# The Dilemma/Chapter LIII

CHAPTER LIII.
It was in the little inn-parlour, last occupied perchance by some light-hearted pleasure-party halting awhile during a boating excursion on the river, that the unfortunate Falkland told in faltering sentences the strange story of his deliverance to the bewildered friend who sat listening to the sad tale, his heart too full of sorrow and emotion to find room for words of comfort or consolation.
Lying in the narrow street of Mustaphabad on the eventful evening which brought succour to the residency garrison; having fallen from his horse while gallantly leading the assault against the rebel soldiery; grievously wounded and almost insensible from the blows which had left their awful marks on the mutilated features — on that noble face which had served as a beacon throughout the defence of the residency to animate the garrison, — Falkland knew not what had happened to him till he became aware that his mangled body was being carried over the plain in a closed palanquin. There was a halt at one time, through one fiery afternoon, when the palanquin was brought within some house, and he hoped, so far as he had the power of forming hopes, that he had been set down to die. The halt was made, as he heard afterwards, while the fate of the rebel nawab remained in suspense, whose trial and execution have been recounted in these pages. It was thought by the fugitives that the nawab might make terms for his life by disclosing their possession of the captive; but when the news came of his execution, the gang which had escaped hurried off with their prisoner, making for the swamps and forests at the foot of the great mountains.
How could he describe the sufferings he endured? At first, indeed, the stupor in which he lay saved him from consciousness of his condition; but after a time, he knew not how long, he came to be aware of the dreadful state of his wounds. "But why try to describe what no words can tell? " said the unfortunate sufferer; "I was in that state when all desire of life had left me, all care for escape and return to home and friends; I prayed only for death: but yet, although in this loathsome state, I had still enough of the man left in me to withhold from taking my own life. Thus went on the dreadful days. How mortal man could have borne it, looking back on what I passed through, I hardly understand. Sometimes a merciful insensibility came over me; but then after a time I would awake again to the horrors of my condition. My captors were not all brutal; one man especially did his best to tend me in his rough fashion: but most of them shuddered as they passed my way, as well they might; and even if all had been humane, there could be little done to help the wounded. There were many of the party scarce able to drag themselves along for their wounds; even rags were scarce, and we seldom remained halted, for a single night. At times my memory failed me altogether, and I forgot what I had been; forgot that I had — that I had a wife, mourning, perchance, my death: but one thing I had at last the sanity and strength to do, to cut off the mangled arm which lay rotting by my side;" and raising, as he spoke, the cloak which he still wore, Falkland showed the sleeve of his coat hanging loose from his left shoulder.
"From that time," he continued, "I began to mend slowly. I could swallow food, and sometimes, when our fugitive party halted, I was able to sit up; and now for the first time I came to realize the possibility that I might recover, and a desire to escape from my captors began to possess me. Our party was greatly diminished; many had died, some had made off, several were killed, for they, too, were subject to attack and plunder by the villagers for the sake of the money and jewels they were supposed to carry about with them. And now the leaders began to sound me about terms of ransom. We had been joined at different times by other fugitives, and some of the band were now, I believe, the chiefs of the rebellion, to whom no mercy would be shown, but who they themselves believed would be hunted ​down by the avenging and victorious British, unless they could offer sufficient terms to induce the government to forego its just revenge. They thought they held this pledge in me; and so strong is the desire for life in even those who have least to live for, that I found myself ready to listen to their proposals.
"The scheme was to send a messenger to the nearest British territory with a letter from me, saying that they would give me up if assured of their own lives. There was great doubt and hesitation about taking this step; they feared that if my existence and their whereabouts were known, the government would be incited to further efforts in pursuit, and that I might be recovered and themselves caught without making terms. Thus they could not determine what to do. I did not show any eagerness to fall into their plans, for I did not know the history of these men, and how far they might have steeped themselves in crime too deep to be expiated by my ransom; and bitterer than to perish in the wilderness would have been a refusal of the government to rescue me on these terms.
"They wanted me to write in the Persian character that they might know what I said; I refused to write except in English; thus for several days the negotiation made no progress.
"But with the prospect of deliverance, the love of life grew stronger. My senses, so long chilled to the miseries of the life I was leading, were awakening to the desire for escape; and the sort of plan I had in my mind might have been carried out, but for a slight thing that happened one day.
"The palanquin-bearers, by this time, had all died or run away, and the women of their zenanas, whom the fugitives were carrying with them, and myself, were travelling on some miserable ponies, when, on fording a little stream at the foot of the mountains, I got off my pony to drink. The water ran bright and clear, reflecting every object like a mirror; and stooping down on the bank I loosened the bandage from my face, and then I saw — O good God! — I saw for the first time that fate had cut me off forever from all that made life dear."
As Falkland said these words he pushed — whether by design or chance — the large-brimmed hat which he was wearing from off his head, and displayed the ghastly sight which had so far been partially covered, and of which Yorke had caught only a momentary glimpse at the time of their first meeting. The right side of the face was not maimed, but contorted; but the left side was defaced by awful scars, and a deep hollow marked the socket of the sightless eye. Happily he could not see the involuntary shudder of his sorrowing friend.
"From that moment," continued the unhappy man, "I cast away all thought of rescue. To return home seemed then to be worse than any death; and to my poor puzzled brain it seemed as if I must wander a ragged fugitive about these jungles till God should give me a release. Why I did not myself put an end to my wretched existence I hardly know, nor on what grounds I justified myself in prolonging it. It is deemed a noble thing to give up life for one's country — why not, then, to save those whom we hold dearest from pain and sorrow, and perhaps worse? But the narrow groove of sentiment in which we are taught to think restrained me, and the time went by when I could with reason have laid hands upon myself.
"How at last I got away, with the two men who had treated me better than the others, and who wanted to separate from the rest of the party, would be too long to tell. We went always northward, sometime in danger and hard pressed, at others well treated. My condition, I suppose, made me an object of pity; for no European has ever before or since passed through those parts with life. One of the khans especially treated us well. My two companions took service in his army, and he gave me money to pursue my journey. By his help, and that of the good Jesuit missionaries on the road, I made my way at last down the great river to the seaboard. How long the weary journey took I know not; the count of time often failed me.
"Arrived on the coast, I was received by the Catholic bishop, to whose care I had been commended, and with this good man I passed some weeks — or it may have been months — getting the rest I sorely needed. As he was a foreigner, and did not speak English, it was easy to keep the secret of my identity; but to him, I think, I should have made known my name, for I was in need of money, and could at once have procured it from the bankers there on saying who I was; but I wanted — you will understand what I wanted — to know first whether others were still dependent on me whom it might be needful to assist.
"The English merchants at this seaport used to send the bishop the Indian papers; for although he had kept my arrival secret, ​and I saw no European but himself, the rumour had got abroad that a refugee from the mutiny had arrived there overland down the great river; and great sympathy, I understood, was shown, as well as curiosity, for further particulars of the journey. But the only newspapers available were of too recent date for my purpose; there was no allusion to the events I had taken part in. I could read with pride that the mutiny was being suppressed, and our cause triumphant throughout the land; but there were no tidings of — of the one person whose fate was bound up with mine. I could not tell if she were alive or dead.
"In that state I remained irresolute; at times, indeed, I think I must have lost my senses, for the memory of what passed while at that place is almost blank: but I had determined at last to write to — to her, to tell her of my escape, and bid her farewell forever, and then announcing myself to the government to make a provision for her comfort, keeping a trifle for myself to live upon in some retirement; and I had even written the letters for the purpose, and was preparing to embark for Europe — for I thought that when she heard of my escape and condition she would want to make a duty of coming to me, and I was determined to spare her the shock and the sacrifice — when one day the steamer arrived from Calcutta. The friendly merchant, as usual, sent the good bishop a pile of Indian papers, and in it I saw — you know what, her marriage!
"Yorke, I do not blame her. I was punished for my folly and selfishness. I might have known that her heart was always with her cousin; but I took advantage of my friendship with her father to press my suit, while that man was kept at a distance, both absent and discredited. What was I, to fasten my withered old body to that fresh young creature? What more natural than that, after a decent interval, she should turn to her first love? I blame her not: while she was mine, no wife could be more loyal; but now I can see only too plainly that her love for me was far different from the passionate devotion I felt for her. No words can tell how dearly I loved her.
"This news decided my fate. She must be saved from disgrace, at any rate. My escape must now remain a secret forever. She did not want for money, so the one motive which might have led me to divulge it no longer remained. I left the shelter of the good bishop's house, having borrowed with his help sufficient for my purpose, and once more appeared among my fellow-men; but people understood my reason for concealing my features, and no one sought to force my confidence. I took ship for Europe, and wandered about, seeking for health I could not find, visiting old scenes full of tender associations, avoiding my own countrymen. I had enough for my small wants. A modest property had passed to a cousin of mine; to him alone have I divulged myself: it is agreed that he shall keep my secret, and retain a portion of the estate.
"Thus the time has gone on. How long it has been I hardly know; at times my memory fails me altogether. Do you know, Yorke, that until we met just now I had forgotten your very existence, although the residency days are fresh enough in other respects; my mind, I suppose, is so full of certain things that there is no room for more. Now since we have met, I remember all about you, and what a gallant share you took in the defence.
"You will ask what am I doing here, and how my being here accords with my vaunted resolutions. I might have gone on in retirement to the end of the few days that remain for me, when I met our old friend Mackenzie Maxwell. It was at some baths where I had gone to see if I could get relief from the torture from this remnant of a limb that afflicts me at times; he recognized me, and betrayed the discovery as you did. From him I learnt of Kirke's downfall, and of his leaving India, and that he had taken service in Egypt. He was well placed there, Maxwell said, and was to send money regularly home, and Olivia — and her children — would not want; Maxwell was in correspondence with her. Do you know, Yorke, I felt glad to hear they were separated; I even found myself wishing that Kirke might never return, and she be left a widow again.
"Maxwell and I soon parted: he was very good, and wanted to nurse me and have me to live with him; but this could not be. The secret would be found out; besides, a leper such as I am is not fit to live with anybody. So we parted, but he was to send me word if any help was needed. And that is what has brought me to England. The remittances from Egypt soon stopped; Kirke has marched far away into Upper Egypt, and no news has come of him for many weeks. She draws his half-pay, which he got when he left the army; but what is that? And for her too, brought up in luxury, and never taught to think about money! She was ​in actual want when Maxwell found her out again. Poor child! she may have been ashamed to tell him she was in debt, and so put off writing. It was only the other day he found her living in this poor cottage.
"I could not be brave enough to stay away any longer. Maxwell would do what is needful, but I could not let my — my wife be a burden on him. We are carrying out a little plan which will place her in comparative comfort. She came here from miserable London lodgings in the autumn; the place is damp and cold for her, but she could not pay her way from it again. Maxwell has now found a suitable home in a better climate, where she will move immediately. He has gone to make the final arrangements."
Such was the tale told by the unhappy man, the wreck of the gallant Falkland, to the sorrowful listener. Not all at once, or in one continuous story; only by degrees did the unfortunate sufferer find words, and the listener was too stricken with grief at first to press him with inquiries: but after a time Falkland was able to proceed with his narrative, and Yorke to help him on by asking questions; and in the influence, perhaps, of the sympathy of his newly-found friend, and the long silence broken, the once proud and reserved man at last overcame the difficulty of speaking, and for many hours of the long evening the two sat together in the little parlour, by the dim firelight, while Falkland told the sad story of which an abstract has here been given.
"No," said he, in reply to a question put by his friend, "I have no purpose to disclose myself. From the terror which such a discovery would cause her in every way she shall of course be saved. No, I did not come here to shock her with the dismal sight of my mutilated features; but I could not resist the overwhelming desire which possesses me to look on her once more. I have been here two days, and she has not left the house. When Maxwell comes again he may be able to persuade her to take a walk with him past this house. The one desire which possesses me is to see her sweet face once again, before I drag myself away into some corner, to await the end which a merciful God will surely not defer much longer. Maxwell tried to dissuade me, but I felt that I could know no peace if I allowed this chance to pass away. I must see her dear face once more before I die. Sad it will be, and changed, I know, for he tells me she has suffered much; but it is still the face of truth and innocence: and oh! Yorke, it is the one satisfaction I am allowed to feel as the innocent cause myself of her unhappy situation, that even if I had not come between her and her first love — for such I know now Kirke must have been — it would not have saved her from her present state of want and desertion."
It seemed to Yorke as if it added to the grotesque horror of the situation, that their conversation should have been interrupted by the entrance of the landlady bringing Falkland's supper, and to tell him that his own meal awaited him in the other room. She had evidently learnt so much of her lodger's habits as to know that he wanted to be alone while taking food; and Yorke readily divining his wish, retired for a while, and notwithstanding the excitement of the situation, found himself able to eat his own meal — found himself indeed hungry from his long fast, and discussing coolly with the landlady the commonplaces of the day, — doing so the more readily in order to divert the curiosity which she displayed on finding that he was acquainted with the invalid gentleman, whose object in staying at the inn at such a season she naturally wanted to find out
And now, as the hours went on, spent chiefly by Yorke in listening to his companion, the time came for him to decide what to do for the night. It was only half an hour's walk to "The Beeches," but the house would probably be closed by that time, and his return so late might excite curiosity; while to pursue the business of the morning, as would be expected of him if he went back to "The Beeches," would in his present frame of mind be utterly distasteful. Indeed, for the time, Yorke felt wholly unlike a lover; his heart was too full of the emotions kindled by this, sudden awakening of old associations to find room for the selfish pleasure of the hour. To stay at the inn, on the other hand, was hardly practicable, and Falkland was evidently tired and needing rest. Besides. Mrs. Polwheedle, whom all this time he had quite forgotten, might be in real distress and need of his services. So taking leave of his unfortunate friend, and promising to return again shortly, he started off on foot, there being no conveyance available, to catch the last train up to town from Shoalbrook; and hurrying along the muddy road, had time to think at leisure over the strange revelation which that day had brought before him, while almost dismayed to find ​himself reviewing it so calmly. The exercise was indeed a welcome relief to the excitement and distress of mind which this discovery had caused. Unhappy Falkland! who could wish that his life had been spared? And so changed as he was in every way, not only in feature, but in manner and mind! Yorke remembered now, what had not struck him at the time, that his ill-starred friend had not once asked him a single question about himself. Everything that had happened since his own misfortune seemed to be a blank to him, save what affected the unhappy woman whose fate was bound up with his own forlorn existence. He was still as unselfish and noble minded as ever; — was not his present life one continued act of devotion and self-denial? — but the Falkland he once knew would have turned the conversation away from his own adventures and interests to inquiries about the life and aims of his friend. But suffering and misfortune had broken down his once strong character.
Such were the sad reflections that came uppermost to Yorke tramping through the mud and rain, till on reaching the station he took his seat in a carriage full of noisy people returning from some convivial entertainment at Castleroyal, who had evidently taken as much wine as they could carry, and whose boisterous merriment seemed like a devilish satire on the sufferings of the unhappy persons whom he had just left by the river-side — the unfortunate wife all unconscious in her loneliness of the presence of the still more unhappy husband, close by, but hiding from her.
Arrived at his lodgings, and letting himself in, Yorke went to his room without disturbing the people of the house, to lie tossing on his bed, recalling the sad scenes which he had witnessed, seeking in vain for a way of deliverance for the unfortunate husband and wife from the difficulty which beset them. But in the end nature asserted itself; young, healthy, and tired, he at last fell asleep, and slept as soundly as if there had been nothing to disturb his rest.