FROM PRIVATE TO PEER.

Cromwell Argus, Volume L, Issue 2648, 17 November 1919, Page 2

FROM PRIVATE TO PEER.

By Ralph Venour, Author of "Tales from an Old Curiosity Shop," etc. SYNOPSIS OF PRE VIOL'S PART. The story opens with a prologue, in which is described the return of the North Downshire Regiment t.o England, after some years' service in India. One of the officers, Eie.itcnant Viscount (.'live, heir of the Earl of Isledon, makes a bet of one thousand pounds with Lieutenant Porterficld, that he will marry, within three months, the first woman he meets on landing. As Clive steps on the landing-stage his eyes fall on a young girl, the daughter of a local tradesman. They become acquainted, and within the stipulated time Viscount Clive is married to Susan Oldbury. Towards the end of the year a son is born to them. It is soon after this that Clive's wife learns from rorterfield of the wager. Being proud, she leaves her husband, taking the child with her. . And to the day of hia death, Cuthbert Clive, afterwards Earl of Isledon, sees her no more. TART TWO. CHAPTER I. , Night in the Khyber Pass. A sky like purple velvet hung over the slumbering camp, a sky studded with great gold stars and flooded with the light of a moon brilliant as moons are in India only. Backwards and forwards marched the sentries, their bayonets and buttons sparkling in the light Here and there in a tent twinkled candles, speaking of some officer who was writing home, or reading up the geography of the district in which the regiment, the Downshire Foot, or "Dare-devils," now had its temporary home. A cluster of brighter lights marked the hospital tents, where a surgeon, a few men of the Medical Staff Corps, and a number of Red Cross nurses kept watch and ward over the wounded.

The tents formed a street, a Fine of tents on each hand, in the hollow of a little pass, stretching out to the south of the main pass, the Khyber.

Half-way down the street of white tents a private stood outsidf the flap of a tent, a letter in his hand. The moon gave enough light for him to read. lie was not reading at this moment. He was speaking' softly to himself. Let us listen lo him : "My mother dead ! Oh, no, I cannot believe it. But if it is true that you are no more, my mother, I aur certain that you are looking down on your Son this night. You .are telling him to be brave and honourable, r>< vnu would have him he. nnd I promise you I will be what you wish." A voice came from the inside of • he tent. ■'For Hiven's sake, Clive, come in an' shut the front dure. We're nearly all friz wid th' cowld." The .young man at the entrance of the tent turned swiftly. "I'm a forgetful brute, OShca" "Ye are that, me son." "I can't sleep" "No wonder after this day's work. If the ghostses of the Paythans you've killed are huntin' ye, ye're • a via' a loively toime." "It isn't that, O'Shea." "Whativcr it is, shut that flap." Clive did as he was bid, and came and sat down on a box by the side of the good-hearted Irishman. O'Shea was sucking a black clay Ihai was the pride of his heart. The Lobacco made a bubbling noise. For a few moments that and the steady breathing of the other men, all very sound asleep, were the only sounds in the tent. "I'm wakeful mesilf, this night," said O'Shea, at length. "There's a little gurrl in Cork city that's occupyin' me moind powerful." "Lucky man," said Clive, "to have a girl to occupy your mind." "Thrue for you, me bhoy, when she's such a daisy as Julia Brannigan. Her an' me is tokened, an' it's mesilf that wishes this same Injia would bust itself, so 1. might get homo to mo Julia. What's on yer moind, Gintleman Clive ?"- "Gentlema.n Clive," that was the name his comrades gave to this tall, clean-cut soldier, and you could not but say that the title suited him. His dress was that of the common soldier, but his fare and bearing stamped him the gentleman. "On my mind, O'Shea," he answered, absently. "I've had bad news from Home." . "Ah, well, no man ivcr found that anny good. But we aj.l get bad news at toimes, so i'what's the good nv grousin' '?" "It's my mother," said Clive. "That's the worst av all, for the mother is the wan a man turrns to when ivery wan else goes. Fwhat's the matter wid her, mo bhoy '?" "She's dead, O'Shea," and the words died away in a sob. "That's bad. that's bad. But hould up, me son. houhl up. An' Cod rest her soul." The Irishman crossed himself, for ho was that best of fighters, a pious Catholic. For a time there was silence in the tent. Then Clive spoke again. "But I am terribly troubled over the last letter she wrote mo. I received it to-day, and there are some things in it I cannot understand al all." "Spit 'em out, me bhoy, an' if I don't siiod the loight av rne understhandin' on them, me reppytashun is gone for wisdom." "Come to the door, then, where there's light. I'll read you the bits I can't understand." For all his harum-scarum ways the Irishman had a great fund of com-

mon sense, and he was the general adviser of most of the men in their little troubles. It was this that made Clivo resolve to confide in him. O'Shea sat down on a stone by the side of the tent, and Clive standing up, holding the letter, which he took from the breast of his tunic, began to read : "101, Archel-rd., West Kensington, London. "My Dear Son, —My time is very short now. When you receive this, in tlie heart of the hills of India, your mother will be no more. The fatal disease that has been sapping my life these years has reached the climax at last, and the doctor tells mo that a fortnight or less will end my

weary flays. Before I go I have something to communicate to you which it is necessary for you to know.

"In the first place, the name you bear is really your own. You are Mervyn Clive,- and as that you were christened. You never knew your father, but he is still alive, although the world knows him under another name than that in which he married me. Your father is a man of rank, respected in society and in the councils of the nation', a servant of the Queen, and an honoured man. His son, his and mine, you have not yet taken your rightful place in the world ; but I charge you, as soon as you can leave your regiment with honour, to purchase your discharge— I leave enough money to enable you to do that —return to England and claim your place. When you get to London, go to Mr. Edward Abraham solicitor, 112 a, Bedford-row. Mr. Abraham is my solicitor, and is in possession of all the papers necessary to prove your right to one of the oldest names in England. "I do not tell you why you have never seen your father ; let it suffice you to know that in a measure he wronged me. But the one who

wronged you and me is a man whom I pray you may one day meet and take vengeance upon. His name is Porterficld —Colonel Esmond Porterfield.

"My hand is growing weary—l cannot write more. And there is no need I should write more, for you are a dutiful son and you will obey my desire that you should return to Fngland as soon as you can. Once at home, you will learn all. "These are my last words to you. "A mother's love be with you, and a mother's blessing upon you.—Your affectionate mother, "Susan Clive." During the reading of this letter O'Shea sat. with open mouth. When Mervyn finished speaking he closed his jaws with a snap, as 'much as to say, "I must think over this." Put Mervyn, who in spite of his natural sadness was eager to get some notion of the fate awaiting him, turned and said : "Well, what do you think of it, O'Shea ?" "There's many a slip between the canteen door and the barrick-room, as Shakespear sez. So don't ye put too much faith in what the old lady sez. Moind ye, Clive, she wuz ill when she wrote that, an' she may have been wandherin' a bit in her head. Still, don't say a worrud of this to anny-wan, but get home as soon as this taypot shindy is over." "Did you recognise the name of any one in the letter ?."

O'Shea looked up suspiciously. "Did Oi recognise? Did Oi reCog—? Well, now, ye come to ask me. that man Porterfield on the staff seems to answer. Colonel Esmond Porterfield, didn't the ould lady say?"

"Do you know anything of h : m '.'" "Do Oi know annything av him? Blood av a pratie, he's the dirtiest—here, whisper, for it's libel I'm going to commit—the dirtiest, blackhearted blaygard av a gintleman in the British Arrmy, an' that's no small worrud. Porterfield, me dear

But O'Shea's little sermon was cut short by a. scream from the direction of the hospital lent. Without a word Mervyn turned from his comrade and darted off in the direction of the sound.

"Poor divil !" muttered O'Shea. "Love's a tarrible thing. He hangs round that hospital like a bee round' sugar, an' I'm not sayin' but Sisther Pose isn't sweet, nayther."

Meanwhile Mervyn had made his way to the tent with the Bed Cross flag above it. Everything seemed quiet there, but at the back of it, where it abutted on the slope of stone and scrub, he thought he saw a gleam of white in the clear moonlight. He crept on, and saw in a second or two that it was Sister Pose's apron that showed so brightly. She was struggling with a man. Mervyn dresv his bayonet and rushed on, thinking her assailant was a I'atha.n. But, as he came nearer, he dropped his weapon, for he saw the man was dressed in the official uniform of khaki.

But though he dropped the bayonet he still came on to Pose's- rescue, his fist clenched for the blow. The man's back was towards Mervyn, who cried out, "Take that, you low brute," and swung a blow that caught the man on the right ear, causing him to drop like a stone. Then Mervyn caught Pose in his arms, for tiie excitement Was proving too much for her and she half fainted. "What's the meaning of this ?" Mervyn asked, when she had recovered somewhat. "Hush !" she answered ; "look, he is coming to. You had bettor escape he is an officer and you have struck him." "I don't care. I struck him to save you." "Oh ! go, go, Mervyn—you do not know what a villain he is. and what revenge he will lake on you." The man was making vain efforts to rise from the ground, for Morvyn's had been a stunning blow. "Who is ho ?" Mervyn whispered. "Colonel Porterfield," was the re-

ply that made his heart stand almost still. "Esmond Porterficld ?" "Yes." "What was he doing hero with you, Rose ?" "That is too long a story, now. You bad better get away before be recognises you." "No. I must see him face to face. I must know him again, and he must know me." So saying, Mervyn moved over to theLf alien man, who lay with open up into the moonlight. and, over him, looked into his committing every feature to hearx. Porterfickl, still somewhat dazed by the blow, was conscious, however, of the man bending

over him. He made an effort to raise himself on his elbow. He got up and up until his face was on a level with Mervyn's—then his eyes grew wirier and wider as with horror, and his jaws gaped, as he cried : "Good heavens ! What are you doing here, Isledon ?" Mervyn paid no attention to these words, thinking Porterficld mistook him for some one else. "I know you now, Colonel PorterHeld," he said, after a moment. "T shall not forget your face, and I trust you will not forget mine. You do not know my name, but perhaps it will be enough for you if I tell you that I am the son of Susan Olive." CHAPTER 11. When reveille sounded next morning Clive sprang from his blanket but little refreshed. The events of the preceding day and the strange encounter of the night had driven sleep from his eyes, and he had passed the hours in a review of his position. After ho had fixed the features of Colonel Esmond Porteriield in his memory, he had escorted Sister Pose back to the hospital. On the way .he

had pressed her to tell him how It was he had found her with Torterfield. "It's 100 long.a story to tell you now," she said. "To-morrow when you are o(T duty, and if the column does not advance, come to me at the hospital and I'll tell you all." So he had to be content with that. But when the morning came he had to go without the promised -jxplination, for on turning out he mot one of the men of the Army Medical Staff Corps, who gave him grave news. "Hullo, Clive !" cried Ormiston. "He a rd the latest ?" "Xo," said Clive, more for the sake of civility than because he wanted to enter into a conversation. "Sister Rose has been kidnapped by the Pathans." "What !" Clive answered with a gasp. "Kidnapped !" "Well, that's what we think. At any rate, she's disappeared. And there's no one we could have spared least, for she was the hardest worker and the cheeriest girl I ever Came across." "When was this discovered ?" "Only about an hour ago. Surgeon Milligan wan Led her to assist him—lie's going to cut old Tommy Croon's leg o!T —and she was just Hie one to help. Never turn a hair at ihe sight of blood, would she, and as tender as a fellow's mother with it all, so she is." "Well, and what then ?" "Milligan told me to call her. I hunted all around for her, asked everybody in camp if they had soon her ; hut she's gone, my boy, clean vanished off this globe." Mervyn felt the cold hand of Fate clutch at his heart-strings, and lie could only murmur to himself : "There's some devil's work here." The Pathans might have done this thing, but somehow he felt as if some other and more calculating agency wore at work. lie turned away and returned to Ilis tent to c-onsuit O'Shea. "Here, old man, - ' he said, as lie drew O'Shea to one side. "I want to speak to you. Sister Rose has disappeared, and they say the Pathans have taken her. What do you think, O'Shea ?" "Who was it, did ye say, ye found wid her last night ?" asked O'Shea"Colon'M Porterfield, curse him !" "Then, me son, ye may ta' e yor solemn Alfred David that Mister PortherlieJd, not liavin' the wings of an ang<*l yet, has soniethin' to do wi<| this nei'ariousness." "Do you really think that ?"

"Bisten, me bhoy. Whin I was at Kawal Pindi that's ten years ago next St. Pathrick's Day, this Por-

tlier-field—he was major thin —tuk a pick at Casey, colour-sergeant av G Company, an' he niver risted hand or fut till Casey blew his brains out to get tpiit av the tormint Porterfield put on him. An' that was bckas Porthcrfield's snarlin' little devil av a terrier bit Casey on the leg, an' Casey left the mark av his fut on it. That wuz for a dog. Now it's a woman, an' you, me son. Walk wide av PortherfieJd is my wurrd to you, an' lie's at the botton av this business, or me name's not Michael O'Shea."

"By heavens, I believe you're quite right ! If he is, then I swear'*

But Mervyn's oath was cut. short by the bugle-call for the fall in.

The men grasped their rifles, and i.n a few moments after were marching down the pass to repel or att a ck (they knew not which) a body of Pathans some six hundred strong that had taken up their position during the night and were now engaged in the merry game of "sniping." The colonel of the Downshires led his men in person, a little cane in his hand in place of his sword. It was thus he always headed his men, and because his name was Adams he was known as "Abel," the which is barrack-room wit. Almost before they realised they had walked a hundred yards, they

dropped on one knee and sent a had of bullets into the thick of the I'aUians ; ami (hen the colonel gnve the word for the charge bayonets had already been fixed.

Then the fun began. The Fathan is a born fighter, and so is the .Briton ; so, too, is the Irishman. The fight was a good one. Every insh of ground was stubbornly contested, and for every inch a Pathan or a. British soldier paid the toll in blood. But the J>ownshires never slacked moving on. What if a comrade fell, never to rise again ? What if a knife found its home in one's own heart ? Good and well. It was a ll ia a day's work, paid for munificently by a benevolent and paternal country. Merv.vn Clive had good fighting blood in him, and he used his bayonet with the steadiness and persistence and pride of an ocean-going piston-rod. O'Shea, s>y his side, shouted a.nd cried as if he were at Donnybrook Fair. Together they worked prodigies of valour like brother Titans. Mervyn saved O'Shea. from an ugly knife thrust, and next moment O'Shea saved Mervyn from the jab of a spear.

The Pathans were giving way, and it came to be a question of pursuit. Porterfield was intelligence officer, and he had accompanied Colonel Adams to give advice as to the nature of the ground. "Well, Porterfield, how does it si and for pursuit ?" "Quite safe, sir," said Porterfield, who had just caught sight of Mervyn, flushed and hot with his exertions. "The pass takes a narrow turn to the right about a quarter of a mile further on and you can finish them off there."

And ha added to himself, "Or they will finish you off there. And there'll be an end of that young fool who surprised me last night." So Colonel Adams ordered the advance, and the little force swept on to certain death. For, as Porterfield knew well, the main body of the enemy lay entrenched at that turn, and had the easiest task in life to wipe out the Downshires. But private vengeance made Porterfield hold his peace. In less time than it takes to tell, the Downshires were surrounded by a grinning horde who spared none as they asked not to be spared. From that valley of death there came out three hundred where five hundred went in. It was terrible, and when the roll was called on the return to camp there was many a shudder as name after name remained unanswered. When "Mervyn Olive'' was called there was no reply. "Poor bhoy !" sighed O'Shea. to himself, wiping the blood from a long cut in his cheek, "there's an I end to yer love an' yer revenge." i But, -after all, it wasn't, else this ' story would never have been written. Mervyn Clive did not answer to his name because he was lying unconscious under a heap of the slain at 'the very ."bottom of that valley of death. 7f spent bullet from a long jezail had stunned him. Then one I after another of his comrade:; fell i over him, and he lay unconscious. ! And over these again had fallen Pathans, going to death gladly because a Paradise of great delights waited them. So he lay, breathing with difficulty until a party of the enemy came out to rifle and mutilate the dead. J I'e tried to move when lie heard the guttural voices of the robbers, but lie was pinned too securely. A shudder of horror spread through him,. for he remembered the ghastly tales of mutilation he had heart] in bar-rack-room and by camp-lire : and though he did not fear death he feared mutilation. i The looters pulled away body after body and stripped them of clothes ; they ransacked pockets in search of valuables ; and finally they came to Mervyn. One tall Pathan thrust his hand into a pocket in Mervyn's funic and fetched out something. As soon as he saw it he started back in surprise and called to some of his companions, who crowded round and jabbered mightily over the treasure. It was a photograph of Sister Hose which she had given to Mervyn but a few days before, after a meeting in \ which ho had told of his love for her. Of this more anon.

When the Pathans had held a con- , sultation among tlumsalves, they ■drew Mervyn forth and hoisted him on to the shoulders of two of them. ; Then they set off up the hill in front. j lie made no attempt at resistance, I for that would have been useless, i but as they went forward lie kept his eyes open and took a mental photograph of the way and the gene- ; ral surroundings. In a little depression neat* the fop ! of the hill lay a sangar, or rude fort ; of undressed stones piled one on the ! other. The door was shut and in j front of it walked a sentry, brist- | ling with knives, and carrying a jez- ' ail on his shoulder. | To him one of Mervyn's carriers I addressed some words and a reply I was given, as if referring the quesi tioner to some one in higher authoj rity. A messenger departed in search lof this some one, and Mervyn was 1 laid down on the ground until he arrived.

In a few moments the chief appeared. Mervyn thought his face was familiar, but, where or when he had seen him Mervyn could not recollect. The chief, casting not a glance at the prisoner, gave an order, the sentry unfastened the ha'p of the door, and Mervyn was carried into the sangar and laid down upon the door. Then his capl ors withdrew and the door was again fastened on the outside.

"What are they going to do with me ?"• was the question that had been occupying Mervyn's mind for some time. "Am I being reserved for some exquisite torture ? Then they will see how a British soldier can die." Again and again he went over this formula, and then wearied out with the exertions of the last two hours, and with the heat of the day, he fell asleep and slumbered peacefully for a long time. When he awoke the light that filtered in through the roof of brush-

wood was falling on his eyrs so that he could not, see very distinctly. 110 attempted to move his hca<l, but could not do so readily, for it was held iirmly by two hands. lie succeeded in moving slightly to one side and looked up to see who it was t]iat held him so. It was Rose.

She was heading over him, and looking down on him with eyes of love and tenderness.

"Rose !" he gasped. "Mervyn"." "How came you here ?" lie asked. "I was carried off just as you appear to have been," she said.

"But I was wounded in the fight," he began.

"And I—l went out to the door of the hospital tent to get a breath of fresh air, when I was suddenly seized and before I could utter one cry of alarm I was gagged and bound. I was blindfolded, too, and carried until I found myself here." "And you cannot tell why '?" "No, Ido not know. But how is it you arc here ?"

"I know no more than you do why you are here. I was wounded, I" "You were hit on the temple by a spent bullet, that is all. You. were stunned, nothing more."

"Well, when I recovered consciousness. I must have been very weak, for I could not move, from under the pile of dead ami wounded that lay above me. Some of the Pathans came out after loot and 'pulled me out. They discovered your photograph. One of them, evidently recognised it, for he called to the others and showed it to them. Then they brought me here." "You say .you had my photograph with you ?" "Next my heart, dearest."

The fair woman, to whose beauty the uniform of a Red Cross nurse seemed to give an added charm, bent down and kissed him on the brow; While he seized her hand and pressed it passionately to his lips. "Poor boy, you look pale," she said. "Fiittlc wonder, dearest. I have had trouble enough these last two •days." "'J"wo da.ys," she said, inquiringly. "Yes, for la <; t night, when I came to your rescue I was smarting from a cruel blow. I had heard but a few hours before that ray mother was dead." "Your mother dead !" "Yes. At least, she said in her letter that by the time I received it she would be no more. Sh.3 had been suffering from heart disease for some years, and her trouble had taken the

fatal turn." "Mow I feel for you, dear." "But all thought of Iter fled when I found you struggling with that fellow Porterfield. Tell me, darling, how it was that happened." ''l cannot toil you all, but" —and she hesitated. -"Yes, Rose," ho whispered, encouragingly. "Oh ! I may as well tell you all. You would have to Know some day —as well know now." "If you would rather I did not hear now I can wait." "I can trust the man who is to be my husba.nd," she said, sweetly. ''My Christian name is Rose but my surname you have neves- heard. If I told you, it would mean nothing to you. My mother died when I was three years old, and about four years ae.o, when T was eight en. my father married again. My stepmother was —I should say,' is,—a cruel woman, jealous of me and the love my father showered on me. Quarrels, endless quarrels. went on from day to day, until life at Haver at home, grew unbearable. I took flight, and under an assumed name gained entrance to a London hospital as a probationer. Thus 1 became a nurse, and after a time took service under the Jloci Cross Society. Colonel Portcrfield knew me in the old days at home. When he saw me here he spoke to me and asked me how it was I was a nurse. To make him hold his peace when writing to Kngland, I had to tell him my story, and I bound him over to secrecy. He promised not to speak of me. Since we came up country he has pestered me with attentions, and. last night he threatened that if I did not favour his odious proposals he would write home to my father."

"The beast !" muttered Mervyn 'Another score to be wiped off."

"He attempted to kiss me. Then I screamed. And, as if in answer to my cry, you appeared and saved me from the monster.” {To be Continued.)