Littell's Living Age/Volume 128/Issue 1649/The Dilemma - Part XVII
THE DILEMMA.
CHAPTER XL.
But the intimacy was rudely interrupted. One day Kirke received a letter from army headquarters, through the general commanding the station, enclosing an anonymous vernacular petition which had been addressed to the commander-in-chief, in which various irregularities were alleged to have been committed by him in regard to the regimental accounts; and, although it was not intended to take any action on an anonymous petition, it was suggested to be desirable that he should furnish any explanations he thought proper upon the allegations made. Kirke kept the matter from the knowledge of the other officers, although it leaked out through the station staff-office that such a letter had been received; but his suspicions pointed to the ressaldar Futteh Khan as the writer of the petition, some of the more specific allegations in it referring to transactions — principally relating to advances of pay — with which this officer was concerned; while the man, he recollected, had been reprimanded, not to say abused, publicly before the whole regiment one day, just about the time this petition was dated. Sending for the man therefore to his house, he taxed him with the authorship. The ressaldar, although denying it, did so in such a way as to confirm Kirke's suspicions, and to draw down upon him a volley of abuse from his infuriated commanding officer, which the man, instead of receiving quietly as would have been usual, losing his temper in turn, replied to insolently; whereon Kirke put him in arrest, and applied to the major-general for a court-martial to try him for insubordination. The man now sent in another petition, this time in his own name, containing numerous specific accusations against his commandant of irregular transactions in regard to the regimental accounts, improper dealings with the native banker of the regiment, and above all, that he had drawn pay for troopers in excess of the number enlisted, for many months after the regiment was first raised. On this petition being received at headquarters, an order was issued from the adjutant-general's office to Sir Montague Tartar to convene a court of inquiry, composed of the senior officers at the station, who had Colonel Kirke and the regimental records under examination for many days, and called numerous native officers and troopers of the regiment as witnesses. Kirke at first made light of the matter; it was a mere conspiracy of a scoundrel, who of course, after the manner of his race, was ready to swear to anything — a scoundrel whom he should have got rid of long before, and would get rid of now. For although no witnesses were present in the room where the ressaldar had been received by his commandant, the orderlies in the verandah heard the voices in altercation, and on their evidence the court-martial held upon the native officer found him guilty of insubordination, and he was dismissed the service — those not being times, just after the mutiny had been suppressed, for passing over breaches of discipline in the native army. Meanwhile the protracted sitting of the court of inquiry created great excitement among the European community, extending far beyond the station of Mustaphabad. The proceedings of the court were kept secret officially, but tolerably authentic rumours as to their nature leaked out; and while the general sentiment was one of dismay and regret that so distinguished a soldier should be subject to the indignity of inquiry into his conduct, there were not wanting others to remind the public that Colonel Kirke had already once before been in trouble for irregularities of the same sort; and while some people argued that the fact of his having suffered already in this way would naturally make him particularly careful not to commit himself again by a similar error, other critics explained the coincidence of events by the assumed natural propensities of the man. As for Yorke, although he shrank from suspecting his commanding officer of anything like dishonesty, he could not divest himself of an uneasy feeling regarding the regimental accounts, calling to mind the evident disinclination of the former to let them go out of his own hands, and also certain points in them which had come under observation during his examination of the regimental books, and which, although he did not perfectly understand them at the time, seemed now, seen by the light thrown upon them by these accusations, to suggest at least a mystification of facts. But the allegations made were of a kind which it would be almost impossible to prove. The regimental accounts had no doubt been irregularly kept, and there was a want of agreement between the sums charged for troopers' pay at the time of first embodiment, and the corresponding vouchers in the way of muster-rolls; but as Kirke fairly urged, how was it to be expected that they should have been properly kept, by a man who was spending day and night in the saddle, and had so many other things to attend to — among others, to help in saving the empire — besides keeping muster-rolls and cash-accounts? and was it fair to turn round on an officer whose services had been such as his, and call him to account for these matters, and this at the instance of a worthless native who had been dismissed the service? The court evidently thought so too; and although not altogether satisfied with his mode of explaining the transactions under inquiry, which had not tended to make a complicated business clearer, they were disposed on the whole to regard Kirke as an ill-used man, who had been at worst careless under great excuse; and they would have reported to this effect, when another communication was received from army headquarters — a letter from the ex-ressaldar, accusing his late commanding officer of having appropriated jewels captured during the war, instead of making them over to the prize-agents, — which accusation also the court was directed to inquire into.
The members of the court did not attach much importance to this complaint, it being generally supposed that such appropriations and stray plunder had been not infrequent during the war, few persons believing at the time that there would be any formal distribution of prize-money; and the prosecutor's statements on this head would have met with but little serious attention, but for a turn unexpectedly given to the inquiry. Yorke was under examination one day on a matter connected with the regimental accounts, when the president of the court asked him to state what he knew about certain jewels, supposed to have been seized by Colonel Kirke, as it was understood that he also was present at the capture.
Yorke, who did not know precisely with what object the question was put — for the fact of the charge having been made was still kept secret — did not immediately understand what was referred to; but on the matter coming to his recollection, he stated what he knew about it: how the colonel had let the ressaldar take the jewelled dagger found on the prisoner in the palkee, and the trooper the bag of money; while he himself took possession of the little case of jewels. Then, in reply to a question put by a member of the court, Yorke added that, so far as he could judge, the jewels were of some value; but, he continued, "all this, I submit, has nothing to do with the matter; because, whether they were valuable or not, the colonel gave them up to the prize-agent." And then, being pressed by certain questions, Yorke gave an account of what had passed between them on the subject; how he had written to Kirke to express his uneasiness at the retention of the jewels, and that the latter had replied to the effect that he had already made them over to the prize-agent.
Kirke bowed his acknowledgments across the table to Yorke for having thus cleared him from the accusation; but the latter could not help noticing that his commanding officer did not appear quite at his ease. And one of the members observed that what Colonel Kirke had said to Major Yorke was not evidence. The explanation seemed, however, to be generally accepted as satisfactory by the court; but as Yorke was leaving the room, the president asked him if he had the letter still in his possession.
"I really cannot say for certain," replied Yorke, "without examining my papers, whether I have or not; but I apprehend my word may be accepted as sufficient testimony of what took place."
There the matter might have rested, for the members of the court appeared by no means desirous of raking up bygone transactions relating to the war; but whether it was that the prosecutor — for so the ex-ressaldar may be styled — got word of what had happened, or that he was already pressing the same line of accusation, he now put in an affidavit from a native banker who had been employed by the prize-agents as custodian of the jewellery made over to him, to the effect that he had not received any jewels answering to the description of those in question; while the prize-agents, who were now residing in distant parts of India, in reply to the question now addressed to them by letter from army headquarters, stated specifically that no such articles had been delivered up to them by Colonel Kirke. This correspondence occupied some days; and meanwhile the prosecutor had submitted another petition to the court, to the effect that he could produce the banker as a witness, with whom some of the jewels had been deposited by the colonel sahib, as security for a loan of money.
On the evening of the day on which Yorke had made his statement before the court of inquiry, Kirke came over to his house, ostensibly to talk over some regimental business, but obviously with some other purpose, it being unusual to discuss such business anywhere but in the orderly-room at the mess-house, or at his own house. Moreover, the relations of Kirke with his officers were now always somewhat constrained; for the absorbing topic of the inquiry could not be referred to, and those of them who knew most of regimental affairs could not help feeling an uneasy suspicion that their commandant had not done his best to make his explanation clear of the transactions connected with the accounts under investigation.
At last Kirke, abruptly changing the subject of conversation, said, "By-the-by, what made you go out of the way to say anything to the court about there being any written correspondence between us regarding that jewellery business?"
This question, and the way it was put, opened Yorke's eyes to Kirke's character more than anything which had gone before. He did not know, except from rumour, how far the ex-ressaldar's accusations had tended to criminate his commanding officer, for the proceedings had been confidential, and each witness only knew so much as could be gleaned from his own examination: but he now saw clearly enough that Kirke would like to repudiate the correspondence altogether. It seemed useless, therefore, to reply, that his only motive was to clear the other from the suspicion of having retained the jewels; and he felt, indeed, that had he known so much at the time as he knew then, he would have tried to avoid saying anything about the letter. He replied, therefore —
"I could not do less than give a straightforward answer to a plain question."
"Of course not," said the other, with a sort of sneer implied in his tone. Then, after an awkward pause he added, "Perhaps you can show me the letter if you have got it — my memory on the subject is not so good as yours appears to be."
"Certainly," replied Yorke; "I will look for it, and if I find it, I will send it you — that is, a copy of it." He added these words from a conviction, suddenly forced on him by Kirke's eager manner, that the original letter would not be safe in his possession.
"Very good," said Kirke, rising from his chair with some heat; "then perhaps you would be good enough to search at once, and then to send me this copy;" and laying some stress on the last word, he strode out of the house, and, mounting the horse which was waiting for him, rode rapidly away.
Yorke at once proceeded to examine the contents of his dispatch-box, all the papers and letters which he had thought worth preserving since he entered the service. The contents were not heavy, his correspondence not being voluminous, and were soon examined; but although the impression on his mind was clear that he had not destroyed the note, it was not to be found; and accordingly, he wrote a few lines to Kirke to say that he had not been able to find the note among his papers, and concluded that it must have been lost or destroyed.
Two days afterwards he was again summoned to attend the court of inquiry which was still sitting at the mess-house of the regiment, when the president put the following question to him: —
"You stated. Major Yorke, when last under examination, that you had received a note from your commanding officer, Colonel Kirke, dated on or about the 30th April 1859, to the effect that he had made over the jewels taken from the body of a rebel to the prize-agents. Can you produce the letter for the information of the court?"
Yorke replied that he had searched for the letter, but had been unable to find it.
"Then do you wish to make any statement to the court with reference to the accompanying document?" and so saying, the president placed a letter in Yorke's hands.
It was from Kirke, written the previous day, addressed to the president of the court, and to the effect that with reference to a statement made to the court on a previous occasion by Major Yorke, regarding the receipt of a letter from him, Colonel Kirke, relative to the disposal of the jewels, he had to state that Major Yorke must be labouring under some extraordinary hallucination, to put the most generous construction on his conduct which it could be made to bear, for that no such letter had ever been written by him.
On reading this letter Yorke understood for the first time how matters stood with his unfortunate commandant; everything that had before seemed doubtful or confused now became clear. This letter was evidently the last resource of a desperate man.
Yorke remained silent for a space, the letter in his hand, and then returning it to the president said that he had nothing further to state at present. Kirke's case now was bad indeed, but he would at least do nothing to make it worse.
It was soon after this, and while the court were still deliberating, that the bankers' affidavits and the prize-agents' letters already referred to were received. Kirke's object in denying that he had written the letter was now apparent, and the report of the court was much more unfavourable than it would have been if the inquiry had been closed at an earlier stage. There was extreme disinclination at headquarters to take proceedings against so distinguished an officer as Colonel Kirke; but it was felt that even if the other matters could have been condoned in consideration of his eminent services, the suspicion of falsehood now attaching to him could not be passed over. General Tartar received orders to place him under arrest, and the judge-advocate-general of the division was directed to frame charges against him on all the different allegations.
Hitherto the proceedings had been nominally secret, although the nature of them had naturally leaked out; but there was now no longer any concealment about them, and the coming "Kirke court-martial" occupied public attention fully as much as the advance on Pekin, and was discussed in every station from one end of India to the other; and while there was a general sentiment of regret that so dashing a soldier should have fallen into such trouble, there were not wanting prophets after the event to say that it was no more than what they had expected from the man's antecedents; while most people felt that, even if acquitted, the very fact that it should have been necessary to bring him to trial must leave an indelible stain on his character. The list of charges was indeed a formidable one: drawing pay for men not on the muster-roll; withholding prize property; and lastly, conduct unbecoming an officer and a gentleman, in having stated in a letter, and so forth, he knowing the same statement to be false.
Happily for poor Olivia, the state of her health during the course of these proceedings prevented her from going into society, and so she escaped the allusions and questionings, and possibly the slights, which her husband's present position might have occasioned. She had indeed but a very imperfect knowledge of what was going on, for latterly she had seen no one but her husband, who professed to make light of the inquiry; and although it was plain to her, notwithstanding his efforts at concealment, that he was labouring under great anxiety, she ascribed it to the cause he assigned — the worry arising out of the misconduct of one of his native officers. The birth of her baby occurred before he was placed under arrest, and, confined to her room during a slow recovery, she did not know what otherwise could not have escaped her notice, that there were no longer any orderly troopers in attendance about the house, while it seemed only natural that during her illness her husband should be very much at home.
No one felt more keen regrets for Kirke than his second in command, although no one know better how strong was the evidence against him. They had had no private communication since Kirke's visit to him, the overtures of assistance which Yorke made having now been curtly repulsed, the former professing to consider himself an injured man. Yorke did not know any more than others what was the precise nature of the evidence to be brought forward on the other charges, and he cherished a hope that perhaps he might be allowed to refuse to give evidence before the court, in which case the charge of falsehood would break down; but he had not ventured to consult any third person on the subject, fearing to criminate Kirke still more by divulging the facts. Thus the time wore on; the officers of the regiment by tacit consent avoiding when together all reference to the matter which almost exclusively occupied their thoughts, and all the news he got of the Kirkes being by inquiries through the servants of Olivia's progress, when a paragraph appeared in one of the local newspapers reflecting upon himself, and which was of course shown to him at once by a good-natured friend. It was in the form of a newsletter from the local correspondent at Mustaphabad — a species of inane contributions common to Anglo-Indian newspapers — full as usual of the absorbing topic of conversation, and ending with the following paragraph: "The last and most serious charge against the gallant colonel is that of making a false statement to his second in command, to the effect that he had handed over the jewels to the prize-agents. But it is understood that the only evidence on this charge is the verbal statement of the latter; and as the gallant major in question, who is now acting commandant of the regiment, will probably succeed to the permanent appointment if the charge be sustained, ill-natured persons might say that he has a strong interest in maintaining his point. However, as the matter is sub judice, I, of course, Mr. Editor, abstain from all comment upon it; but it is clearly what the knowing ones call a very pretty imbroglio, for apparently one of the two distinguished officers in question must have stated 'the thing that is not.' But on this delicate point I will of course express no opinion myself."
On reading this slanderous letter, Yorke perceived for the first time the bearing of the case as it affected himself. The court of inquiry, indeed, knew the manner in which his evidence had been offered, that it had been given in ignorance of the case against Kirke, and that the statement about the letter was made in perfect good faith, in view of clearing his commanding officer from the scrape he had fallen into; but the public, with their imperfect knowledge of the facts, might take a different view of his conduct, and be disposed to adopt that which the unhappy man himself in his desperation had ventured to insinuate was the real one. No doubt there would be plenty of people to put the same malicious construction on his conduct as had this scoundrel of a news-writer. If Kirke were acquitted of the charge, then would not he be virtually accused of having made a false statement? And would not Kirke himself endeavour to give that colour to the case? And to the grief which Yorke had felt throughout these proceedings, both on Kirke's account and his wife's, there was now added a feeling of shame and indignation on his own account. Is it possible, he thought, as his cheeks tingled, that I am labouring under some horrible hallucination, and that it is I, and not Kirke, who has told the he? But no — it was no dream; and what is more, I have a distinct recollection of keeping the letter by me for a time, and none of destroying it. So saying to himself, he opened his despatch-box and again turned over the contents. But again without result; pay-certificates, commissions, receipted bills, extracts from newspapers referring to the actions in which the regiment had been engaged, and last but not least, the little packet of Olivia's letters, written during the campaign. There, in its well-worn cover, was the last she had ever sent him, the last element with which he had built up the unstable, foundationless structure of his foolish hopes. He had put these letters aside on hearing of her engagement to Kirke, with the resolution of never opening them again to read anew the tale of his infatuation and self-deception; but as he looked at the packet now, he took up this last letter and drew the enclosure from the envelope, contrasting in bitterness of heart his present mood with the different feeling that formerly possessed him when he was wont to perform that frequent operation. As he did so, another small note fell from under his fingers on to the table. It was Kirke's missing letter — short, and concluding with the damning statement on which so much depended.
The whole circumstances of the case now came back to his recollection. He had always carried Olivia's latest letter about with him, to read over and over again at leisure moments; and he remembered now that the envelope of Kirke's letter, having been overgummed, had been much torn in opening, and he had thrown it away and placed his note inside the envelope of Olivia's letter. There it had lain ever since.
Too late now to repair his mistake; but he must at least acquaint Kirke with his discovery. There had been no communication between them since the day of Kirke's being placed under arrest, and Yorke felt all the embarrassment of their relations as he wrote, "My dear colonel, I have just found your note to me about which this unhappy trouble has arisen. It was inside one received from Mrs. Kirke, where I put it at the time of receipt. I opened the letter accidentally just now, and it fell out. Can nothing be done to withdraw from the unfortunate mistake you have made? Ever yours truly."
CHAPTER XLI.
Two hours after his note was despatched, and as the sun was getting low, Yorke, returning from a saunter through his stable, as he came to the front of his bungalow, met a lady advancing up the little avenue. She wore a thick veil, but no disguise would have concealed her from his eyes. It was Olivia. She walked slowly, as if weak; and as Yorke hurried to meet her over the few paces that separated them, he could see that she looked pale and ill. She held out her hand, which for a moment he grasped tenderly; then, looking at her wan anxious face, he dropped it, and led the way slowly up the veranda steps and into the little sitting-room. There placing a chair for her, he stood opposite, waiting for her to speak.
Olivia raised her veil, and Yorke, gazing on the face so constantly in his thoughts, saw with pain the change which anxiety and sickness had wrought in the familiar features. Each of the two great troubles she had gone through had left its traces, and yet, thought he, she is as beautiful as ever. At last she spoke. "Major Yorke, you must have guessed why I have come to you. It is because of your note to my husband. He thought — that is, I thought — that it might be of more use if I came and spoke to you myself. We are such old friends, you know," she added, with a smile meant to be cheerful, but which to the other appeared inexpressibly sad.
Yorke bowed. "Pray go on," he said; "you must know my desire to serve you in everything."
"It is about this letter which you have found. It seems that he had overlooked having written it you, and incautiously said so. And now he thinks the production of it might prejudice his case seriously; and he is sure you would not wish to do that."
"I am glad he gives me credit for so much good-feeling," replied Yorke, gravely. "I feared he had come to regard me as an enemy. God knows, I would do anything that one man may do for another to help him out of his trouble."
"Ah yes," she said. "I knew we might depend on you as a true friend. And Rupert bade me tender you his humble apologies if he had said anything in your disfavour; and he is sure you would make allowances for him, knowing how sorely he had been tried. These were his very words. And oh! Major Yorke, you know how much that means from him. You know what a proud man he is ——"
"Pray don't say a word on that score," said he, interrupting her. "I am glad, of course, to hear of his kindly feeling, but I wanted no apology. And it is about him and not me you want to speak. Pray go on, and let me know what it is I can do."
"That is what I am coming to," she said. Then, speaking with hesitation, and scanning his features anxiously, she continued —— "It is about this unfortunate letter. Rupert thinks he can clear himself of everything else, and that, as nobody knows of its existence but yourself, it would not be too late to prevent the thing going further. So he thought — I thought — that if I came myself and asked you, you would not mind — you would not mind — giving it back — to me." Making this appeal in flattering accents, she yet laid a stress on the last word, and looked at him with a pleading face.
But Yorke stood silently before her, looking down, and shook his head sadly.
"Rupert said there would be no risks," she continued; "I was to destroy the letter before you."
"Risks?" said he, interrupting her; "do you think I care about risks? It is not the risks I was thinking about; this is a matter of honour. No," he continued; "I would do anything that a man may do to serve you — or your husband either, but this is impossible."
"It is easy to make fine professions of friendship," said Olivia in a tone of pique, and turning her head aside; "but they do not come to much when put to the test."
"Olivia — Mrs. Kirke, why do you say such cruel things? You must know that they are not true. Don't you understand that the thing has gone beyond my power to stop it? I have already stated before the court of inquiry that I did receive the letter. I did it for the best, knowing nothing of the trap that was laid for him, and heaven knows I would give everything I possess to have left it unsaid. But the thing is done, and it cannot be undone."
"You mean that the suspicion might attach to you, if the letter is not produced? Yes," she added eagerly, "Rupert spoke about that. He particularly told me to say that you need not be uneasy on that score; no one would think of doubting your word. Yes, that was what he said himself — it would all be put down to some mistake; and he would give you a paper, in any form you liked, to clear you now and forever."
"How much has your husband told you about the case?" Yorke asked, sadly. "If you knew the whole case you would understand that this would not be enough to get him out of the difficulty. You would understand ——"
"I understand so much, that if Rupert is brought before the court-martial, and the letter is produced, he will be ruined. He told me so himself just now. Oh, Major Yorke, if not for him, for my sake, and in memory of old days, be merciful!" and as she made this appeal in urgent tones, Olivia, stepping forward, knelt down before him, and taking his hand, looked up beseechingly in his face.
"Olivia, Olivia!" he said, mournfully. "why do you tempt me? You know how passionately I have loved you, for although you are no coquette, you must have seen how I have been ready to worship the ground you trod on any time for these three years past. I don't say you have played with my feelings, for I was a fool all along, and deserved my fate; but you must have seen through them partly, although I dare say you did not guess the depth of my love. No, you need not be afraid," he continued, quitting his grasp of her hand, as Olivia, whom by this time he had caused to rise and be seated again, looked up at him with a flushed and frightened face, as he stood over her; "there can be no harm in my telling you this now, once and for all, and getting rid of the burden on my soul, for all that is past and gone. Dearly as I used to love you, and love you still, I would not marry you now, if you were free to-morrow and would have me. It is brutal of me, is it not, to say so? and I dare say you don't understand me, but the Olivia of my fancy has passed away, and can never live for me again. But look here, Mrs. Kirke," he went on eagerly, and as he spoke it seemed to him that their relations had suddenly altered — she was no longer the goddess to be set on a pedestal and worshipped from below; his Olivia would never have asked him to do a dishonourable action for any reason — this was merely a weak woman following her husband's crooked ways, — "look here," he said; "I want you to understand that it is not a matter in which I can really save your husband. If the letter had not been found, people might have said that I had lied about it — and thought so too, and they might have been welcome to think so, if it could have saved you from pain and trouble. But what is the good," he added mournfully, "of talking about what might have been? The letter has been found. And if the court ask me if I have found it, am I to perjure myself? And if I admit having found it, and refuse to produce it, don't you see that this makes things look even worse? No, Mrs. Kirke, you will say I am offering an empty pledge when I declare that I would gladly give my life to save yours; but the thing you want me to do is impossible."
"Then I suppose," said Olivia, after a pause, rising slowly, and lowering her veil, as if to depart, and again turning away her face, "there is nothing more to be said. Offers of service are easily made, but they will not save my husband from ruin. Well, you have the satisfaction of knowing that you will succeed to the command of the regiment."
"You may reproach me as you like," said Yorke sadly; "but though I dare say you think very hardly of me, you must at least know that I am incapable of the meanness of profiting by your husband's misfortunes. Yes, Olivia," he continued, as she looked inquiringly into his face, "you misjudged me once before, and you were sorry for it afterwards. So I hope it may be again, and yet — but no: I was going to say that if it would be any consolation to you to think ill of me I should be willing to have it so, but I cannot bring myself to say that. But why trouble you with my thoughts and feelings? I see you in this terrible difficulty and distress, and am unable to help you. That is sufficient bitterness."
Olivia stepped towards him and laid her hand upon his arm. "Forgive me again," she said in a low beseeching tone which thrilled through his heart; "you have always been a true friend, and I am an ungrateful undeserving woman; but if you knew how wretched and broken-down my husband is, I am sure you would excuse my injustice. And I dare say you are right — I am so bewildered, I know not what is right or what is wrong — but it seems very hard." And she turned to go away, while the large tears started in her dark eyes, and rolled down her pale cheeks. But Yorke saw that she staggered in her walk, and was far too weak to make the journey back on foot, and insisted on her resting while his buggy was got ready for her, and he hurried out to the stable to hasten the operation, hardly daring to trust himself any longer in her presence.
This was the second time, he thought, as he helped in nervous haste to put the harness on the horse, that she has been under my roof. The first time how it set my heart dancing for joy, and how I dreamt of a second visit as being almost too great happiness! and now it has come, and in what a way! She is sitting there, and I am actually keeping out of her way. For at sight of her tears his resolution had almost failed him, and he had been asking himself whether it would indeed be so great a breach of honour to take out the fatal letter and tear it up in her presence.
He drove the carriage up to the veranda steps, and alighting, handed Olivia in and drove off, the groom hanging on behind after the fashion of his class. It was now dusk, the time affected by Anglo-Indians for taking the air, and a passer-by might have set them down for a domestic couple on their accustomed evening drive; but the road to Kirke's house lay at the back of the station, and they met no one. No words were exchanged between them; and short though was the distance, Yorke had time to ponder on the strangeness of the situation, and to reflect how once it had been the dream of his life that Olivia should be driving through Mustaphabad, a wife, and sitting by his side. Now that dream was realized, and in what a way! She was sitting in his carriage by his side, but another man's wife and the mother of another man's child!
Soon the entrance gate of Kirke's house was reached, and Yorke, pulling up the horse, broke the silence by saying, "I will leave you here; my man will lead the horse up to the door," — and got down. He stood, hat in hand, beside the carriage while the groom stepped to the horse's head, and looked up at Olivia. She held out her hand, and smiling sadly, but with something of the old look of former years, wished him good-bye. Yorke took the proffered hand in his for an instant, and then turning away walked back, unwilling to weaken the recollection of her kindly parting by another word.
A few days later, just as all the officers who were nominated to form the court had arrived at the station — for there was not a sufficiency of officers of the needful rank in garrison at Mustaphabad, and several were summoned from a distance — and while all the residents were in a state of expectancy, and the officers of the regiment, feeling keenly the disgrace which had fallen on it, hardly showed their faces in public, an order was received from army headquarters to suspend the opening of proceedings; and the curiosity which this order evoked remained unsatisfied for two or three days, till an announcement appeared in the Gazette to the effect that Brevet-Colonel Rupert Kirke, C.B., had been permitted to retire from the service. Kirke himself, it appeared, had applied to be allowed to do so, and the application had been forwarded to government from headquarters, with a strong recommendation that it should be acceded to on the score of his distinguished service; and also that, as he had not served long enough for a pension, he should be granted the half-pay of his regimental rank of captain — half-pay as an institution being unknown to the Indian army, and each recipient requiring a special decision in his favour.
Public opinion endorsed the decision; for notwithstanding the natural disappointment felt at being balked of the expected excitement of a long court-martial on a distinguished officer, the general sentiment was one of satisfaction that so gallant a soldier should escape the ignominy of a public prosecution and sentence.
But food for local gossip in abundance was immediately afterwards afforded by the sudden disappearance of the Kirkes, who left Mustaphabadon the night following the publication of the Gazette, taking their child with them, but unattended by even a female servant. No doubt it would have been easy to trace them, had it been any one's business to do so, but public action in the matter did not go further than to amplify the story with an abundance of circumstantial details, although the popular version, to the effect that they had driven out to a place about twenty miles off on the main road to Calcutta, and hence started by "dawk" across country in palanquins, was not far from the truth.
The reason for the flight soon became apparent in the complaints, thereon loudly upraised, of baffled creditors, whose claims had in fact begun to pour in when first the court-martial was ordered to assemble. But small part of the expensive household property, it now appeared, had been paid for; there were promissory-notes of large amount overdue to various European and Arab horse-dealers for horses; the servants' wages were six months in arrear. The heaviest claim was that preferred by a native banker, but it was generally understood that his debt was more than covered by the jewels which he held in pawn — the first cause of the unfortunate officer's disgrace and ruin.
The pay of a captain commanding a native cavalry regiment is sufficient for his position with care and moderation; but as Kirke, far from having any capital in hand to start with, was already loaded with a burden of old debts, he had at no time the means of maintaining the expensive style of living adopted on his marriage, still less of paying for his extravagant outfit. Whether he had entered on this desperate course in the expectation of getting a fortune with his wife, or under some vague idea that the jewels would turn out to be of great value, could not be told; but it was plain that, apart from other difficulties, a crash must have come sooner or later.
The fugitive officer having left the army, the military small-debts court could not take cognisance of the claims; but the station magistrate put the police in charge of the deserted premises; and never before had the good people of Mustaphabad obtained such bargains as at the auction-sale of Kirke's effects, which took place soon afterwards.
Yorke guessed correctly the course of the fugitives. He felt sure Kirke would make his way across India to Bombay, by which route he would be secure from pursuit, and he would probably pass through a station on the borders of the great northern province where Sparrow was now residing as a deputy-commissioner. They would surely be in straits for money, the poor wife, meanwhile, probably only dimly conscious of the cause of their flight, and the extent of their ruin. To Sparrow, accordingly, he remitted all his available cash, the savings of two years' campaigning. It was to be given to Kirke, if he should pass that way, as a loan from an old friend still under great obligations, to be repaid at his convenience; but Sparrow was on no account to give any clue whence it came. His expectation was justified by the event. Sparrow, acknowledging the remittance, wrote that the Kirkes had arrived that very day, and were staying with him. "He wants his coming here kept quiet, of course, and is in a tremendous hurry to be off again, and his haste is fully accounted for, if what one hears be true of the rage of his creditors at his escape. His wife looks dreadfully knocked up, poor thing — and no wonder, having to nurse her baby on such a journey: but we hope to get a decent ayah for it before they start again. I have given him the money you sent and a trifle of my own; and indeed he is likely to want it all, for a dawk-journey to Bombay from here will be awfully expensive, to say nothing of the fatigue. It makes one quite sad to think that she, poor thing, should have to go through it, she looks so frail and ill. I suppose many people would not have received them under the circumstances, and it is somewhat awkward for me in my official position, beyond a doubt; but as you know, Mrs. Sparrow and Mrs. Kirke were always such great friends, and we could not think of giving them the cold shoulder in their trouble."
Trouble, indeed, thought Yorke, as he read the letter; has it then come to this, that Olivia is a suppliant for shelter to her own waiting-maid?
Kirke had managed his escape well. Had he remained at Mustaphabad, or ventured to travel home by Calcutta, he would certainly have been arrested; but between the north and west of India there stretches a wide expanse of country, which in those days divided them more completely than would an intervening ocean; and Kirke, once on this line, got to Bombay and disappeared from the country before any of his angry creditors had time to set about intercepting him.
On the day after Kirke's flight Yorke sent in his resignation of his appointment as second in command and officiating commandant of the regiment. This, however, was not at first accepted: he was offered the opportunity of reconsidering his resolution, and the great people at headquarters even went so far as to let him know that they thought such a step foolish and quixotic. No slur of any kind attached to him in the affair, it was said, and it was intimated to be the intention of the commander-in-chief to make him permanent in the command of a regiment with which he had been associated from its first formation, and with which — so the great man was pleased to say — he had performed distinguished service. But Yorke stood by his resolve. "I owe everything professionally to Kirke," he wrote to a friend on the headquarter staff. "He took me up when I was an obscure subaltern, selected me out of others, and gave me my first start in life. It is to his generous praise that I owe my promotion and my honours; I should despise myself forever if I allowed myself to step into the poor fellow's shoes." "The regiment must have a commandant of some sort," retorted his friend; "it is not your fault that there happens to be a vacancy. Surely it may as well be you, who know the regiment thoroughly, as another." "The other," replied Yorke, "will not be a personal friend of the late commandant." Then came news that the government was about to reduce several regiments; whether Kirke's Horse would be among those to be maintained, would depend probably on who might be in command. He had to consider the interest of his brother officers, therefore, and not only his own feeling. This argument came home; but he was firm in abiding by his resolve, and after a few miserable days spent in command against his will, he obtained Sir Montague Tartar's sanction to be struck off the strength of the garrison pending confirmation of his resignation, and quitted Mustaphabad. Major Egan therefore succeeded to the command of Kirke's Horse pending arrival of the new commandant an officer promoted from another regiment, whose term of office, however, was a brief one, for the famous regiment was disbanded a few weeks later, in the general reduction which followed the restoration of peace in India.
Although his well-wishers in high places were somewhat annoyed at what they termed his obstinacy in the matter, Yorke was too good an officer to remain long unemployed; and in a few months he was appointed to the divisional staff of the army and posted to a station on the frontier. The change of employment was a welcome one at first, and in the occupation of learning the duties of this new branch of his profession he sought eagerly for distraction from the depression of spirit left by Kirke's ruin, and all the miserable circumstances attending it — his own unwitting share in the catastrophe, and the unhappy fate of the woman whose memory was still so dear.
Time passed on, and no news came of the fugitives, all trace of whom had disappeared; and the event which had created such absorbing interest at the time soon began to grow dim in general recollection; but with Yorke himself there still remained an enduring scar. Until he left it, he was not aware how deeply the interest of his life had been wrapped up in the regiment with which the most important part of it had been passed, and what a blank the severance from it had made; still more how deeply he missed the presence of the one woman who, though she never could be his, was yet more to him than all the world besides. Active and assiduous in the new business of his profession, he yet found himself now more lonely and friendless than at any time since he first landed in the country; and, perversely shunning the society at his command, he yet yearned in his solitary home for the friendship and sympathy which he would not summon up the effort to seek among new faces. There came up now for the first time the home-sickness which is wont to beset the solitary exile, and at times the inclination was strong to throw up his appointment and return for a while to England. The joys of married life could not be his, but there at least a home awaited him, and the renewal of family affection. Why should not that suffice for him as for so many others? In this frame of mind, growing daily more disposed to be solitary and cynical; hardly perceiving himself how different the man was becoming from the shy but ardent lad of ten years before, who landed in the country full of hope and enthusiasm, yet grimly conscious of the folly of allowing himself to cherish a feeling of dissatisfaction with a career more successful than his wildest day-dreams used to picture; Yorke was summoned to join the Umbeyla expedition, and by no man in the army was the distraction of active service more eagerly welcomed. To a man suffering from distaste for his own life, there is no medicine so effectual as helping to take the lives of other people. In that short but very sharp campaign Yorke received his first wound, not, however, before he had done enough good service both to gain and to earn another step of brevet rank. A still greater distinction — shortly afterwards, while on sick-leave on the hills, he was offered the vacant command of a smart regiment of native cavalry; and exchanging his staff-duties with delight for his old congenial employment, he hurried down to assume his new command. But although his wound was healed at the time, he had returned to duty too soon. A sharp attack of illness followed; the wound broke out afresh; and although he would now have wished to remain a little longer in the country, to identify himself with his new regiment, he was fain to act on the doctor's advice, and set off to Calcutta as soon as he was well enough, there to appear before the medical board and start on sick-furlough for England.