who had been out all night on picket duty.I had slipped away from Mrs Marriott, for having long ago heard how sensitive she was about her tiny, barely-furnished hut, I did not want to cause her the embarrassment of offering to share it with me. I was looking at the mounting of one of the big guns and pondering the question of which hotel I should try, when Mrs Valetta swept past, her face coldly averted, and just the faintest suspicion of an intention to hold her skirt away from me. I flushed, then smiled disdainfully at the uplifted nose of Anna Cleeve who followed in her wake. Neither of them spoke a word. I had a childish inclination to whistle a time just to show them I didn’t care a button, but I conquered it, and started instead to pick my way through the wet grassy paths towards the Imperial Hotel—I had suddenly remembered that Hendricks had said the Imperial was kept by a woman.Half-way across the township I was caught up by the doctor, and when I told him where I was bound for he very agreeably offered to escort me. But he peered at me curiously as if to know the reason of this odd departure. Arrived at the long, galvanised-iron building which glared and blinked in the morning sun, he left me in the verandah with the assurance that he would send Mrs Baynes out to me. A few minutes later I made the discovery that Mrs Baynes was the dropsical duchess with whom I had shared a staring acquaintance the night before. She immediately resumed her observations, but she was professionally civil and obsequious until she found that I wished to engage a room; her manner then underwent a series of rapid changes—from curiosity to amazement, to hauteur, to familiarity. She began to “my dear” me! I swallowed my indignation as best I might and assumed not to notice her impertinence, for I was beginning to fear that she would not take me in and there would be nothing for me but Swears’s.“Aoah!” she said at last. (She had a peculiarly irritating way of pronouncing “oh!”) “Aoah! I thought you were staying with Mrs Valetta and all that swagger lot.”She examined me intently from my hat to my shoes as though she had not done the same thing thoroughly the night before.“Have you no rooms to let?” I repeated politely.“Well—I don’t know—it depends.” She paused, tapping some dark blue teeth reflectively with her finger-nail whilst apparently counting the number of tucks in my skirt. She then closely inspected the gathers round my waist, and my belt-buckle.“What does it depend upon?” I asked with deadly calm.“Aoah! a lot of things.” She threw her head sideways revealing a generous splendour of double chin, and shouted over her shoulder in a tremendous voice. “Fanny! Come yerea minit.”Fanny arriving was revealed as the tall and Junoesque girl with the swishing petticoat and the Wellington nose.“This lady wants a room. What doyouthink, Fan?”Fanny gazed at me in a queenly way over her military nose; but whensheproceeded to count the tucks in my skirt and examine my belt-buckle I felt fury rising in me like a tidal wave.“Madam!” I said, freezing the landlady with my eyes. “Will you be good enough to answer my question definitely? Can I or can I not engage a room in this hotel—and have my meals served to me there?”“Aoah! meals served in bedroom! I never heard of such a thing.”I turned away hot with wrath and met the eyes of Colonel Blow and Maurice Stair who had just come round the corner of the hotel and entered the verandah. They looked amazed at finding me there, so I explained hastily and haughtily to the former whilst Mr Stair and the doctor listened frankly, and the eyes of Mrs Baynes and “Fanny” seared the back of my frock and hat. Afterwards Colonel Blow said quietly and emphatically:“Of course you have a room for this lady, Mrs Baynes—the best in the house. You can put me anywhere you like.” He added deliberately, “It would be a good thing to take Miss Saurin to her room at once and give her some breakfast.” There was no mistaking the “I-am-the-Commandant-and-mean-to-be-obeyed” tone of his voice.He was probably Mrs Baynes’s best boarder in any case. Without a word she led the way, while “Fanny” dwindled from the scene like a bad dream. We walked through the dining-room, bare of anything but a long table and some dissipated-looking chairs, down a passage, and into a back verandah which had a row of doors facing the sunrise. At the third door she stopped and flung it wide:“There you are!” she snapped. “Four pounds a week with board—paid in advance. Take it or leave it—I don’t care.”She flounced away and left me. I went in and gazed about me. I had never been in a more hopelessly impossible room in my life.One night just as we were straggling intolaager, the look-out reported a small party of persons on the horizon, riding very slowly towards the town. It was not time for a change of pickets, neither could it be a patrol returning for there was no patrol out. When these two facts were thoroughly digested every one pranced for their field glasses, and thelaagerverandah became crowded with very busy people full of curiosity and excitement at the thought of news from the front. Later, as the little group came nearer to us out of the glamour of evening shadows it was seen to consist of three persons, and presently there materialised under our watching eyes two battered-looking troopers, coatless and (of course) extremely dirty, riding one on each side of a dandified slim young man in a suit of khaki of sulphurous shade but of the most precise and fashionable cut. His putties were put on beautifully: not a false fold or a bad line anywhere. His rifle-fittings shone brightly in the sunset glow, and the bandolier slung with debonair carelessness across his breast had not a cartridge missing!All these details were noted and beheld with breathless interest before we could even see the face of this mysterious Brummel in khaki, for his police hat—the only inartistic thing about him—was pulled well down over his eyes. I think I was the first to see the glint of an amazing shade of golden hair, and the line of a defiant mouth. Some notion of the truth dawned upon me then and a moment after every one knew. Colonel Blow stepped forward and spoke to the troopers, and one of them, who was a sergeant, answered him briefly and to the point:“The C.O. ordered me to escort this lady back to Fort George, sir.”At this the slouch hat was pushed back, and Mrs Rookwood’s murky eyes stared defiantly at us all. Then her pretty mirthless laugh rang out.“It was all that brute Anthony Kinsella’s fault,” she said, addressing herself exclusively to the Commandant. “When he joined the others and found me in his troop with George he immediately told the Doctor and had me sent back. Wasn’t it horrid of him, Colonel? I’m sure I should have made as good a soldier as any one else of them. I’m a first-class shot. You have said so yourself now, haven’t you?”She was trying to carry her defeat off bravely under the remorseless stare of a number of feminine eyes. Her own were so bright that it was plain she was on the verge of tears, and as she left off speaking her mouth began to quiver. She hadn’t an atom of make-up on and looked almost middle-aged, but nevertheless extremely handsome. It was a difficult moment but Colonel Blow was true blue, and knew the right thing to do. He laughed cheerily and went forward to help her from her saddle.“Well, you’ve had quite an adventure, Mrs Rookwood! But George will probably be put in the cells when he comes back for aiding and abetting you.”“He didn’t,” she said, speaking more naturally. “I did it all on my own, but he was awfully glad to see me when I turned up.”“Where did you leave them, Sergeant?”“About thirty miles from Sigala, sir. Major Kinsella knew the way back was safe as he had just come along it and found it perfectly clear. But we had to ride hard.”“Yes; you must all be fagged out. Mrs Rookwood, the best thing you can do is to get to bed at once. But finding a bed for you is another matter.”He turned round in a half-appealing way to the group of women who had been standing behind him, but at the very suspicion of being asked to do anything for such a person as Mrs Rookwood almost every skirt disappeared like magic. In the twinkling of an eye there was no one to be seen but the spiteful Dutch woman and me, the tabooed of all tabooees.“Miss Saurin”—he began in a persuasive voice.“Of course,” I said, smiling at his distress, “I shall be delighted to do anything I can for Mrs Rookwood if she will let me. I’m afraid all the cosiest corners are gone, though,” I said to her, “and nothing but desks and mail-bags left to sleep on. But you’re welcome to share all we’ve got—and I’m sure Mrs Marriott will say so too.”At this casual information she for some occult reason burst into tears, and stood there sobbing with her hands over her face. Poor Colonel Blow stared at her in dismay.“She’s tired,” I said, “and hungry, too, I expect. Come along, Mrs Rookwood. I’ll serve you up one of my famous French suppers before you go to bed. Colonel, will you have the kit from her horse sent in, please?”I put my arm round the slim trim khaki waist, and half led, half dragged her to the den behind the post-office counter. Mrs Marriott was there already reading a book by candle-light, and she looked absolutely aghast at seeing me with my arm round a man’s waist, for with her usual knack of missing any excitement that was going on she knew nothing of the event that had just taken place. From her nervous, horrified expression she evidently concluded that this was a fresh escapade on my part and that I was hopelessly incorrigible. When I explained the situation she was so much relieved that she did not show as I feared any coolness to the luckless Mrs Rookwood; but instead began in her absent-minded fashion to move her things so that there would be more room for the latter who was forlornly drying her tears.“We’ve only one small mattress and that is stuffed with nails,” I said apologetically.“I’ve slept on the ground ever since I left here, you know—and been fearfully cold at night, too. I don’t mind anything now. It is awfully good of you to bother with me at all.”She looked as if she was going to howl again.“Nonsense!” I said briskly. “Do you like coffeeà la turc?—because I’m just going to make some. It picks you up like a balloon. You’ll feel like a roaring lion afterwards.” She began to smile. “And a Welsh rarebit,” I beguiled her. “Oh, don’t say you are one of those cowards who daren’t eat Welsh rarebits for fear of what dreams may come.”“No; I love them.” I had her laughing at last. “And I’m so hungry, Miss Saurin.”“Well! there will be Welsh rarebit and some cold Mashona hen I stole from the hotel—and let me see. Where is the box of sharks you had, Mrs Marriott?”She produced the sardines, also two boiled eggs and a lettuce. It had become our pleasant custom to ask either Colonel Blow or Mr Stair or Mr Bleksley to come in to supper before the night watches began. Hence these luxurious stores.“Good,” I said. “That will provide for three courses; chicken mayonnaise, Welsh rarebit, and a sardine savoury. Lie down and rest, Mrs Rookwood, while we prepare supper.”She did as I told her without a word, and Mrs Marriott and I busied ourselves with the postmaster’s oil-stove and a pan and pot I had secured from Hunloke and Dennison’s. Mrs Marriott actually rose to the point of going out to the yard-fire by herself to make three slices of toast for the savoury.“She’s coming along,” I boasted to Mrs Rookwood. “The first few nights she was inlaagershe had no more initiative than a dead duck, but she’s getting quite bright now. I really believe it is doing her good to come intolaagerand see society.”“Your society would do any one good,” remarked my companion so warmly that I really felt she was sincere and I coloured all over with pleasure, for I always think a compliment from a woman is worth half-a-dozen from a man. I still had it in my heart against her that she had called my Anthony a brute, but her next words dissolved all my resentment and gave her my gratitude for ever.“I never met any one more kind and generous—except Anthony Kinsella. I called him a brute this evening but that was only to cover my embarrassment and anger with all those cats staring at me. As a matter of fact he was perfectly sweet to me and at no one else’s command in the whole of this country—Mr Rhodes or Dr Jim or an Archangel—would I have left George and come back here to be laughed at. Not that you laughed—and I’ll never forget how good you’ve been, and Mrs Marriott too. And oh, Miss Saurin, you should see her husband. You wouldn’t know him, he has brightened and changed so much. He looks like a man again.”“Oh, you must tell her,” I said. “Tell her as soon as she comes in. Did he speak to you?”“Yes, they were all crowding round my horse cheering me at the last. I must tell you that though the Doctor was very cross with me, both he and Major Kinsella said things that made every one think I was a very brave woman indeed, instead of a silly little fool who thought she was doing something rather clever and found out that she was simply making extra difficulties for the men. Of course I know it disorganised things awfully—and then to have to send off two good men with me—and how they hated coming, poor fellows! Oh, I was awfully ashamed of myself, but I can assure you Tony Kinsella had every one of them cheering and kissing my hands as though I were a Joan of Arc—and all the time my heart was a wretched little speck of misery in me.”She paused, staring wretchedly at the ceiling with her lovely murky eyes, and considering God knows what sad pages of her unhappy history. I was sorry for her, but my heart was glowing with joy to have heard tidings of the man I loved, and I could not be unhappy.“Tell me about Mrs Marriott’s husband,” I presently said, when I could drag my thoughts away from Anthony.“He was one of the last to take my hand and wish me good-bye and good-luck, and he said, ‘When you see my wife, Mrs Rookwood, will you tell her that I am feeling like another man, and give her—’ That was all, but he said it with such intensity that I’m sure he meant her to understand that heisanother man, and he must have overcome his dreadful habit to a great extent to look as he does—quite bright-eyed and holding himself alert. I am sure that he was going to say ‘Give her my love,’ but a sudden shyness came over him in front of all those men, knowing, too, that every one knew how sad it had been for her.”“You must tell her,” I said swiftly, for I heard her coming along the verandah. “Tell her everything, just as you’ve told me, and put in the love too—of coursehe meant to send it. You’ll be doing a fine action, Mrs Rookwood. That woman is half dead with despair.”At this point we nimbly turned the conversation to the subject of supper, and having examined the toast which Mrs Marriott held out for my approval, I a few minutes later made it my business to go in turn to the yard-fire.As I went along the side verandah, kettle in hand, I passed the window of the office in which Mrs Valetta and her party had their quarters. The room was brightly lighted with the N.C.’s rose-red lamp, round which a dozen woolly moths were buzzing, seeking destruction. The whole party was seated at the table playing cards. And Mrs Skeffington-Smythe was staring at her husband with a look of positive hatred in her eyes.“Idon’tcheat,” she was furiously asserting.“Yes, you do; you always do; you think it’s funny. And all the time everybody else is hating you for it,” responded the warlike Monty amiably. Mrs Valetta and Miss Cleeve exchanged glances of the utmost boredom and disgust. Indeed, if there is anything more desperate in the way ofennuithan to listen to a husband and wife quarrelling over cards, I don’t know it.When I got back to our peaceful little den I felt inclined to decorate Mrs Rookwood with a gold medal with “Hurrah” on it in diamonds. Mrs Marriott had turned into another woman. To look at her one could almost believe that it was she who was emancipating herself from the drug habit. All her droopiness had gone. She looked like a flower upon which dew had fallen after long drought. She was not middle-aged any more. The Frenchman who wrote that age never comes to a woman who is loved, knew something about women and life!My bed was not very comfortable that night, but I wrapped myself to sleep in a new dream of joy in my Anthony, who by his action in taking Dr Marriott in the face of all opposition had brought back fresh hope to two souls that bad seemed doomed to defeat and despair.

“To know anything about one’s self one must know all about others.”

“To know anything about one’s self one must know all about others.”

The big main doors of the post-office were thrown open at an early hour of morning but the inmates oflaagerdid not rise with the lark. They trickled forth at intervals, according to their use in life and the duties to be performed by them. When I came out on the verandah facing the barricades I found it strewn with the sleeping forms of men.

I stood for a moment looking at the landscape glowing and scintillating under the sparkling morning sunlight. Across the veldt a small body of horsemen came cantering towards the town; the men who had been out all night on picket duty.

I had slipped away from Mrs Marriott, for having long ago heard how sensitive she was about her tiny, barely-furnished hut, I did not want to cause her the embarrassment of offering to share it with me. I was looking at the mounting of one of the big guns and pondering the question of which hotel I should try, when Mrs Valetta swept past, her face coldly averted, and just the faintest suspicion of an intention to hold her skirt away from me. I flushed, then smiled disdainfully at the uplifted nose of Anna Cleeve who followed in her wake. Neither of them spoke a word. I had a childish inclination to whistle a time just to show them I didn’t care a button, but I conquered it, and started instead to pick my way through the wet grassy paths towards the Imperial Hotel—I had suddenly remembered that Hendricks had said the Imperial was kept by a woman.

Half-way across the township I was caught up by the doctor, and when I told him where I was bound for he very agreeably offered to escort me. But he peered at me curiously as if to know the reason of this odd departure. Arrived at the long, galvanised-iron building which glared and blinked in the morning sun, he left me in the verandah with the assurance that he would send Mrs Baynes out to me. A few minutes later I made the discovery that Mrs Baynes was the dropsical duchess with whom I had shared a staring acquaintance the night before. She immediately resumed her observations, but she was professionally civil and obsequious until she found that I wished to engage a room; her manner then underwent a series of rapid changes—from curiosity to amazement, to hauteur, to familiarity. She began to “my dear” me! I swallowed my indignation as best I might and assumed not to notice her impertinence, for I was beginning to fear that she would not take me in and there would be nothing for me but Swears’s.

“Aoah!” she said at last. (She had a peculiarly irritating way of pronouncing “oh!”) “Aoah! I thought you were staying with Mrs Valetta and all that swagger lot.”

She examined me intently from my hat to my shoes as though she had not done the same thing thoroughly the night before.

“Have you no rooms to let?” I repeated politely.

“Well—I don’t know—it depends.” She paused, tapping some dark blue teeth reflectively with her finger-nail whilst apparently counting the number of tucks in my skirt. She then closely inspected the gathers round my waist, and my belt-buckle.

“What does it depend upon?” I asked with deadly calm.

“Aoah! a lot of things.” She threw her head sideways revealing a generous splendour of double chin, and shouted over her shoulder in a tremendous voice. “Fanny! Come yerea minit.”

Fanny arriving was revealed as the tall and Junoesque girl with the swishing petticoat and the Wellington nose.

“This lady wants a room. What doyouthink, Fan?”

Fanny gazed at me in a queenly way over her military nose; but whensheproceeded to count the tucks in my skirt and examine my belt-buckle I felt fury rising in me like a tidal wave.

“Madam!” I said, freezing the landlady with my eyes. “Will you be good enough to answer my question definitely? Can I or can I not engage a room in this hotel—and have my meals served to me there?”

“Aoah! meals served in bedroom! I never heard of such a thing.”

I turned away hot with wrath and met the eyes of Colonel Blow and Maurice Stair who had just come round the corner of the hotel and entered the verandah. They looked amazed at finding me there, so I explained hastily and haughtily to the former whilst Mr Stair and the doctor listened frankly, and the eyes of Mrs Baynes and “Fanny” seared the back of my frock and hat. Afterwards Colonel Blow said quietly and emphatically:

“Of course you have a room for this lady, Mrs Baynes—the best in the house. You can put me anywhere you like.” He added deliberately, “It would be a good thing to take Miss Saurin to her room at once and give her some breakfast.” There was no mistaking the “I-am-the-Commandant-and-mean-to-be-obeyed” tone of his voice.

He was probably Mrs Baynes’s best boarder in any case. Without a word she led the way, while “Fanny” dwindled from the scene like a bad dream. We walked through the dining-room, bare of anything but a long table and some dissipated-looking chairs, down a passage, and into a back verandah which had a row of doors facing the sunrise. At the third door she stopped and flung it wide:

“There you are!” she snapped. “Four pounds a week with board—paid in advance. Take it or leave it—I don’t care.”

She flounced away and left me. I went in and gazed about me. I had never been in a more hopelessly impossible room in my life.

One night just as we were straggling intolaager, the look-out reported a small party of persons on the horizon, riding very slowly towards the town. It was not time for a change of pickets, neither could it be a patrol returning for there was no patrol out. When these two facts were thoroughly digested every one pranced for their field glasses, and thelaagerverandah became crowded with very busy people full of curiosity and excitement at the thought of news from the front. Later, as the little group came nearer to us out of the glamour of evening shadows it was seen to consist of three persons, and presently there materialised under our watching eyes two battered-looking troopers, coatless and (of course) extremely dirty, riding one on each side of a dandified slim young man in a suit of khaki of sulphurous shade but of the most precise and fashionable cut. His putties were put on beautifully: not a false fold or a bad line anywhere. His rifle-fittings shone brightly in the sunset glow, and the bandolier slung with debonair carelessness across his breast had not a cartridge missing!

All these details were noted and beheld with breathless interest before we could even see the face of this mysterious Brummel in khaki, for his police hat—the only inartistic thing about him—was pulled well down over his eyes. I think I was the first to see the glint of an amazing shade of golden hair, and the line of a defiant mouth. Some notion of the truth dawned upon me then and a moment after every one knew. Colonel Blow stepped forward and spoke to the troopers, and one of them, who was a sergeant, answered him briefly and to the point:

“The C.O. ordered me to escort this lady back to Fort George, sir.”

At this the slouch hat was pushed back, and Mrs Rookwood’s murky eyes stared defiantly at us all. Then her pretty mirthless laugh rang out.

“It was all that brute Anthony Kinsella’s fault,” she said, addressing herself exclusively to the Commandant. “When he joined the others and found me in his troop with George he immediately told the Doctor and had me sent back. Wasn’t it horrid of him, Colonel? I’m sure I should have made as good a soldier as any one else of them. I’m a first-class shot. You have said so yourself now, haven’t you?”

She was trying to carry her defeat off bravely under the remorseless stare of a number of feminine eyes. Her own were so bright that it was plain she was on the verge of tears, and as she left off speaking her mouth began to quiver. She hadn’t an atom of make-up on and looked almost middle-aged, but nevertheless extremely handsome. It was a difficult moment but Colonel Blow was true blue, and knew the right thing to do. He laughed cheerily and went forward to help her from her saddle.

“Well, you’ve had quite an adventure, Mrs Rookwood! But George will probably be put in the cells when he comes back for aiding and abetting you.”

“He didn’t,” she said, speaking more naturally. “I did it all on my own, but he was awfully glad to see me when I turned up.”

“Where did you leave them, Sergeant?”

“About thirty miles from Sigala, sir. Major Kinsella knew the way back was safe as he had just come along it and found it perfectly clear. But we had to ride hard.”

“Yes; you must all be fagged out. Mrs Rookwood, the best thing you can do is to get to bed at once. But finding a bed for you is another matter.”

He turned round in a half-appealing way to the group of women who had been standing behind him, but at the very suspicion of being asked to do anything for such a person as Mrs Rookwood almost every skirt disappeared like magic. In the twinkling of an eye there was no one to be seen but the spiteful Dutch woman and me, the tabooed of all tabooees.

“Miss Saurin”—he began in a persuasive voice.

“Of course,” I said, smiling at his distress, “I shall be delighted to do anything I can for Mrs Rookwood if she will let me. I’m afraid all the cosiest corners are gone, though,” I said to her, “and nothing but desks and mail-bags left to sleep on. But you’re welcome to share all we’ve got—and I’m sure Mrs Marriott will say so too.”

At this casual information she for some occult reason burst into tears, and stood there sobbing with her hands over her face. Poor Colonel Blow stared at her in dismay.

“She’s tired,” I said, “and hungry, too, I expect. Come along, Mrs Rookwood. I’ll serve you up one of my famous French suppers before you go to bed. Colonel, will you have the kit from her horse sent in, please?”

I put my arm round the slim trim khaki waist, and half led, half dragged her to the den behind the post-office counter. Mrs Marriott was there already reading a book by candle-light, and she looked absolutely aghast at seeing me with my arm round a man’s waist, for with her usual knack of missing any excitement that was going on she knew nothing of the event that had just taken place. From her nervous, horrified expression she evidently concluded that this was a fresh escapade on my part and that I was hopelessly incorrigible. When I explained the situation she was so much relieved that she did not show as I feared any coolness to the luckless Mrs Rookwood; but instead began in her absent-minded fashion to move her things so that there would be more room for the latter who was forlornly drying her tears.

“We’ve only one small mattress and that is stuffed with nails,” I said apologetically.

“I’ve slept on the ground ever since I left here, you know—and been fearfully cold at night, too. I don’t mind anything now. It is awfully good of you to bother with me at all.”

She looked as if she was going to howl again.

“Nonsense!” I said briskly. “Do you like coffeeà la turc?—because I’m just going to make some. It picks you up like a balloon. You’ll feel like a roaring lion afterwards.” She began to smile. “And a Welsh rarebit,” I beguiled her. “Oh, don’t say you are one of those cowards who daren’t eat Welsh rarebits for fear of what dreams may come.”

“No; I love them.” I had her laughing at last. “And I’m so hungry, Miss Saurin.”

“Well! there will be Welsh rarebit and some cold Mashona hen I stole from the hotel—and let me see. Where is the box of sharks you had, Mrs Marriott?”

She produced the sardines, also two boiled eggs and a lettuce. It had become our pleasant custom to ask either Colonel Blow or Mr Stair or Mr Bleksley to come in to supper before the night watches began. Hence these luxurious stores.

“Good,” I said. “That will provide for three courses; chicken mayonnaise, Welsh rarebit, and a sardine savoury. Lie down and rest, Mrs Rookwood, while we prepare supper.”

She did as I told her without a word, and Mrs Marriott and I busied ourselves with the postmaster’s oil-stove and a pan and pot I had secured from Hunloke and Dennison’s. Mrs Marriott actually rose to the point of going out to the yard-fire by herself to make three slices of toast for the savoury.

“She’s coming along,” I boasted to Mrs Rookwood. “The first few nights she was inlaagershe had no more initiative than a dead duck, but she’s getting quite bright now. I really believe it is doing her good to come intolaagerand see society.”

“Your society would do any one good,” remarked my companion so warmly that I really felt she was sincere and I coloured all over with pleasure, for I always think a compliment from a woman is worth half-a-dozen from a man. I still had it in my heart against her that she had called my Anthony a brute, but her next words dissolved all my resentment and gave her my gratitude for ever.

“I never met any one more kind and generous—except Anthony Kinsella. I called him a brute this evening but that was only to cover my embarrassment and anger with all those cats staring at me. As a matter of fact he was perfectly sweet to me and at no one else’s command in the whole of this country—Mr Rhodes or Dr Jim or an Archangel—would I have left George and come back here to be laughed at. Not that you laughed—and I’ll never forget how good you’ve been, and Mrs Marriott too. And oh, Miss Saurin, you should see her husband. You wouldn’t know him, he has brightened and changed so much. He looks like a man again.”

“Oh, you must tell her,” I said. “Tell her as soon as she comes in. Did he speak to you?”

“Yes, they were all crowding round my horse cheering me at the last. I must tell you that though the Doctor was very cross with me, both he and Major Kinsella said things that made every one think I was a very brave woman indeed, instead of a silly little fool who thought she was doing something rather clever and found out that she was simply making extra difficulties for the men. Of course I know it disorganised things awfully—and then to have to send off two good men with me—and how they hated coming, poor fellows! Oh, I was awfully ashamed of myself, but I can assure you Tony Kinsella had every one of them cheering and kissing my hands as though I were a Joan of Arc—and all the time my heart was a wretched little speck of misery in me.”

She paused, staring wretchedly at the ceiling with her lovely murky eyes, and considering God knows what sad pages of her unhappy history. I was sorry for her, but my heart was glowing with joy to have heard tidings of the man I loved, and I could not be unhappy.

“Tell me about Mrs Marriott’s husband,” I presently said, when I could drag my thoughts away from Anthony.

“He was one of the last to take my hand and wish me good-bye and good-luck, and he said, ‘When you see my wife, Mrs Rookwood, will you tell her that I am feeling like another man, and give her—’ That was all, but he said it with such intensity that I’m sure he meant her to understand that heisanother man, and he must have overcome his dreadful habit to a great extent to look as he does—quite bright-eyed and holding himself alert. I am sure that he was going to say ‘Give her my love,’ but a sudden shyness came over him in front of all those men, knowing, too, that every one knew how sad it had been for her.”

“You must tell her,” I said swiftly, for I heard her coming along the verandah. “Tell her everything, just as you’ve told me, and put in the love too—of coursehe meant to send it. You’ll be doing a fine action, Mrs Rookwood. That woman is half dead with despair.”

At this point we nimbly turned the conversation to the subject of supper, and having examined the toast which Mrs Marriott held out for my approval, I a few minutes later made it my business to go in turn to the yard-fire.

As I went along the side verandah, kettle in hand, I passed the window of the office in which Mrs Valetta and her party had their quarters. The room was brightly lighted with the N.C.’s rose-red lamp, round which a dozen woolly moths were buzzing, seeking destruction. The whole party was seated at the table playing cards. And Mrs Skeffington-Smythe was staring at her husband with a look of positive hatred in her eyes.

“Idon’tcheat,” she was furiously asserting.

“Yes, you do; you always do; you think it’s funny. And all the time everybody else is hating you for it,” responded the warlike Monty amiably. Mrs Valetta and Miss Cleeve exchanged glances of the utmost boredom and disgust. Indeed, if there is anything more desperate in the way ofennuithan to listen to a husband and wife quarrelling over cards, I don’t know it.

When I got back to our peaceful little den I felt inclined to decorate Mrs Rookwood with a gold medal with “Hurrah” on it in diamonds. Mrs Marriott had turned into another woman. To look at her one could almost believe that it was she who was emancipating herself from the drug habit. All her droopiness had gone. She looked like a flower upon which dew had fallen after long drought. She was not middle-aged any more. The Frenchman who wrote that age never comes to a woman who is loved, knew something about women and life!

My bed was not very comfortable that night, but I wrapped myself to sleep in a new dream of joy in my Anthony, who by his action in taking Dr Marriott in the face of all opposition had brought back fresh hope to two souls that bad seemed doomed to defeat and despair.

Chapter Eleven.The Children Call.“Linger longer,laager,Linger longer loo.If we have nolaager,What will Col. Blow do?“Stair will ne’er desert him,‘Monty’ will be true.Then linger longer,laager,Linger longer, loo.”Laager Ballads.There followed many blank days. Week after week went by without news of any kind coming in. We only knew that our men were all together now, and marching on to Matabeleland. The question with us was to kill time and fearsome thought, and to kill time was a nearly impossible thing to do. Amusements there were none, of course, and occupations had to be invented. An interest in life had to be borne within, for in the external life of the town nothing happened to excite interest. The men, it is true, were kept always on thequi viveby the indefatigable Commandant, and when they were not drilling on the square or practising with the Hotchkiss they were away on patrol and picket duty. Even if they had not been so busy they were not a very interesting crowd; I imagine the men left behind to look after the women seldom are. They may be the real heroes; but they don’t look like it; and I don’t fancy they feel like it. The cause of their being left behind in the first place is generally physical unfitness or some domestic or official reason that puts them out of conceit with themselves, and out of love with life in general. Even a man like Colonel Blow, left in charge of a town in a position of great responsibility and trust, grew morose and surly, thinking of the excitement he was missing at the front and the fighting he was hopelessly out of. It was said that on its being decided that he was to be left behind he spent a whole day wiring appeals to Dr Jim and Mr Rhodes, and in the intervals walking round and round his office shouting bad words about “a lot of women and children any one could look after!” Not very flattering to the women and children, of course, but one could quite understand the attitude of mind and believe that in the same case one would say the same thing. There must be something gloriously exciting in riding through starry nights and sunlit days to fight for your country and your rights. There is nothing at all glorious in sitting safe and snug at home killing time until good news comes in.I was very sorry for pale, handsome Maurice Stair with his crippled arm. He could not even go out on patrol or picket duty, because it was impossible for him to carry a gun. He always sought me when he had a spare half-hour, and afterwards I used to feel quite exhausted from the prolonged effort of trying to cheer him up. It was like trying to pull a heavy bucket up a well and never quite succeeding in getting it to the top. He often said:“Thank God for you, anyway; the only sound, sweet spot in the rottenest apple I’ve ever put my teeth into.”I would laugh at this exaggeration of my usefulness in trying to jeer him out of the blues: but I felt I deserved some praise for such work.“Absurd! You know very well you adore this country, like all the rest of the men, and would never be happy in a ‘boiled’ shirt again.”“Oh, wouldn’t I? Try me! If it were not for one person I would leave Fort George to-day and show Africa the cleanest pair of heels she ever saw step on to a Cape liner.”He looked at me so embarrassingly on this occasion that I did not care to ask him who the person was. I said:“Yes, and you would be back within a year, trying to sneak in by the East Coast route, hoping no one would notice you’d been away.”But he would deny the Witch unceasingly, saying that she had no lure for him—all because he was longing to be in the thick of things with the other men, and because of the tormenting thought that he was staying behind like a woman while history was being made within a few hundred miles.Certainly it was hard on a high-spirited boy, ambitious, with fighting blood in his veins. All his people had been soldiers for generations, he told me, but for some reason his uncle had not wished him to enter the army, and so he had sought life in places where at least there were always chances of irregular fighting. And now that a chance had come along—here he was! It reallywasbad luck, and I comforted him as best I might. But I had my own troubles to bear.The Salisbury women made things as difficult as they could for me. Mrs Valetta and Miss Cleeve began to cultivate the acquaintance of the Fort George women, and the result became directly apparent to my mental skin, always extremely susceptible to change of atmosphere. Where I had before met pleasant southerly breezes I now encountered chilly winds and frost.At first I felt rather bitterly about it, and inclined to resent this injustice on the part of the domesticated little Fort George bevy. But I lived that mood down. Having plenty of leisure and solitude in which to think things out, those first few weeks I got round in time to their point of view, and saw the situation through their eyes. From what they had been told by my recent chaperon and had observed for themselves on the sight of Anthony’s departure, they were bound to suppose that I was, to put it in the mildest way, lax about things conventional; and of course a woman who is that must expect to be looked upon as a sort of pirate, and the direct enemy of gentle, simple-hearted women who are devoting their lives to the task of being good wives and mothers.In the homes of such women, who by quiet, ceaseless, uncomplaining toil and task were forming the backbone of the country in which they lived, patriotism is born, and fine ideals, and the love of everything that is “strong and quiet like the hills.” What right had I to hate them if, hearing that I was a traitor to their cause, they looked sideways at me? Naturally, if they believed it true that I loved a married man and gloried in it, they saw in me a conspirator against their own peace and happiness. What was to save their own husbands from my lures and wiles when they came back? Perhaps that was how they looked at it.It was only by the aid of these reflections and my sure conviction of being in the right that I freed myself from bitterness against them. Later I grew quite tolerant; but it was some time before I could begin to think of offering my good gold for such silver as they grudged me. However, as the blank days went by and Anthony’s words and wishes came to be more than ever the only things in my world, I began to glance about me with hungry eyes for a little of the silver they were so greedy about. I had not far to look, once my eyes were opened. Everywhere about me were children; restless, constrained, confined, and hopelessly bored children. Some one once said (I think it was Kipling, who knows all about children as well as about everything else under the sun) that grown-up people do not always realise that boredom to children means acute and active misery.Well, the Fort George children were bored, and acutely, actively miserable. They had nowhere to go and nothing to do. Their favourite haunt, a line of little low kopjes just outside the town, was out of bounds and forbidden. The shallow river with its pools and flat rocks and silver-sanded bottom, the scene of many old delights, was likewise beyond safe precincts. Everything was forbidden but to prowl about in the small town with never a rock or a tree to play on: only locked and silent huts, and their own homes from which they were constantly chased by busy mothers, who in the general dearth of servants had all the washing acid cooking to do.Oh! the little sulky, dissatisfied faces that I met, not only sulky but peaked and pale; for when children do not get exercise that interests and amuses them they soon begin to look unhealthy. My duty seemed to be plainly marked out for me.I thanked Heaven they were mostly boys. I don’t think I could have organised sewing classes and spelling bees.But I love children and therefore I know something about them, so I did not go headlong into the business, looking for snubs. Snubs are not pleasant fare at the best of times, and I think children’s snubs are the most unswallowable; they are so sincere and to the point. I began my campaign by loafing about idly every morning just after breakfast, meeting them in the bypaths, and dropping a word here and there just to shew that I too was bored to madness. Gradually they recognised in me a fellow-martyr, and after a day or two they began to gravitate naturally in my direction as a centre where they could come and record their complaints. I allowed myself to be treated as a sort of slot-machine, where any one could come and drop a serious grievance instead of a penny, and sometimes get something back. However, I did not give much back. Children distrust grown-ups who give too much, or talk too much—especially in the first critical stages of friendship. They prefer to do all the talking themselves.In time they wanted to know what they should call me. I told them “Goldie,” a pet name of mine, and somehow that clinched the matter. Afterwards they gave me their full confidence, and I took firm hold and immediately began to impose upon it. The transition from favourite to tyrant can be swift and very simple, and I soon had an Empire which I ruled over like a Caesar.Games were the order of the day. First of all we took the tennis-court in hand—the tennis-court where I had dreamed bits of my beautiful dream and which lay now like a desolate and accursed spot covered with dead leaves, old papers, and rubbish! In one day it was swept and garnished, and in two it was rolled and marked to a degree of perfection it had never known before. On the third day I divided the children up into quartettes and taught them tennis in batches. They had never been allowed to so much as glance in the direction of the court before, it being considered solely and sacredly the property of the grown-ups. Now they bounced upon it like balls, and yells of delight and victory woke the dull echoes and rang through the town. We had some glorious days. But to all fine things an end must be, and just as everything had been got into splendid working order, with two clubs formed for the purpose of competition, a popular arrangement made for the scouting of balls, and an entertainment committee selected, down swooped the grown-ups, headed by Mrs Skeffington-Smythe, and wrested the court away from us.“Surely the only recreation in the place is not going to be taken away from us by these brats!” was their plaintive cry, and in my absence one morning, minding Mrs Marriott who was ill, my little crowd was intimidated and dismissed crestfallen. Like all Irish-Americans I have a “drop of the tiger” in me, and I fought for our rights. But when Mrs Skeffington-Smythe went round and got the mothers on their side I had to give in. It was no use encouraging insubordination to mothers; that I very well knew would end in my defeat as well as the children’s.“Oh, let them have their old court,” I said. “Soldiering is ever so much greater fun. But we must make a parade ground first, or Colonel Blow will be mad if we use the square except for very special occasions.”So we made a parade ground for ourselves with very great labour and the joy that comes with toil or the world would work no more. Then, Heavens! how I drilled them! Every exercise and manoeuvre known to the mind of man and gymnasium mistresses was brought into force, and every atom of information acquired or inherited from a family that had always produced soliders came to my aid and was brought into active use. Not the least of my accomplishments was that at this juncture I roped in Mrs Marriott and Mrs Rookwood to make uniforms for my regiment.At various shops in the town I found plenty of red twill. It is called “limbo” in Mashonaland and used for “swapping” with the natives in return for hens and rice and eggs and things. This I commandeered in large quantities and carried off to Mrs Rookwood. Like all colonial women she was clever with her hands, and could cut out and make anything, from a ball-gown to a suit of clothes. Indeed, she told me that she had actually without any help made the ravishing suit of khaki in which she started for the front, having cut it out and set to work at the first rumour of trouble with the natives.She now at my instigation designed a most fascinating uniform, in which the boys looked as gallant as French Zouaves, and the girls, with their skirts tucked into the baggy bloomers, like incipient, rather fat, Turks. The first full-dress parade, held in the market square, was an entrancing spectacle. In the first flush of admiration Colonel Blow was moved to permit the convicts to erect cross-bars and a trapeze, make us some rough dumb-bells and put up a great strong pole for a giant’s stride in the centre of our recreation ground. Mr Stair contributed a mile or two of stout rope, and lo! we had a stride that was the crowning delight of life, but that I am fain to say was not confined to the children; for between patrols and picket duties many grown-up khaki legs might have been seen flying round amongst the scarlet bloomers.Cricket also became one of the serious affairs of life. And I taught them handball against the jail wall which appeared to have been built expressly for the purpose of the Irish national game. Of course I am half Irish and that must be taken into account when I say that next to baseball it is the greatest game in the world for exercising both body and brain. Played at its best it is a splendid swift panorama of rippling muscles, dancing feet, sparkling eyes, and racing thoughts. You can actually, by the player’s intent, eye, tell how he is going to smash that ball, which will come two strokes later, into the middle of next week.I should have liked to get up a baseball team too; but there was a difficulty about “bats” and the mothers were afraid of eyes being put out and noses broken. Perhaps they were right. Anyway, we had games enough to keep us alive and busy and young. I was not very ancient myself, but felt myself growing younger every day amongst those fascinating Fort George children, and I began to swagger and brag about them as if they were my own.Four weeks after our first going intolaagerno one would have recognised them for the gang of discontented reprobates they had been. Bright cheeks, serene eyes, and lumps of muscle like young cocoanuts on their legs and arms were now their most distinguishing features.I had pride also in their changed demeanour. Of course they were still noisy and often naughty—what child worth its salt is not? But drill and discipline had done a great deal for them, and though they were gay and rowdy-dowdy they were no longer the melancholy, meaningless, and rather malicious monkeys to whom I had first made advances.And at night inlaagerthey really behaved well. It is true that they did not go to bed like lambs, and sometimes on a hot stuffy night there would be a row in the dormitories that called for my special intervention. A mother would come to our post-office den and say:“Oh, Miss Saurin, would you come and speak to Jimmy?” or Cliffie or Sally—or some one or other. And I would be obliged to confront the criminal wearing the air of a Caesar reproaching his Brutus with a last “Et tu?”Nearly always that would suffice, but sometimes I had to ring a change and in dramatic tones threaten the offender with the prospect of running the gauntlet or the extreme penalty of having his honours stripped from his breast before the eyes of the world. Jimmy Grant wore my Bisley medal: for highest cricket score. Cliffie Shannon had a miniature of President Grover Cleveland set in amethysts strung round his wiry neck: for measuring biggest round the calf. Claude Macdonald (an Aberdeen Presbyterian) proudly displayed a Pius IX bronze medal, and I believe secretly considered the “super nos spiritus de excelso” as being specially applicable to his prowess in running. Various members of the brigade wore twisted silver bangles of which I fortunately had a number. It would have been a serious matter to have been deprived of these decorations, and a threat of such a tragedy was usually quite enough to ensure good conduct.But on the whole the nice things behaved with a reasonableness that would have become many of the older people inlaager. Among the Dutch folk many disagreeable incidents occurred. Neither were some of our guardians and defenders above reproach. The men who were off duty often made merry in their own quarters, and in dull times it is supposed that they essayed to keep their spirits up by pouring spirits down. Colonel Blow and his staff kept good order, but there were some incorrigibles and one of the worst was Mr Skeffington-Smythe. Often on hot nights we were obliged to close our tiny porthole window which overlooked the main yard and do without air rather than be disturbed by the thrilling conversations which occurred between Mrs Skeffington-Smythe, safely and exclusively tied inside her tent, and Monty, returned late from a convivial gathering, clamouring piteously without:“Porkie! Porkie! Let me in... Darling! Let me in! How am I to sleep out in this infernal yard?”“Go away!”“Porkie!” in a yearning, heart-searing tone.“Go away! Wretch! Pig!”“Nina, was it for this I came down through deadly danger to mind you, instead of going off with all the fellows to have a good time at the front?”Exclamations of disgust, quite indescribable, from inside the tent.“I bet they’re having a better time than I am now, Porkie!”“Oh, you wretched little worm!Willyou go away!”Thus it was between Porkie Skeffington-Smythe and the gallant Monty, who was at one time thought to be on his way to the Victoria Cross!

“Linger longer,laager,Linger longer loo.If we have nolaager,What will Col. Blow do?“Stair will ne’er desert him,‘Monty’ will be true.Then linger longer,laager,Linger longer, loo.”Laager Ballads.

“Linger longer,laager,Linger longer loo.If we have nolaager,What will Col. Blow do?“Stair will ne’er desert him,‘Monty’ will be true.Then linger longer,laager,Linger longer, loo.”Laager Ballads.

There followed many blank days. Week after week went by without news of any kind coming in. We only knew that our men were all together now, and marching on to Matabeleland. The question with us was to kill time and fearsome thought, and to kill time was a nearly impossible thing to do. Amusements there were none, of course, and occupations had to be invented. An interest in life had to be borne within, for in the external life of the town nothing happened to excite interest. The men, it is true, were kept always on thequi viveby the indefatigable Commandant, and when they were not drilling on the square or practising with the Hotchkiss they were away on patrol and picket duty. Even if they had not been so busy they were not a very interesting crowd; I imagine the men left behind to look after the women seldom are. They may be the real heroes; but they don’t look like it; and I don’t fancy they feel like it. The cause of their being left behind in the first place is generally physical unfitness or some domestic or official reason that puts them out of conceit with themselves, and out of love with life in general. Even a man like Colonel Blow, left in charge of a town in a position of great responsibility and trust, grew morose and surly, thinking of the excitement he was missing at the front and the fighting he was hopelessly out of. It was said that on its being decided that he was to be left behind he spent a whole day wiring appeals to Dr Jim and Mr Rhodes, and in the intervals walking round and round his office shouting bad words about “a lot of women and children any one could look after!” Not very flattering to the women and children, of course, but one could quite understand the attitude of mind and believe that in the same case one would say the same thing. There must be something gloriously exciting in riding through starry nights and sunlit days to fight for your country and your rights. There is nothing at all glorious in sitting safe and snug at home killing time until good news comes in.

I was very sorry for pale, handsome Maurice Stair with his crippled arm. He could not even go out on patrol or picket duty, because it was impossible for him to carry a gun. He always sought me when he had a spare half-hour, and afterwards I used to feel quite exhausted from the prolonged effort of trying to cheer him up. It was like trying to pull a heavy bucket up a well and never quite succeeding in getting it to the top. He often said:

“Thank God for you, anyway; the only sound, sweet spot in the rottenest apple I’ve ever put my teeth into.”

I would laugh at this exaggeration of my usefulness in trying to jeer him out of the blues: but I felt I deserved some praise for such work.

“Absurd! You know very well you adore this country, like all the rest of the men, and would never be happy in a ‘boiled’ shirt again.”

“Oh, wouldn’t I? Try me! If it were not for one person I would leave Fort George to-day and show Africa the cleanest pair of heels she ever saw step on to a Cape liner.”

He looked at me so embarrassingly on this occasion that I did not care to ask him who the person was. I said:

“Yes, and you would be back within a year, trying to sneak in by the East Coast route, hoping no one would notice you’d been away.”

But he would deny the Witch unceasingly, saying that she had no lure for him—all because he was longing to be in the thick of things with the other men, and because of the tormenting thought that he was staying behind like a woman while history was being made within a few hundred miles.

Certainly it was hard on a high-spirited boy, ambitious, with fighting blood in his veins. All his people had been soldiers for generations, he told me, but for some reason his uncle had not wished him to enter the army, and so he had sought life in places where at least there were always chances of irregular fighting. And now that a chance had come along—here he was! It reallywasbad luck, and I comforted him as best I might. But I had my own troubles to bear.

The Salisbury women made things as difficult as they could for me. Mrs Valetta and Miss Cleeve began to cultivate the acquaintance of the Fort George women, and the result became directly apparent to my mental skin, always extremely susceptible to change of atmosphere. Where I had before met pleasant southerly breezes I now encountered chilly winds and frost.

At first I felt rather bitterly about it, and inclined to resent this injustice on the part of the domesticated little Fort George bevy. But I lived that mood down. Having plenty of leisure and solitude in which to think things out, those first few weeks I got round in time to their point of view, and saw the situation through their eyes. From what they had been told by my recent chaperon and had observed for themselves on the sight of Anthony’s departure, they were bound to suppose that I was, to put it in the mildest way, lax about things conventional; and of course a woman who is that must expect to be looked upon as a sort of pirate, and the direct enemy of gentle, simple-hearted women who are devoting their lives to the task of being good wives and mothers.

In the homes of such women, who by quiet, ceaseless, uncomplaining toil and task were forming the backbone of the country in which they lived, patriotism is born, and fine ideals, and the love of everything that is “strong and quiet like the hills.” What right had I to hate them if, hearing that I was a traitor to their cause, they looked sideways at me? Naturally, if they believed it true that I loved a married man and gloried in it, they saw in me a conspirator against their own peace and happiness. What was to save their own husbands from my lures and wiles when they came back? Perhaps that was how they looked at it.

It was only by the aid of these reflections and my sure conviction of being in the right that I freed myself from bitterness against them. Later I grew quite tolerant; but it was some time before I could begin to think of offering my good gold for such silver as they grudged me. However, as the blank days went by and Anthony’s words and wishes came to be more than ever the only things in my world, I began to glance about me with hungry eyes for a little of the silver they were so greedy about. I had not far to look, once my eyes were opened. Everywhere about me were children; restless, constrained, confined, and hopelessly bored children. Some one once said (I think it was Kipling, who knows all about children as well as about everything else under the sun) that grown-up people do not always realise that boredom to children means acute and active misery.

Well, the Fort George children were bored, and acutely, actively miserable. They had nowhere to go and nothing to do. Their favourite haunt, a line of little low kopjes just outside the town, was out of bounds and forbidden. The shallow river with its pools and flat rocks and silver-sanded bottom, the scene of many old delights, was likewise beyond safe precincts. Everything was forbidden but to prowl about in the small town with never a rock or a tree to play on: only locked and silent huts, and their own homes from which they were constantly chased by busy mothers, who in the general dearth of servants had all the washing acid cooking to do.

Oh! the little sulky, dissatisfied faces that I met, not only sulky but peaked and pale; for when children do not get exercise that interests and amuses them they soon begin to look unhealthy. My duty seemed to be plainly marked out for me.

I thanked Heaven they were mostly boys. I don’t think I could have organised sewing classes and spelling bees.

But I love children and therefore I know something about them, so I did not go headlong into the business, looking for snubs. Snubs are not pleasant fare at the best of times, and I think children’s snubs are the most unswallowable; they are so sincere and to the point. I began my campaign by loafing about idly every morning just after breakfast, meeting them in the bypaths, and dropping a word here and there just to shew that I too was bored to madness. Gradually they recognised in me a fellow-martyr, and after a day or two they began to gravitate naturally in my direction as a centre where they could come and record their complaints. I allowed myself to be treated as a sort of slot-machine, where any one could come and drop a serious grievance instead of a penny, and sometimes get something back. However, I did not give much back. Children distrust grown-ups who give too much, or talk too much—especially in the first critical stages of friendship. They prefer to do all the talking themselves.

In time they wanted to know what they should call me. I told them “Goldie,” a pet name of mine, and somehow that clinched the matter. Afterwards they gave me their full confidence, and I took firm hold and immediately began to impose upon it. The transition from favourite to tyrant can be swift and very simple, and I soon had an Empire which I ruled over like a Caesar.

Games were the order of the day. First of all we took the tennis-court in hand—the tennis-court where I had dreamed bits of my beautiful dream and which lay now like a desolate and accursed spot covered with dead leaves, old papers, and rubbish! In one day it was swept and garnished, and in two it was rolled and marked to a degree of perfection it had never known before. On the third day I divided the children up into quartettes and taught them tennis in batches. They had never been allowed to so much as glance in the direction of the court before, it being considered solely and sacredly the property of the grown-ups. Now they bounced upon it like balls, and yells of delight and victory woke the dull echoes and rang through the town. We had some glorious days. But to all fine things an end must be, and just as everything had been got into splendid working order, with two clubs formed for the purpose of competition, a popular arrangement made for the scouting of balls, and an entertainment committee selected, down swooped the grown-ups, headed by Mrs Skeffington-Smythe, and wrested the court away from us.

“Surely the only recreation in the place is not going to be taken away from us by these brats!” was their plaintive cry, and in my absence one morning, minding Mrs Marriott who was ill, my little crowd was intimidated and dismissed crestfallen. Like all Irish-Americans I have a “drop of the tiger” in me, and I fought for our rights. But when Mrs Skeffington-Smythe went round and got the mothers on their side I had to give in. It was no use encouraging insubordination to mothers; that I very well knew would end in my defeat as well as the children’s.

“Oh, let them have their old court,” I said. “Soldiering is ever so much greater fun. But we must make a parade ground first, or Colonel Blow will be mad if we use the square except for very special occasions.”

So we made a parade ground for ourselves with very great labour and the joy that comes with toil or the world would work no more. Then, Heavens! how I drilled them! Every exercise and manoeuvre known to the mind of man and gymnasium mistresses was brought into force, and every atom of information acquired or inherited from a family that had always produced soliders came to my aid and was brought into active use. Not the least of my accomplishments was that at this juncture I roped in Mrs Marriott and Mrs Rookwood to make uniforms for my regiment.

At various shops in the town I found plenty of red twill. It is called “limbo” in Mashonaland and used for “swapping” with the natives in return for hens and rice and eggs and things. This I commandeered in large quantities and carried off to Mrs Rookwood. Like all colonial women she was clever with her hands, and could cut out and make anything, from a ball-gown to a suit of clothes. Indeed, she told me that she had actually without any help made the ravishing suit of khaki in which she started for the front, having cut it out and set to work at the first rumour of trouble with the natives.

She now at my instigation designed a most fascinating uniform, in which the boys looked as gallant as French Zouaves, and the girls, with their skirts tucked into the baggy bloomers, like incipient, rather fat, Turks. The first full-dress parade, held in the market square, was an entrancing spectacle. In the first flush of admiration Colonel Blow was moved to permit the convicts to erect cross-bars and a trapeze, make us some rough dumb-bells and put up a great strong pole for a giant’s stride in the centre of our recreation ground. Mr Stair contributed a mile or two of stout rope, and lo! we had a stride that was the crowning delight of life, but that I am fain to say was not confined to the children; for between patrols and picket duties many grown-up khaki legs might have been seen flying round amongst the scarlet bloomers.

Cricket also became one of the serious affairs of life. And I taught them handball against the jail wall which appeared to have been built expressly for the purpose of the Irish national game. Of course I am half Irish and that must be taken into account when I say that next to baseball it is the greatest game in the world for exercising both body and brain. Played at its best it is a splendid swift panorama of rippling muscles, dancing feet, sparkling eyes, and racing thoughts. You can actually, by the player’s intent, eye, tell how he is going to smash that ball, which will come two strokes later, into the middle of next week.

I should have liked to get up a baseball team too; but there was a difficulty about “bats” and the mothers were afraid of eyes being put out and noses broken. Perhaps they were right. Anyway, we had games enough to keep us alive and busy and young. I was not very ancient myself, but felt myself growing younger every day amongst those fascinating Fort George children, and I began to swagger and brag about them as if they were my own.

Four weeks after our first going intolaagerno one would have recognised them for the gang of discontented reprobates they had been. Bright cheeks, serene eyes, and lumps of muscle like young cocoanuts on their legs and arms were now their most distinguishing features.

I had pride also in their changed demeanour. Of course they were still noisy and often naughty—what child worth its salt is not? But drill and discipline had done a great deal for them, and though they were gay and rowdy-dowdy they were no longer the melancholy, meaningless, and rather malicious monkeys to whom I had first made advances.

And at night inlaagerthey really behaved well. It is true that they did not go to bed like lambs, and sometimes on a hot stuffy night there would be a row in the dormitories that called for my special intervention. A mother would come to our post-office den and say:

“Oh, Miss Saurin, would you come and speak to Jimmy?” or Cliffie or Sally—or some one or other. And I would be obliged to confront the criminal wearing the air of a Caesar reproaching his Brutus with a last “Et tu?”

Nearly always that would suffice, but sometimes I had to ring a change and in dramatic tones threaten the offender with the prospect of running the gauntlet or the extreme penalty of having his honours stripped from his breast before the eyes of the world. Jimmy Grant wore my Bisley medal: for highest cricket score. Cliffie Shannon had a miniature of President Grover Cleveland set in amethysts strung round his wiry neck: for measuring biggest round the calf. Claude Macdonald (an Aberdeen Presbyterian) proudly displayed a Pius IX bronze medal, and I believe secretly considered the “super nos spiritus de excelso” as being specially applicable to his prowess in running. Various members of the brigade wore twisted silver bangles of which I fortunately had a number. It would have been a serious matter to have been deprived of these decorations, and a threat of such a tragedy was usually quite enough to ensure good conduct.

But on the whole the nice things behaved with a reasonableness that would have become many of the older people inlaager. Among the Dutch folk many disagreeable incidents occurred. Neither were some of our guardians and defenders above reproach. The men who were off duty often made merry in their own quarters, and in dull times it is supposed that they essayed to keep their spirits up by pouring spirits down. Colonel Blow and his staff kept good order, but there were some incorrigibles and one of the worst was Mr Skeffington-Smythe. Often on hot nights we were obliged to close our tiny porthole window which overlooked the main yard and do without air rather than be disturbed by the thrilling conversations which occurred between Mrs Skeffington-Smythe, safely and exclusively tied inside her tent, and Monty, returned late from a convivial gathering, clamouring piteously without:

“Porkie! Porkie! Let me in... Darling! Let me in! How am I to sleep out in this infernal yard?”

“Go away!”

“Porkie!” in a yearning, heart-searing tone.

“Go away! Wretch! Pig!”

“Nina, was it for this I came down through deadly danger to mind you, instead of going off with all the fellows to have a good time at the front?”

Exclamations of disgust, quite indescribable, from inside the tent.

“I bet they’re having a better time than I am now, Porkie!”

“Oh, you wretched little worm!Willyou go away!”

Thus it was between Porkie Skeffington-Smythe and the gallant Monty, who was at one time thought to be on his way to the Victoria Cross!

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