Littell's Living Age/Volume 129/Issue 1664/The Dilemma - Part XXV
From Blackwood's Magazine.
THE DILEMMA.
CHAPTER LIII.
It was in the little inn-parlour, last occupied perchance by some light-hearted pleasure-party halting awhile during a boating excursion on the river, that the unfortunate Falkland told in faltering sentences the strange story of his deliverance to the bewildered friend who sat listening to the sad tale, his heart too full of sorrow and emotion to find room for words of comfort or consolation.
Lying in the narrow street of Mustaphabad on the eventful evening which brought succour to the residency garrison; having fallen from his horse while gallantly leading the assault against the rebel soldiery; grievously wounded and almost insensible from the blows which had left their awful marks on the mutilated features — on that noble face which had served as a beacon throughout the defence of the residency to animate the garrison, — Falkland knew not what had happened to him till he became aware that his mangled body was being carried over the plain in a closed palanquin. There was a halt at one time, through one fiery afternoon, when the palanquin was brought within some house, and he hoped, so far as he had the power of forming hopes, that he had been set down to die. The halt was made, as he heard afterwards, while the fate of the rebel nawab remained in suspense, whose trial and execution have been recounted in these pages. It was thought by the fugitives that the nawab might make terms for his life by disclosing their possession of the captive; but when the news came of his execution, the gang which had escaped hurried off with their prisoner, making for the swamps and forests at the foot of the great mountains.
How could he describe the sufferings he endured? At first, indeed, the stupor in which he lay saved him from consciousness of his condition; but after a time, he knew not how long, he came to be aware of the dreadful state of his wounds. "But why try to describe what no words can tell? " said the unfortunate sufferer; "I was in that state when all desire of life had left me, all care for escape and return to home and friends; I prayed only for death: but yet, although in this loathsome state, I had still enough of the man left in me to withhold from taking my own life. Thus went on the dreadful days. How mortal man could have borne it, looking back on what I passed through, I hardly understand. Sometimes a merciful insensibility came over me; but then after a time I would awake again to the horrors of my condition. My captors were not all brutal; one man especially did his best to tend me in his rough fashion: but most of them shuddered as they passed my way, as well they might; and even if all had been humane, there could be little done to help the wounded. There were many of the party scarce able to drag themselves along for their wounds; even rags were scarce, and we seldom remained halted, for a single night. At times my memory failed me altogether, and I forgot what I had been; forgot that I had — that I had a wife, mourning, perchance, my death: but one thing I had at last the sanity and strength to do, to cut off the mangled arm which lay rotting by my side;" and raising, as he spoke, the cloak which he still wore, Falkland showed the sleeve of his coat hanging loose from his left shoulder.
"From that time," he continued, "I began to mend slowly. I could swallow food, and sometimes, when our fugitive party halted, I was able to sit up; and now for the first time I came to realize the possibility that I might recover, and a desire to escape from my captors began to possess me. Our party was greatly diminished; many had died, some had made off, several were killed, for they, too, were subject to attack and plunder by the villagers for the sake of the money and jewels they were supposed to carry about with them. And now the leaders began to sound me about terms of ransom. We had been joined at different times by other fugitives, and some of the band were now, I believe, the chiefs of the rebellion, to whom no mercy would be shown, but who they themselves believed would be hunted down by the avenging and victorious British, unless they could offer sufficient terms to induce the government to forego its just revenge. They thought they held this pledge in me; and so strong is the desire for life in even those who have least to live for, that I found myself ready to listen to their proposals.
"The scheme was to send a messenger to the nearest British territory with a letter from me, saying that they would give me up if assured of their own lives. There was great doubt and hesitation about taking this step; they feared that if my existence and their whereabouts were known, the government would be incited to further efforts in pursuit, and that I might be recovered and themselves caught without making terms. Thus they could not determine what to do. I did not show any eagerness to fall into their plans, for I did not know the history of these men, and how far they might have steeped themselves in crime too deep to be expiated by my ransom; and bitterer than to perish in the wilderness would have been a refusal of the government to rescue me on these terms.
"They wanted me to write in the Persian character that they might know what I said; I refused to write except in English; thus for several days the negotiation made no progress.
"But with the prospect of deliverance, the love of life grew stronger. My senses, so long chilled to the miseries of the life I was leading, were awakening to the desire for escape; and the sort of plan I had in my mind might have been carried out, but for a slight thing that happened one day.
"The palanquin-bearers, by this time, had all died or run away, and the women of their zenanas, whom the fugitives were carrying with them, and myself, were travelling on some miserable ponies, when, on fording a little stream at the foot of the mountains, I got off my pony to drink. The water ran bright and clear, reflecting every object like a mirror; and stooping down on the bank I loosened the bandage from my face, and then I saw — O good God! — I saw for the first time that fate had cut me off forever from all that made life dear."
As Falkland said these words he pushed — whether by design or chance — the large-brimmed hat which he was wearing from off his head, and displayed the ghastly sight which had so far been partially covered, and of which Yorke had caught only a momentary glimpse at the time of their first meeting. The right side of the face was not maimed, but contorted; but the left side was defaced by awful scars, and a deep hollow marked the socket of the sightless eye. Happily he could not see the involuntary shudder of his sorrowing friend.
"From that moment," continued the unhappy man, "I cast away all thought of rescue. To return home seemed then to be worse than any death; and to my poor puzzled brain it seemed as if I must wander a ragged fugitive about these jungles till God should give me a release. Why I did not myself put an end to my wretched existence I hardly know, nor on what grounds I justified myself in prolonging it. It is deemed a noble thing to give up life for one's country — why not, then, to save those whom we hold dearest from pain and sorrow, and perhaps worse? But the narrow groove of sentiment in which we are taught to think restrained me, and the time went by when I could with reason have laid hands upon myself.
"How at last I got away, with the two men who had treated me better than the others, and who wanted to separate from the rest of the party, would be too long to tell. We went always northward, sometime in danger and hard pressed, at others well treated. My condition, I suppose, made me an object of pity; for no European has ever before or since passed through those parts with life. One of the khans especially treated us well. My two companions took service in his army, and he gave me money to pursue my journey. By his help, and that of the good Jesuit missionaries on the road, I made my way at last down the great river to the seaboard. How long the weary journey took I know not; the count of time often failed me.
"Arrived on the coast, I was received by the Catholic bishop, to whose care I had been commended, and with this good man I passed some weeks — or it may have been months — getting the rest I sorely needed. As he was a foreigner, and did not speak English, it was easy to keep the secret of my identity; but to him, I think, I should have made known my name, for I was in need of money, and could at once have procured it from the bankers there on saying who I was; but I wanted — you will understand what I wanted — to know first whether others were still dependent on me whom it might be needful to assist.
"The English merchants at this seaport used to send the bishop the Indian papers; for although he had kept my arrival secret, and I saw no European but himself, the rumour had got abroad that a refugee from the mutiny had arrived there overland down the great river; and great sympathy, I understood, was shown, as well as curiosity, for further particulars of the journey. But the only newspapers available were of too recent date for my purpose; there was no allusion to the events I had taken part in. I could read with pride that the mutiny was being suppressed, and our cause triumphant throughout the land; but there were no tidings of — of the one person whose fate was bound up with mine. I could not tell if she were alive or dead.
"In that state I remained irresolute; at times, indeed, I think I must have lost my senses, for the memory of what passed while at that place is almost blank: but I had determined at last to write to — to her, to tell her of my escape, and bid her farewell forever, and then announcing myself to the government to make a provision for her comfort, keeping a trifle for myself to live upon in some retirement; and I had even written the letters for the purpose, and was preparing to embark for Europe — for I thought that when she heard of my escape and condition she would want to make a duty of coming to me, and I was determined to spare her the shock and the sacrifice — when one day the steamer arrived from Calcutta. The friendly merchant, as usual, sent the good bishop a pile of Indian papers, and in it I saw — you know what, her marriage!
"Yorke, I do not blame her. I was punished for my folly and selfishness. I might have known that her heart was always with her cousin; but I took advantage of my friendship with her father to press my suit, while that man was kept at a distance, both absent and discredited. What was I, to fasten my withered old body to that fresh young creature? What more natural than that, after a decent interval, she should turn to her first love? I blame her not: while she was mine, no wife could be more loyal; but now I can see only too plainly that her love for me was far different from the passionate devotion I felt for her. No words can tell how dearly I loved her.
"This news decided my fate. She must be saved from disgrace, at any rate. My escape must now remain a secret forever. She did not want for money, so the one motive which might have led me to divulge it no longer remained. I left the shelter of the good bishop's house, having borrowed with his help sufficient for my purpose, and once more appeared among my fellow-men; but people understood my reason for concealing my features, and no one sought to force my confidence. I took ship for Europe, and wandered about, seeking for health I could not find, visiting old scenes full of tender associations, avoiding my own countrymen. I had enough for my small wants. A modest property had passed to a cousin of mine; to him alone have I divulged myself: it is agreed that he shall keep my secret, and retain a portion of the estate.
"Thus the time has gone on. How long it has been I hardly know; at times my memory fails me altogether. Do you know, Yorke, that until we met just now I had forgotten your very existence, although the residency days are fresh enough in other respects; my mind, I suppose, is so full of certain things that there is no room for more. Now since we have met, I remember all about you, and what a gallant share you took in the defence.
"You will ask what am I doing here, and how my being here accords with my vaunted resolutions. I might have gone on in retirement to the end of the few days that remain for me, when I met our old friend Mackenzie Maxwell. It was at some baths where I had gone to see if I could get relief from the torture from this remnant of a limb that afflicts me at times; he recognized me, and betrayed the discovery as you did. From him I learnt of Kirke's downfall, and of his leaving India, and that he had taken service in Egypt. He was well placed there, Maxwell said, and was to send money regularly home, and Olivia — and her children — would not want; Maxwell was in correspondence with her. Do you know, Yorke, I felt glad to hear they were separated; I even found myself wishing that Kirke might never return, and she be left a widow again.
"Maxwell and I soon parted: he was very good, and wanted to nurse me and have me to live with him; but this could not be. The secret would be found out; besides, a leper such as I am is not fit to live with anybody. So we parted, but he was to send me word if any help was needed. And that is what has brought me to England. The remittances from Egypt soon stopped; Kirke has marched far away into Upper Egypt, and no news has come of him for many weeks. She draws his half-pay, which he got when he left the army; but what is that? And for her too, brought up in luxury, and never taught to think about money! She was in actual want when Maxwell found her out again. Poor child! she may have been ashamed to tell him she was in debt, and so put off writing. It was only the other day he found her living in this poor cottage.
"I could not be brave enough to stay away any longer. Maxwell would do what is needful, but I could not let my — my wife be a burden on him. We are carrying out a little plan which will place her in comparative comfort. She came here from miserable London lodgings in the autumn; the place is damp and cold for her, but she could not pay her way from it again. Maxwell has now found a suitable home in a better climate, where she will move immediately. He has gone to make the final arrangements."
Such was the tale told by the unhappy man, the wreck of the gallant Falkland, to the sorrowful listener. Not all at once, or in one continuous story; only by degrees did the unfortunate sufferer find words, and the listener was too stricken with grief at first to press him with inquiries: but after a time Falkland was able to proceed with his narrative, and Yorke to help him on by asking questions; and in the influence, perhaps, of the sympathy of his newly-found friend, and the long silence broken, the once proud and reserved man at last overcame the difficulty of speaking, and for many hours of the long evening the two sat together in the little parlour, by the dim firelight, while Falkland told the sad story of which an abstract has here been given.
"No," said he, in reply to a question put by his friend, "I have no purpose to disclose myself. From the terror which such a discovery would cause her in every way she shall of course be saved. No, I did not come here to shock her with the dismal sight of my mutilated features; but I could not resist the overwhelming desire which possesses me to look on her once more. I have been here two days, and she has not left the house. When Maxwell comes again he may be able to persuade her to take a walk with him past this house. The one desire which possesses me is to see her sweet face once again, before I drag myself away into some corner, to await the end which a merciful God will surely not defer much longer. Maxwell tried to dissuade me, but I felt that I could know no peace if I allowed this chance to pass away. I must see her dear face once more before I die. Sad it will be, and changed, I know, for he tells me she has suffered much; but it is still the face of truth and innocence: and oh! Yorke, it is the one satisfaction I am allowed to feel as the innocent cause myself of her unhappy situation, that even if I had not come between her and her first love — for such I know now Kirke must have been — it would not have saved her from her present state of want and desertion."
It seemed to Yorke as if it added to the grotesque horror of the situation, that their conversation should have been interrupted by the entrance of the landlady bringing Falkland's supper, and to tell him that his own meal awaited him in the other room. She had evidently learnt so much of her lodger's habits as to know that he wanted to be alone while taking food; and Yorke readily divining his wish, retired for a while, and notwithstanding the excitement of the situation, found himself able to eat his own meal — found himself indeed hungry from his long fast, and discussing coolly with the landlady the commonplaces of the day, — doing so the more readily in order to divert the curiosity which she displayed on finding that he was acquainted with the invalid gentleman, whose object in staying at the inn at such a season she naturally wanted to find out
And now, as the hours went on, spent chiefly by Yorke in listening to his companion, the time came for him to decide what to do for the night. It was only half an hour's walk to "The Beeches," but the house would probably be closed by that time, and his return so late might excite curiosity; while to pursue the business of the morning, as would be expected of him if he went back to "The Beeches," would in his present frame of mind be utterly distasteful. Indeed, for the time, Yorke felt wholly unlike a lover; his heart was too full of the emotions kindled by this, sudden awakening of old associations to find room for the selfish pleasure of the hour. To stay at the inn, on the other hand, was hardly practicable, and Falkland was evidently tired and needing rest. Besides. Mrs. Polwheedle, whom all this time he had quite forgotten, might be in real distress and need of his services. So taking leave of his unfortunate friend, and promising to return again shortly, he started off on foot, there being no conveyance available, to catch the last train up to town from Shoalbrook; and hurrying along the muddy road, had time to think at leisure over the strange revelation which that day had brought before him, while almost dismayed to find himself reviewing it so calmly. The exercise was indeed a welcome relief to the excitement and distress of mind which this discovery had caused. Unhappy Falkland! who could wish that his life had been spared? And so changed as he was in every way, not only in feature, but in manner and mind! Yorke remembered now, what had not struck him at the time, that his ill-starred friend had not once asked him a single question about himself. Everything that had happened since his own misfortune seemed to be a blank to him, save what affected the unhappy woman whose fate was bound up with his own forlorn existence. He was still as unselfish and noble minded as ever; — was not his present life one continued act of devotion and self-denial? — but the Falkland he once knew would have turned the conversation away from his own adventures and interests to inquiries about the life and aims of his friend. But suffering and misfortune had broken down his once strong character.
Such were the sad reflections that came uppermost to Yorke tramping through the mud and rain, till on reaching the station he took his seat in a carriage full of noisy people returning from some convivial entertainment at Castleroyal, who had evidently taken as much wine as they could carry, and whose boisterous merriment seemed like a devilish satire on the sufferings of the unhappy persons whom he had just left by the river-side — the unfortunate wife all unconscious in her loneliness of the presence of the still more unhappy husband, close by, but hiding from her.
Arrived at his lodgings, and letting himself in, Yorke went to his room without disturbing the people of the house, to lie tossing on his bed, recalling the sad scenes which he had witnessed, seeking in vain for a way of deliverance for the unfortunate husband and wife from the difficulty which beset them. But in the end nature asserted itself; young, healthy, and tired, he at last fell asleep, and slept as soundly as if there had been nothing to disturb his rest.
CHAPTER LIV.
It was late when Yorke awoke next day; for the houskeeper, unaware of his return, had not called him, and the forenoon was well advanced before he got to the hotel where Mrs. Polwheedle was staying.
The lady was at home and received him in the public sitting-room, unoccupied at the time by any one else. Mrs. Polwheedle, like the rest of the world, had grown older since he saw her last, more than seven years before, on the day following the relief of the residency, and was no longer to be called a middle-aged lady; but she carried her years well, and, attired in decent half-mourning, she seeded softer and pleasanter than of yore. Accosting her visitor with warmth as an old friend, she seemed suddenly to be quite affected at seeing him; and a certain amount of tearfull emotion on her part, and friendly condolence on his, had to be gone through before, on his taking a seat beside her on a big velvet couch at the end of the large room, she plunged into the business which had led her to summon him.
"Oh, Mr. Yorke, — Colonel Yorke, I mean — I beg your pardon I'm sure, but there have been so many changes since we met, and when my dear Polwheedle" — here the handkerchief came again into requisition, and Yorke waited patiently till she was able to proceed, — "Oh, Colonel Yorke, I have seen — what do you think? — you will hardly believe me, but it is true — who do you think I have seen? I have seen him with my own eyes, — Falkland, poor Falkland — that we all made sure was killed — come back to life!" and her emotion struggling with the excitement at having such news to communicate, Mrs. Polwheedle fairly burst into tears.
"Yes," she said, as soon as she was sufficiently composed to be able to find words again, "I am sure there is no mistake about it; I wish there was, God forgive me for saying so. I was coming up from Tunbridge — I was staying there on a visit to the John Polwheedles — poor dear Polwheedle's younger brother, you know — they have a very nice place, and keep their carriage, and everything very comfortable: well, I had got to the station and was looking after my luggage — for one is obliged to look after one's own things in this country, with so many bad characters about — when a lady, at least I don't know that she was a lady exactly, but she was very well-dressed, with a real seal-skin jacket, trimmed with elegant fur; but Lor' bless me! everybody dresses well in England nowadays, there is such heaps of money: well, this lady slipped and fell on the pavement — at least she would have fallen if a gentlemen had not caught her. He had on a large cloak and a big slouched hat. There she lay in his arms — his arm, I should say, for, poor fellow, he had lost the other; and of course a little crowd began to collect, and I was looking out for my pockets, for it was just the time for the swell-mob to be at their tricks, when the gentleman says to her in a low voice, 'You are not much hurt, I hope?' 'Not much, thank you,' said the lady, in a mincing sort of way — at least I am sure she was not a lady, she had that dreadful cockney accent — it's worse than the chi-chi any day, and it's my belief the falling down was all a sham, — 'not much hurt,' she said; 'would you just help me to a cab?'
"'Perhaps you will kindly do what is needful,' said the gentleman, turning round towards me — for I had come up quite close, you know, to see if I could be of use; and before I could say a word he had handed her over to me, and had walked off, leaving me with this creature dangling in my arms. It's my firm belief, Yorke, the woman was no better than she should be; for as soon as she found out it was one of her own sex who was holding her up, she rose and walked right away, without ever so much as saying 'Thank you,' just as if there was nothing whatever the matter; no more, you may depend, there wasn't. But, dear me, this is not what I wanted to tell you. It was about the gentleman. Colonel Yorke, if you'll believe me, and if I never speak a word again, that gentleman was Falkland, as sure as I am a living widow. I knew him by his voice; you know what a nice voice he always had — low, but so clear; I should have known that voice among a thousand: but when he turned round I saw one side of his face for an instant, the other was all bandaged up, and then I was sure of it, although it was dreadfully altered. As for me, I felt as if I was rooted to the ground, and I thought I should have fainted away; in fact, it is a mercy something did not happen to me, being subject as I am to a flow of blood to the head; and when I got the use of my legs again he was gone.
"You may fancy my state of mind. I came up to draw my pension — for you know I like to look after my own money matters myself, and save bankers' bills — and here I am going on for the third day in town, and living in this expensive hotel too, and I have not been to the India Office yet; and there are the Joneses in South Wales — they are relatives of my poor Jones, you know — expecting me to spend Christmas with them. I really don't know what to do. I have written to Jane Polwheedle, that's my sister-in-law ——"
"Good heavens!" cried Yorke, interrupting her for the first time, "you surely have not written to tell her of this discovery."
"Oh no, my dear colonel," returned Mrs. Polwheedle, looking very sagacious. "I merely said that my nerves had been upset by an accident I saw at the railway-station; but I felt I must find some old friend to talk it over quietly with, or I should break down under the secret. I tried to find out Mackenzie Maxwell — he that was residency doctor at Mustaphabad, you know, and a great friend of poor Falkland — but he has gone out of town. And then I thought of you. I heard you were in England, and I went to Senior's and found that they were your agents, and that you were staying only a few miles off, and they promised to telegraph, and here you are; and I have scarcely been able to sleep a wink or touch a bit of food since this happened. And now I am sure I don't know what is to be done."
Yorke asked if it was long since she had heard of the Kirkes.
Not since Mrs. Kirke came to England, was the reply. Kirke had written himself from Egypt, some time back, to say he hoped to pay what he owed her soon, and mentioned that his wife had gone on to England.
"Then had Kirke borrowed money from you too?"
"No, it was a trifle his wife owed me; it was when we were living together in the hills — after we got away from the residency, you know. Lor' bless you! she had no more notion of money than a child; and if I had not taken her in to chum with me, and managed the housekeeping and all that, the servants would have robbed the very clothes off her back. Well, when the wedding-day came, there was a small balance due on the account, and she, poor thing, came to me and said that she had made over all her money to Kirke, and given him a memo, of the debt, for him to pay at once; and I daresay she believed he did pay it, but he didn't: he got married and went off without paying me; and when I sent him a little reminder to Mustaphabad, he wrote to put me off, and then the smash came, and I didn't like to trouble them. But he wrote afterwards of his own accord from Egypt, as I said, although I have quite made up my mind never to see any more of my money."
"How much was the amount?"
"Well, it was about three hundred and seventy rupees — no great sum to be sure; still, as a poor widow myself"
"That would be about thirty-seven pounds, wouldn't it, Mrs. Polwheedle? I have some funds which have been made available for meeting Mrs. — that is, for meeting Kirke's obligations of this sort, so you will allow me to discharge this one at once."
The good lady for an instant looked pleased at the idea of recovering the long-standing debt, but presently wagged her head with a knowing smile. "No, no, my young friend; I know where those available funds come from. Your purse must be a pretty long one if it is to pay all that man's debts, I can tell you. Of course I should like to see my money again; that's only natural. I haven't too much to live on, you know; only my widow's pension, and the special allowance they give me on account of poor Polwheedle's services, and his small savings, and the trifle left by poor Jones; still, I'm not going to take your money. If you must give it to somebody, give it to her, poor thing; she is sure to be in want of it, wherever she is; for all she was so tall and grand-looking, she was as helpless as an infant about housekeeping and money matters, and is still, you may depend; and I'll be bound that man in Egypt is not too free with his remittances."
"So you have no idea where Mrs. Kirke is?" said Yorke presently, asking himself whether her old acquaintance might not perchance be some help to the poor wife in her present distress, and yet doubtful as to the prudence of telling Mrs. Polwheedle what he knew.
"I haven't an idea; but I hope and trust she won't meet poor Falkland, wherever she is. It would kill her, I do believe. Colonel Yorke, I was always against that second marriage. I mistrusted the man, for all he was such a handsome man, and such a fine soldier; and now this seems like a judgment on hear for marrying so soon. Why, I was seven years a widow after I lost my poor Jones, before I accepted Polwheedle. He wanted me to shorten the time; but I was quite firm. There's a want of delicacy, to my mind, in marrying again under seven years; don't you think so? After seven years it's a different thing, of course; but a woman should be delicate before everything."
Presently the conversation came back to the subject of Yorke's visit, and Mrs. Polwheedle for the first time expressed her surprise at what, if she had not been so full of her own story, might have struck her at first, that Yorke had not appeared so much astonished at her news as was to be expected.
Then Yorke told her that he too had seen Falkland — the recognition, like hers, having been accidental — and expected to see him again very shortly; although he evaded Mrs. Polwheedle's very natural curiosity to know where and how the meeting had happened. Falkland, he added, did not know that he had been recognized by anybody else; for his sake and for Olivia's, the secret must be kept; and he used all the earnestness of manner he could summon for the occasion, in exhorting Mrs. Polwheedle on no account to divulge it.
The lady at once promised compliance, but so readily and lightly that Yorke felt sure the promise would not be kept, and was filled with dismay at this new complication; still more when he heard that Mrs. Polwheedle was expecting to meet some of the old residency garrison that very day. She was to dine with Mrs. Peart, whose husband had been killed in the defence. "She has just taken a house at Notting Hill, you know, for herself and Kitty."
"Kitty?"
"Yes; didn't you know that Kitty Spragge had come home? Kitty Peart that was. Yes, she has brought home all the children; they landed a fortnight ago — a bad time to arrive; but they got an empty steamer, which is a good thing when you have such a lot of children. Fancy that chit of a girl, as she used to be at the residency, the mother of five children, and the eldest not six! No, no," continued the lady, wagging her head knowingly, in reply to a question, "young Spragge hasn't come himself, and he isn't likely to, either, with such a family to provide for. He has had enough to do to send them, let alone coming himself: he had to borrow five thousand rupees from the Agra bank for their passage-money and outfit; and when will he be able to pay that off, do you suppose? with him on four hundred and ninety-six rupees a month, and no chance of any promotion? You would hardly know Kitty again, she has grown so stout. Yes, I am going to take an early dinner with them, and then we are going with the eldest boy to the circus. I like to see good horsemanship myself; it reminds one so of one's young days. But I can't get that poor fellow out of my head."
Then Yorke, rising to go, again urged her to secrecy. As long as they kept the matter to themselves, he pointed out, they perhaps might be able to help the unfortunate persons concerned in their difficulty. And he would come back soon and consult her as to what was best to be done. But if once the matter went beyond themselves, their use and influence would be gone. This implied bribe had its effect, and Yorke would not leave until he had again extracted a solemn promise from her not to breathe a whisper of what she knew to Mrs. Peart or any one else.
"So you won't stay and take a little lunch?" said the lady, as they shook hands for the last time. "I have ordered it for half past one o'clock punctually; just a cutlet and mashed potatoes, and a little bitter beer; but you are such a great man now," she continued, as he declined her hospitality, "I suppose you would not care to stop and keep company with an old woman like me. Dear me! to think that you were a mere griff, as one may say, when the mutiny broke out, and now here you are a colonel and all the rest of it. And if my poor Polwheedle had been spared, what honours he would have come in for, as commandant of the garrison, and responsible for everything! They would have made him a K.C.B. for certain; don't you think so? and then I should have been my Lady Pol——" but the emotion called up by this picture of the greatness which should have been her portion, prevented the completion of the sentence, and Yorke left her standing at the end of the big drawing-room, wiping away the tears which welled up at the recital of her loss, while the large mirror reflected the tremulous movement of her ample figure.
CHAPTER LV.
On leaving the hotel, Yorke hastened to seek out Mackenzie Maxwell and consult with him on the momentous subject with which he was oppressed, and which seemed for the time to dwarf all the other business of life into utter insignificance. Yet he could not help thinking with a sort of languid wonder as he hastened along, how small a part of the interview just ended had been devoted to the astonishing news which led to it. Mrs. Polwheedle had seen Falkland, and was still able to think about her luncheon and her visits; and except for the gratification afforded her by having a listener, nothing had come out of Yorke's compliance with her urgent summons. And he himself too, notwithstanding this revelation, found already his thoughts at times wandering to other things.
At Maxwell's club, where he had not been seen for two days, Yorke obtained the address of his lodgings, and on inquiring at the latter place learned that the doctor had gone out of town, but was expected back that afternoon; and Yorke spent the hours restlessly wandering to and fro between his own club and the house, too anxious and excited to do aught else. At last, as it was growing dark, he was just leaving the house after making another of many fruitless inquiries, when a cab drove up with his friend inside.
Maxwell recognizing Yorke as he stepped out gave him at first a hearty greeting; then as he stopped to pay the driver, an expression of reserve came over him, and he stood hesitating on the pavement, not inviting Yorke to enter the house, but as if waiting for him to go away.
"I understand your doubts," said Yorke presently, approaching him closely and speaking in a low voice; "but there is no secret to be kept from me; I know all."
An expression of surprise and relief came over Maxwell's face, succeeded by one of distrust and anxiety. How much of the awful secret did Yorke know?
"I have seen her" continued the other, "and I have seen him. It was by a strange chance. Will you not lead the way in, that we may speak about this in private?"
Then, seated in the sitting-room whither Maxwell now conducted him, Yorke told him the events of the past evening, and the two friends mutually confessed the relief they found in being able to have this confidence on the subject.
"I can't tell you," said the old doctor, "what a burden this secret has been to me; and when I met you last, I felt that if I did not run away, I should be tempted to make a clear breast of it and consult you. And indeed I should have been well pleased to think that the poor lassie should have another friend at hand, for a friend I know you would be; although, of course, you can't be expected to feel for her as I do, who was like a brother to both father and husband. And I would have asked you at once to come down and see her; but then there was his secret to keep too, so I was obliged to give you the cold shoulder for a bit, d'ye see? But I am truly glad to think that I have some one to talk the matter over with, for you are a man that can be trusted with a secret."
Maxwell then went on to explain the arrangement that had just been made. Comfortable lodgings had been taken for Olivia at a sheltered point on the south coast. Early to-morrow he meant to go down to Shoalbrook, to try and manage that the outcast should have one view of his wife, as Falkland had already explained, before she started with Maxwell for her new home.
And could not he do anything to help the stricken pair? Yorke asked, and explained to his friend how he was staying in the neighbourhood, urging his strong desire to be of service. At least he could come forward to aid with his purse; so much of the distress as money could alleviate he might help to fend off from the unfortunate Olivia.
But Maxwell said that there was no need for that now. No doubt she had been left in terrible straits at one time, before she made herself known to Maxwell; for having been brought up abroad, and the aunt with whom she lived as a girl being dead, she had found herself a stranger in England, friendless and almost without money. But Falkland had enough to keep her from want, and if not, Maxwell himself had more than sufficient for his own simple needs, and was not likely to let the daughter of his old friend suffer, now that her condition was known. No, there was no need of money; "and you, my dear fellow," continued the doctor, "must have plenty of use for all you have got, for you are just at the time of life when a man is likely to have not more than he wants. I suppose you will be having a wife of your own soon. But no doubt the poor girl will be glad to see you now and again, to talk over old times. And perhaps her hus— perhaps Kirke will be coming home, or at any rate sending her some money. He has assigned his half-pay to her already, and it was that she was living upon when she wrote to me — a bare starvation allowance, of course, for one never accustomed to think about money. I don't suppose there is intentional neglect; he seemed always to be very fond of her; it is simply, I suspect, the behaviour of a selfish man, in dreadful embarrassment and at a distance. But we must take care he does not discover the secret; there is no saying how he might take it, or how it might affect his treatment of her. Her best chance of happiness, poor thing, is in being united to him again, horrible though the idea seems. And this is what Falkland, nobly unselfish as ever, himself wishes."
But Maxwell showed great alarm when Yorke told him of his interview with Mrs. Polwheedle. He concurred with the latter in thinking it was hardly to be expected that the secret could now be kept. This new aspect of affairs made them look black indeed. Fresh and greater unhappiness awaited these unfortunate persons if the secrets were divulged. He, too, must see Mrs. Polwheedle, and endeavour to hold her to secrecy.
Thus the two friends discussed the sad history of Falkland and Olivia, not talking quickly, for their hearts were too full, but in undertones, and with frequent gaps between reply and question, looking down as they spoke at the embers of the fire before which they sat in the dark room, as Yorke learned from the good doctor further particulars about Olivia's adventures since she left India. Truly a time of trouble and suffering from first to last, with which she was ill fitted in every sense to struggle.
At last Yorke rose to go. Engrossing though the subject of their conversation was, there must be an end of it. Maxwell had business to do, and he himself must be leaving town. But they were to meet again next morning at the riverside inn.
One question Maxwell put as he was leaving the room. Had Falkland mentioned to Yorke the circumstances of his meeting with himself, and did he describe at all how he had passed the last seven years?
Yorke replied that Falkland mentioned the recognition as having been accidental, and that he had frequently referred to his loss of memory, and the difficulty he found in recalling the past.
Maxwell shook his head sadly. "I may as well tell you the whole truth," he said. "These injuries to the head have affected the brain in more ways than one. When I first met our poor friend he was under restraint abroad. He has been perfectly lucid ever since; but I have reason to believe that the greater part of his time since his return to Europe has been passed in this way in different places. Happily for him he has no recollection of these times. But you have seen for yourself what a mere wreck he is in every way of the noble Falkland whom we once knew. Would to God he had really been taken from us when we thought we had lost him!"
Yorke on leaving Maxwell's lodgings hurried to the station. He would just be in time to catch a train for Hamwell, and the best thing he could do would be to go to "The Beeches." There he would be near to both Olivia and Falkland, and ready to keep his appointment on the morrow; and he remembered, too, what all this time he had almost forgotten, that some explanation was due to his hosts for his sudden disappearance; still more, that a further explanation must be had with Lucy, and an understanding come to with her father. And yet for the time the prospect of having to do this seemed utterly distasteful. The very notion that he should be scheming plans for happiness and wedded life appeared like a sacrilege to the memory of his first love in her lonely wretchedness.
The train passed through Shoalbrook Junction, stopping there for a minute; the carriage was full as usual of business men returning home, each with his little basket of fish or game: some slept, others discussed the evening papers; while hard by, on the bank of the river which flowed swiftly on, were the two unhappy beings whose tragic fate he was watching, unable to avert.