The Dilemma/Chapter LIV
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.