At home in England the news of the battle of Colenso and the capture of the British guns was received by a whole world with incredulity and dismay. Throngs of people crowded the War Office, clamouring for news—pouring out inquiries and lamentations,—reading the terrible list of casualties, and while reading scarcely believing what their own eyes beheld. Major Desmond, furious at the mere idea of any disaster to the British arms, stood reading the list, without half understanding what he saw, so bewildered and stunned was his mind with the cruel and unexpected nature of the dispatches from the front, till all at once he saw—
“Captain Fitzgerald Crosby. Killed.”
He staggered back as though he had received a blow.
“What, Fitz? Poor old Fitz! Gone so soon? No—surely not possible!”
He read the announcement again and again, feeling quite sick and giddy; and his eyes, wandering up and down the column, suddenly fell on the name “D’Arcy-Muir.”
“Robert D’Arcy-Muir—Private. Killed.”
“Now wait a bit!” said the Major, sternly apostrophising himself—“This won’t do! You’re dreaming, old man! It’s no good fancying oneself in a nightmare. Robert D’Arcy-Muir,—private—in what regiment?—Scots Fusiliers. Now let me see!”
He went straight to one of the chief authorities at the War Office—a man whom he knew intimately and who would be most likely to help him.
“Robert D’Arcy-Muir,—private—Scots Fusiliers? Curious you should ask me about him!—his name came under my notice quite by chance two years ago. Yes—I remember the case quite well. He was the only son of an officer of good family, Captain the Honourable D’Arcy-Muir. He was at Sandhurst, but unfortunately got expelled for being drunk and disorderly. He told his story, it appears, quite frankly, when he enlisted, and his honesty stood him rather in good stead. He was quite a favourite with the regiment, I believe. Killed, is he?—And you knew him?—Sorry, I’m sure. Will I see that his parents are informed?—Certainly. Have you the address? Thanks. They didn’t know he had enlisted? Odd! They couldn’t have cared much. I suppose they dropped him when he was expelled. Good morning! I’m afraid you’ve had a shock. These are trying times for every one.”
And the Major’s informant shook hands with him kindly, and turned to other matters, for urgent business was crowding his hours of time, and there was more than enough for him to do. Desmond went out of his presence, weary, broken down, and as it were stricken old for the first time. The curt and sudden announcement of the death of his old chum ‘Fitz’ had overwhelmed him—and now, the certainty of Boy’s death as well, a death so swift, so tragic, so far away from home, made him shudder with fear and horror as he thought of Miss Letty. She had been very ailing since Violet had gone to South Africa, and yielding to the Major’s entreaties she had sent for old Margaret, her former faithful attendant. And Margaret had had come at once, and now scarcely ever left her. To Margaret she talked constantly of Boy, and the hopes she had of seeing him again—hopes, alas!—that were now to be completely and for ever destroyed.