Boy: A Sketch by Marie Corelli - HTML preview

CHAPTER XII

TWO years had fully elapsed since the incidents narrated in the last chapter, and Miss Letty, in spite of the doctor’s ominous predictions, was still alive, and, as she expressed it, “in fairly good health for a woman of her age.” Major Desmond, however, was a prey to constant alarms, and in spite of the gout and rheumatism which nowadays afflicted him, used to visit her constantly, being always more or less in terror lest she should be snatched away suddenly from him and no time for a last “Good-bye.” And Miss Letty, with her always swift perception, saw his anxiety, and considered him very tenderly,—for he, though he did not seem to recognize it, was also suffering from the inevitable aches and pains of age, yet he held himself as bravely as ever. He wasn’t going to stoop and crawl about with a stick,—no, not he! And he bravely demonstrated his force of will by walking from his club in Piccadilly to Hans Place whenever his gouty foot was causing him the most acute suffering. Other men in his plight would have taken a cab, or at least availed themselves of a crutch—but he did neither. And there was so much practical good sense in the resistance he offered to the attempted siege of illness, that he cured himself of threatened attack many a time and saved the doctor’s bill.

Both he and Miss Letty had lost sight of Boy. Since the morning on which he had restored the bank notes, and had, as he said, “left his love,” he had disappeared mysteriously and unaccountably. The Major had inquired in vain for him at his old lodgings, and finally, in desperation, had essayed the disagreeable task of interviewing his parents on the subject of his whereabouts. But he could get no news from them. The “Honourable” Jim, bolstered up in his chair, with drawn countenance and hollow eyes, was scarcely recognizable, save when his son’s name was mentioned, and then he straightway woke up from his semi-lethargy to swear. The Major was therefore reduced to the necessity of endeavouring to get what information he could out of Mrs. D’Arcy-Muir, who, breathing hard and heavily like a porpoise, wept profusely at his first question, and allowed her tears to trickle down and mix with the various food stains on the dirty front of the ample dressing-gown in which she now enveloped her elephantine proportions.

“Oh, don’t talk to me about Boy!” she said. “Think of my sufferings as a mother! The disappointment I have had to endure is too terrible for words! The sacrifices I have made for him! The trouble I have had!”

“What trouble?” demanded the Major sharply. “You have done about as little for him as any one could, I fancy!”

Mrs. D’Arcy-Muir stopped producing her tears,—and stared at him with the air of an injured Roman matron.

“Little!” she echoed. “I have done everything for him—everything! Through my efforts, when his father grudged me any money for his education, he went to school in France——”

“And he’d better have stayed at home,” interpolated the Major.

“Then I never rested day or night till I could get him to college; and then—and then——”

“Then he was ‘crammed,’ and forgot that he was anything but a machine to take in facts and grind them to powder,—and then he went to Sandhurst, and then he got expelled for being drunk, having seen his father drunk before him all his life. Yes, ma’am, we know all that! But what I’m asking you now is—what’s become of him?”

“I’m sure I don’t know,” said Mrs. D’Arcy-Muir, beginning to be snappish. “I have not seen or heard anything of him for ages. He has deserted his mother! He is ungrateful—unnatural—and cruel! Sometimes I think he cannot be my son. I’m sure”—here she put her handkerchief to her eyes—“the stories one hears of changelings might really be true,—for Boy was never the same to me after he stayed with Miss Letty.”

As she spoke she almost screamed, for the Major, with one big stride, came close up to her and glared down upon her like a figure of fury.

“Why—why, you miserable woman!” he suddenly burst out. “You ought to be ashamed of yourself! You dare to hint anything against one of the finest creatures God ever made, and the best friend your son ever had—and I’ll—I’ll shake you! I will! If that wretched object inside—Jim—whom I used to know when he was younger, had shaken you long ago it would have done you and him a world of good! You don’t know any news of Boy, don’t you? Well, I do. I know this much, that if Miss Letty had been a woman like you, that unfortunate young fellow you have brought into the world would be serving his time in prison for—— Well, never mind for what! But with all his faults and follies he is better than his mother. If I had my way, his mother should hear a thing or two! Yes, ma’am, you may stare at me as much as ever you like—I’ve often wanted to speak my mind to you, and now I’ve done it. You were never fit to have a son. You never knew what to do with him when you got him. Your carelessness, your selfishness, your slovenliness, your downright d—— d idleness, are at the bottom of a good deal of the mischief he’s tumbled into. There, ma’am! I’ve said what I think, and I feel better for it. Good morning!”

And before Mrs. D’Arcy-Muir could say another word he abruptly left her, and she heard the street door shut after him with a loud bang. Her husband yelled to her from the adjoining room.

“What’s that?”

She went to him, her heavy tread shaking the flooring as she moved.

“It’s that horrible old Major Desmond just gone,” she said viciously. “He’s been most insulting! He actually says I am to blame for Boy’s turning out so badly!”

The Honourable Jim began to laugh. It was not a pleasant laugh, and the nature of his illness did not conduce to agreeable facial expression. But what latent sense of humour remained in him was decidedly awakened by his wife’s indignation.

“You’re to blame, eh! He said that? Well, he’s right—so you are! So you are!”

“Jim!”

And over her fat cheeks her little eyes peered at him with a look of amazement and wrath.

“I mean it,” he persisted thickly, trying to twist his poor paralysed tongue to distinct utterance. “You haven’t been fair to me or Boy,” and he began to whimper feebly. “The house has always been at sixes and sevens—never knew when one was going to have one’s bit or drop—no one in their senses would ever have called it a home—and you never tried to do me any good. If you had I might not be lying here now. Desmond’s right enough—old Dick Desmond was always a good sort of thoroughgoing chap. He knows what’s what. He’s right—it is your fault. God knows it is!”

His head fell back wearily on his pillow, and his lack-lustre eyes rolled restlessly in his head as if in search for something unattainable. There was something really pitiable in the wretched man’s helplessness,—and in the neglected state of his room, where medicine bottles, cups and glasses were littered about in confusion, and where everything showed carelessness and utter disregard of the commonest cleanliness and comfort. But no touch of compunction moved his wife to any consciousness of regret or compassion. On the contrary, she assumed an almost sublime air of majestic tolerance and injured innocence.

“Oh, of course!” she said resignedly, “of course it’s my fault! I ought to have known you would say that. It’s the way of a man. He always blames the woman who has been good to him—who has waited upon him hand and foot—who has worked for him night and day—who has——” here she began to grow hysterical—“who has loved him—who has been the mother of his son—who has sacrificed herself entirely to her home! Yes—it is always the way! Nothing but ingratitude! But you are ill, and I will not blame you—Oh no, Jim—I’ll not blame you, poor man!—you will be sorry—sorry for being so cruel to your good wife who has been so kind to you!”

With a sort of fat chuckling sob the estimable woman retired—not to weep, oh no! but merely to eat some eggs and macaroni, a dish to which she was particularly partial, and which had consoled her often before for the wrongs inflicted on her as the chief martyr of her sex.

And the Major returned to Miss Letty with the account of his embassy, whereat the gentle soul laughed a little, though there was a sadness in her laughter. All her old affection for Boy as a child had come back in full force for Boy as a young man, now that she knew all the story of his griefs and temptations. For after the affair of the bank notes, the Major had judged it best to tell her of the lad’s expulsion from Sandhurst, and when she knew everything, her pity and tenderness for him knew no bounds. Her whole heart went out to him—and she had but one wish—to see him again and lay her hands in a farewell blessing on his head. “Just once before I die,” she thought, for she knew in her own soul that death could not be far off—“just to kiss him and say I understand how he was tempted, poor fellow!—and how heartily I forgive him and pray for him.”

The Major knew of this secret longing of hers, though she seldom spoke of it, and it was in his great desire to gratify her that he sought everywhere for some clue to Boy’s whereabouts, but in vain. A police raid on the “Marquis” de Gramont’s gambling den had effectually cleared that rats’ nest out of London, so there were no difficulties left there by means of which Boy might have been traceable. Anxious and disturbed in mind, the good Major rambled up and down the Strand and all the bye-streets appertaining thereto, under the vague impression that he should perhaps find Boy reduced to selling matches or bootlaces at a corner, or coming out of a cheap eating-house,—“for,” said the Major feelingly, “he will have to get a dinner somehow or somewhere. One of the chief disadvantages of life on this earth is that none of us can do without feeding. If a world were invented where the creatures in it could exist simply by breathing in the air and drinking in the light, it would be perfection—there would be no cause for quarrelling, strife, or envyings of one another, though I expect some of the fashionable ladies would even then keep things pretty lively by quarrelling over their lovers and their gowns.”

Violet Morrison was away from London just at this time. Her course of study in surgical nursing, followed with the most intense and painstaking care, had made her an invaluable assistant to two or three of the greatest surgeons in London—and “Nurse Morrison,” as she was called, was always in demand. She was no fancy follower of her profession. She had not taken it up for the express purpose of flirting with the doctors, and inveigling one of them into marrying her. She had, however, grown into a very beautiful woman, and many a clever and brilliant ‘rising man’ cast longing eyes of admiration at her fair face and graceful form, as she moved with noiseless step and soft pitying eyes through a hospital ward, soothing pain by her touch and inspiring courage by her smile. But she set herself steadfastly against every hint of love or marriage, and never swerved for an hour or a moment from the lines of work and duty she had elected to walk in. Her only personal anxiety was for Miss Letty, and willingly would she have stayed with her beloved old friend, had not Miss Letty herself refused to be “coddled,” as she expressed it.

“If you don’t go and do your work, child, I shall fancy I am in immediate danger,” she said with a smile, “and I shall die right off before you have time to look round! Go where your duty calls you,—I shall be ever so much better and happier for knowing that you are where you ought to be.”

“I ought to be with you, I think,” said Violet tenderly. “My first duty is to you.”

Miss Letty patted her hand kindly,

“Your first duty is to help those who are in instant need, my dear,” she said. “Be quite happy about me,—I am really feeling much better and stronger, and I don’t think I shall go away from you just yet—not quite just yet. I think I shall live”—and her eyes softened tenderly—“to see Boy again.”

So Violet went, though not till after consultation with her uncle, who swore vociferously that if she remained to “nurse” Miss Letty, it would be all up with her at once.

“She’ll get it into her head that she can’t be left alone,—that she’s just on the point of dropping down dead—and I don’t know what else in the way of sickly rubbish,” he said warmly. “Look here, child! I’ve got the gout—and your wiseacres of doctors tell me that it may fly to my heart and do for me in a minute. Well—all I say is, let it! It can’t do any more when it’s done! But because I have to be dismissed out of the world one way or the other, I’m not going to crawl round on sticks, with a nurse bobbing about after me by way of a walking advertisement to announce—‘All’s up with this chap! Look at him and bid him good-bye!’ Not a bit of it!”

Violet laughed.

“You dear uncle! You are always so plucky!”

“Plucky! There’s no pluck about it,—we’ve all got to die—and when the time comes, let us for heaven’s sake go decently and in order, without making a fuss about it. The animals show us a good example—they go into holes and corners to die, in order not to distress their living friends. That’s what we ought to do, if we were not so deuced conceited as to think ourselves the most valuable objects in all creation. Yet, as a matter of fact, there are a good many horses and dogs who are superior to most men. No, Violet!—Don’t you bother about Miss Letty. I’ll take care of her. She’ll live all the longer for not being fussed over. You talk of pluck! She’s twenty times more plucky than I am—and we’ll—we’ll both make a stand against the final enemy—together!”

There was a pathetic note in the Major’s voice as he uttered the last few words, and Violet felt her eyes grow suddenly moist. But in her deep respect for the fine old man’s personal courage as well as for his fidelity to a lifelong passion, she forbore to utter one word of the sympathy which she knew would be unwelcome.

And time went on, till all at once England was thrilled and aroused by the declaration of war with the Transvaal,—a trumpet note which, re-echoing through the whole Empire, called into action the dormant martial spirit of all the men who love their country and their Queen. Excitement followed upon excitement,—hurried preparations for battle—embarkations of troops—rumours, now of victory, now of defeat,—and all the world was astir with eagerness to see how lion-hearted England would respond to the sudden and difficult demand made upon the strength of her military power. Regiment after regiment was despatched to the front,—ship after ship bore away sons, brothers, husbands and fathers from their homes and families, some to come back again loaded with honour and victory,—some never to return. The Major woke up like an old war-horse who hears the “réveille” sounded in the darkness of his stable,—and almost forgot his gout in the eagerness with which he tramped to and fro from the War Office to gather up the latest news of friends and old comrades in arms who had thrown up everything to go to the front and be again in active service.

“I never regretted my lost youth till now,” he said enviously to his old friend Captain Fitzgerald Crosby, who on account of a certain skill in the management of some special form of gun, was going out to the Cape—“Why, God bless me, Fitz, you’re only fifteen years younger than I am!”

“That’s true,” said Fitz,—“still fifteen years count, old boy! I wish with all my heart you were going with me,—but perhaps you would not care about leaving Miss Letty.”

“No—you’re right—I shouldn’t,” said the Major promptly. “I’m not jealous of you—don’t you think it! I wish you luck and a late chance of promotion!”

And when Fitz had gone, in company with many others whom the Major knew, another parting took place which caused the old man a very decided twinge of pain, and almost moved him to urge his own personal claims against those of duty. One of the famous surgeons for whom Violet had worked so well, was leaving for hospital work at the front, and made it a particular request that “Nurse Morrison” should also go on the same steamer.

“We don’t want any amateur ‘fancy’ nurses out there,” he said, explaining the position to the Major, who heard him with a mingling of pride and pain,—pride that his niece’s skill was so highly valued—pain at the idea of her leaving him,—“We want brave capable women, who will be examples to the others, and who really mean to work. There is no one I know who will be so valuable to me in my operations on the wounded as Nurse Morrison. I have talked to her about it, and she is quite willing to go if you give her leave.”

The matter had to be decided in a hurry, and so the Major, with a somewhat dismal face, confided it all to Miss Letty, who at once pleaded eloquently that Violet might be permitted to undertake the high duties offered to her.

“Let her go, Dick, by all means,” she said. “It’s a splendid chance for her—I know she will win the highest honours. She is perfectly fearless, and she may help to save many a valuable life.”

“But you, Letty,” said Desmond. “Who’s going to look after you?”

Miss Letty smiled.

“I’m all right, Dick! I have my maid,—and if I get any worse than I am, I will ask my old Margaret to come over from Scotland and nurse me. We mustn’t be selfish in our old age, Dick! We must let Violet go. Her services will be invaluable, and if we miss her, as of course we shall, during her absence, we shall at any rate feel we are doing our little best towards helping our brave soldiers by giving our dear girl to their cause.”

And so Violet sailed for the seat of war, bidding her uncle and Miss Letty good-bye with many tears, forebodings and private griefs,—but moved to heroic resolution to do her best where her work was so strenuously demanded. The moment she arrived at the Cape, she and the eminent surgeon who had secured her services were sent on to join the forces moving towards Colenso, and she soon had her mind as well as her hands full with the instructions she received as to the interior arrangements of hospital field tents, and the preparations for what has been rightly termed the “merciful cruelty” of the operating tables.

On the eve of the now famous battle of Colenso she stood at the entrance of one of these tents, pale but resolute, gazing out into space, her heart strangely heavy, her eyes burning with the heat of the dry, dusty air, and her whole mind oppressed with premonitory forebodings. Danger and death seemed very near,—and though cheerfulness was one of her qualities as a nurse, she found it difficult on this particular night to shake off the gloom and dread, which, like a black storm-cloud, steadily darkened down over her soul. She tried to think of all the things connected with her work—of the field hospital train, which she had walked through from end to end at the request of her commanding surgeon, examining everything, and admiring the forethought and care with which so many comforts had been provided for the coming wounded. The coming wounded! A faint shudder ran through her frame,—how un-Christian, how terrible it seemed, that shot and shell should be used to tear poor human beings to pieces for a quarrel over a bit of land, so much gold, or a difference as to the gain or loss of either!

“If the politicians who work up wars could only realize the true horror of bloodshed they would surely be more careful!” she thought. “It is terrible to be waiting here for the bodies of the poor fellows, mangled and bleeding, who have to suffer the most frightful agonies just at the command of Governments sitting safe in their easy chairs!”

“Thinking of home, Nurse Morrison?” said a cheery voice; and she looked up to see the famous surgeon she served addressing her. “Or of the coming Christmas?”

“Neither, sir. I was thinking of the cruelty of war.”

“It is a relic of barbarism,” said the great man, the while he peered into the hospital tent and saw that things were as he would have them. “Indeed, it is almost the only vestige left to us of the dark ages. The proper way for civilized nations to behave in a difficulty is to submit to peaceable arbitration. War—especially nowadays—is a mere slaughter-house—and the soldiers are the poor sheep led to the shambles. The real nature of the thing is covered up under flying flags and the shout of patriotism, but, as a matter of stern fact, it is a horrible piece of cowardice for one nation to try murdering another just to see which one gets its way first.”

“I am glad you think as I do,” said Violet, her eyes shining. “It is surely better to serve Queen and Country by the peaceful arts and sciences, than by killing men wholesale!”

The surgeon looked at her quizzically.

“Yes, nurse, but you must remember that the arts and sciences are very seldom rewarded—whereas if you kill a few of your human brethren you get notice and promotion! Don’t let us talk about it. We must do as we are told. And when the poor chaps are shot at and battered about, we must try to mend them up as well as we can. You’ve got everything very nice in there—very nice! Now oblige me, nurse, by trying to rest,—for from what I hear you will be actively wanted to-morrow.”

He nodded and went his way. Accustomed to obedience, Violet lay down on her little tent-bed, and before she closed her eyes in sleep prayed fervently for her uncle and her “darling Miss Letty.”

“I wonder how she is?” she thought, “and I wonder if she has yet heard anything of Boy?”

The morning broke clear and calm over the distant heights called Drakensberg, and an intense heat poured down from the cloudless sky, making the very ground scorching to the tread. There was not a breath of air, and the scarcity of water made it impossible to cool the tents by ordinary means. Violet awoke to the thunderous crash of the British naval guns opening fire on Fort Wylie. As dawn deepened into day, the bombardment grew faster and more furious, but no response came from the hidden enemy. For some time, storms of shell and shrapnel poured on in their destructive course without any apparent result, till all at once one shot crashed fiercely from the hills behind Colenso. This was followed by an appalling roar of guns and a deluge of fire from the Boer line of defence, and the fray began in deadly earnest. Sick and terrified at first by the hideous din, Violet instinctively put her hands to her ears, and sat, with one or two of the other nurses, well within the first field hospital tent, waiting for she knew not what. Once the great surgeon looked in, pale with excitement.

“Be ready, all of you!” he said briefly. “This is deadly work!” And he was gone.

“Are you not afraid?” asked one of her companions, whispering to Violet.

“Afraid?” she answered. “Oh no, not afraid,—only sorry! Sorry with my whole heart and soul for what these poor soldiers will have to suffer! I am thinking of them all the while—not of myself.”

The hammering of the guns continued, and far away, from the heights, invisible cannon thundered and boomed. As the day advanced the combat grew more closely contested, and wounded men were beginning to be rapidly carried to the “donga,” or shelter, at the rear of the British forces. Disaster followed disaster; and presently a word was whispered that turned the hearts of the waiting women in the tents cold—“defeat.” Defeat! For the British? Surely there was no such possibility! Defeat! While they were whispering together in low awestruck voices, the great surgeon suddenly entered with some of his assistants, his sleeves rolled up, his whole manner emphatically declaring work—and work too of the promptest and smartest character. Violet moved at once to his side.

“Do as I tell you,” he said, “and—you must not shrink! You will see some horrible sights. Are you prepared?”

“Quite!” she replied tranquilly. He gave one glance at her calm face and steadfast eyes—nodded approvingly, and went on with his preparations. A young lieutenant suddenly rushed in.

“They’ve shot the Colonel!” he exclaimed wildly. “He wouldn’t leave the guns! They wanted him to, but he said ‘Abandon be damned! We never abandon guns!’” And away he rushed again.

On went the crash of the Maxims behind the Boer trenches,—the earth was torn up in every direction by the bursting of lyddite shells—dead and wounded were brought in by their comrades, or carried on ambulances by the Army Medical Corps. The nurses were soon more than busy,—Violet Morrison did her best to soothe the frantic ravings of many of the men who, growing delirious with pain, fancied themselves still fighting on the field, and filled the air with their shoutings. “Look to the guns! Splendid! Splendid work! Don’t leave the guns!” And the hospital tent she controlled, so quiet and orderly some hours previously, was now transformed into a scene of breathless horror and interest.

The hot suffocating day went on, till, as the afternoon lengthened towards evening, there came the appalling news that the young and gallant Lieutenant Roberts, the only son of one of the most heroic of English generals, had been killed in a brave attempt to rescue the guns. This awful fatality seemed to create something of a panic among the bravest,—some of the steadiest heads lost account of what they were doing for the moment, and by a fatal forgetfulness on the part of the Staff, orders were never given to the Devons and Scots Fusiliers to leave the “donga” where they, with many wounded, were sheltered. Faithful to their duty, these unfortunate and valiant men remained where they were, waiting till they were told to move,—with the dire result that as the evening closed in the enemy crossed the river and treacherously surrounded them under cover of the white flag. Cruel slaughter followed,—but in the very midst of the fire and the falling men, a young officer on horseback suddenly dashed out from behind a hillock, galloping with all his might and bearing a wounded comrade across his saddle. A rain of shots greeted his appearance, but he seemed to bear a charmed life, for he raced on and on through the hail of bullets and never stopped till he reached the first field hospital tent, where his horse suddenly reeled and fell dead, bringing himself and his wounded burden to the ground.

Some of the medical staff were round him in an instant, and as soon as he could get breath he spoke.

“I’m not hurt,” he explained, “but this chap is. I found him wounded—and a rascal Boer making a barricade of his body to hide himself behind while he fired at our men. I shot the Boer, and took away this fellow—he’s a young private—I’m afraid he’s done for. I should like to know who he is, for he gave a sort of cry when I took hold of him, and called me ‘Alister,’ and swooned right off. Alister’s my name—so he must know me.”

He shook himself like a young lion, free of dust, and wiped away the blood that was trickling from a small scar in his cheek. His wish that the comrade he had rescued should be attended to at once was gratified as quickly as possible, and as the surgeon bared the terrible wounds of the insensible mangled human creature before him he shook his head.

“No hope!” he said,—“it’s no use operating here! It would only prolong the poor fellow’s agony. He’s coming to, though. Do you think he knows you?”

“Well, my name’s McDonald,” said the young officer,—“Alister McDonald. My father’s in the Gordon Highlanders. And this chap called me Alister. Let me have a look at him.” He came up to the side of the wounded soldier, who was gradually returning to consciousness with heavy shuddering breaths of pain,—and looked long and earnestly in his face. Then he gave a sharp exclamation.

“By Jove! It’s Boy!”

Violet Morrison heard the cry, and turned swiftly.

“Boy!” she exclaimed, and came forward, her lips apart, her whole frame trembling. Alister McDonald looked at her in surprise and admiration.

“Do you know him?” he said. “I’ve never seen him since he was a little chap, but I remember his face quite well. I don’t know how he comes to be a private, though. I think it must be the same fellow. His name is Robert D’Arcy-Muir——”

But Violet, bending down over the poor shattered frame of the dying man, quickly recognized, through the trickling blood and clammy dews of fever heat, the delicate refined features and clustering fair locks which had once been the fond admiration of one of the sweetest women in the world, and, despite all her efforts at self-control, a low sob escaped her.

“Oh my darling Miss Letty!” she whispered—“Oh Boy!”

Young Alister McDonald heard her.

“Miss Letty!” he echoed with quick interest—“Oh, then it must be Boy. He stayed with her up in Scotland at a house just opposite my father’s——”

The surgeon raised a warning finger,—and he was silent. Boy opened his eyes, dimly blue, and slowly glazing over with a dark film, and looked up in the face of “Nurse Morrison.”

“Have we won?” he asked faintly.

The surgeon laid his firm kind hand upon the fitfully beating pulse.

“Don’t fret! We shall win!” he said.

Boy gazed blankly up from his straight pallet bed.

“Shall we?—I don’t know—it’s all defeat—defeat!—and they’ve got the guns!—by treachery. Where’s Alister?”

“Here!” said the young lieutenant, advancing. “Cheer up, old chap!”

“I knew it must be you!” said Boy, trying to stretch out his hand. “When you shot that Boer coward—and took me up on your horse—I knew!—Alister all over!—You were always like that—about fighting the enemies of England—do you remember?”

“Yes, I remember”—and Alister affectionately touched that feebly groping hand—“Don’t you worry! It’s all right!?