CHAPTER XVII.
RUTH POWLETT CONFESSES.
Upon the morning after the conversation with his daughter, Mr. Armstronghad just started on his way up the village when he met Hiram Powlett.
"I was just coming to see you, Mr. Armstrong, if you can spare aminute."
"I can spare an hour--I can spare the whole morning, Mr. Powlett. I haveceased to be a working bee, and my time is at your disposal."
"Well, I thought I would just step over and speak to you," Hiram began,in a slow, puzzled sort of a way. "You know what I was telling you theother day about my girl?"
"Yes; I remember very well."
"You don't know, Mr. Armstrong, whether she has said anything to yourdaughter?"
"No; at least not so far as I have heard of. Mary said that they weretalking together, and something was said about Miss Carne's murder; thatyour daughter turned very pale, and that she thought she was going tofaint."
"That's it; that's it," Hiram said, stroking his chin, thoughtfully,"that murder is at the bottom of it. Hesba thinks it must be that anytalk about it brings the scene back to her; but it does not seem to methat that accounts for it at all, and I would give a lot to know what ison the girl's mind. She came in yesterday afternoon as white as a sheet,and fainted right off at the door. I shouldn't think so much of that,because she has often fainted since her illness, but that wasn't all.When her mother got her round she went upstairs to her room, and didn'tcome down again. There is not much in that, you would say; after a girlhas fainted she likes to lie quiet a bit; but she didn't lie quiet. Wecould hear her walking up and down the room for hours, and Hesba stoleup several times to her door and said she was sobbing enough to breakher heart. She is going about the house again this morning, but thatwhite and still that it is cruel to look at her. So I thought afterbreakfast that I would put on my hat and come and have a talk with you,seeing that you were good enough to be interested in her. You will sayit's a rum thing for a father to come and talk about his daughter to aman he hasn't known more than two months. I feel that myself, but thereis no one in the village I should like to open my mind to about Ruth,and seeing that you are father of a girl about the same age, and that Ifeel you are a true sort of a man, I come to you. It isn't as if Ithought that my Ruth could have done anything wrong. If I did, I wouldcut my tongue out before I would speak a word. But I know my Ruth. Shehas always been a good girl: not one of your light sort, but earnest andsteady. Whatever is wrong, it's not wrong with her. I believe she hasgot some secret or other that is just wearing her out, and if we can'tget to the bottom of it I don't believe Ruth will see Christmas," andHiram Powlett wiped his eyes violently.
"Believe me, I will do my best to find it out if there is such a secret,Mr. Powlett. I feel sure from what I have seen of your daughter, that ifa wrong has been done of any kind it is not by her. I agree with youthat she has a secret, and that that secret is wearing her out. I maysay that my daughter is of the same opinion. I believe that there is astruggle going on in her mind on the subject, and that if she is to havepeace, and as you say health, she must unburden her mind. However, Mr.Powlett, my advice in the matter is, leave her alone. Do not press herin any way. I think that what you said to me before is likely to beverified, and that if she unburdens herself it will be to Mary; and youmay be sure whatever is the nature of the secret, my daughter will keepit inviolate, unless it is Ruth's own wish that it should be told toothers."
"Thankee, Mr. Armstrong, thankee kindly; I feel more hopeful now. I havebeen worrying and fretting over this for months, till I can scarce lookafter my work, and often catch myself going on drawing at my pipe whenit's gone out and got cold. But I think it's coming on; I think thatcrying last night meant something, one way or the other. Well, we shallsee; we shall see. I will be off back again to my work now; I feel allthe better for having had this talk with you. Hesba's a good woman, andshe is fond of the child; but she is what she calls practical--she looksat things hard, and straight, and sensible, and naturally she don'tquite enter into my feelings about Ruth, though she is fond of her too.Well, good morning, Mr. Armstrong; you have done me good, and I do hopeit will turn out as you say, and that we shall get to know what isRuth's trouble."
An hour later, Mary Armstrong went down to the mill to inquire afterRuth. She found her quiet and pale.
"I am glad you have come in, Miss Armstrong," Hesba said, "our Ruthwants cheering up a bit. She had a faint yesterday when she got backfrom your place, and she is never fit for anything after that exceptjust to sit in her chair and look in the fire. I tell her she would bebetter if she would rouse herself."
"But one cannot always rouse oneself, Mrs. Powlett," Mary said; "and Iam sure Ruth does not look equal to talking now. However, she shall sitstill, and I will tell her a story. I have never told you yet that I wasonce carried off by the Kaffirs, and that worse than death would havebefallen me, and that I should have been afterwards tortured and killed,if I had not been rescued by a brave man."
"Lawk-a-mussy, Miss Armstrong, why you make my flesh creep at thethought of such a thing? And you say it all happened to you? Why, now,to look at you, I should have thought you could hardly have known whattrouble meant, you always seem so bright and happy; that's what Ruth hassaid, again and again."
"You shall judge for yourself, Mrs. Powlett, if you can find time tosit down and listen, as well as Ruth."
"I can find time for that," Hesba said, "though it isn't often as I sitsdown till the tea is cleared away and Hiram has lit his pipe."
Mary sat down facing the fire, with Ruth in an arm-chair on one side ofher, and Mrs. Powlett stiff and upright on a hard settle on the other.Then she began to tell the story, first saying a few words to let herhearers know of the fate of women who fell into the hands of theKaffirs. Then she began with the story of her journey down from KingWilliamstown, the sudden attack by natives, and how after seeing herfather fall she was carried off. Then she told, what she had never toldbefore, of the hideous tortures of the other two women, part of whichshe was compelled to witness, and how she was told that she was to bepreserved as a present to Macomo. Then she described the dreary journey."I had only one hope," she said, "and it was so faint that it could notbe called a hope; but there was one man in the colony who somehow I feltsure would, if he knew of my danger, try to rescue me. He had oncebefore come to our aid when our house was attacked by Kaffirs, and in afew minutes our fate would have been sealed had he not arrived. But foraught I knew he was a hundred miles away, and what could he do againstthe three hundred natives who were with me? Still, I had a little ray ofhope, the faintest, tiniest ray, until we entered the Amatolas----theyare strong steep hills covered with forest and bush, and are thestronghold of the Kaffirs, and I knew that there were about twentythousand natives gathered there. Then I hoped no longer. I felt that myfate was sealed, and my only wish and my only longing was to obtain aknife or a spear, and to kill myself."
Then Mary described the journey through the forest to the kraal, thelong hours she had sat waiting for her fate with every movement watchedby the Kaffir women, and her sensations when she heard the message inEnglish. Then she described her rescue from the kraal, her flightthrough the woods, her concealment in the cave, her escape from theAmatolas, the ride with the trooper holding her on his saddle, and thefinal dash through the Kaffirs.
Her hearers had thrown in many interjections of horror and pity, loud onthe part of Hesba, mere murmurs on that of Ruth, who had taken Mary'shand in hers, but the sympathetic pressure told more than words.
"And you shot four of them, Miss Armstrong!" Hesba ejaculated, inwide-eyed astonishment. "To think that a young girl like you should havethe death of four men on her hands! I don't say as it's unchristian,because Christians are not forbidden to fight for their lives, but itdoes seem downright awful!"
"It has never troubled me for a single moment," Mary said. "They triedto kill me, and I killed them. That is the light I saw it in, and sowould you if you had been living in the colony."
"But you have not finished your story," Ruth said, earnestly. "Surelythat is not the end of it!"
"No; my father recovered from his wound, and so did the soldier whosaved me, and as soon as my father was able to travel, he and I wentdown to the coast and came home."
"That cannot be all," Ruth whispered; "there must be something more totell, Mary."
"I will tell you another time, Ruth," Mary said, in equally low tones,and then rising, put on her hat again, said good-bye, and went out.
"Did you ever, Ruth?" Hesba Powlett exclaimed as the door closed. "Inever did hear such a story in all my life. And to think of her shootingfour men! It quite made my flesh creep; didn't it yours?"
"There were other parts of the story that made my flesh creep a greatdeal more, mother."
"Yes, it was terrible! And she didn't say a single word in praise ofwhat the soldier had done for her. Now that seems to me downrightungrateful, and not at all what I should have thought of MissArmstrong."
"I suppose she thought, mother, that there was no occasion to expressher opinion of his bravery or to mention her gratitude. The whole storyseemed to me a cry of praise and a hymn of gratitude."
"Lord, Ruth, what fancies you do take in your head, to be sure! I neverdid hear such expressions!"
Two days passed without Ruth going up to the Armstrongs'; on the thirdday Mary again went down.
"Well, Ruth, as you have not been to see me, I have come to see youagain."
"I was coming up this afternoon. If you don't mind, I will go back withyou now, instead of your staying here. We are quieter there, you know.Somehow, one cannot think or talk when people come in and out of theroom every two or three minutes."
"I quite agree with you, Ruth, and, if you don't mind my saying so, Iwould very much rather have you all to myself."
The two girls accordingly went back to the cottage. Mary, who was ratheran industrious needlewoman, brought out a basket of work. Ruth, who fora long time had scarcely taken up a needle, sat with her hands beforeher.
When two people intend to have a serious conversation with each other,they generally steer wide of the subject at first, and the present wasno exception.
"I think it would be better for you, Ruth, to occupy yourself with worka little, as I do."
"I used to be fond of work," Ruth replied, "but I don't seem to be ableto give my attention to it now. I begin, and before I have done twentystitches, somehow or other my thoughts seem to go away, and by the endof the morning the first twenty stitches are all I have done."
"But you oughtn't to think so much, Ruth. It is bad for any one to bealways thinking."
"Yes, but I can't help it. I have so much to think about, and it getsworse instead of better. Now, after what you said to me the other night,I don't know what to do. It seemed right before. I did not think I wasdoing much harm in keeping silence; now I see I have been, oh, sowrong!" and she twined her fingers in and out as if suffering bodilypain.
"My poor Ruth!" Mary said, coming over to her and kneeling down by herside. "I think I know what is troubling you."
The girl shook her head.
"Yes, dear, I am almost sure you have known something all along thatwould have proved Captain Mervyn was innocent, and you have not saidit."
Ruth Powlett did not speak for a minute or two, then she said, slowly:
"I do not know how you have guessed it, Mary. No one else even seems tohave thought of it. But, yes, that is it, and I do so want some one toadvise me what to do. I see now I have been very wicked. For a long timeI have been fighting against myself. I have tried so hard to persuademyself that I had not done much harm, because Captain Mervyn wasacquitted. I have really known that I was wrong, but I never thought howwrong until you spoke to me."
"Wait, Ruth," Mary said; "before you tell me your secret I must tell youmine. It would not be fair for you to tell me without knowing that. Youremember the story I was telling you about my being carried off?"
A fresh interest came into Ruth's face.
"Yes," she said, "and you promised you would tell me the rest anothertime. I thought you meant, of course, you would tell me that when thiswar out there is over, you would some day marry the soldier who has doneso much for you."
"I was going to tell you, Ruth, why I am not going to marry him."
"Oh, I thought you would be sure to," Ruth said in a tone of deepdisappointment. "It seemed to me that it was sure to be so. I thought aman would never have risked so much for a woman unless he loved her."
"He did love me, Ruth, and I loved him. I don't think I made any secretof it. Somehow it seemed to me that he had a right to me, and I wassurprised when the time went on and he didn't ask me. When the last daycame before he was to march away to fight again, I think that if he hadnot spoken I should have done so. Do not think me unmaidenly, Ruth, buthe was only a sergeant and I was a rich girl, for my father is a greatdeal better off than he seems to be, and I thought that perhaps somefoolish sort of pride held him back, for I was quite sure that he lovedme. But he spoke first. He told me that he loved me, but could never askme to be his wife; that he could never marry, but he must go through theworld alone to the end of his life."
"Oh, Mary, how terrible!" Ruth said, pitifully, "how terrible! Was hemarried before, then?"
"No, Ruth, it was worse than that; there was a great shadow over hislife; he had been tried for murder, and though he had been acquitted,the stigma was still upon him. Go where he would he might be recognisedand pointed out as a murderer; therefore, unless the truth was some dayknown and his name cleared, no woman could ever be his wife."
Ruth had given a little gasp as Mary Armstrong began, then she sat rigidand immovable.
"It was Captain Mervyn," she said, at last, in a low whisper.
"Yes, Ruth. Sergeant Blunt was Captain Mervyn; he had changed his name,and gone out there to hide himself, but even there he had already beenrecognised; and, as he said--for I pleaded hard, Ruth, to be allowed toshare his exile--go where he would, bury himself in what out-of-the-waycorner he might, sooner or later some one would know him, and this storywould rise up against him, and, much as he loved me--all the more,perhaps, because he loved me so much--he would never suffer me to bepointed at as the wife of a murderer."
"You shall not be," Ruth said, more firmly than she had before spoken."You shall not be, Mary. I can clear him, and I will."
It was Mary Armstrong's turn to break down now. The goal had beenreached, Ronald Mervyn would be cleared; and she threw her arms roundRuth and burst into a passion of tears. It was some time before thegirls were sufficiently composed to renew the conversation.
"First of all, I must tell you, Mary," Ruth began, "that you may notthink me more wicked than I am, that I would never have let CaptainMervyn suffer the penalty of another's crime. Against the wish, almostin the face of the orders of the doctor, I remained in court all throughthe trial, holding in my hand the proof of Captain Mervyn's innocence,and had the verdict been 'guilty' I was ready to rush forward and provethat he was innocent. I do not think that all that you suffered when youwere in the hands of the Kaffirs was worse than I suffered then. I sawbefore me the uproar in court: the eyes that would be all fixed upon me;the way that the judge and the counsel would blame me for having so longkept silence; the reproach that I should meet with when I returnedhome; the shame of my dear old father; the way in which every soul inthe village would turn against me; but I would have dared it all ratherthan that one man should suffer for the sin of another. And now, havingtold you this first, so that you should not think too hardly of me, Iwill tell you all."
Then Ruth told her of her girlish love for George Forester; how she hadclung to him through evil report, and in spite of the wishes of herfather and mother, but how at last the incident of the affray with thegamekeepers had opened her eyes to the fact that he was altogetherreckless and wild, and that she could never trust her happiness to him.She told how Margaret Carne had spoken to her about it, and how she hadpromis
ed she would give him up; then she told of that meeting on theroad on the way to church; his passionate anger against herself; thethreats he had uttered against Miss Carne for her interference, and theway in which he had assaulted her.
"I firmly believe," Ruth said, "he would have murdered me had he notheard people coming along the road." Then she told how she found theopen knife stained with blood at Margaret Carne's bedside, and how shehad hidden it. "I did not do it because I loved him still, Mary," shesaid. "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 wasthe remembrance of my girlish love, and not any love I then had, thatsealed my lips; but even this would not have silenced me, I think, hadit not been for the sake of his father. The old man had always beenvery, very kind to me, and the disgrace of his son being found guilty ofthis crime would have killed him. I can say, honestly, it was this thatchiefly 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 hewere acquitted, I would save him if he were found guilty. I neverthought for a moment that acquittal would not clear him. It seemed to methat the trouble that had fallen on him was thoroughly deserved for theway in which he had spoken to Miss Carne; but I thought when he wasacquitted he would take his place in his regiment again, and be none theworse for what had happened. It was only when I found that he had leftthe regiment, and when Mrs. Mervyn and her daughters shut up the houseand went to live far away, that I began to trouble much. I saw now howwicked I had been, though I would never quite own it even to myself. Iwould have told then, but I did not know who to tell it to, or what goodit could do if told. Mr. Forester was dead now, and the truth could nothurt him. George Forester had gone away, and would never come back; youknow they found a verdict of wilful murder against him for killing thekeeper. Somehow it seemed too late either to do good or harm. Every onehad gone. Why should I say anything, and bring grief and trouble on myfather and mother, and make the whole valley despise me? It has beendreadful," she said, wanly. "You cannot tell how dreadful. Ever sinceyou came here and tried to make a friend of me, I have been fighting abattle with myself. It was not right that you should like me--it was notright that any one should like me--and I felt at last that I must tellyou; you first, and then every one. Now after what you have told me itwill not be so hard. Of course I shall suffer, and my father willsuffer; but it will do good and make you and Captain Mervyn happy forthe truth to be known, and so I shall be able to brave it all muchbetter 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 thinkit over, and perhaps he will write and ask Ronald how he would like itdone. There is no great hurry, for he cannot come home anyhow till thewar 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 muchhappier, whatever happens, even if they put me in prison, now that Ihave made up my mind to do what is right."
"There is no fear of that, I think, Ruth. They never asked you whetheryou had found anything; and though you certainly hid the truth, you didnot absolutely give false evidence."
"It was all wrong and wicked," Ruth said, "and it will be quite right ifthey punish me; but that would be nothing to what I have sufferedlately. 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 toCaptain Mervyn, and such unhappiness to you?"
"You need not be afraid about that," Mary said, laying her handassuringly on Ruth's shoulder. "Why, child, you have been a benefactorto us both! If you had told all about it at first, Ronald would neverhave gone out to the Cape; father and I would have been killed in thefirst attack; and if we had not been, I should have been tortured todeath in the Amatolas; and, last of all, we should never have seen andloved each other. Whatever troubles you may have to bear, do not reckonRonald's displeasure and mine among them. I shall have cause to thankyou all the days of my life, and I hope Ronald will have cause to do sotoo. 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 yourhaving to put yourself forward in it."
Ruth was crying now, but they were not tears of unhappiness. They talkedfor some time longer, sitting hand in hand; and then, as Mr. Armstrong'sstep 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 thetenderest hearted of men." But Ruth darted out just as the door opened.
"What is it?" Mr. Armstrong asked in surprise. "Ruth Powlett nearlyknocked me down in the passage, and rushed off without even the ordinarydecency of apologising."
"Ruth has told me everything, father. We can clear Ronald Mervyn as soonas 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 Ihad hardly hoped that it would come so soon. I am thankful, indeed, mychild; 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 yousay, there could be no mistake about the knife, because she had given itto him herself, and had had his initials engraved upon it at Plymouth. Idon't think any reasonable man could have a doubt that the scoundrel didit; 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 agreat deal better what ought to be done than I do?"
"No, I don't exactly mean that, father; but I think one would like toknow how he would wish it to be done before we do anything. There is noparticular hurry, you know, when he once knows that it is all going tobe set right."
"No, beyond the fact that he would naturally like to get rid of thisthing hanging over him as soon as he can. Now, my idea is that the girlought to go at once to a magistrate and make an affidavit, and hand overthis 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 goodnessknows where."
"Well, father, there will be time enough to think over it, but I dothink we had better tell Ronald first."
"Very well, my dear, as you generally have your own way, I suppose weshall 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 Capemail 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 Iforgot all about the letter. Besides, as this is the fourth that youhave had since you have been here, it is not of such extremeimportance."
But Mary was reading the letter and paid no attention to what her fatherwas saying. Presently she gave a sudden exclamation.
"What is it, my dear; has he changed his mind and married a Kaffirwoman? 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 thoughtyou would consider it so."
"No, father; but really this is extraordinary. What do you think hesays?"
"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 havemade one suggestion, and it seems that it is incorrect."
"This is what he says, father: 'You know that I told you a trooper in mycompany recognised me. I fancied I knew the man's face, but could notrecall 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 thename of Forester. I often saw him when h
e was a young fellow, for I wasfond of fishing, and I can remember him as a boy who was generallyfishing down in the mill-stream. I fancy he rather went to griefafterwards, and have some idea he was mixed up in a poaching business inthe Carne woods. So I think he must have left the country about thattime. Curious, isn't it, his running against me here? However, it cannotbe helped. I suppose it will all come out, sooner or later, for he hasbeen in the guardroom several times for drunkenness, and one of thesetimes he will be sure to blurt it out.'"
"Isn't that extraordinary, father?"
"It is certainly an extraordinary coincidence, Mary, that these twomen--the murderer of Miss Carne and the man who has suffered for thatmurder should be out there together. This complicates matters a gooddeal."
"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 doneuntil 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 merelyon his unsupported accusation, and I should imagine that he will want anofficial copy of Ruth Powlett's affidavit, and perhaps a warrant sentout from England, before he can get him arrested. Anyhow, we must gocautiously to work. When Ruth Powlett speaks, it will make a great stirhere, and this Forester may have some correspondent here who would writeand tell him what has happened, and then he might make a bolt of itbefore 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 willmake and the blame that will fall upon her; but it would be a greattrial to her to have the man she once loved brought over and hung uponher evidence."
"So it would, Mary, so it would; but, on the other hand, it can be onlyby his trial and execution that Mervyn's innocence can be absolutelyproved to the satisfaction of every one. It is a grave questionaltogether, Mary, and at any rate we will wait. Tell Mervyn he has allthe facts before him, and must decide what is to be done. Besides, mydear, I think it will be only fair that Ruth should know that we are ina position to lay hands on this Forester before she makes theconfession."
"I think so too, father. Yes, she certainly ought to be told; but I amsure that now she has made up her mind to confess she will not drawback. Still, of course, it would be very painful for her. We need nottell her at present; I will write a long letter to Ronald and tell himall the ins and outs of it, and then we can wait quietly until we hearfrom 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 outI have seen nothing of you for twenty-four hours previously, and that Ihave reason to believe that an extra mail cart has had each time to beput 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 theKaffirs, and only has our letters to look forward to, telling him how weare 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 satisfiedwith them."
"I don't, my dear. My only fear is that he will come back wearingspectacles, for I should say that it would ruin any human eyes to haveto wade through the reams of feminine handwriting you send to him. If heis the sensible fellow I give him credit for, he only reads the firstthree words, which are, I suppose, 'my darling Ronald' and the lastfour, 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 nodoubt that whether they are long or short, he reads them through a dozentimes."
"Poor fellow, poor fellow!" Mr. Armstrong said, pityingly."Nevertheless, my dear, important as all these matters are, I do notknow why I should be compelled to fast. I came in an hour ago, expectingto find tea ready, and there are no signs of it visible. I shall have tofollow the example of the villagers when their wives fail to get theirmeals 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 theirappetite must be attended to just as usual."
And so three days afterwards a full account of all that Ruth Powlett hadsaid, and of the circumstances of the case, was despatched to "SergeantBlunt, Cape Mounted Rifles, Kaffirland."