CHAPTER XIII.
THE ONE WHO WAS LEFT.
"My dear, I wish you would take that unfortunate young Gerrard inhand." Mr James Antony, acting-Resident at Ranjitgarh owing to theabsence of his brother on sick-leave, wore a worried look as he enteredhis wife's room.
"I will do what I can, love, but I am never quite sure how to approachthese young men. If only dear Theodora were here----" Mrs James wasalluding to her sister-in-law, Mrs Edmund Antony.
"Oh, if Ned and his wife were here, the trouble would be at an end,"said James Antony, with his big laugh. "I can't begin an interview byblowing a man up sky-high, and end it by falling on his neck, as Neddoes. I have done my best for Gerrard--more than Ned would have done,too--in commending his conduct throughout this unfortunate affair, butit don't seem to make him any happier."
"But you cannot think your brother would have taken the part of thatdreadful Sher Singh, love?"
"Ned would have seen the matter so wholly from Sher Singh's point ofview as to consider him justified in killing not only poor Charteris,but Gerrard as well, for the offence of abducting his stepmother."
"Then when Edmund returns, will he insist on forcing the unfortunatewoman to go back?"
"No, my dear, he won't, for the very good reason that I have alreadypassed her safely across the Ghara. But he will have a rod in picklefor poor Gerrard, who seems to me to have quite enough to bearalready--what with his wounds and the loss of all his belongings, tosay nothing of the death of his friend."
"You don't think, James, that he feels himself to blame for poor MrCharteris's death?"
"He's an unreasonable idiot if he does," testily. "As if he hadn'tdone all that he could when he heard of it--insisting on mounting ahorse and going back to look for him! When he very naturally faintedagain, his people were uncommon wise in continuing the journey andbringing him here, and it's no reason for him to pull a long face. Abroken arm and a complete suit of bruises ain't pleasant wear, but theyare mending, and the beggar has no business to mope as he does. Ifhe's still in love with old Cinnamond's daughter, his path is clearnow, but they tell me he has made no attempt to see her."
"Ah!" said Mrs James thoughtfully. "But he shall see her. Leave it tome, love. Don't you think," with extreme innocence, "that it would becheering for the poor fellow if you invited him to sit in your_dufter_[1] this evening? He would not be in spirits to join theparty, of course, but the music might soothe him, and his friends couldgo in and talk to him from time to time."
"He will be a sad kill-joy, my dear. But consider the room at yourdisposal for any nefarious projects of the kind."
"Nay, James, you must do your part. Pray convey my compliments to him,and tell him I shall be sadly vexed if he refuses to come. He shall bein complete retirement there, you may say, and can slip away when hechooses."
"I will give him his orders. Pray, is Miss Cinnamond's name to bementioned?"
"I think not. I wish I could leave it to your discretion, love, but afine tact is not one of your shining virtues, is it?"
"No, ma'am." James Antony was not at all aggrieved. "To tell thetruth without fear or favour is enough for me."
"Then say nothing. Stay--could you contrive to intimate that SirArthur and his lady will be among the company? That should serve toprepare the young man's mind."
"I imagine I am capable of that, my dear."
And in truth, James Antony made the announcement with so much emphasis,and in so meaning a tone, that Gerrard would have been dull indeed hadhe missed its significance. Before it came he had been fightingagainst the duty of accepting Mrs Antony's invitation, but now hisopposition collapsed suddenly. The rage for charades, which haddevastated English society for ten years or more, prevailed also inIndia, and "Charades and Music" were promised in the corner of thisevening's card. The host spoke his mind quite frankly on the nature ofthe entertainment, which he termed "a set of young fools dressing upand acting silly questions for old fools to answer," and assuredGerrard that he thought no worse of him for holding back. By way ofbuilding a bridge for his retreat, however, he informed him that nosight or sound of the charades could reach the _dufter_, and he wishedhe himself could spend the evening there with him in peace andquietness. On receiving the tardy acceptance he departed hastily, muchpleased with the results of his diplomacy--which would hardly have beenthe case had he been able to read the young man's mind. One thing hadbeen plain to Gerrard from the first moment in which he realised fullywhat Charteris's death would mean to him. It set an absolute barrierbetween Honour and himself. He could no more take advantage of Bob'sremoval from the field by an accident than if he had slain him with hisown hand. Having assured himself of this night and day, in waking anddreaming and semi-delirious moments, it had become such an immutablefact that he felt it was time to make Honour aware of it. He felt anunaccountable pang on realising that she would immediately perceive itsreasonableness.
His first visitor in his retirement that evening was not Honour, butMrs Jardine, who believed honestly that she had a special gift forcheering the sick. Gerrard had always been her favourite of Honour'stwo persistent suitors, and though she could not well in so many wordscongratulate him on being left without a rival, there were a good manyheartening things that she could and did say. After deprecating anypossible embarrassment on his part by assuring him that she came notbecause she liked him, but because when one had a gift it was a duty touse it, and it was a privilege to turn a gay and too probably heartlessoccasion of this kind into a means of doing good, she passed to hermain object with a suddenness which would have seemed to some a littleabrupt.
"And you have not caught one glimpse of a certain young lady yet?"Nods and becks and a mysterious archness of expression pointed thequestion. "My dear Mr Gerrard, she is handsomer than ever--in her ownstyle, of course; you may take an old woman's word for it."
"But where shall I find the old woman?" inquired Gerrard, in adesperate attempt to do what was expected of him.
Highly pleased, Mrs Jardine gave him a tap with her fan. "Oh, youquiet young men are just as naughty as the rest--with your compliments,indeed! But if I were to repeat to you what a little bird told me, youwould never, never betray me?" Earnest assurances on Gerrard's part."Well, then, I hear that Miss Cinnamond is not very happy at home!"
"I am sorry to hear it," said Gerrard mechanically.
Mrs Jardine looked a little nonplussed. "Of course it is very sad,"she admitted. "But surely it has its brighter side? The fact is, theGeneral and dear Lady Cinnamond are _everything_ to each other. Thereis really no place for the poor girl. I confess she has made hermother wear caps like other people--makes them for her herself, Ibelieve--instead of that extraordinary Popish veil--so like a nun's, Icall it--though even she has not been able to get her to do anything toher hair." Like most of her contemporaries, Mrs Jardine regarded it asalmost indecent to display grey or white hair, and herself wore a"front" which could hardly be considered an attempt at deception, sotransparently artificial was it.
"You were saying something about caps?" hazarded Gerrard, as MrsJardine remained silent, apparently sunk in contemplation of thepersistent defects of Lady Cinnamond's appearance.
"Oh yes, of course. Dear me, what was it? Oh, I remember. Well, yousee, though it is very good and loving of her to do it"--Gerrard had tocast his mind back to discover what "it" was--"and must be a greatsaving of expense, with the Calcutta shops so frightfully dear, andboxes from home quite out of the question--though on the General's payand allowances, of course---- Still, as I was saying, no parents withany proper feeling would wish a girl to remain single just for thatreason, would they? And she has had so many offers--which is onlynatural in a society like this, with Sir Arthur's position and titleand everything. It must be a great blow to him, I am sure, this honourconferred on Colonel Antony." Gerrard looked, as he felt, bewildered,not seeing the connection, since Colonel Antony had no marriageabledaughter. "Oh, you haven't heard
that the dear Colonel has got hisK.C.B.? They are all talking about it to-night--it was in the mailthat came in this afternoon."
"I have not had time to open any newspapers," said Gerrard wearily. "Iam glad to hear it, if the Antonys are pleased."
"Of course a mere worldly distinction of that sort could never make anyreal difference to dear Colonel Antony--Sir Edmund, I should say." MrsJardine's tone was severe. "But as a token of his Sovereign'sapprobation, it must raise his position among the people here."
"Nothing could ever raise Colonel Antony higher in the minds of thepeople who really know him," said Gerrard.
"All the more reason that he should have this honour to recommend himto those who do not," retorted Mrs Jardine triumphantly. "That isexactly what I was saying---- Dear me! what was I saying? Oh, Iremember; we were discussing Lady Cinnamond's assumption ofsuperiority--just a little out of place in the case of a foreigner--youagree with me? Well, what I was going to say was, why should MissCinnamond, who is not happy at home, refuse so many eligible suitors,if it was not that her heart is already engaged? There! I mustn'tbore you any longer. Why, you are looking quite excited! Have I givenyou just one little tiny crumb of comfort? Don't thank me; doingkindnesses is my only pleasure."
The lavender _moire antique_ squeezed through the doorway with muchcrackling of unseen starched flounces, but Gerrard had no time toanalyse the effect upon himself of the news he had received. SirArthur Cinnamond was his next visitor, confirming the news of ColonelAntony's knighthood, and then came Captain Cowper to tell his chiefthat the acting-Resident was asking for him, and lingering to thankGerrard, in the name of the whole Ranjitgarh force, for setting on footsuch a capital little war as that with Agpur was bound to prove. Theofficer sent to bring Sher Singh to book could get no satisfaction fromhim, and was being kept fuming on the Agpur frontier in a most improperway, so that a punitive expedition was a practical certainty, and ifSir Arthur did not take the field in person, his son-in-law meant toget himself attached to some one who did, even if he had to go back toregimental employment.
"Marian is looking for you to take your part in this next syllable,Charles," said a voice in the doorway, and Gerrard looked up with astart to meet Honour's clear eyes. Mrs Jardine's confidences hadinspired him with a wild hope that he might find in them something hehad not seen there before, but they met his with their usual brightfrankness. He ought to have rejoiced, having regard to the compact hehad made with himself and with Charteris's memory, but such is theinconsistency of human nature, that he did not.
"Horrid bore!" drawled Captain Cowper. "Who would ever have thought oftheir hunting me out here? But I shall leave my sister-in-law to amuseyou, Gerrard, so you'll be the gainer."
There was no embarrassment in Honour's manner as she took the vacatedseat. "I have been so very sorry to hear of your trouble," she saidgently, only waiting for Captain Cowper to depart.
She understood, then! Was there any other girl in the world who wouldhave understood--that not the removal of a rival, but the loss of afriend, was the dominant thought in Gerrard's mind? He murmured histhanks with difficulty.
"Would it hurt you to tell me about it?" she asked, and the flood-gateswere opened. All the rankling memories which Gerrard could no morehave confided to James Antony than that worthy man could havecomprehended them if he had, all the unavailing self-reproach--"If Ihad only done this!" "If I had not said that!"--all theself-depreciation which the persistent dwelling on Charteris'squalities produced naturally in the man who differed so much from him,were poured into Honour's ear.
"And the very last evening I was fool enough to take offence because hesaw quicker than I did what was the right thing to be done! Do youthink he turned rusty? Not a bit of it. He took it like abrick--actually apologised for offering me advice! There was never anyone like him."
"No, I suppose not," said Honour softly. There were tears in her eyes,but she did not ask herself whether Charteris's virtues or Gerrard'saccount of them had brought them there. She took it for granted thatit was the former, and spoke accordingly.
"And the worst of it is, we don't realise what our friends are until welose them," she murmured.
"No, indeed we don't. One sees one's own unworthiness now, when it istoo late--when the remembrance of what he was makes a barrier forever----"
"A barrier--yes, of course; but a bond, too." This was a state of mindwhich Honour could thoroughly understand and appreciate. A life-longromantic friendship, absolutely precluded from becoming anything more,was just what appealed to her. It suggested what may be termed theRolandseck ideal--the hero retiring from the world to an eligiblehermitage, affording an extensive view of a desirably situated nunnery,where the heroine was similarly secluded--which, with its peculiarblending of religion and sentimentality, animated so many of herfavourite books. "We can never forget that we have both known him, canwe? You will tell me more about him, and we will keep his memory alivewhen all the world has forgotten him."
Whether the relief of unburdening his mind had served to clear herhearer's vision, or merely that the thought of the real Bob Charteris,most unsentimental of men, obtruded itself in all its incongruity withHonour's scheme for commemorating him, certain it is that instead ofbeing grateful to her for falling in so exactly with his wishes,Gerrard was conscious of a distinct impatience. Was there no flesh andblood about the girl--no feeling, but merely sentiment? All unknown tohimself, Gerrard had not been intending to suffer alone, and it was ablow to discover that what had meant to him a real and terriblerenunciation was to her a mere matter of course, rather pleasurablethan otherwise. He groaned as the truth forced itself upon him, andHonour looked up in alarm.
"I have done you harm--tired you," she said anxiously. "We must haveanother talk when you are better. I see my mother looking for me."
"Honour, it is time for us to go, dear," said Lady Cinnamond, comingin, and looking "like other people," as Mrs Jardine had said, in a hugehalo of net and ribbon and flowers and blonde. Honour might make hermother's caps, but they had to be submitted for Sir Arthur'sapprobation, and as he was strongly of the opinion that there wasnothing like roses for setting off a pretty face, the style was apt toincline to the decorated rather than the classical. Lady Cinnamondspoke kindly to Gerrard, and expressed the hope that he would look innow and then, glancing the while from him to Honour as though anxiousto find something in their faces that might guide her what to say, butin vain. In sheer bewilderment she appealed to her daughter when theywere alone.
"Tell me, Onora, did the poor fellow plead with you again to marry him?"
Honour turned quickly. "Oh no, mamma--how could he? Neither of uscould ever think of it now."
"That was what made you cry, then?"
"Mamma! why should it? He was telling me about poor Mr Charteris, andI realised how little I had known him. I can say it to you, mamma--itis a privilege to feel that such a man has cared for one."
"Then if he had lived you would have married him, my poor little one?"cried her mother in dismay.
"How can I tell, mamma? One finds out these things too late. It isalways so, isn't it?"
"And the poor young man who is not dead?" there was a hint ofexasperation in Lady Cinnamond's voice.
"He doesn't dream of that sort of thing now. We shall always befriends, but never anything more."
"My dearest little foolish one, there are moments when I would gladlytake you by the shoulders and shake you!" cried Lady Cinnamond invehement Spanish. Catching her daughter's astonished eye, she calmedherself forcibly and spoke in English. "If you had seen that pooryoung man's face as you left the room, as I did, Honour, you would knowwhat nonsense you are talking. Refuse him if you must, but don't keephim in torture."
"Dear mamma, you don't understand. Things are different now----"
"From what they were when I was a girl? I agree! And I prefer them asthey used to be. There were your father and I, and his friends and myfamily tr
ying to prevent our marriage. There were other men in theworld, doubtless, but for me they simply did not exist. And wemarried, and people considered us very romantic. But to be romanticnow, it seems, you must persist in remaining unmarried for the sake ofa very worthy young man for whom you cared not a straw when he wasalive!"
"I can't explain it, mamma. But one has one's feelings----"
"Quite so. And the poor Mr Gerrard has his also. But those you do notconsider."
Gerrard's ill-used feelings were still unhealed a week later, when SirEdmund Antony, learning of the imminent danger of war with Agpur,descended from the hills like a whirlwind to take command of thesituation, and incidentally to upset as many as possible of hisbrother's arrangements. Having learnt all that Gerrard could tell himof the circumstances, he took occasion, while his secretary was at workon the fresh orders he had hastily drafted to Nisbet, the politicalofficer in charge of the negociations with Sher Singh, to speak on morepersonal matters.
"I am sorry to see this continued depression of spirits on your part,Gerrard. The sin of despondency is one to which I myself am soconspicuously prone that I dare lose no opportunity of warning othersagainst it."
"Forgive me, sir. Our conversation has led me to recall things sovividly----"
"True. But you feel, as you have assured me, that our friend Charterisfell in a good cause?"
"There could be no better, sir. But if only I could have died insteadof him!"
Sir Edmund frowned. "These things are not in our hands. IfCharteris's work was done, no efforts of yours or mine could have savedhim. If your work is not done, all the powers of hell could notprevail to bring about your death."
"But his work was not complete, sir. There was so much in him that noone realised--he had had no opportunity to display it. You and I, andone other person, have some faint idea of what he really was, but noone else can possibly know--the world can never know."
Colonel Antony pushed back his papers. "And what then?" he askedsharply. "How dare you say that his work was not complete because theworld knew nothing of it? The world! The world does not make a mangreat, any more than it is the world's recognition that makes his workvaluable. The value of the work lies in the spirit in which it isdone. I tell you"--he spoke as though to himself, with a far-away lookin his eyes--"I have seen something of work and the world's recognitionof it. You know the interest that I take in the history of our peoplein India, how my wife and I are always poking and prying among oldmanuscripts and records wherever we go. I have found there thehistories of scores of forgotten heroes--men whose names, in any otherservice or any other country, would have been inscribed upon thenation's roll of honour. They marched half across India--hostilecountry, every foot of the way--at the head of a few hundred men, andfaced and fought the might of empires at the end. They captured citiessingle-handed, and ruled them afterwards, and they pacified wholeprovinces, in spite of famine and plague and fever. Oh, they got theirrecognition--the thanks of the Directors, sometimes even of Parliament,swords of honour and trash of that kind. But who remembers even theirnames now? You will find their graves sometimes, neglected anddefaced, in deserted cantonments, or the remains of their greatbungalows grown over with jungle, and perhaps a legend or two will behanging about among the natives--silly superstitious things, of novalue in recalling the man as he was. They did their work, and goodwork--completed work, as you would say--and they had their recognition,but they are no more remembered now than Charteris will be next year,except by you and one or two more. Ah, Gerrard, we are all veryanxious to see our names carved on the stones that men may remember us,but we have to learn that it is enough if God deigns even to build ourbodies into the wall. If Charteris did well what he was permitted todo, he could have done no more if he had lived a hundred years."
The rapt gaze faltered, and the soldier-mystic became the keenadministrator once more.
"How much longer are you to be on the sick-list, Gerrard? I am goingto send you to Darwan."
"I shall not be able to use this arm for some time, sir. Otherwise thedoctor said he would let me off in another week. But you were notsuggesting that I should take up Charteris's work?"
"That is exactly what I do suggest. I have no other man to send, andno other place at this moment that is crying out for you. I should notsend you to Agpur again, and you would hardly wish to go, I imagine.What is your objection to Darwan?"
"Simply that it was his work, sir. We were so different in everyway--I had rather try almost anything else----"
"Do you wish to decline the post?"
"If you send me to Darwan, sir, I shall go."
"I am not going to order you to Darwan. There is another post, by thebye, that you can have if you choose, with less responsibility and aneasier life. Old Sadiq Ali of Habshiabad has been plaguing me for anofficer to help him to train his army and pull the state togethergenerally. He is a stiff-necked old ruffian, but it is a soft berthcompared with Darwan. You are at liberty to choose that if you please,but if you are the man I take you for you will select Darwan and carryon the work that Charteris began. I leave it in your hands."
"I will take Darwan, sir. I don't expect to succeed, but I will do mybest."
[1] Office, study.
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