# The Dilemma/Chapter XV

CHAPTER XV.
So much as to the antecedents of the maiden who had arrived at Mustaphabad at the opening of our story, fancy free, although with two more or less dim ideals of the hero type in her imagination, looking with eagerness, but without much emotion, to the meeting with her father. As to Mr. Cunningham, he was a man too much occupied with official duties and the business of the hour to practise mental analysis; but probably his feelings on the occasion were of a mixed nature, compounded of a pleasurable excitement at the expectation of greeting his beautiful young daughter, and a sense of dismay at the prospect of this invasion of his leisure and enforced alteration of his old-bachelor habits.
The first meeting between two persons who, though nearly related, are yet virtually strangers, ignorant of each other's thoughts, feelings, and tastes, even of ​each other's past life — whose intercourse has consisted in the exchange of brief and formal letters, and who have had, so far, nothing in common but the interest and the affection born of a sense of duty — must needs be attended with more or less of restraint and embarrassment; but Mr. Cunningham's anxiety lest the first greetings should partake of the nature of a scene was at once dispelled by the tact and good taste of his daughter; even the dust and fatigue of the journey could not do much to impair the charm of her appearance; and as she stepped out of the carriage at the roadside station, whither he had gone to meet her, as already described, her father found her even more graceful and beautiful than the forerunning accounts had led him to expect; and as Olivia, putting her arms round his neck, and kissing him, said, "So here we are at last! it has been such a long journey;" and then, turning to her maid who was alighting from the carriage behind, added, "Justine, this is my papa, who has come all this way to meet us," — Cunningham felt that the scene of which he had been in dread had been escaped. And when, soon after they had started in the camel-carriage for the last stage of her long journey, Olivia took his hand fondly, and leaning on his shoulder, said, "Papa, you look so young, it must seem quite odd to have a great big daughter like me," — her father, responding warmly to the embrace, began to feel that it was not so dreadful a thing- to have his daughter back after all. Arrived at Mustaphabad, Olivia expressed herself as delighted with the residency and all about it. The apartments which her aunt had at Florence were very large and fine, but they were nothing like the reception-rooms at the residency — while her own rooms were charming; every want and comfort had been thought of and provided, and her father was able to say with satisfaction that all this had been newly arranged for her especial benefit. She was equally pleased with the gardens; the leaves in midwinter, the multitude of squirrels and strange birds, even the familiar crows hopping about the edge of society with a view to pick up the stray crumbs left at the early breakfast taken in the veranda — all these novelties appeared full of interest for her, and her father experienced a sense of deep relief to find that his fears had been groundless lest she should prove to be a fine lady, spoilt for Indian life by foreign travel. A silent man him self, and restrained from expressing much interest in her former life by a sense of indignation at what he considered his sister's misalliance, his shyness was soon dissipated by his daughter's sympathetic ways as she thus rapidly identified herself with his interests and her new home. The commissioner soon found that the cheerful breakfast-table with his daughter opposite to him was a great improvement on the solitary meal, dawdled over with a book, to which he had been accustomed; still more when on his proposing to retire into another room before lighting his cigar afterwards, Olivia insisted on his smoking without rising. The obligatory dinner-parties which he used to dread seemed no longer the same dreary infliction. With his beautiful daughter acting as hostess, these solemn ordeals became comparatively lively; the guests no longer appeared to be insufferably bored. The morning ride too, with her for a companion, was in pleasing contrast to the lonely ramble on horseback to which he had been accustomed; he now got into the way of coming over from the court-house for luncheon, and even went the length of taking an occasional evening drive with Olivia in the new barouche which had arrived for her use, a mode of amusement which no one had ever seen him indulge in before.
Such, then, was Olivia's new home, which, if it offered nothing that was not in unison with her gentle disposition, yet was not of a sort to develop the warmer feelings of her nature. Her life had been so far a happy one; she had never known disappointment or sorrow, and so it continued to be; but it was a life of chastened affection and without sentiment; and at an age when most English girls in India are wives and mothers, the great romance of life had not even yet presented itself. With her, life had been made up of the study of art and the pursuit of amusement in sober fashion; the graces more than the affections had been cultivated; and so far the transfer to an Indian home had not caused a change. The relations between father and daughter were those of mutual respect and calm affection; and a looker-on might have said that Miss Cunningham's disposition was one in which the effect of amiable temper was enhanced by polished manner, rather than one of deep feeling. Once only did her father step out of his usual reserve; one day when ​his daughter was in his room standing over him while he wrote a letter, he unlocked a drawer of his writing-table and took out a little picture-frame. "You may like to see that, my dear," he said, with face still turned downwards on his letter, and put it into her hands. It was the portrait of her mother, a poorly-executed affair in the stiff drawing of a native artist, but giving the impression of being a faithful likeness. "You are the very image of her," he said, after a short pause, in a low voice, while Olivia stood looking silently at the portrait, and then taking the case from her hands put it back again in the drawer. Olivia stooped down and kissed him on the forehead; he went on with his writing, and she left the room.
On one occasion only did her father show much animation on domestic matters. It happened a few days after she had arrived. They were just rising from the breakfast-table, and Justine, who always took that meal with them, had left the room, when Olivia said, "I have had a letter this morning from cousin Rupert, papa."
"Cousin Rupert!" said her father, with surprise; "what do you know of cousin Rupert?" laying emphasis on the cousin.
"Why, papa, of course I know him very well; don't you remember that he came to Venice on his way home, when my aunt and I were staying there, and that you wrote to us about him?"
"True," replied the father, "I had forgotten that for the moment; but things have altered since then. I certainly did not think he would venture to write to you after what has happened. But it is just like him."
"What has happened, papa? Poor fellow! he speaks of being in trouble, but does not say what is the cause of it."
"I would rather not go into the story, my dear. It is a long business, and not a very pleasant one, where relationship is concerned; but I have given up all communication with him. However it does not appear that he has acquainted you with the fact;" and Mr. Cunningham spoke in a sarcastic tone, unlike his usual manner.
"But, papa," said Olivia after a pause, "may there not be some misunderstanding which could be cleared up? So honourable a man as my cousin Rupert ——"
"You are begging the question, Olivia. It is because I don't think your cousin Rupert is an honourable man that our intimacy is broken off. You seem to think I have been hard on him," continued her father, seeing that Olivia looked unconvinced; "but I think you may give me credit for not having formed my opinion lightly. And if," he added in a lower voice, and turning away, "I am to suppose that he has taken advantage of your trustfulness to create a feeling for him which he knows I should disapprove, I should think still less favourably of him than I do already."
"Then, papa," said Olivia, looking down and blushing slightly, as he was moving from the room, "do you wish me not to send any answer to this?" and she held out the letter in her hand. "Will you not read it yourself, and see what he says?"
"No, my dear, thank you; I have no wish to see it, nor to dictate to you what you should do in regard to it. I am sure I may rely implicitly on your good sense and judgment in this as in all matters." And so saying her father left the room.
Thus appealed to, Olivia had virtually no choice, and her cousin's letter remained unanswered; but it was with a sad heart that she tried to reconcile her duty to her father's wishes with this neglect of her relative, and the struggle might have betrayed to herself the degree of interest with which he had inspired her. Till this time she had hardly been sensible how much of the pleasurable anticipations with which she had set out for India had been due to the prospect of meeting her cousin. And now to think that Rupert, who had always seemed in her young imagination the type of the noble, honourable soldier, should be as one whose name even was hardly to be spoken of! Some dreadful fault he must have committed for her father, usually so kind, to be thus sternly disposed towards him. Might it not be, however, that he had been misjudged? He said he had enemies who were bent on traducing his character. There must be some mistake! And yet her father spoke so positively, and he seemed kind and just in everything else. Thinking sadly over this, Olivia strove to stifle the romantic interest with which her cousin had inspired her; and what might readily have become a warmer feeling, if opportunity had been propitious, was now succeeded by a sentiment of pity.
    "My Dear Cousin, — It is so long since any letters have passed between us, that I ought not to be surprised if you did not recognize the handwriting of this one. Not that I judge by my own feelings in this respect, for I don't think I should fail to know yours wherever I might come across it; but we have both passed through many scenes since we met at Venice, and although my memory naturally clings to those pleasant hours, I could scarcely complain if you had forgotten them, especially as you were so much younger then — quite a girl, in fact! I suppose you must be a good deal altered — young people do change fast, don't they? — but at any rate it can be only in one direction. I wish I knew when there would be a chance of my being able to renew our acquaintance; but I have been in some trouble lately, and want to put myself right first with the world, especially with those whose good opinion I value most. It is a slanderous world, and I hope my cousin will not listen to the evil tales she may hear of one whose fault it has been to make enemies of those who can't bear that a younger man should understand his profession better than they do, and who values her good opinion before everything else. I hope you will meet our mutual friend Colonel Falkland before long. He at any rate is the soul of honour; and, standing well with him, who knows the facts of the case, I can afford to despise the slanders of those who repeat the scandals at second hand of things they know nothing about.
    "This is an egotistical letter, but if I began writing about Olivia herself, I should never know when to stop asking questions. She will, I hope, anticipate my anxiety on this head, by giving me full particulars about herself, whenever she can find time to devote a few minutes to her old friend and relative.
    "Pray give my remembrances to your father, if he cares to receive them, and believe me, my dear Olivia, always your affectionate cousin,
"Rupert Kirke."
Then came the recognition at the ball, when Kirke wanted to make his way towards Olivia, and her father stopped him. To Olivia, witnessing the scene, there came up a reproach from her conscience that she was failing in her duty to her cousin; a sense of wrong done in thus abandoning him replaced for the moment the feeling, till then uppermost, that he was an unhappy man who was to be pitied I for his fall through some unspeakable crime, and she thought with a penitent heart that she had been cowardly in not asking Colonel Falkland's aid on her cousin's behalf. The latter had spoken of Falkland as the one friend who still stood by him, and believed in his innocence. To him she would appeal to set her unfortunate cousin right.
These reflections, and no response to the emotion which had stirred poor Yorke's heart to its depths, as the foolish young fellow had fondly imagined, occupied Olivia's thoughts before she fell asleep on the night of the ball; and the opportunity for carrying out her purpose soon arrived. She meant to speak to Falkland during the day, after her father had gone to his court; but the subject came up at breakfast, being opened by Falkland himself, who said, addressing the commissioner, just as Justine was quitting the room after despatching her share of the meal, "I forgot to mention that I had a letter from your cousin, Rupert Kirke, yesterday. He is coming to Mustaphabad immediately."
"He has arrived," replied Mr. Cunningham, coldly; "I thought you must have seen him at the ball last night."
Falkland looked surprised and as if waiting further explanation, while Olivia with changed colour sat expectant. Her father, after a slight pause, went on, "He left the room at my instance, I believe. I said to him that as I had declined to have any further intimacy or communication with him, it would be better that he should not renew his acquaintance with Olivia; and I must say so much for him that he had the good taste to act on my advice. But what brought him here I don't understand, knowing my sentiments.
"He comes to Mustaphabad to see the great man, while his camp is here, with a view to getting his case reopened."
"Did you advise the attempt, knowing the facts of his case?"
"I cannot say that I actually advised him to do so; he had let the proper time go by for the only appeal he ought to have insisted on. My own opinion would have been for letting time have its effect, now that it is too late to demand a court-martial; but I did not say anything to dissuade him from making this personal appeal at once."
"Oh, Colonel Falkland," broke in Olivia, eagerly, "do say that you do not think so hardly of my cousin as papa does. He values your good opinion above ​everything, I know. It does seem a dreadful thing for the poor fellow to be cast off even by his friends in his troubles."
Falkland looked with surprise at the fair speaker, as she waited anxiously for his answer, for he did not know till then that she had thought at all about the matter. Then he said gravely, but with a kind smile —
"Your cousin has been very careless, no doubt, and there have been irregularities in this business which ought not to have occurred, and which no doubt bear a very unfavourable appearance; but I should think much worse of human nature than I do if I could believe that so gallant a soldier as Rupert Kirke were guilty of anything positively dishonourable."
"Oh, thank you for saying that!" cried Olivia, with fervour. "But why is it that he cannot get justice, poor fellow? Is there no way in which he can set himself right with the world?"
"A very sensible question, my dear, although you know nothing about the matter," observed her father, lighting his cigar, which a servant had just brought, and looking up at the ceiling as he leaned back in his chair. "Yes, he had the means of clearing himself, no doubt, by demanding a court-martial. If he was so highly honourable a man, and had nothing to fear from publicity, why did he not insist upon one being held upon him?"
"It was a grave error of judgment, no doubt," observed Falkland, slowly; "he should not have left the decision in the matter to the government; but having once made the mistake, it was perhaps too late to rectify it."
"Well," said the commissioner, rising from the table, "I am very glad that Olivia should have some grounds for taking a more charitable view of the matter than I am able to do, and I am quite willing both you and she should think I am unreasonably hard about it;" and so saying he went to his own room, adding to himself — "but I believe I know a good deal more about some points of the affair than even you do, Falkland."
"I am just going down to the cantonments," said Falkland to Olivia, when they were left alone, "and shall see your cousin this morning. In fact I am going there on purpose to see him. Shall I give him any message from you if he asks after you?"
"Thank you," she replied, warmly; "please say how heartily I grieve about this. But, no" she continued, correcting herself, "it would hardly be proper to send him messages while papa's house is closed against him, would it?" and she looked up in his face asking for a reply.
"You are right, Olivia, in this as in everything; but I may at least say for you that he has your full sympathy in his troubles."
"Oh yes, please say all that, and my heartfelt wishes for happier days for him, poor fellow!" The love that might have been had now turned all to pity.
"She has grace and beauty enough to furnish twenty women," said the colonel to himself, as he stepped into his carriage, "and withal is as guileless and simple as a child."
"I have seen Kirke to day," said Falkland in the evening, as the occupants of the residency were strolling in the garden, "and his Excellency gave him an interview, at which I was present. I am sorry to say the result was not satisfactory. The former holds out no prospect of reinstating him. Kirke returns tonight to his own station." No more passed on the subject.
This was the beginning of Falkland's brief and successful courtship. When, shortly after Olivia's arrival, he came to pay a promised visit of greeting to his godchild, his feelings were merely those of kindly interest, and curiosity to see how far she might have fulfilled the promise of her young girlhood. She, for her part, had merely an uncertain recollection of a person associated in her mind with middle age, whom she knew to be kind and good, and on whose friendship her father set a high value. Middle-aged he was, but the difference between them seemed no longer what it was when the slight girl in the broad-brimmed straw hat had led the grave soldier over the picture-galleries of Florence. Falkland was still grave and somewhat taciturn, although not without humour, but there was nothing of the old man about him. Erect, active, and soldier-like in habit, spare in diet, a student of books, and yet a busy public man, he had outlived the egotism of youth without acquiring the hardness of age, while his unselfishness and sympathy for others rendered his society fascinating alike to old and young. With natives he was as popular as with Europeans. His servants plundered him freely after the fashion of their kind, and would have followed him to death. Young men sought his advice in trouble. Children ​found him out and took to him at once wherever he went. And after a two months' courtship, Olivia had accepted him for a husband.
The love was at first all on his side, and for some time he battled with the feeling, asking himself now and again if a weather-beaten old bachelor such as he, was fitted to make this beautiful and brilliant young creature happy; whether he would not be acting a wiser and less selfish part to withdraw from all competition for her hand, and leave her to find a mate among younger men. He had practised self-denial of the kind before and out-lived the effort. Should he be less unselfish now that he was grown old? Olivia, for her part, made no secret of her liking for him, but her affection did not take the form of that young love which comes at some time to most women. There were no restless misgivings, no anxious recallings of spoken words, no impatient waiting for the beloved one's return. In place of the tumultuous emotions that make up the first days of ordinary courtship — the doubts and hopes chasing each other through the heart — there was merely a feeling of confidence and admiration. His society made everything seem bright; whatever he said and did seemed best and wisest; with him she felt always more at ease than even with her father. Withal she could not but be affected by the unconscious flattery implied in the footing of equality on which so distinguished a man placed her. Yet all this was not love; and up to the time when Olivia and her father paid their visit to Falkland, shortly after his return to his own station, she had at most but dimly discerned the coming prospect; and when Falkland, one day when they were pacing his garden together, revealed an episode in his early life, telling her how in years gone by he had nourished a passionate affection for her mother, but, seeing that her heart was given elsewhere, had till now kept the secret of his love, so that not even the object of it had suspected its existence; and since she could not be his had remained un wedded, till now the daughter seemed the mother of his youth come back to life in almost more than her own sweetness and grace; and then, so much disclosed, asked, would that daughter intrust the keeping of her happiness to an old fellow like himself, young in heart, if old in face? — when Falkland spoke thus, the avowal took Olivia by surprise, although, had she analyzed her feelings, she must have known that their intimacy had gone beyond the bounds of mere friendship. But her answer was given without doubt or misgiving, for it seemed called from her by feelings of admiration and respect for him, mingled with the humility which marked her character. Placing her hand in his she turned on him a glance of her sweet face, and with a trustful smile said she would endeavour to deserve and return his love.
The commissioner, when the news was announced to him the same evening, was equally surprised and delighted, and it at once determined him to a resolve which he had been thinking of making for some days past — namely, to take leave to Europe at once, instead of trying to patch up his failing health by a visit to the hills. Nor would he hear of Olivia returning with him, as she proposed to do, indefinitely postponing the time of her marriage. "He was not so ill as to require nursing," he said; adding jocosely, "that his old friend had been a bachelor so long he could not afford to be kept waiting any longer." Truth to say, Cunningham rather preferred the idea of travelling home comfortably alone, stopping and moving as he pleased, with no one to consider but himself, to being accompanied even by his daughter, so that his determination involved less sacrifice than she supposed. Official changes are soon arranged in India when brought about by sickness. The same post which carried to Cunningham the sanction of government for leave to Europe on medical certificate, conveyed also the notification of Falkland's appointment to officiate as commissioner of Mustaphabad during his absence — an announcement which, while shattering the hopes Captain Sparrow had indulged in of obtaining the preferment, was received with general satisfaction by the official world, Falkland being universally recognized as the fittest man to succeed to this important and lucrative post. Cunningham and his daughter returned forthwith to Mustaphabad to make the needful arrangements for their respective changes in life — arrangements easily accomplished, for Falkland took over the residency furniture, carriage, and horses in block, and Miss Cunningham's ample outfit, still in its first freshness, rendered the need but small for a special bridal trousseau. The hot winds were now setting in apace, and it behoved Cunningham to start as soon as possible for Calcutta, if he would escape ill consequences ​from the journey. Accordingly, one day in April, Falkland arrived at Mustaphabad and took up his quarters for the night at the house of his old friend Mackenzie Maxwell, the civil surgeon. The following morning he received charge of the commissioner's office, and the day was passed by the two friends at the court-house, in the matter-of-fact occupation of discussing the various business matters of the duty to be taken over, and signing the needful transfer papers. Towards sunset the wedding took place at the cantonment church, after which the newly-married couple and the guests invited to witness the ceremony, comprising all the residents of the station who had not gone off for the summer to the hills, repaired to Brigadier Polwheedle's house, the residency being too far off for the purpose, and there partook of ices and champagne, according to approved custom. At dusk, Mr. Cunningham set off on his long journey, the nawab's camel-carriage being again put in requisition for the first part of it; while Falkland and his bride drove home to the residency.
Thus was our sweet Olivia mated, and all her friends and acquaintances pronounced it a happy marriage on both sides. And indeed with a husband gallant, clever, and unselfish, gentle and kind in his ways, and whose devotion and solicitude were evinced in every word and action, how could the young wife help being happy? And must not she love dearly in return a husband so good and noble, a husband of whom any woman might be proud? And yet — had she asked herself, is this really love? it would have been difficult to frame a true reply. She was always happy in his presence; no doubts or regrets came up to disturb the first placid days of wedded life; but the well-known footstep sounding in the hall raised no responsive throb in Olivia's gentle bosom, nor did the hours of enforced absence pass with weary longings for return. Olivia had been accustomed to spend many hours of the day alone; and now with Justine for company — Justine who had returned to the residency after a short visit to Mrs. Polwheedle — she could still employ the long mornings happily till her husband returned from his duties at the court-house. At times, indeed, would come up unbidden questionings whether another fate might not have been hers, and a sorrowful regret that her cousin should be cast off and forsaken, undeserving of affection though he might be; but any gentle doubts of this sort were dismissed whenever they arose, as unworthy tenants of her thoughts.
To the residents of Mustaphabad feeling a pleasurable interest in or indifference about Miss Cunningham's marriage, it needs hardly be said that there was one exception. And, crushed down by the sudden destruction of the hopes which the foolish young fellow had allowed himself to build on utterly unsubstantial foundation, poor Yorke had not even the bitter consolation of feeling that he had been the victim of heartless coquetry. He could not carry his self-deception so far as to delude himself into the belief that Miss Cunningham had knowingly jilted him. He now saw plainly enough that her supposed encouragement of his love had existed only in his own imagination. Calling up over and over again each moment of the brief interviews which made up his acquaintance with Olivia, his sense of truthfulness and natural humility now brought him to see clearly enough that her feelings towards him had been free throughout from the emotions they caused in him, that her kind manner was dictated merely by a kind heart. There had been no eagerness, no shyness in Miss Cunningham's greetings. All the heart-flutterings had been on one side only. So much the young man had learnt of the language of love. And amid the despair he felt at the downfall of his hopes, he could not but admit to himself that the choice she had made was, after all, a more natural and proper one. What right had he, an obscure penniless subaltern, to aspire to gain that peerless creature for a wife? And for all his being a few years older, he felt as if he must always have looked up to her, and she down to him. Now Falkland was one whom every woman as well as every man must look up to; and her proper place would be as mistress of a great household. Fool that he was, to dream that she could ever come to share his lowly home! And yet, Falkland could never love her as he had loved her; she would never know as his wife the passionate devotion of which she deserved to be the object.
But from one disaster, at least, he had been spared. He had never, with all his folly, been fool enough to make his infatuation public. None of their acquaintance except Spragge could have a suspicion of it; and Jerry, though a hare-brained fellow, was a stanch friend who would not peach. Even Olivia herself did not know his secret. But no! surely, ​he thought, she must have guessed his devotion, expressed in every way but speech. At least, however, he had been spared the humiliation of a confession rejected. And yet, he thought, it would have been sweeter to have been refused by her, than that she should never know my love, my love now to remain a secret forever.
But although the young man had strength of will to hide his grief, and unselfishness enough to feel no anger with the woman who had made such wild work with his heart, life for the time seemed utterly intolerable, especially while the coming wedding was the universal topic of conversation throughout the station. To listen to this was more than he could bear; and obtaining a month's leave, Yorke set out with his tent to pass the time in wandering about the district. The shooting-season and the time for camp-life was over; the harvest had been gathered in, leaving the bare sandy fields a desert; the hot winds blew clouds of stifling dust from morning to sunset, till his tent was like a furnace, and chairs, table, and bed, and even his food, were covered with the loose grit that filled the air; and the antelope which he pursued over the open plains were shy and wild; but he could at any rate tire himself out with walking; the nights in the open air were still cool, and sleep could be courted by sheer force of fatigue. Thus passed the weary time. Fain would he have taken leave for the whole hot season, and spent it wandering amid cool air and new scenes in the Himalayas; but with certain obligations already mentioned to be met shortly, he could not afford to give up the allowance of the two companies which he commanded. Hill-stations and pleasant places, he thought bitterly, were not meant for such as he. More fitting that he should nurse his sorrow in bodily discomfort.
But even in the solitude of his little camp he could not altogether escape contact with the outer world. The occasional messenger who came out from cantonments with his letters brought a newspaper one evening, and spelling through this after his frugal dinner, beginning with the advertisements, as is the wont of solitary travellers in the East, he came upon the following announcement: —
"April 15th, at Mustaphabad, by the Rev. J. Wharton, M.A., Colonel Robert Falkland, C.B., to Olivia, daughter of Archibald Cunningham, Esquire, Civil Service."
So, then, even the last despairing hope must be surrendered which had found a place in his foolish heart during these solitary days, that the whole story of the engagement might prove to be a horrid dream, or that something might happen at the last moment to break off the marriage. Life must now be faced under its new conditions, and it would be mere cowardice to shirk it any longer. So determining, the young man returned to cantonments next morning without waiting for the expiration of his leave, and resumed his place in the regiment.