Next morning, after breakfast, Sir Thomas said in a quiet tone of
command to Harry, "My boy, I want to speak to you for a few minutes in
the library."
Harry's cheek grew deadly pale and he caught his breath with difficulty,
but he followed his uncle into the library without a word, and took his
seat at the table opposite him.
"Harry," the old soldier began, as quietly as he was able, after an
awkward pause, "I want to tell you a little--a little about your father
and mother."
Harry's face suddenly changed from white to crimson, for he felt sure
now that what Sir Thomas was going to talk about was not the loss of the
money from the devonport a week earlier; and on the other hand, though
he knew absolutely nothing about his own birth and parentage, he knew at
least that there must have been some sort of mystery in the matter, or
else his uncle would surely long since have spoken to him quite freely
of his father and mother.
"My dear boy," the Colonel went on again, in a tremulous voice, "I think
the time has now come when I ought to tell you that you and I are no
relations by blood; you are--you are my nephew by adoption only."
Harry gave a sudden start of surprise, but said nothing.
"The way it all came about," Sir Thomas went on, playing nervously with
his watch-chain, "was just this. I was in India during the Mutiny, as
you know, and while I was stationed at Boolundshahr, in the North-West
Provinces, just before those confounded niggers--I mean to say, before
the sepoys revolted, your father was adjutant of my regiment at the
same station. He and your mother--well, Harry, your mother lived in a
small bungalow near the cantonments, and there you were born; why,
exactly eight months before the affair at Meerut, you know--the
beginning of the Mutiny. Your father, I'm sorry to say, was a man very
much given to high play--in short, if you'll excuse my putting it so, my
boy, a regular gambler. He owed money to almost every man in the
regiment, and amongst others, if I must tell you the whole truth, to me.
In those days I sometimes played rather high myself, Harry; not so high
as your poor father, my boy, for I was always prudent, but a great deal
higher than a young man in a marching regiment has any right to do--a
great deal higher. I left off playing immediately after what I'm just
going to tell you; and from that day to this, Harry, I've never touched
a card, except for whist or cribbage, and never will do, my boy, if I
live to be as old as Methuselah."
The old man paused and wiped his brow for a second with his capacious
handkerchief, while Harry's eyes, cast down upon the ground, began to
fill rapidly with something or other that he couldn't for the life of
him manage to keep out of them.
"On the night before the news from Meerut arrived," the old soldier went
on once more, with his eye turned half away from the trembling lad, "we
played together in the major's rooms, your father and I, with a few
others; and before the end of the evening your father had lost a large
sum to one of his brother-officers. When we'd finished playing, he came
to me to my quarters, and he said 'Woolrych, this is a bad job. I
haven't got anything to pay McGregor with.'
"'All right, Walpole,' I answered him--your father's name was Captain
Walpole, Harry--'I'll lend you whatever's necessary.'
"'No, no, my dear fellow,' he said, 'I won't borrow and only get myself
into worse trouble. I'll take a shorter and easier way out of it all,
you may depend upon it.'
"At the moment I hadn't the slightest idea what he meant, and so I said
no more to him just then about it. But three minutes after he left my
quarters I heard a loud cry, and saw your father in the moonlight out in
the compound. He had a pistol in his hand. Next moment, the report of a
shot sounded loudly down below in the compound, and I rushed out at once
to see what on earth could be matter.
"Your father was lying in a pool of blood, just underneath a big
mango-tree beside the door, with his left jaw shattered to pieces, and
his brain pierced through and through from one side to the other by a
bullet from the pistol.
"He was dead--stone dead. There was no good doctoring him. We took him
up and carried him into the surgeon's room, and none of us had the
courage all that night to tell your mother.
"Next day, news came of the rising at Meerut.
"That same night, while we were all keeping watch and mounting guard,
expecting our men would follow the example of their companions at
head-quarters, there was a sudden din and tumult in the lines, about
nine in the evening, when the word was given to turn in, and McGregor,
coming past me, shouted at the top of his voice, 'It's all up, Woolrych.
These black devils have broken loose at last, and they're going to fire
the officers' quarters.'
"Well, Harry, my boy, I needn't tell you all about it at full length
to-day; but in the end, as you know, we fought the men for our own
lives, and held our ground until the detachment came from Etawah to
relieve us. However, before we could get to the Bibi's bungalow--the
sepoys used to call your mother the Bibi, Harry--those black devils had
broken in there, and when next morning early I burst into the ruined
place, with three men of the 47th and a faithful havildar, we found
your poor mother--well, there, Harry, I can't bear to think of it, even
now, my boy: but she was dead, too, quite dead, with a hundred
sabre-cuts all over her poor blood-stained, hacked-about body. And in
the corner, under the cradle, the eight-month-old baby was lying and
crying--crying bitterly; that was you, Harry."
The young man listened intently, with a face now once more ashy white,
but still he answered absolutely nothing.
"I took you in my arms, my boy," the old Colonel continued in a softer
tone; "and as you were left all alone in the bungalow there, with no
living soul to love or care for you, I carried you away in my arms
myself, to my own quarters. All through the rest of that terrible
campaign I kept you with me, and while I was fighting at Futteypoor, a
native ayah was in charge of you for me. Your poor father had owed me a
trifling debt, and I took you as payment in full, and have kept you with
me as my nephew ever since. That is all your history, Harry."
The young man drew a deep breath, and looked across curiously to the
bronzed face of the simple old officer. Then he asked, a little huskily,
"And why didn't my father's or mother's relations reclaim me, sir? Do
they know that I am still living?"
Sir Thomas coughed, and twirled his watch-chain more nervously and
uneasily than ever. "Well, you see, my boy," he answered at last, after
a long pause, "your mother--I must tell you the whole truth now,
Harry--your mother was a Eurasian, a half-caste lady--very light, almost
white, but still a half-caste, you know, and--and--well, your father's
family--didn't exactly acknowledge the relationship, Harry."
Harry's face burnt crimson once more, and the hot blood rushed madly to
his cheeks, for he felt in a moment the full force of the meaning that
the Colonel wrapped up so awkwardly in that one short embarrassed
sentence.
There was another long pause, during which Harry kept his burning eyes
fixed fast upon Sir Thomas, and Sir Thomas looked down uncomfortably at
his boots and said nothing. Then the young man found voice again feebly
to ask, almost in a whisper, one final question.
"Had you ... had you any particular reason for telling me this story
about my birth and my parents at this exact time ... just now, uncle?"
"I had, Harry. I--I have rather suspected of late ... that ... that you
are falling somehow into ... into your poor father's unhappy vice of
gambling. My boy, my boy, if you inherit his failings in that direction,
I hope his end will be some warning to you to desist immediately."
"And had you ... any reason to suspect me of ... of any other fault ...
of ... of any graver fault ... of anything really very serious, uncle?"
The Colonel held his head between his hands, and answered very slowly,
as if the words were wrung from him by torture: "If you hadn't yourself
asked me the question point-blank, Harry, I would never have told you
anything about it. Yes, my boy, my dear boy, my poor boy; I know it all
... all ... all ... absolutely."
Harry lifted up his voice in one loud cry and wail of horror, and darted
out of the room without another syllable.
"I know that cry," the Colonel said in his own heart, trembling. "I have
heard it before! It's the very cry poor Walpole gave that night at
Boolundshahr, just before he went out and shot himself!"