As Bathurst brought his story to its conclusion the Doctor rose and
placed his hand kindly on his shoulder.
“I certainly should not think of blaming you, Bathurst. What you tell
me is indeed a terrible misfortune, situated as we may be soon, though
I trust and believe that all this talk about the Sepoys is moonshine.
I own that I am surprised at your story, for I should have said from
my knowledge of you that though, as I could perceive, of a nervous
temperament, you were likely to be cool and collected in danger. But
certainly your failing is no fault of your own.”
“That is but a small consolation to me, Doctor. Men do not ask why
and wherefore--they simply point the finger of scorn at a coward. The
misfortune is that I am here. I might have lived a hundred lives in
England and never once had occasion to face danger, and I thought that I
should have been equally secure as an Indian civilian. Now this trouble
is coming upon us.”
“Why don’t you take your leave, lad? You have been out seven years now
without a day’s relaxation, except indeed, the three days you were over
with me at Cawnpore. Why not apply for a year’s leave? You have a good
excuse, too; you did not go home at the death of your father, two years
ago, and could very well plead urgent family affairs requiring your
presence in England.”
“No, I will not do that, Doctor; I will not run away from danger again.
You understand me, I have not the least fear of the danger; I in no way
hold to my life; I do not think I am afraid of physical pain. It seems
to me that I could undertake any desperate service; I dread it
simply because I know that when the din of battle begins my body will
overmaster my mind, and that I shall be as I was at Chillianwalla,
completely paralyzed. You wondered tonight why that juggler should have
exhibited feats seldom, almost never, shown to Europeans? He did it
to please me. I saved his daughter’s life--this is between ourselves,
Doctor, and is not to go farther. But, riding in from Narkeet, I heard a
cry, and, hurrying on, came upon that man eater you shot the other
day, standing over the girl, with her father half beside himself,
gesticulating in front of him. I jumped off and attacked the brute
with my heavy hunting whip, and he was so completely astonished that he
turned tail and bolted.”
“The deuce he did,” the Doctor exclaimed; “and yet you talk of being a
coward!”
“No, I do not say that I am a coward generally; as long as I have to
confront danger without noise I believe I could do as well as most men.”
“But why didn’t you mention this business with the tiger, Bathurst?”
“Because, in the first place, it was the work of a mere passing impulse;
and in the second, because I should have gained credit for being what I
am not--a brave man. It will be bad enough when the truth becomes
known, but it would be all the worse if I had been trading on a false
reputation; therefore I particularly charged Rujub to say nothing about
the affair to anyone.”
“Well, putting this for a time aside, Bathurst, what do you think of
that curious scene, you and I and Miss Hannay disguised as natives?”
“Taking it with the one I saw of the attack of Sepoys upon a house, it
looks to me, Doctor, as if there would be a mutiny, and that that mutiny
would be attended with partial success, that a portion of the garrison,
at any rate, will escape, and that Miss Hannay will be traveling down
the country, perhaps to Cawnpore, in your charge, while I in some way
shall be with you, perhaps acting as guide.”
“It may possibly be so,” the Doctor agreed. “It is at any rate very
curious. I wonder whether Miss Hannay recognized herself in the
disguise.”
“I should hope not, Doctor; if it all comes true there will be enough
for her to bear without looking forward to that. I should be glad if the
detachment were ordered back to Cawnpore.”
“Well, I should not have thought that, Bathurst.”
“I know what you mean, Doctor, but it is for that reason I wish they
were gone. I believe now that you insisted on my coming down to spend
those three days with you at Cawnpore specially that I might meet her.”
“That is so, Bathurst. I like her so much that I should be very sorry
to see her throw herself away upon some empty headed fool. I like her
greatly, and I was convinced that you were just the man to make her
happy, and as I knew that you had good prospects in England, I thought
it would be a capital match for her, although you are but a young
civilian; and I own that of late I have thought things were going on
very well.”
“Perhaps it might have been so, Doctor, had it not been for this coming
trouble, which, if our fears are realized, will entirely put an end even
to the possibility of what you are talking about. I shall be shown to
be a coward, and I shall do my best to put myself in the way of being
killed. I should not like to blow my brains out, but if the worst comes
to the worst I will do that rather than go on living after I have again
disgraced myself.”
“You look at it too seriously, Bathurst.”
“Not a bit of it, Doctor, and you know it.”
“But if the Sepoys rise, Bathurst, why should they harm their officers?
They may be discontented, they may have a grievance against the
Government, they may refuse to obey orders and may disband; but why on
earth should they attack men who have always been kind to them, whom
they have followed in battle, and against whom they have not as much as
a shadow of complaint?”
“I hope it may be so most sincerely,” Bathurst said; “but one never
can say. I can hardly bring myself to believe that they will attack
the officers, much less injure women and children. Still, I have a most
uneasy foreboding of evil.”
“You have heard nothing from the natives as to any coming trouble?”
“Nothing at all, Doctor, and I am convinced that nothing is known among
them, or at any rate by the great bulk of them. Only one person has ever
said a word to me that could indicate a knowledge of coming trouble, and
that was this juggler we saw tonight. I thought nothing of his words at
the time. That picture he showed me of the attack by Sepoys first gave
me an idea that his words might mean something. Since then we have heard
much more of this discontent, and I am convinced now that the words had
a meaning. They were simple enough. It was merely his assurance, two or
three times repeated, that he would be ready to repay the service I had
rendered him with his life. It might have been a mere phrase, and so I
thought at the time. But I think now he had before him the possibility
of some event occurring in which he might be able to repay the service I
had rendered him.”
“There may have been something in it and there may not,” the Doctor
said; “but, at any rate, Bathurst, he ought to be a potent ally. There
doesn’t seem any limit to his powers, and he might, for aught one knows,
be able to convey you away as he did his daughter.”
The Doctor spoke lightly, and then added, “But seriously, the man might
be of service. These jugglers go among people of all classes. They are
like the troubadours of the Middle Ages, welcomed everywhere; and they
no doubt have every opportunity of learning what is going on, and it may
be that he will be able to give you timely warning should there be any
trouble at hand.”
“That is possible enough,” Bathurst agreed. “Well, Doctor, I shall be on
horseback at six, so it is time for me to turn in,” and taking his hat,
walked across to his own bungalow.
The Doctor sat for some time smoking before he turned into bed. He had
as he had said, heard rumors, when Bathurst first came out, that he had
shown the white feather, but he had paid little attention to it at the
time. They had been together at the first station to which Bathurst was
appointed when he came out, and he had come to like him greatly; but
his evident disinclination to join in any society, his absorption in his
work, and a certain air of gravity unnatural in a young man of twenty,
had puzzled him. He had at the time come to the conclusion that he
must have had some unfortunate love affair, or have got into some very
serious trouble at home. In time that impression had worn off. A young
man speedily recovers from such a blow, however heavy, but no change had
taken place in Bathurst, and the Doctor had in time become so accustomed
to his manner that he had ceased to wonder over it. Now it was all
explained. He sat thinking over it deeply for an hour, and then laid
down his pipe.
“It is a terrible pity he came out here,” he said. “Of course it is not
his fault in the slightest degree. One might as well blame a man for
being born a hunchback; but if there should be a row out here it will be
terrible for him. I can quite understand his feeling about it. If I were
placed as he is, and were called upon to fight, I should take a dose
of prussic acid at once. Men talk: about their civilization, but we
are little better than savages in our instincts. Courage is an almost
useless virtue in a civilized community, but if it is called for, we
despise a man in whom it is wanting, just as heartily as our tattooed
ancestors did. Of course, in him it is a purely constitutional failing,
and I have no doubt he would be as brave as a lion in any other
circumstances--in fact, the incident of his attacking the tiger with
that dog whip of his shows that he is so; and yet, if he should fail
when the lives of women are at stake it would be a kindness to give him
that dose of prussic acid, especially as Isobel Hannay will be here.
That is the hardest part of it to him, I can see.”
Three days later the force at Deennugghur was increased by the arrival
of a troop of native cavalry, under a Captain Forster, who had just
returned from leave in England.
“Do you know Captain Forster, Doctor?” Isobel Hannay asked, on the
afternoon of his arrival. “Uncle tells me he is coming to dinner.”
“Then you must look after your heart, my dear. He is one of the best
looking fellows out here, a dashing soldier, and a devoted servant of
the fair sex.”
“You don’t like him, Doctor,” Isobel said quietly.
“I have not said so, my dear--far from it. I think I said a good deal
for him.”
“Yes, but you don’t like him, Doctor. Why is that?”
“I suppose because he is not my sort of man,” the Doctor said. “I have
not seen him since his regiment and ours were at Delhi together, and we
did not see much of each other then. Our tastes did not lie in the same
direction.”
“Well, I know what your tastes are, Doctor; what are his?”
“I will leave you to find out, my dear. He is all I told you--a very
handsome man, with, as is perhaps natural, a very good opinion of
himself, and he distinguished himself more than once in the Punjaub
by acts of personal gallantry. I have no doubt he thinks it an awful
nuisance coming to a quiet little station like this, and he will
probably try to while away his time by making himself very agreeable to
you. But I don’t think you need quite believe all that he says.”
“I have long ago got over the weakness of believing people’s flattery,
Doctor. However, now you have forewarned me I am forearmed.”
The Doctor hesitated, and then said gravely, “It is not my habit to
speak ill of people, my dear. You do me the justice to believe that?”
“I am sure it is not, Doctor.”
“Well, child, in a station like this you must see a good deal of this
man. He is a man who has won many hearts, and thrown them away. Don’t
let him win yours. He is not a good man; he has been mixed up in several
grave scandals; he has been the ruin of more than one young man at cards
and billiards; he is in all respects a dangerous man. Anatomically I
suppose he has a heart, morally he has not a vestige of one. Whatever
you do, child, don’t let him make you like him.”
“I don’t think there is much fear of that, Doctor, after what you have
said,” she replied, with a quiet smile; “and I am obliged to you indeed
for warning me.”
“I know I am an old fool for meddling, but you know, my dear, I feel
a sort of personal relationship to you, after your having been in my
charge for six months. I don’t know a single man in all India whom I
would not rather see you fall in love with than with Captain Forster.”
“I thought uncle did not seem particularly pleased: when he came in to
tiffin, and said there was a new arrival.”
“I should think not,” the Doctor said; “the man in notoriously a
dangerous fellow; and yet, as he has never actually outstepped what are
considered the bounds which constitute an officer and a gentleman, he
has retained his commission, but it has been a pretty close shave once
or twice. Your uncle must know all about him, everyone does; but I don’t
suppose the Major will open his mouth to you on the subject--he is one
of those chivalrous sort of men who never thinks evil of anyone unless
he is absolutely obliged to; but in a case like this I think he is
wrong. At any rate, I have done what I consider to be my duty in the
matter. Now I leave it in your hands. I am glad to see that you are
looking quite yourself again, and have got over your fainting fit of
the other night. I quite expected to be sent for professionally the next
morning.”
“Oh, yes, I have quite got over it, Doctor; I can’t make out how I was
so silly as to faint. I never did such a thing before, but it was so
strange and mysterious that I felt quite bewildered, and the picture
quite frightened me, but I don’t know why. This is the first chance I
have had since of speaking to you alone. What do you think of it, and
why should you be dressed up as a native? and why should?” She stopped
with a heightened color on her cheeks.
“You and Bathurst be dressed up, too? So you noticed your own likeness;
nobody else but Bathurst and myself recognized the two figures that came
out of the wood.”
“Oh, you saw it too, Doctor. I thought I might have been mistaken, for,
besides being stained, the face was all obscured somehow. Neither uncle,
nor Mrs. Hunter, nor the girls, nor anyone else I have spoken to seem to
have had an idea it was me, though they all recognized you.. What could
it mean?”
“I. have not the slightest idea in the world,” the Doctor said; “very
likely it meant nothing. I certainly should not think any more about it.
These jugglers’ tricks are curious and unaccountable; but it is no use
our worrying ourselves about them. Maybe we are all going to get up
private theatricals some day, and perform an Indian drama. I have never
taken any part in tomfooleries of that sort so far, but there is no
saying what I may come to.”
“Are you going to dine here, Doctor?”
“No, my dear; the Major asked me to come in, but I declined. I told him
frankly that I did not like Forster, and that the less I saw of him the
better I should be pleased.”
The other guests turned out to be Captain and Mrs. Doolan and Mr.
Congreave, one of the civilians at the station. The Doolans arrived
first.
“You have not seen Captain Forster yet, Isobel,” Mrs. Doolan said, as
they sat down for a chat together. “I met him at Delhi soon after I came
out. He is quite my beau ideal of a soldier in appearance, but I don’t
think he is nice, Isobel. I have heard all sorts of stories about him.”
“Is that meant as a warning for me, Mrs. Doolan?” Isobel asked, smiling.
“Well, yes, I think it is, if you don’t mind my giving you one. There
are some men one can flirt with as much as one likes, and there are some
men one can’t; he is one of that sort. Privately, my dear, I don’t mind
telling you that at one time I did flirt with him--I had been accustomed
to flirt in Ireland; we all flirt there, and mean nothing by it; but I
had to give it up very suddenly. It wouldn’t do, my dear, at all; his
ideas of flirtation differed utterly from mine. I found I was playing
with fire, and was fortunate in getting off without singeing my wings,
which is more than a good many others would have done.”
“He must be a horrid sort of man,” Isobel said indignantly.
Mrs. Doolan laughed. “I don’t think you will find him so; certainly
that is not the general opinion of women. However, you will see him for
yourself in a very few minutes.”
Isobel looked up with some curiosity when Captain Forster was announced,
and at once admitted to herself that the Doctor’s report as to his
personal appearance was fully justified. He stood over six feet high,
with a powerful frame, and an easy careless bearing; his hair was cut
rather close, he wore a long tawny mustache, his eyes were dark, his
teeth very white and perfect. A momentary look of surprise came across
his face as his eyes fell on Isobel.
“I had hardly expected,” he said, as the Major introduced him to her,
“to find no less than three unmarried ladies at Deennugghur. I had the
pleasure of being introduced to the Miss Hunters this afternoon. How do
you do, Mrs. Doolan? I think it is four years since I had the pleasure
of knowing you in Delhi.”
“I believe that is the number, Captain Forster.”
“It seems a very long time to me,” he said.
“I thought you would say that,” she laughed. “It was quite the proper
thing to say, Captain Forster; but I have no doubt it does seem longer
to you than it does to me as you have been home since.”
“We are all here,” the Major broke in. “Captain Forster, will you take
my niece in?”
“I suppose you find this very dull after Cawnpore, Miss Hannay?” Captain
Forster asked.
“Indeed I do not,” Isobel said. “I like it better here; everything is
sociable and pleasant, while at Cawnpore there was much more formality.
Of course, there were lots of dinner parties, but I don’t care for large
dinner parties at all; it is so hot, and they last such a time. I think
six is quite large enough. Then there is a general talk, and everyone
can join in just as much as they like, while at a large dinner you
have to rely entirely upon one person, and I think it is very hard work
having to talk for an hour and a half to a stranger of whom you know
nothing. Don’t you agree with me?”
“Entirely, Miss Hannay; I am a pretty good hand at talking, but at times
I have found it very hard work, I can assure you, especially when
you take down a stranger to the station, so that you have no mutual
acquaintance to pull to pieces.”
The dinner was bright and pleasant, and when the evening was over Isobel
said to her uncle, “I think Captain Forster is very amusing, uncle.”
“Yes,” the Major agreed, “he is a good talker, a regular society man; he
is no great favorite of mine; I think he will be a little too much for
us in a small station like this.”
“How do you mean too much, uncle?”
The Major hesitated.
“Well, he won’t have much to do with his troop of horse, and time will
hang heavy on his hands.”
“Well, there is shooting, uncle.”
“Yes, there is shooting, but I don’t think that is much in his line.
Tiffins and calls, and society generally occupy most of his time, I
fancy, and I think he is fonder of billiards and cards than is good for
him or others. Of course, being here by himself, as he is, we must do
our best to be civil to him, and that sort of thing, but if we were
at Cawnpore he is a man I should not care about being intimate in the
house.”
“I understand, uncle; but certainly he is pleasant.”
“Oh, yes, he is very pleasant,” the Major said dryly, in a tone that
seemed to express that Forster’s power of making himself pleasant was by
no means a recommendation in his eyes.
But Captain Forster had apparently no idea whatever that his society
could be anything but welcome, and called the next day after luncheon.
“I have been leaving my pasteboard at all the residents,” he said; “not
a very large circle. Of course, I knew Mrs. Rintoul at Delhi, as well
as Mrs. Doolan. I did not know any of the others. They seem pleasant
people.”
“They are very pleasant,” Isobel said.
“I left one for a man named Bathurst. He was out. Is that the Bathurst,
Major Hannay, who was in a line regiment--I forget its number--and left
very suddenly in the middle of the fighting in the Punjaub?”
“Yes; I believe Bathurst was in the army about that time,” the Major
said; “but I don’t know anything about the circumstances of his
leaving.”
Had Captain Forster known the Major better he would have been aware that
what he meant to say was that he did not wish to know, but he did not
detect the inflection of his voice, and went on--“They say he showed
the white feather. If it is the same man, I was at school with him, and
unless he has improved since then, I am sure I have no wish to renew his
acquaintance.”
“I like him very much,” the Major said shortly; “he is great friends
with Dr. Wade, who has the very highest opinion of him, and I believe he
is generally considered to be one of the most rising young officers of
his grade.”
“Oh, I have nothing to say against him,” Captain Forster said; “but he
was a poor creature at school, and I do not think that there was any
love lost between us. Did you know him before you came here?”
“I only met him at the last races in Cawnpore,” the Major said; “he was
stopping with the Doctor.”
“Quite a character, Wade.”
Isobel’s tongue was untied now.
“I think he is one of the kindest and best gentlemen I ever met,” the
girl said hotly; “he took care of me coming out here, and no one could
have been kinder than he was.”
“I have no doubt he is all that,” Captain Forster said gently; “still he
is a character, Miss Hannay, taking the term character to mean a person
who differs widely from other people. I believe he is very skillful in
his profession, but I take it he is a sort of Abernethy, and tells the
most startling truths to his patients.”
“That I can quite imagine,” Isobel said; “the Doctor hates humbug of
all sorts, and I don’t think I should like to call him in myself for an
imaginary ailment.”
“I rather put my foot in it there,” Captain Forster said to himself, as
he sauntered back to his tent. “The Major didn’t like my saying anything
against Bathurst, and the girl did not like my remark about the Doctor.
I wonder whether she objected also to what I said about that fellow
Bathurst--a sneaking little hound he was, and there is no doubt about
his showing the white feather in the Punjaub. However, I don’t think
that young lady is of the sort to care about a coward, and if she asks
any questions, as I dare say she will, after what I have said, she will
find that the story is a true one. What a pretty little thing she is!
I did not see a prettier face all the time I was at home. What with her
and Mrs. Doolan, time is not likely to hang so heavily here as I had
expected.”
The Major, afraid that Isobel might ask him some questions about this
story of Bathurst leaving the army, went off hastily as soon as Captain
Forster had left. Isobel sat impatiently tapping the floor with her
foot, awaiting the Doctor, who usually came for half an hour’s chat in
the afternoon.
“Well, child, how did your dinner go off yesterday, and what did you
think of your new visitor? I saw him come away from here half an hour
ago. I suppose he has been calling.”
“I don’t like him at all,” Isobel said decidedly.
“No? Well, then, you are an exception to the general rule.”
“I thought him pleasant enough last night,” Isobel said frankly. “He has
a deferential sort of way about him when he speaks to one that one can
hardly help liking. But he made me angry today. In the first place,
Doctor, he said you were a character.”
The Doctor chuckled. “Well, that is true enough, my dear. There was no
harm in that.”
“And then he said”--and she broke off--“he said what I feel sure cannot
be true. He said that Mr. Bathurst left the army because he showed the
white feather. It is not true, is it? I am sure it can’t be true.”
The Doctor did not reply immediately.
“It is an old story,” he said presently, “and ought not to have been
brought up again. I don’t suppose Forster or anyone else knows the
rights of the case. When a man leaves his regiment and retires when it
is upon active service, there are sure to be spiteful stories getting
about, often without the slightest foundation. But even if it had been
true, it would hardly be to Bathurst’s disadvantage now he is no longer
in the army, and courage is not a vital necessity on the part of a
civilian.”
“You can’t mean that, Doctor; surely every man ought to be brave. Could
anyone possibly respect a man who is a coward? I don’t believe it,
Doctor, for a moment.”
“Courage, my dear, is not a universal endowment--it is a physical as
much as a moral virtue. Some people are physically brave and
morally cowards; others are exactly the reverse. Some people are
constitutionally cowards all round, while in others cowardice shows
itself only partially. I have known a man who is as brave as a lion in
battle, but is terrified by a rat. I have known a man brave in other
respects lose his nerve altogether in a thunderstorm. In neither of
these cases was it the man’s own fault; it was constitutional, and by no
effort could he conquer it. I consider Bathurst to be an exceptionally
noble character. I am sure that he is capable of acts of great bravery
in some directions, but it is possible that he is, like the man I have
spoken of, constitutionally weak in others.”
“But the great thing is to be brave in battle, Doctor! You would not
call a man a coward simply because he was afraid of a rat, but you would
call a man a coward who was afraid in battle. To be a coward there seems
to me to be a coward all round. I have always thought the one virtue
in man I really envied was bravery, and that a coward was the most
despicable creature living. It might not be his actual fault, but one
can’t help that. It is not anyone’s fault if he is fearfully ugly or
born an idiot, for example. But cowardice seems somehow different. Not
to be brave when he is strong seems to put a man below the level of a
woman. I feel sure, Doctor, there must be some mistake, and that this
story cannot be true. I have seen a good deal of Mr. Bathurst since we
have been here, and you have always spoken so well of him, he is the
last man I should have thought would be--would be like that.”
“I know the circumstances of the case, child. You can trust me when
I say that there is nothing in Bathurst’s conduct that diminishes my
respect for him in the slightest degree, and that in some respects he is
as brave a man as any I know.”
“Yes, Doctor, all that may be; but you do not answer my question. Did
Mr. Bathurst leave the army because he showed cowardice? If he did, and
you know it, why did you invite him here? why did you always praise
him? why did you not say, ‘In other respects this man may be good and
estimable, but he is that most despicable thing, a coward’?”
There was such a passion of pain in her voice and face that the Doctor
only said quietly, “I did not know it, my dear, or I should have told
you at first that in this one point he was wanting. It is, I consider,
the duty of those who know things to speak out. But he is certainly not
what you say.”
Isobel tossed her head impatiently. “We need not discuss it, Doctor. It
is nothing to me whether Mr. Bathurst is brave or not, only it is not
quite pleasant to learn that you have been getting on friendly terms
with a man who--”
“Don’t say any more,” the Doctor broke in. “You might at least remember
he is a friend of mine. There is no occasion for us to quarrel, my dear,
and to prevent the possibility of such a thing I will be off at once.”
After he had left Isobel sat down to think over what had been said. He
had not directly answered her questions, but he had not denied that the
rumor that Bathurst had retired from the army because he was wanting in
courage was well founded. Everything he had said, in fact, was an excuse
rather than a denial. The Doctor was as stanch a friend as he was bitter
an opponent. Could he have denied it he would have done so strongly and
indignantly.
It was clear that, much as he liked Bathurst, he believed him wanting in
physical courage. He had said, indeed, that he believed he was brave in
some respects, and had asserted that he knew of one exceptional act of
courage that he had performed; but what was that if a man had had to
leave the army because he was a coward? To Isobel it seemed that of all
things it was most dreadful that a man should be wanting in courage.
Tales of daring and bravery had always been her special delight, and,
being full of life and spirit herself, it had not seemed even possible
to her that a gentleman could be a coward, and that Bathurst could be so
was to her well nigh incredible.
It might, as the Doctor had urged, be in no way his fault, but this did
not affect the fact. He might be more to be pitied than to be blamed;
but pity of that kind, so far from being akin to love, was destructive
of it.
Unconsciously she had raised Bathurst on a lofty pinnacle. The Doctor
had spoken very highly of him. She had admired the energy with which,
instead of caring, as others did, for pleasure, he devoted himself to
his work. Older men than himself listened to his opinions. His quiet and
somewhat restrained manner was in contrast to the careless fun and good
humor of most of those with whom she came in contact. It had seemed to
her that he was a strong man, one who could be relied upon implicitly at
all times, and she had come in the few weeks she had been at Deennugghur
to rely upon his opinion, and to look forward to his visits, and even to
acknowledge to herself that he approached her ideal of what a man should
be more than anyone else she had met.
And now this was all shattered at a blow. He was wanting in man’s first
attribute. He had left the army, if not in disgrace, at least under
a cloud and even his warm friend, the Doctor, could not deny that the
accusation of cowardice was well founded. The pain of the discovery
opened her eyes to the fact which she had not before, even remotely,
admitted to herself, that she was beginning to love him, and the
discovery was a bitter one.
“I may thank Captain Forster for that, at least,” she said to herself,
as she angrily wiped a tear from her cheek; “he has opened my eyes in
time. What should I have felt if I had found too late that I had come
to love a man who was a coward--who had left the army because he was
afraid? I should have despised myself as much as I should despise him.
Well, that is my first lesson. I shall not trust in appearances again.
Why, I would rather marry a man like Captain Forster, even if everything
they say about him is true, than a man who is a coward. At least he is
brave, and has shown himself so.”
The Doctor had gone away in a state of extreme irritation.
“Confound the meddling scoundrel!” he said to himself, as he surprised
the horse with a sharp cut of the whip. “Just when things were going
on as I wished. I had quite set my mind on it, and though I am sure
Bathurst would never have spoken to her till he had told her himself
about that unfortunate failing of his, it would have been altogether
different coming from his own lips just as he told it to me. Of course,
my lips were sealed and I could not put the case in the right light. I
would give three months’ pay for the satisfaction of horsewhipping that
fellow Forster. Still, I can’t say he did it maliciously, for he could
not have known Bathurst was intimate there, or that there was anything
between them. The question is, am I to tell Bathurst that she has heard
about it? I suppose I had better. Ah, here is the Major,” and he drew up
his horse.
“Anything new, Major? You look put out.”
“Yes, there is very bad news, Doctor. A Sowar has just brought a letter
to me from the Colonel saying that the General has got a telegram
that the 19th Native Infantry at Berhampore have refused to use the
cartridges served out to them, and that yesterday a Sepoy of the 34th
at Barrackpore raised seditious cries in front of the lines, and when
Baugh, the adjutant, and the sergeant major attempted to seize him he
wounded them both, while the regiment stood by and refused to aid them.
The 19th are to be disbanded, and no doubt the 34th will be, too.”
“That is bad news indeed, Major, and looks as if this talk about general
disaffection were true. Had there been trouble but at one station it
might have been the effect of some local grievance, but happening at
two places, it looks as if it were part of a general plot. Well, we must
hope it will go no farther.”
“It is very bad,” said the Major, “but at any rate we may hope we shall
have no troubles here; the regiment has always behaved well, and I am
sure they have no reason to complain of their treatment. If the Colonel
has a fault, it is that of over leniency with the men.”
“That is so,” the Doctor agreed; “but the fact is, Major, we know
really very little about the Hindoo mind. We can say with some sort of
certainty what Europeans will do under given circumstances, but though
I know the natives, I think, pretty nearly as well as most men, I feel
that I really know nothing about them. They appear mild and submissive,
and have certainly proved faithful on a hundred battlefields, but we
don’t know whether that is their real character. Their own history,
before we stepped in and altered its current, shows them as faithless,
bloodthirsty and cruel; whether they have changed their nature under our
rule, or simply disguised it, Heaven only knows.”
“At any rate,” the Major said, “they have always shown themselves
attached to their English officers. There are numberless instances where
they have displayed the utmost devotion for them, and although some
scheming intriguers may have sown the seeds of discontent among them,
and these lies about the cartridges may have excited their religious
prejudices, and may even lead them to mutiny, I cannot believe for an
instant that the Sepoys will lift their hands against their officers.”
“I hope not,” the Doctor said gravely. “A tiger’s cub, when tamed, is
one of the prettiest of playthings, but when it once tastes blood it is
as savage a beast as its mother was before it. Of course, I hope for the
best, but if the Sepoys once break loose I would not answer for anything
they might do. They have been pretty well spoilt, Major, till they have
come to believe that it is they who conquered India and not we.”