Story 2.
Kitty of “The Frozen Bar.”
Some years ago there was at Kimberley a very popular house of entertainment, called ‘The Frozen Bar,’ which had been in existence since the early days of diamond-digging, and had become one of the institutions of the Fields. From a mere bar it had grown into a hotel—bedrooms having been put up in the compound behind it, and a dining-room opened for the use of its boarders. Still the old name—which had been a happy thought in the old days when ice was unknown and yearned for on the Fields—was retained. So far as it was possible for an iron house under a blazing South African sun to be kept cool, it justified its name. Ice, when the ice-machines had not broken down or the ice-manufacturers gone on the spree, was very plentiful there. Hot brandies and sodas were never served out. And it was always refreshing to see its proprietress, pretty little Kitty Clay, who was always cheery and bright, however trying the times or the weather might be, and would look fresh, clean, and cool even in the misery of a Diamond Field dust-storm.
‘The Frozen Bar’ was used by men who as a rule did not care to frequent common canteens and rub shoulders with the people who were to be met with in such places. Bad characters fought rather shy of it. For instance, Jim Paliter, the gambler and sharper, who was always lurking about to look for some unwary one who would first shake the dice for drinks, and afterwards to while away the time throw for sovereigns, never made it his hunting-ground. His self-assurance was proof against a good deal, but Kitty’s quiet way of letting him know that his room was preferred to his company was too much for him. I.D.B.’s, as that section of the Kimberley public who live by buying stolen diamonds are called, did not care to use it, unless they were prosperous and in the higher walks of their trade. It was situated near the Kimberley mine and the diamond market, and all day long it did a roaring trade. The crowd who thronged its doors was representative of Kimberley, for it contained men of many different races and types. Men came there dressed in every description of costume, from moleskins, flannel shirts, and slouch hats, to suits of London-made clothes sent out from home by West End tailors. You would see the rugged, weather-worn faces of men who had been diggers all over the world wherever the earth had yielded gold or precious stones, and the dark, hungry-eyed, bird-of-prey-like faces of Jews who are drawn to the spot where men find precious stones as vultures are drawn to a corpse. It was in the afternoon, just after luncheon, that the place would be most crowded. Then Kitty would be in her element, taking money, though more often ‘good-fors,’ answering questions, chaffing, and laughing over the news of the day—the latest scandal or the best joke against some one—and making comments upon it, very often more humorous than polite. Poor, cheery, big-hearted little Kitty, the best woman in the world—so many a man said, and with some reason. Maybe she used to laugh merrily enough at stories she ought not to have listened to, and the remarks she made were perhaps not over womanly, still no one could deny that she had a tender woman’s heart. In the early days of the Fields, when hardships were greater, and the ups and downs of life were more marked, there were many who had good reason to be grateful to her. She had been a friend in need to many a man who from illness or accident had been pushed down and was likely to be trampled upon in the fierce struggle for existence in the first days of the rush to the new diggings. There were generally boarding at the ‘Frozen Bar’ one or two men for whose custom the other licensed victuallers did not yearn—men whom Kitty had known in their brighter days, and whom she would not go back upon because they were down on their luck and out of a billet.
She was nearer thirty than twenty, and her life had been rather a hard one, though it had left very few traces on her bright little face, and her troubles had not made her laugh less cheery or her smile less kind, though perhaps they had caused that dash of cynicism which sometimes showed itself in her talk. She had begun life as a ballet-girl in a London theatre, had travelled half over the world with a theatrical company, and at Cape Town had married a Diamond field man who had taken her up to Kimberley.
Her husband, whom she had never cared for much, turned out anything but a satisfactory one. But her married life did not last very long. Less than a year after her marriage, a middle-aged female arrived on the Diamond Fields and laid claim to her husband, and as she was a person of great determination, and was able to prove that she had married him some years before in London, she carried him off in triumph, leaving Kitty to find out whether or no a bad husband was better than none at all. Kitty would probably have answered this in the negative, for she was very well able to take care of herself. She started ‘The Frozen Bar’ and prospered there, and if she had only been good at saving money would have become quite a rich woman.
One evening there were several men lounging in the bar listening to Kitty’s chaff and stories, when some one started a subject which made her look a good deal graver than usual. “So your friend Jack is back again in the camp,” one of her customers had said.
“Jack—which Jack? there are a good many Jacks on the Fields, you know,” Kitty answered; but with a note of trouble in her voice which suggested that the other’s words had conveyed some news to her that she was sorry to hear.
“Jack Douglas, I mean. He has let his prospecting job down the river slide, and he is back in the camp again, and he has been back for a week, and been on the spree all the time.”
“How that chap has gone to the bad! I remember him when he was quite a decent fellow, and to-day I saw him with some of the biggest thieves in the camp—Jim Paliter, Ike Sloeman, and all that gang.”
“Mark my words, we shall see Jack Douglas run in for I.D.B. some of these fine days; he is going that way pretty quick,” another man said; and there was something in his tone and expression as he spoke which irritated Kitty into showing a good deal of feeling.
“Why do you talk about my friend Jack? I don’t have friends, only customers, and when they have spent their money and gone to grief there is an end of them so far as I am concerned. But he used to be your friend Jack once upon a time; why don’t some of you fellows try and give him a help instead of pointing at him, and saying he has gone to the bad?” she said.
“Oh, he is no good; he has gone too far to be helped,”—“It’s all his own fault,”—“He will never do any good here, he ought to clear out,” were the answers to Kitty’s suggestion. The men, though they talked slightingly enough of Jack, looked, one or two of them, half ashamed, for Jack had been a popular man on the Fields in the old days when he owned claims and was not badly off, and the men who discussed his fate so coolly had once been glad enough to be his friends.
“Clear out indeed! Where to? To the devil for all you care. That is so like you men; that is how you stick to a friend.”
“Listen to Kitty; why, she seems to be quite sweet on Jack Douglas. Look out, Kitty, he would not be a good partner in the business; why, he’d precious soon drink up the profits,” said a little Jew who had been listening to the conversation though no one had been speaking to him.
An angry flush came across Kitty’s face. For once, she could not think of a neat retort, and she answered, showing that she was hurt. “Look here, Mr Moses or Abrams, or whatever your name is, suppose you keep your advice till it’s asked for. I never spoke to you when I talked about people helping Jack; no one expects one of your sort to help a man, and Jack would not care to take any help from you.”
“Don’t know about not wanting my help; he is glad enough to be helped by some very queer people,” said the little Jew as he walked out of the place, grumbling out something about never coming in again.
“Douglas may be a fool, and he may have gone to the bad, but I hate to hear a little cad like that sneering at him,” said Kitty; and then feeling that she had perhaps made rather a fool of herself she changed the conversation, and in a minute was laughing at some rather pointless story, chaffing another man about some joke there was against him, and seeming to be in the wildest spirits.
“What good fun that woman is; such a lot of ‘go’ in her,” said one of the men who had left the place to another as they walked home together. “I don’t like to hear her,” said the other, a man whose ideals were somewhat higher, though his habits of life were even more irregular than those of most men on the Diamond Fields. “She is such a good little woman—a deal too good to talk as she does.”
These men would have been surprised if they had seen the woman they were talking about whom they had left in such high spirits. The place was empty, she was leaning with her elbows on the bar and her shapely hands covering her face, sobbing as if her heart would break. Yes, she thought, she was a fool to have cared anything for him or any other man. Were they not all either hard, selfish, and heartless, or reckless, prodigal, and hopeless?
With all her knowledge of the world she lived in, she had made what her experience told her was the most hopeless of mistakes a woman can commit, for she had let herself care a great deal too much for Jack, the ne’er-do-well and loafer, whose fate his old friends had been discussing. What they had said was probably true, she thought; it was no use doing anything for him. She had tried to help him. She had found some money to send him on a prospecting trip down the Vaal—not because she believed in the new mine he was prospecting, but because she thought it would be a good thing for him to get away from Kimberley—but here he was, having left his work to look after itself, back again in the camp at Kimberley, enjoying its pleasures such as they were. Yes, they were right, there was not much chance for him: his associates were about the worst lot in the camp. He seemed to be going the road which has taken so many a Kimberley man to the prison, yet she couldn’t leave him to travel it. Ah, what a fool she was, she thought. She had forgotten to call her boy to shut the place up though it was late, and she hears a step at the door. At once she wipes her eyes and looks herself again.
He was a man of about five-and-twenty. Once he must have been very good-looking, and even then his face had some of its old grace about it. Now, however, it told a very ugly story plainly enough. It was haggard and worn with drink and dissipation, and he had a reckless, defiant expression as if he refused to show a shame he felt. Even for the Diamond Fields his dress was rather careless. One of his eyes was discoloured, while on his cheek he had marks of a more recent cut. Any one who knew colonial life could sum him up. An Englishman well-born, who has gone to the bad; a type of man to be met with all over the colonies, the man who has been sent abroad so that he should not disgrace his people at home. There are openings for such men abroad, so their kind friends at home say, and so there are;—canteen-doors, the gates of divers colonial jails, and then one six feet by two, not made too deep, the job being badly paid for.
Staggering up to the bar he asked Kitty how she was, and called for a drink. There was rather a sharper tone than usual in her voice as she told him that it was too late and that she was going to close. “You had better go back to the ‘Corner Bar,’ that is more in your line than this place, isn’t it?” she added.
“All right,” he said, “I will clear out. I suppose I am not good enough for this shanty. So good night.”
“Stop,” she said, changing her mind as he turned to go away; “you needn’t be in such a hurry; I want to ask you something. What are you doing—where are you staying now?”
“Staying? Oh, anywhere. I slept on the veldt last night; I am going to sleep at old Sloeman’s place to-night. He is a good sort, is old Sloeman—don’t turn his back on a man because he is down on his luck. I am going to work with him.”
Mr Sloeman was the owner of some claims in one of the mines which nobody else had ever made pay, but in which, without doing much work, he professed to have found a great many diamonds. He also was the proprietor of a canteen of more than shady reputation, and had an interest in one or two Kaffir stores. Some people were unkind enough to suggest that the diamonds he professed to find in his claims were bought at his canteen, or at his stores, from Kaffirs who had stolen them from their masters’ claims. Mr Sloeman was notorious for the kindly interest he took in likely young men who were out of work. He gave them a billet in one of his stores, or in his canteen, or as an overseer to work in those wonderful claims. Curiously enough a large proportion of those young men had attracted the attention of the detective police, and had found their way to the prison charged with buying stolen diamonds; but Mr Sloeman himself prospered.
“Stop, Jack, you are not going up there to-ight. One of my rooms is empty, you can have that. I wouldn’t go up there to-night,” said Kitty.
Jack said he would go—he was expected there.
“Stop, Jack, you’re not so bad that you can’t talk sense. You know what old Sloeman means, and what his game is. You have always been straight, whatever they can say of you. Don’t have anything to do with that old thief!”
“Yes, and a lot of good being straight has done me. Old Sloeman is a good deal better than the lot who turn their backs on me, and, thief or not, I am going to work with him?” Jack said as he turned to leave the place.
Kitty gave a look at him as he lurched to the door, and then determined that she would have her way.
“Well, Jack, have a drink before you go. I am sorry for what I said just now. We will have a drink together,” said Kitty, as she took down a bottle of whiskey and some soda-water. Jack did not refuse—he seldom did refuse such an offer.
“Well, that will about finish him. It seems a shame, but he shan’t go up there to-night, and that will settle it,” she thought to herself as she more than half filled a tumbler with whiskey.
“That is rather a stiffish drink,” he said as he finished it. Then he had another, and forgot all about going up to Sloeman’s, and Kitty called her Kaffir boy to shut up the place and put Jack to bed in the spare room.
The next morning, when she was at her breakfast, her Kaffir servant came running and showing his white teeth. “The baas I put to bed last night, him plenty bad this morning, Missis.”
“Take him this, he will get all right,” said Kitty, giving him some brandy in a glass and a bottle of soda-water. “That won’t hurt him, though he will have to knock it off and pull himself together, for this child is going to look after him,” she added to herself.
Very soon the Kaffir came back. “The baas he drink the brandy and throw de soda at me. I think him going mad,” he said, rubbing his head.
Kitty was not much alarmed; she had seen a good deal of that sort of thing. She wondered whether it would be any good, if it were possible to persuade Jack to become a Good Templar. She felt afraid that it would not be very easy, and that he would shun the rejoicing there would be over him. He wanted some one to keep him straight, she thought, and woman-like, she began to believe that one of her sex could do it. After some time Jack came out of his room. He had a blank stare on his face and said nothing, but walked into the street without his hat on. He was evidently queer, very queer, Kitty thought, as she led him back to his room and then sent her boy for the doctor.
“He is in for a bad go of fever; rather a nasty case—typhoid symptoms; knocked his constitution to bits with drink,” said the doctor. “He will want a lot of looking after. He had better go to the hospital—the free ward—the paying wards are full; not that they would be much in his line if they were not,” he added.
“I think he had better stay here, doctor,” answered Kitty. “I will see after nursing him; you know, doctor, nursing is rather my forte.”
“No one can see after him better than you, my dear,” said the doctor, who knew Kitty well. “I fancy, however, he won’t be a very profitable boarder for you; but that’s your look out.”
“Oh, that is all right,” said Kitty. “Come and see him again soon, doctor; remember I sent for you.”
The doctor said he would come round again soon, and drove off—thinking what a good little woman Kitty was, and wondering whether there was anything more than pity in her feeling for that ne’er-do-weel Jack Douglas.
“I trust she don’t care for him, for I am afraid there would be only trouble in it for her, however it turned out,” he thought to himself.
The doctor was right; it turned out a very nasty case of fever, and for weeks it looked very black. For a time ‘The Frozen Bar’ lost its popularity. Kitty was always afraid that her customers were making too much noise, and in fact she showed that she would be more pleased if they had kept away from her establishment altogether. She was very seldom to be seen behind the bar, and when she was, there was none of her old brightness and fun about her. The old merry, almost reckless, look had left her, and there was a more tender and soft expression in her face. She spent most of her time in a room behind the house—the coolest and best bedroom she had. Its late tenant, one of her most solvent boarders, had been somewhat disturbed and a good deal affronted at being moved out of it, but Kitty was determined to have it for the sick man, who for weeks was tossing on the bed in delirium. For a long time he did not recognise her or know where he was; he was a boy at school or a cadet at Sandhurst again. Then the delirium left him and he knew her, though he hardly seemed to ask himself where he was or how she came to be looking after him. Perhaps the hours that poor little Kitty spent nursing him as he got better were some of the happiest in her life. Then he was never happy when she was away from him, and he used to watch her as a sick dog watches its master. He seemed so different, so much more like what he had been once, and so unlike what he had become on the Diamond Fields. When he grew stronger and able to talk about how he became ill, tears came into his eyes when he thanked her for her kindness. “If it had not been for you I should have gone up to old Sloeman’s place at the West End, and if I had not died there should have become one of his lot,” he said. “How good you have been to me!”
As he grew stronger she began to think that he knew her secret, and there was something in his face which seemed to tell her that he felt something more than gratitude for her. Then she hardly ever came near him. He did not want any more nursing, she thought. It was the first day he had got out of bed; she had been talking to him about himself in her old cheery manner, telling him that if he choose to pull himself together there was no reason why he should not succeed and do as well as any one else, when what she had been half expecting for some time came.
“Hers was the only influence,” he said, “which could keep him straight. He knew she cared for him. If she would marry him he would be able to keep away from drink.”
Then she told him the truth. Yes, she did care for him, and would marry if he wished it. But first of all he must show her that he could reform; he must swear off drink, and what was more to the point, keep off it too. She wasn’t any great shakes, she knew, but she wasn’t going to marry a man who was always on the drink. She knew too much to do that, she said.
He promised that he would reform, and it was agreed that they were to wait for a year and then they were to be married and leave the Diamond Fields, and go to some other colony. He was no great prize, this shattered invalid, who was far more likely than not to return to his old ways. But Kitty, for all that, had a hard struggle with herself not to take him as he was, instead of waiting and perhaps losing him altogether. “No, she would not marry him there, it wouldn’t be fair to him,” she said; “she would wait till he was the man he was before he ever took to drink, and then if he cared to marry her she would be the proudest woman in the world.”
Then she talked over a plan she had for him. She had bought some claims in the Dutoitspan mine, and he must work them for her. She said she was sure the ground would turn out well, and they would make lots of money.
He promised that he would turn over a new leaf, and he said and thought too that she was the kindest-hearted and dearest little woman in the world; and he felt eager to begin work, and show her what a splendid specimen of the reformed character he was going to become.
That is how Jack Douglas, who had utterly gone to the bad in the opinion of most men who knew him, got a start again.
Of course their claims ought to have turned out well, and they ought to have found a big diamond which would have made their fortune all at once. But Kitty’s belief in the claims proved to be rather unfounded: some weeks they paid expenses, some they did not. Jack Douglas ought at once to have become a reformed character, but he did not. More than once work was at a standstill in their claims for days, and he had to come to Kitty, shamefaced and haggard, with a sad story of transgression to tell. But she persuaded him to try again, and did her best to keep him straight, and at last he became stronger and better. Men began to think that he had some chance, he had been steady for a long time. Kitty was going to succeed in making something of him. He began to take some pride in himself, and at the end of twelve months he was a better man than he had been for years.
At that time there was an outbreak of Kaffirs and Griquas on the border of the province, and troops were raised on the Diamond Fields. There was plenty of military enthusiasm. Times were bad, and the Diamond Fields answered to the call for men to serve their country at five shillings a day. Store-keepers who could supply uniforms, and transport-riders who had waggons and oxen, came forward to help their country in its hour of need at a considerable profit to themselves. For Douglas, the chance was just what he longed for.
Kitty did not try to prevent him from going out, for she thought it was the best thing he could do. She knew all his history now. How he had got into some trouble at Sandhurst, and had been sent abroad by his stern old uncle, who had determined not to leave the family acres to one who, he thought, was certain only to bring disgrace upon his family. She thought it only natural that he should wish to volunteer and take the chance of showing that there was something in him. When the Diamond Field Horse left the camp she went out to see them off, and felt proud of her lover, as she saw him ride away in his troop. “He won’t come back a trooper,” she said to herself, “if there is much fighting to be done.”
She was right about his not coming back a trooper. When there was any work to be done, he was in the thick of it, and he had some opportunities of showing that soldiering was a trade he was fit for. Promotion, such as it is, comes quickly in a colonial corps, and when he came back he had a commission. He came back a new man, proud of and confident in himself. For years his life had been all down the hill, and until Kitty had stretched out her kind little hand to help him, every one had been content to speculate as to how long it would take him to get to the bottom. Perhaps he would have hardly cared to think how much she had done for him. She was so fond of him and proud of him, it was only natural, he thought, but still it was gratifying. He was very pleased to see her again, and her bright little face and cheery manner were very charming to him.
He, of course, was conscious that he was going to marry beneath him. Still he had a notion that he would get on better with Kitty than any one else he had ever met. Though he was a gentleman of very excellent family, he was not a very refined person, and Kitty’s peculiarities of manner were not drawbacks in his opinion.
The day for the wedding had been almost settled when the troubles in Zululand began. Jack must needs go to it. It was too good a chance to miss, and Kitty had to make up her mind to wait. So she said good-bye to him, and he went off to join a corps of Irregular Colonial Horse as a Captain. She stopped at Kimberley and looked after the ‘Frozen Bar.’ She was terribly anxious when the first bad news came from Zululand, and until she heard that he was all right. But she tried to be brave and be thankful that he was having a chance of distinguishing himself.
She prospered fairly well, though she began to encourage a class of custom which was not very remunerative. The warriors who had served with Jack in the Diamond Field Horse took to frequenting the bar. They found that if they only talked enough about Jack, and told stories that redounded to his credit, Kitty would take the cards they signed for drinks in lieu of ready money without murmuring, and she would listen to these stories, somewhat to the neglect of gentlemen of the diamond market who, if their lives were less romantic, paid with greater regularity for what they had to drink.
There was a good deal to do in Zululand for the Irregular Horse, and when there was anything to be done, Jack was in his right place. He was on the Zlobani Hill on that fatal day on which so many of the Light Horse were killed. There were a good many brave deeds done that day, comrade risking life to save comrade in that wild rush from the Kaffirs who had again out-manoeuvred their white foes. Jack was cool and collected on that day, as he usually was in danger. As he rode down the hill for his life he heard a shout behind him. A young Guardsman, who had come out on special service, had come to grief; his horse had been killed and the Kaffirs were almost upon him. How Jack got through the Kaffirs and managed to get away with the man he took up he hardly knows, but he did, and he brought him back to safety.
It happened that the youngster whom Jack saved was the son of a great English statesman, and heir to half a county; and this was all the better for him, for nothing now-a-days gets much of a price unless it is well advertised: and the brave deeds of soldiers (as some men have learnt to their profit) are no exceptions to this rule.
As it was, Jack’s deed was much written about by special correspondents, and when the news came home, much talked about in London drawing-rooms; and in time the news came out to South Africa, that Jack was to be made a V.C.
When the news came to Kimberley, some one lent Kitty a packet of English papers so that she could read what they were saying about Jack at home. She had taken them and one of Jack’s letters and had gone up the Garden, as a desolate bit of land was called where some trees had been planted, and some feeble attempt at gardening had been made; she wanted to be by herself to think it all over.
She read all about Jack in the papers, and learnt that he was the nephew of the General Douglas, who was a distinguished officer in the Crimea. The report said he had been at Harrow, but was silent about his career at Sandhurst.
The papers were full of him, and every one at home seemed to be proud of the brave young colonial soldier, who at the peril of his life had saved the high-born boy, about whom everybody was glad to have an excuse for talking and writing. His picture was in two of the illustrated papers. There was a leader about him in one of the dailies. Of course Kitty thought the latter a very beautiful piece of writing, and wondered what all the classical quotations meant, and who the long-named persons to whom Jack was compared were. And this was the man who loved her—this hero, this brave soldier. How she wished she was different from what she was!—a lady who would be fit for him, not a poor half-taught woman, who had lived a hard life amongst rough, coarse people, and had got the little education she had from the bits of plays she had learnt and the novels she had read, and the queer side of society which she had seen. Well, if she was the finest lady in the world, she thought, she would not be worthy of him. Cynical little Kitty, who was so well able to sum any one up at their right value, and whose estimates were seldom too favourable, had at last set up an idol which she bowed down before and worshipped none the less reverently because her experience ought to have taught her that it was made of rather poor clay. She had been sitting some time thinking over her past, and wondering what her future would be, torturing herself by doubting whether he really did care for her, or could care for her, and reading over his letter again and again, when she heard Jack Douglas’s name spoken by some one. She was sitting on a bench by a cactus hedge; there were two men on the other side who were talking about him, as a good many people in Kimberley were. “I know all about him,” one man said; “he comes from the same part of the country that I do. He would have had his uncle, General Douglas’s property, only he got into some row at Sandhurst, and his uncle said he had disgraced himself, and turned him adrift. My people tell me that the General intends to have him back again and forgive him, he is so pleased at his getting the V.C. So he’d be all right, only he has been fool enough to have got engaged to some woman out here. What’s her name? That woman who keeps ‘The Frozen Bar.’
“By George, what a fool! Not that she isn’t a jolly little woman in her way, but one wouldn’t care to introduce her to one’s people at home as one’s wife,” said the other.
“Yes; I spoke to him about it when he was here last, but he didn’t take what I said over well. I fancy he knew he was making a fool of himself and was sick of it, though it didn’t matter then, as there wasn’t much chance of his uncle ever making it up with him,” the other man said, and then they began talking about something else, little knowing who had overheard, and what a nasty wound their words had made.
Kitty sat still where she was, listening to the two men’s voices. For some minutes she felt numb and stupid, knowing that she was wounded terribly, without knowing how or why. Then she began to realise what the scrap of conversation she had overheard meant. “He was making a fool of himself, he could not get out of it,” that is what his friends were saying about him, she thought to herself, and it was true enough too, at least the first proposition was, she told herself. He had talked of his early life to her once or twice, but always as something that was past and gone, and which had nothing to do with him as he was then. Now, however, she knew that he could go back to it if it were not for her. He had got to choose between giving up his chance of returning to it and giving her up; that was all. She could remember something in his manner when she last saw him which she did not quite understand then; now she knew what it meant—he knew he was making a fool of himself.
Now, when he had distinguished himself he would feel this all the more. She alone was keeping him from the life he was born for. Now when he knew what he was giving up, what would he do? Would he come back to her out of pity or duty or a sense of honour, or would he desert her? No, he never should do that; she would never give him the chance. If he married her how often he would repent it!—how often he would think of what he had given up for her! “Yes,” she thought to herself, as she walked back to her house with all the gaiety and happiness taken out of her life, “she saw her way.”
Some weeks after Ulundi had been fought and the war was over, Jack Douglas was sitting in an arm-chair at the Crown Hotel at Maritzburg, reading a letter from England. It was from his uncle, the General, and was to the point, as the old gentleman’s letters usually were. He had heard of Jack’s gallant conduct, and was very pleased. He was content to let bygones be bygones and receive him again. He was to come back and live at the Hall, and he would have the place eventually. The General went on to say that he had met with some one who knew of Jack at Kimberley, and had heard an absurd story of his intending to make a disgraceful marriage with a barmaid. If he intended to do that he need not answer the letter; otherwise he had better come home as soon as the war was over. Jack read the letter over and over again with a troubled expression on his face. He did not like to give Kitty up. He was bound not to. He remembered, and it was not a very pleasant memory, all she had done for him, and what he probably would have been if she had not again and again helped him up after he had slipped down. If it had not been for her a broad arrow would as likely as not have been the decoration which he would have gained. Then what a jolly, cheery, bright little woman she was, and how devoted she was to him! He wouldn’t give her up, be hanged if he would; he had plenty of money in his pocket, was thoroughly pleased with himself, and every one thought him a very fine fellow, so he would do what he liked. He would write the General a fine, manly letter, full of generous feeling, telling him that he would not give up the woman who had done so much for him.
He sat down and wrote away, and then read his letter over. There was a little too much tall talk in it; it was the sort of thing that would make his uncle very angry. Jack tore it up. Then as he began to write another letter he seemed to see the other side of the question. How much he was giving up—a fine old place, as good a position as a man could want, and instead of that he was to end his days in South Africa or in some other colony. His V.C. would not be much good to him unless he stuck to colonial soldiering, which was a poor life. No; he would put off writing the letter. Then he remembered that he had not heard from Kitty for some time. She used to send him every week a funny, ill-spelt letter, in which all the gossip and news of Kimberley which found its way to ‘The Frozen Bar’—and there was very little that did not—was told very humorously. He would walk to the Post Office. On his way he met several men he knew who were in high spirits because they were going home. “Wasn’t Jack going home too?” they asked. “What, going to stop in that forsaken country! By Jove it seemed a pity too, after he had scored so.” However, they were too full of their own affairs and the good time they intended to have, to trouble themselves much about him. Jack, as he parted with them, felt he wished he was going with them. It was useless to try not to regret it. He was giving up a great deal for Kitty. He was a fine fellow, and as an honourable man there was no other course for him to take, but it was a thousand pities things did not arrange themselves better. There was a letter from Kitty: but curiously enough it was dated from Capetown. At first, as he read it, he hardly could understand it.
“Dear Jack,—
“It is all a mistake there being anything between you and me. We don’t suit. Your people would have nothing to do with me, and you had better go home to them, now that every one must be proud of you. You would break down as a returned prodigal if you had to answer for me as well as yourself. Don’t answer this letter, for I am sick of the country, and before you get this shall have cleared. Kitty.”
It would be difficult to describe Jack’s feelings as he read this letter again and again. At first he felt mortified to think that Kitty could have persuaded herself to give him up. Then through the matter-of-fact wording of the letter he saw the real state of the case, and knew that she was giving him up, as she thought, for his good. He would follow her, and tell her that he refused to be released from their engagement, and tell her that after all she had done he cared more for her than he did for England, or position, or anything else. Yes, that would be the right thing to do, he told himself, only he remembered that he did not know where she was, so he could not answer her letter or go to her. Well, it was not his fault; if she would give him up he could not help it. After all, the strongest feeling he experienced was one of relief. He had got out of it. He would answer his uncle’s letter and say nothing about Kitty. What a lucky thing it was that he had put off writing!
He did not, however, write by that mail. He went home by it himself, instead. When he got home he was welcomed most cordially. His uncle considered that he had atoned for the disgrace he had got into, and felt that he could once more take a pride in his nephew, and think with pleasure of his representing their family, and owning the old place when he was gone.
Every one in the county agreed with the old General, and Jack was made much of and looked upon as a hero. His uncle gave him some horses, and he had plenty of hunting and shooting, and generally had a good time of it. Of course he sometimes thought about Kitty, but when he did he half confessed to himself that not for her or any one else would he give up the life he was enjoying so much, and go back to South Africa. Besides, he did not know where she was. He might have found out, however, for she was at Kimberley, and was still the proprietress of ‘The Frozen Bar.’ She had never gone farther than Capetown; something told her that she would not have much difficulty in defeating any attempt Jack might make to find out where she had gone to. A list of passengers of a steamer bound for home told her that she need not take any more trouble on that score. He had taken her at her word, and had wasted very little time in making up his mind to do so. Then she went back to ‘The Frozen Bar,’ for the treaty she was making for its sale was not concluded—and she is there still. She has made a good deal of money, and lost the greater part of it speculating in shares. And it is to her bad luck that some people on the Diamond Fields attribute her being a little more hard and bitter than she was. Still, she is good-natured and kind-hearted, and ready to help people who are in trouble, though she is not likely to have a more tender feeling than pity for any one. The other day she saw Jack’s wedding in an English paper. He married a lady of good family and some property, who was fascinated by his good looks and his reputation as a hero. He is prosperous and respected, and he has almost forgotten all about the days when he seemed to be such a hopeless ne’er-do-well.