Tragedies of the Night

New Zealand Graphic, Volume XXX, Issue XVII, 25 April 1903, Page 1131

Tragedies of the Night

By

Edgar Pickering.

IV. THE TRAGEDY OF THE GRANGE BALL.

Right and left of him men were falling quickly under the hot fire from the distant kopje; the hiss of bullets, thick as hail almost, was in his ears, as across the bare, exposed ground Mark Eversley led his company to the attack, with a grim, defiant look in his eyes, as if he scorned death. There was a grim surprise in his heart, too, which amounted well-nigh to regret that he had escaped so far from being wounded or killed, for it would be better far to have done with life as so many others had with their face to the foe, than to see England again. And amid the wild excitement of the engagement Mark’s mind was occupied in going over again the announcement he had read in the newspaper, which was dated two months ago, but had only reached the station an hour since.

The paragraph in the paper which seemed to have burnt itself into his brain, announced the engagement of Freyda Graham to Leslie Streatham, was worded in the conventional style, and absolutely uninteresting to everyone in the world excepting Captain Mark Eversley. The assembly had sounded as he stood gazing at the printed words, and he had gone out from his little ragged tent into the hot glare, to join in the deadly brush with the foe, thinking nothing but of those curt words which told him that the woman who had vowed constancy to him had been faithless. “It will be better for her—better for me, if I get a bullet through by heart,” went his thoughts, “than to go home. There’ll be some sharp fighting when we get within grips of those beggars yonder, and it may come then;” and he gave a quick look at one of his men who had pitched comically forward reddening the parched veldt under his broad chest. Then the company had left the dead man a hundred yards to the rear, and Captain Eversley’s thoughts went back to the paragraph in the newspaper, as he and the others eame hand to hand with the enemv at last. But neither bullet nor sword had touched him, and out of the butchery Mark Eversley returned to his quarters, having performed a bit of work which would make him a V.C. presently, yet he had but the faintest recollection of it. Freyda Graham seemed to have got between him and death. That was the strangeness of the thing, and he laughed mirthlessly at the thought.

Three months later, and he was in London again, his share in the South African war being done. He had only returned yesterday, and it was nearly two years since he said good-bye to Freyda Graham; there was a host of friends who would welcome him—yet Mark Eversley thought of but one. She had been different from his other friends, for he and she were to have been made man and wife; but something had happened to prevent their marriage, and for the thousandth time the weary sequence of the events of the past two years passed through his brain. They had haunted him from the moment when he read the announcement in the paper—all throu b % journey to Cape

Town, and the voyage home, until every other thought had been driven from his mind except that of meeting Freyda once more.

He was going down to Cranworth that evening. He had decided upon doing that. What might happen after, eonfused him to imagine. “She can scarcely refuse to see me,” mused Mark. “No one else need know of my coming to her mother’s house —best that no one should know,” and he got up from his chair, going to a battered old leather case which held a pair of revolvers. He took one of these out, examining the lock carefully, thinking of the bearded face that had confronted the weapon for a moment at Colenso before disappearing in a mist of blood-stained smoke.

Mark found himself balancing the revolver in his hand, and then he flung it to the further end of the room. “I shall begin to think I’m going mad," he muttered. “That was a hateful thought which came to me just now—it seemed to blind me for the moment.” His servant entered the room at that instant and Mark twisted round sharply, noticing a card in the man’s hand. “I can see no one,” he said. “Tell them I’m ill, or engaged. Say I’m dead and buried,” and he gave a barking laugh. The man nodded stolidly. His master was only a little stranger in his manner than usual, but there was a different look in the eyes from that of yesterday.

The Grange, Cranworth, was brilliant with light and merriment that night when Mark Eversley arrived at the lodge, for Mrs Graham gave a ball to which half the county had gathered, and the sound of music came faintly through the darkness as he stood listening.

It was Freyda’s birthday, and the dance had been given in honour of the occasion. It would be the last event of her happy, careless life of girlhood, for she and Leslie Streatham were to be married in a month’s time. Everybody congratulated her mother and herself, for Streatham was one of the wealthiest commoners in England, and Captain Eversley had been a comparatively poor man. Freyda was very sensible, said her friends, in throwing him over; but it had not been an easy task. How fondly Mark had loved her—how strong and tender his worship! and amid the gaiety surrounding her, there came a pang of regret that their lives were for ever sundered. She was wondering what the effect of her letter, that had never reached him, might have been, and in what manner she was to meet him. as meet they certainly would next season! “You are wonderfully thoughtful, Freyda.” It was Leslie Streatham, who was looking at her, as she sat out one of the dances. “What are you thinking about?”

She glanced up smilingly. “Would you really like to know?” she answered COquettishly, and he smiled back.

“I was thinking of something that happened three years ago. Of somebody who was walking with me across a moor —someone whom I shall never see again, perhaps;” the last words coming almost unconsciously, and her piquant face grew serious. “I want you to let me off the next dance, Leslie. I’m tired—l’d like to sit hero alone, just for a few moments, where I can look out across the park. I shan’t see the dear old home again very often, remember.”

He humoured her, as he always did every whim or wish of the war ward tri:!, and Freyda, seated in the deeply-recessed window, gazed out upon the night. 1 e merry stir of the guests, the wailing waltz tune, the light and joyousness, seemed to have all drifted away as she looked; and there came a flood of memories which carried her back to days forgotten until then. Suddenly Freyda started to her feet, for a solitary figure had stepped out from the gloom into the light cast by the brilliant ballroom through ths long casement upon the terrace, blanching the face that confronted her, and a hand was beckoning. So silent and motionless stood the form that it might have been an unearthly visitant, but for her instant recognition of it. Mark Eversley was mutely calling—Mark Eversley waited there: he who loved her, and she who had vowed to be faithful to him, were face to face once more. Then she had opened the casement and stepped out, shutting it softly, and silencing the murmur and merriment of the dancers, so that it was as if a quietude, deep and profound as death, had closed around her. There was a strange mingling of keenest joy and expectation in her mind —an unspeakable happiness; an unspeakable despair.

There was no greeting between them, and they moved out of the beam of light side by side, yet apart, into the dark grounds. “I didn’t care about coming into the house,” he was saying eare’essly. “I only reached the Grange half an hour ago.”

“I did not know you were in England,” she responded, as if defending herself, but he did not heed.

“I don’t suppose we shall see each other after to-night, Freyda,” he continued. “You will not be missed for ten minutes, perhaps. Will you walk as far as the old bridge? That’s not very much to ask, and I’ve a fancy for going there. It was the spot where wc said good-bye to each other when I was ordered to the front. You remember?” Remember! His farewell kisses were burning her brow and lips again, as they had done then. Her heart was throbbing as it had throbbed that day. Would she ever forget? They walked on silently, each occupied by their own thoughts, and ga-int and black rose the old bridge across the sullen river. They were standing against the low parapet before Eversley sp.ko again.

“I remember our parting, Freyda—it was something to think of when we were thousands of miles from each other. It was something to think of moreover, of what sort our meeting again would be—the happiness of seeing you; of holding you in my arms; of hearing your voicecan you imagine what real happiness that was?”

She had bent her head downwards, or even in the darkness he might have seen her teal’s.

“I’m not here to blame you, dear,” he went on. “There may be some reason of which I don’t know, for what has happened, but it doesn’t matter now. I think you’re crying, Freyda, and that’s foolish. Who will care for your tears? People’s hearts and souls may be tortured, yet there’s not a single person who’ll mind. That’s the way of the world. One has to go their own way—to fight,, and love, to conquer or fail, quite alone.”

“Mark!” and Freyda’s outstretched hand found his. "If you only guessed half the misery that’s in my heart you’d forgive me. I was mad I think when I broke my promise to you—you don’t know that I was almost forced to give you up; I know now that I love you more than ever I did in the old days—you only, Mark.”

There was a passionate ring in the words That caused him to come beside her, and his arm was round her waist.

“Yes, yes, I know,” he replied, hoarsely. “They thought of the money when you were persuaded to accept Streatham. But I’ve come in time to save vou. Freyda.”

"Never to be parted again, dear Mark!”

“Nevdr—never to be parted again, dearest one,” and his grip tightened round her.

Hark! Through the darkness came a voice calling her. Freyda! Freyda! Leslie Streatham’s voice, mingling with the merry dance music that floated out through an opened casement.

"What shall I do? What shall I do?” she whispered affrightedly. “Mark, they mustn’t find me here with yon—to morrow I will speak to my mother and Mr Streatham. Let me go now,” but he only held her eloser to him. feeling her quickly throbbing heart against his own, and below muttered the black river.

“Let me hear you tell me once again that you love me, sweetheart. Let me feel once more your kisses on my face,” he murmured. “It’s for the last time, dearest—the last time.”

She put her arras round his neck, forgetful of aught else but the love she bore him. Overmastered by the mighty strength of it, her lips were on his, their lingering kiss a very heaven of bliss. “Swear that you love me,” he whispered.

“Only you, dear, dear Mark,” cams the words. “Come what may—only you, for ever and ever.”

She was in his arms, powerless to release herself, and then a quick spasm of deadliest fear struck her.

“Let me go! Let me go!” she cried “You hurt me.”

“They meant to rob me of yon, dearest,” he answered very tenderly. “To part us; but that can never bo. Come.” Though she struggled with all the strength of fear to escape, it was in vain, for clasping her in his arms Mark Eversley stood upon the edge of the crumbling parapet. One 100k —a last look of unutterable love upon the face upheld to his—one last kiss upon those marble lips, and then, locked in his embrace, she and he were in the black, icy flood, borne swiftly downward together to death.

“Freyda!” “Freyda!” came the cry never to be answered.