The Curse of Carne's Hold: A Tale of Adventure

"I firmly believe," Ruth said, "he would have murdered me had he not heard people coming along the road." Then she told how she found the open knife stained with blood at Margaret Carne's bedside, and how she had hidden it. "I did not do it because I loved him still, Mary," she said. "My love seemed to have been killed. I had given him up before, and the attack he made upon me had shown me clearly how violent he was, and what an escape I had had; but I had loved him as a boy, and it was the remembrance of my girlish love, and not any love I then had, that sealed my lips; but even this would not have silenced me, I think, had it not been for the sake of his father. The old man had always been very, very kind to me, and the disgrace of his son being found guilty of this crime would have killed him. I can say, honestly, it was this that chiefly influenced me in deciding to shield him. As to Captain Mervyn, I was, as I told you, determined that though I would keep silent if he were acquitted, I would save him if he were found guilty. I never thought for a moment that acquittal would not clear him. It seemed to me that the trouble that had fallen on him was thoroughly deserved for the way in which he had spoken to Miss Carne; but I thought when he was acquitted he would take his place in his regiment again, and be none the worse for what had happened. It was only when I found that he had left the regiment, and when Mrs. Mervyn and her daughters shut up the house and went to live far away, that I began to trouble much. I saw now how wicked I had been, though I would never quite own it even to myself. I would have told then, but I did not know who to tell it to, or what good it could do if told. Mr. Forester was dead now, and the truth could not hurt him. George Forester had gone away, and would never come back; you know they found a verdict of wilful murder against him for killing the keeper. Somehow it seemed too late either to do good or harm. Every one had gone. Why should I say anything, and bring grief and trouble on my father and mother, and make the whole valley despise me? It has been dreadful," she said, wanly. "You cannot tell how dreadful. Ever since you came here and tried to make a friend of me, I have been fighting a battle with myself. It was not right that you should like me – it was not right that any one should like me – and I felt at last that I must tell you; you first, and then every one. Now after what you have told me it will not be so hard. Of course I shall suffer, and my father will suffer; but it will do good and make you and Captain Mervyn happy for the truth to be known, and so I shall be able to brave it all much better than I should otherwise have done. Who shall I go to first?"

"I cannot tell you, Ruth. I must speak to my father, and he will think it over, and perhaps he will write and ask Ronald how he would like it done. There is no great hurry, for he cannot come home anyhow till the war is finished, and it may last for months yet."

"Well, I am ready to go anywhere and to tell every one when you like," Ruth said. "Do not look so pitiful, Mary. I am sure I shall be much happier, whatever happens, even if they put me in prison, now that I have made up my mind to do what is right."

"There is no fear of that, I think, Ruth. They never asked you whether you had found anything; and though you certainly hid the truth, you did not absolutely give false evidence."

"It was all wrong and wicked," Ruth said, "and it will be quite right if they punish me; but that would be nothing to what I have suffered lately. I should feel happier in prison with this weight off my mind. But can you forgive me, Mary? Can you forgive me causing such misery to Captain Mervyn, and such unhappiness to you?"

"You need not be afraid about that," Mary said, laying her hand assuringly on Ruth's shoulder. "Why, child, you have been a benefactor to us both! If you had told all about it at first, Ronald would never have gone out to the Cape; father and I would have been killed in the first attack; and if we had not been, I should have been tortured to death in the Amatolas; and, last of all, we should never have seen and loved each other. Whatever troubles you may have to bear, do not reckon Ronald's displeasure and mine among them. I shall have cause to thank you all the days of my life, and I hope Ronald will have cause to do so too. Kiss me, Ruth; you have made me the happiest woman in the world, and I would give a great deal to be able to set this right without your having to put yourself forward in it."

Ruth was crying now, but they were not tears of unhappiness. They talked for some time longer, sitting hand in hand; and then, as Mr. Armstrong's step was heard coming up to the cottage, Ruth seized her hat and shawl.

"I dare not see him," she said; "he may not look at it as you do."

"Yes, he will," Mary said. "You don't know my father; he is one of the tenderest hearted of men." But Ruth darted out just as the door opened.

"What is it?" Mr. Armstrong asked in surprise. "Ruth Powlett nearly knocked me down in the passage, and rushed off without even the ordinary decency of apologising."

"Ruth has told me everything, father. We can clear Ronald Mervyn as soon as we like." And Mary Armstrong threw her arms round her father's neck.

"I thank God for that, Mary. I felt it would come sooner or later, but I had hardly hoped that it would come so soon. I am thankful, indeed, my child; how did it all come about?"

Mary repeated the story Ruth Powlett told her.

"Yes, there's no doubt about it this time," her father said. "As you say, there could be no mistake about the knife, because she had given it to him herself, and had had his initials engraved upon it at Plymouth. I don't think any reasonable man could have a doubt that the scoundrel did it; and now, my dear, what is to be done next?"

"Ah, that is for you to decide. I think Ronald ought to be consulted."

"Oh, you think that?" Mr. Armstrong said, quickly. "You think he knows a great deal better what ought to be done than I do?"

"No, I don't exactly mean that, father; but I think one would like to know how he would wish it to be done before we do anything. There is no particular hurry, you know, when he once knows that it is all going to be set right."

"No, beyond the fact that he would naturally like to get rid of this thing hanging over him as soon as he can. Now, my idea is that the girl ought to go at once to a magistrate and make an affidavit, and hand over this knife to him. I don't know how the matter is to be re-opened, because Ronald Mervyn has been acquitted, and the other man is goodness knows where."

"Well, father, there will be time enough to think over it, but I do think we had better tell Ronald first."

"Very well, my dear, as you generally have your own way, I suppose we shall finally settle on that, whether we agree now or three days hence. By the way, I have got a letter in my pocket for you from him. The Cape mail touched at Plymouth yesterday."

"Why did you not tell me of it before, father?" the girl said, reproachfully.

"Well, my dear, your news is so infinitely more important, that I own I forgot all about the letter. Besides, as this is the fourth that you have had since you have been here, it is not of such extreme importance."

But Mary was reading the letter and paid no attention to what her father was saying. Presently she gave a sudden exclamation.

"What is it, my dear; has he changed his mind and married a Kaffir woman? If so, we need not trouble any more about the affair."

"No, papa; it is serious – quite serious."

"Well, my dear, that would be serious; at least I should have thought you would consider it so."

"No, father; but really this is extraordinary. What do you think he says?"

"It is of no use my thinking about it, Mary," Mr. Armstrong said, resignedly, "especially as I suppose you are going to tell me. I have made one suggestion, and it seems that it is incorrect."

"This is what he says, father: 'You know that I told you a trooper in my company recognised me. I fancied I knew the man's face, but could not recall where I had seen it. The other day it suddenly flashed upon me; he is the son of a little farmer upon my cousin's estate, a man by the name of Forester. I often saw him when he was a young fellow, for I was fond of fishing, and I can remember him as a boy who was generally fishing down in the mill-stream. I fancy he rather went to grief afterwards, and have some idea he was mixed up in a poaching business in the Carne woods. So I think he must have left the country about that time. Curious, isn't it, his running against me here? However, it cannot be helped. I suppose it will all come out, sooner or later, for he has been in the guardroom several times for drunkenness, and one of these times he will be sure to blurt it out.'"

"Isn't that extraordinary, father?"

"It is certainly an extraordinary coincidence, Mary, that these two men – the murderer of Miss Carne and the man who has suffered for that murder should be out there together. This complicates matters a good deal."

"It does, father. There can be no doubt of what is to be done now."

"Well, now I quite come round on your side, Mary; nothing should be done until Mervyn knows all about it, and can let us know what his views are. I should not think that he could have this man arrested out there merely on his unsupported accusation, and I should imagine that he will want an official copy of Ruth Powlett's affidavit, and perhaps a warrant sent out from England, before he can get him arrested. Anyhow, we must go cautiously to work. When Ruth Powlett speaks, it will make a great stir here, and this Forester may have some correspondent here who would write and tell him what has happened, and then he might make a bolt of it before Ronald can get the law at work and lay hold of him."

"I should rather hope, for Ruth's sake, that he would do so, father. She is ready to make her confession and to bear all the talk it will make and the blame that will fall upon her; but it would be a great trial to her to have the man she once loved brought over and hung upon her evidence."

"So it would, Mary, so it would; but, on the other hand, it can be only by his trial and execution that Mervyn's innocence can be absolutely proved to the satisfaction of every one. It is a grave question altogether, Mary, and at any rate we will wait. Tell Mervyn he has all the facts before him, and must decide what is to be done. Besides, my dear, I think it will be only fair that Ruth should know that we are in a position to lay hands on this Forester before she makes the confession."

"I think so too, father. Yes, she certainly ought to be told; but I am sure that now she has made up her mind to confess she will not draw back. Still, of course, it would be very painful for her. We need not tell her at present; I will write a long letter to Ronald and tell him all the ins and outs of it, and then we can wait quietly until we hear from him."

"You need not have said that you will write a long letter, Mary," Mr. Armstrong said, drily, "considering that each time the mail has gone out I have seen nothing of you for twenty-four hours previously, and that I have reason to believe that an extra mail cart has had each time to be put on to carry the correspondence."

"It's all very well to laugh, father," Mary said, a little indignantly, "but you know that he is having fights almost every day with the Kaffirs, and only has our letters to look forward to, telling him how we are getting on and – and – "

"And how we love him, Mary, and how we dream of him, etc., etc."

Mary laughed.

"Never mind what I put in my letters, father, as long as he is satisfied with them."

"I don't, my dear. My only fear is that he will come back wearing spectacles, for I should say that it would ruin any human eyes to have to wade through the reams of feminine handwriting you send to him. If he is the sensible fellow I give him credit for, he only reads the first three words, which are, I suppose, 'my darling Ronald' and the last four, which I also suppose are 'your ever loving Mary.'"

The colour flooded Mary Armstrong's cheeks.

"You have no right even to guess at my letters, father, and I have no doubt that whether they are long or short, he reads them through a dozen times."

"Poor fellow, poor fellow!" Mr. Armstrong said, pityingly. "Nevertheless, my dear, important as all these matters are, I do not know why I should be compelled to fast. I came in an hour ago, expecting to find tea ready, and there are no signs of it visible. I shall have to follow the example of the villagers when their wives fail to get their meals ready, and go down to the 'Carne's Arms' for it."

"You shall have it in five minutes, father," Mary Armstrong said, running out. "Men are so dreadfully material that whatever happens their appetite must be attended to just as usual."

And so three days afterwards a full account of all that Ruth Powlett had said, and of the circumstances of the case, was despatched to "Sergeant Blunt, Cape Mounted Rifles, Kaffirland."

CHAPTER XVIII.

GEORGE FORESTER'S DEATH

Ronald Mervyn led so active a life for some months after the departure of Mr. Armstrong and his daughter, that he had little time to spend in thought, and it was only by seizing odd minutes between intervals of work that he could manage to send home a budget at all proportionate in size to that which he regularly received. When the courier came up with the English mails there had been stern fighting, for although the British force was raised by the arrival of reinforcements from India and England to over 5,000 men, with several batteries of artillery, it was with the greatest difficulty that it gradually won its way into the Kaffir stronghold. Several times the troops were so hardly pressed by the enemy that they could scarcely claim a victory, and a large number of officers and men fell. The Cape Mounted Rifles formed part of every expedition into the Amatolas, and had their full share of fighting. Ronald had several times distinguished himself, especially in the fight in the Water Kloof Valley, when Colonel Fordyce, of the 74th, and Carey and Gordon, two officers of the same regiment, were killed, together with several of their men, while attacking the enemy in the bush. He was aware now that his secret was known to the men. He had fancied that searching and inquisitive glances were directed towards him, and that there was a change in the demeanour of certain men of his troop, these being without exception the idlest and worst soldiers. It was Sergeant Menzies who first spoke to him on the subject. It was after a hard day's march when, having picketed their horses and eaten their hastily cooked rations, the two non-commissioned officers lit their pipes and sat down together at a short distance from the fire.

"I have been wanting to speak to you, lad, for the last day or two. There is a story gaining ground through the troop that, whether it is true or whether it is false, you ought to know."

"I guessed as much, Menzies," Ronald said. "I think I know what the story is, and who is the man who has spread it. It is that I bore another name in England."

"Yes, that's partly it, lad. I hear that you are rightly Captain Mervyn."

"Yes, that's it, Menzies, and that I was tried and acquitted for murder in England."

"That's the story, my lad. Of course, it makes no difference to us who you are, or what they say you have done. We who know you would not believe you to have committed a murder, much less the murder of a woman, if all the juries in the world had said you had. Still I thought I would let you know that the story is going about, so that you might not be taken aback if you heard it suddenly. Of course, it's no disgrace to be tried for murder if you are found innocent; it only shows that some fools have made a mistake, and been proved to be wrong. Still, as it has been talked about, you ought to know it. There is a lot of feeling in the regiment about it now, and the fellow who told the story has had a rough time of it, and there's many a one would put a bullet into him if he had the chance. What they say is, whether you are Captain Mervyn or not is nothing to anybody but yourself. If you were tried and acquitted for this affair it ought to have dropped and nothing more been said about it, and they hold that anyhow a man belonging to the corps ought to have held his tongue about anything he knew against another who is such a credit to us."

"The man might have held his tongue, perhaps," Ronald said, quietly; "but I never expected that he would do so. The fellow comes from my neighbourhood, and bore a bad character. A man who has shot a gamekeeper would be pretty sure to tell anything he knew to the disadvantage of any one of superior rank to himself. Well, sergeant, you can only tell any one who asks you about it that you have questioned me, and that I admitted at once that the story was true – that I was Captain Mervyn, and that I was tried for murder and acquitted. Some day I hope my innocence may be more thoroughly proved than it was on the day I was acquitted. I daresay he has told the whole of the facts, and I admit them freely."

"Well, lad, I am glad you have spoken. Of course it will make no difference, except perhaps to a few men who would be better out of the corps than in it; and they know too well what the temper of the men is to venture to show it. I can understand now why you didn't take a commission. I have often wondered over it, for it seemed to me that it was just the thing you would have liked. But I see that till this thing was cleared up you naturally wouldn't like it. Well, I am heartily sorry for the business, if you don't mind my saying so. I have always been sure you were an officer before you joined us, and wondered how it was that you left the army. You must have had a sore time of it. I am sorry for you from my heart."

Ronald sat quiet for some time thinking after Sergeant Menzies left him, then rose and walked towards the fire where the officers were sitting.

"Can I speak with you a few minutes, Captain Twentyman?" he said. The officer at once rose.

"Anything wrong in the troop, sergeant?"

"No, sir; there is nothing the matter with the troop, it is some business of my own. May I ask if you have heard anything about me, Captain Twentyman?"

"Heard anything! In what way do you mean, sergeant?"

"Well, sir, as to my private history."

"No," the officer said, somewhat puzzled.

"Well, sir, the thing has got about among the men. There is one of them knew me at home, and he has told the others. Now that it is known to the men, sooner or later it will be known to the officers, and therefore I thought it better to come and tell you myself, as captain of my troop."

"It can be nothing discreditable, I am quite sure, sergeant," the officer said, kindly.

"Well, sir, it is discreditable; that is to say, I lie under a heavy charge, from which I am unable to clear myself. I have been tried for it and found not guilty, but I am sure that if I had been before a Scotch jury the verdict would have been not proven, and I left the court acquitted indeed, but a disgraced and ruined man."

"What was the charge?"

"The charge was murder," Ronald said, quietly. Captain Twentyman started, but replied:

"Ridiculous. No one who knew you could have thought you guilty for a moment."

"I think that none who knew me intimately believed in my guilt, but I am sure that most people who did not so know me believed me guilty. I daresay you saw the case in the papers. My real name, Captain Twentyman, is Ronald Mervyn, and I was captain in the Borderers. I was tried for the murder of my cousin, Margaret Carne."

"Good Heavens! Is it possible?" Captain Twentyman exclaimed. "Of course I remember the case perfectly. We saw it in the English papers somewhere about a year ago, and it was a general matter of conversation, owing, of course, to your being in the army. I didn't know what to think of it then, but now I know you, the idea of your murdering a woman seems perfectly ridiculous. Well, is there anything you would wish me to do!"

"No, sir; I only thought you ought to be told. I leave it with you to mention it to others or not. Perhaps you will think it best to say nothing until the story gets about. Then you can say you are aware of it."

"Yes, I think that would be the best," Captain Twentyman said, after thinking it over. "I remember that I thought when I read the account of that trial that you were either one of the most lucky or one of the most unfortunate men in the world. I see now that it was the latter."

A few days later, an hour or two before the column was about to march, a flag hoisted at the post-office tent told the camp that the mail had arrived, and orderlies from each corps at once hurried there. As they brought the bags out they were emptied on the ground. Some of the sergeants set to work to sort the letters, while the officers stood round and picked out their own as they lay on the grass.

"Here, Blunt, here's one for you," Sergeant Menzies said, when Ronald came up.

Ronald took the letter, and sauntering away a short distance, threw himself on the ground and opened it. After reading the first line or two he leaped to his feet again, and took a few steps up and down, with his breath coming fast, and his hands twitching. Then he stood suddenly still, took off his cap, bent his head, put his hand over his eyes, and stood for a few minutes without moving. When he put his cap on again his face was wet with tears, his hands were trembling so that when he took the letter again he could scarce read it. A sudden exclamation broke from him as he came upon the name of Forester. The letter was so long that the trumpets were sounding by the time he had finished. He folded it and put it in his tunic, and then strode back with head erect to the spot where the men of his troop were saddling their horses. As he passed on among them a sudden impulse seized him, and he stopped before one of the men and touched him on the shoulder.

"You villain," he said, "you have been accusing me of murder. You are a murderer yourself."

The man's face paled suddenly.

"I know you, George Forester," Ronald went on, "and I know that you are guilty. You have to thank the woman who once loved you that I do not at once hand you over to the provost-marshal to be sent to England for trial, but for her sake I will let you escape. Make a confession and sign it, and then go your way where you will, and no search shall be made for you; if you do not, to-morrow you shall be in the hands of the police."

"There is no evidence against me more than against another," the man said, sullenly.

"No evidence, you villain?" Ronald said. "Your knife – the knife with your initials on it – covered with blood, was found by the body."

The man staggered as if struck.

"I knew I had lost it," he said, as if to himself, "but I didn't know I dropped it there."

At this moment the bugle sounded.

"I will give you until to-morrow morning to think about it," and Ronald ran off to mount his horse, which he had saddled before going for his letter.

Sergeant Menzies caught sight of his comrade's face as he sprang into the saddle.

"Eh, man," he said, "what's come to you? You have good news, haven't you, of some kind? Your face is transfigured, man!"

"The best," Ronald said, holding out his hand to his comrade. "I am proved to be innocent."

Menzies gave him a firm grip of the hand, and then each took his place in the ranks. There was desperate fighting that day with the Kaffirs. The Cape Mounted Rifles, while scouting ahead of the infantry in the bush, were suddenly attacked by an immense body of Kaffirs. Muskets cracked, and assegais flew in showers. Several of the men dropped, and discharging their rifles, the troopers fell back towards the infantry. As they retreated, Ronald looked back. One of the men of his troop, whose horse had been shot under him, had been overtaken by the enemy, and was surrounded by a score of Kaffirs. His cap was off, and Ronald caught sight of his face. He gave a shout, and in an instant had turned his horse and dashed towards the group.

"Come back, man, come back!" Captain Twentyman shouted. "It's madness!"

But Ronald did not hear him. The man whose confession could alone absolutely clear him was in the hands of the Kaffirs, and must be saved at any cost. A moment later he was in the midst of the natives, emptying his revolvers among them. Forester had sunk on one knee as Ronald, having emptied one of his revolvers, hurled it in the face of a Kaffir; leaning over, he caught Forester by the collar, and, with a mighty effort, lifted and threw him across the saddle in front of him, then bending over him, he spurred his horse through the natives. Just at this moment Captain Twentyman and a score of the men rode up at full speed, drove the Kaffirs back for an instant, and enabled Ronald to rejoin his lines. Three assegais had struck him, and he reeled in the saddle as, amidst the cheers of his companions, he rode up.