# The Dilemma/Chapter XIV

CHAPTER XIV.
When Mr. Cunningham lost his young wife, which event happened just twenty-one years before the time at which this history begins, and within a year of his marriage, he was left with a little daughter on whom the poor mother had scarcely time to bestow a parting kiss before she died. The friendly wife of a brother civilian, who was present on the occasion, proposed to carry off the infant to her house and bring it up for the time with her own children; but the young widower was averse to parting with the charge, and the lady was fain to be content with coming over daily to bestow an occasional superintendence on his nursery establishment. A still more frequent supervision over the child's welfare was given by his friend. Lieutenant Falkland, who, although he declined the ​young widower's proposal that he should give up his bungalow in cantonments, and share the other's more comfortable house in the civil lines, spent almost as much time there as if he had been a permanent occupant of it. The subaltern had plenty of leisure; and his friend's servants were never sure during their master's long absence in court at what moment they might not receive a visit from Falkland, and even if they had been disposed to neglect the child would have been prevented by his vigilance. But indifference to their master's children is not a fault of Indian servants; their weakness is rather in the way of too much petting and indulgence. In the case of a baby, however, there was not much room for injudicious kindness; the little Olivia's wants were sufficiently ministered to by the stout young mussalmáni woman who had been engaged from a neighbouring village to fulfil the office of wet-nurse; and the young civil surgeon of the station. Dr. Mackenzie Maxwell, declared in his daily visits that no child could be better cared for, or more thriving. As the little Olivia grew out of babyhood, almost the first person she came to recognize after her nurse and the old bearer who was appointed her special attendant, was the young officer; and the child would hold out her little arms to greet him as he came up the avenue of an evening while she was taking her walk in the old man's arms, attended by the nurse and another female, while a tall office-messenger with a red belt, brass plate, and gigantic umbrella brought up the rear. Long before she could understand the use of them, the self-appointed guardian began to pour in consignments of toys, which soon littered the young civilian's house; Benares lacquered bricks, little wooden elephants and camels, cups and saucers, and tea-equipages; a swing to be hung up in the veranda; with a rocking-horse as large as a Burmah pony. A visitor to Mr. Cunningham's house in those days of a morning would generally find the same group assembled there: the father in an easy-chair smoking his cheroot; his friend sitting more erect, as became a man with strict military ideas, and not smoking, — the two watching the child and the old bearer on the floor together, engaged in the joint task of erecting a tower, which, from the number of bricks strewed about the room, promised to assume the proportions of a very Babel.
Thus passed the child's earliest years, when just as she was beginning to prattle freely, and had been advanced to the dignity of a seat on a raised chair at her father's breakfast-table, a disruption took place of the small commonwealth which had conducted the government of the little Olivia's household. Falkland was appointed to the staff of the army on the frontier, and the good doctor was transferred to another station; while the advent of his successor was heralded by a reputation for his power of subduing the strongest constitutions of adults, and a perfectly ogre-like capacity for the massacre of children; such as escaped the first onslaught of his calomel, it was rumoured, invariably succumbed to the subsequent treatment. The arrival of this terrible official caused a general panic in the station. Mrs. Spangle, the wife of the brother civilian already referred to, determined to anticipate by a year or two the time fixed for the inevitable home-voyage; and Cunningham, thus left without his friends, accepted her offer to take his little daughter to England with her own children, to be made over on arrival to the charge of his only sister.
To Mrs. Maitland, Cunningham's sister, who had no children of her own, the arrival of her little niece was a very welcome event; she soon came to love the child as her own, and Olivia found in her house a happy home, where even the dimmest recollections of India soon faded away. Nor were the father's letters calculated to recall them. Cunningham did not possess the sort of literary power which alone could have enabled those unacquainted with the scenes among which it was spent to realize his mode of life; and, under the feeling that his letters had no real interest for the reader when they passed beyond mere personal topics, his correspondence, though still affectionate, gradually became brief and infrequent. His sister's letters were longer and more regular, for all home allusions could be understood by the parent, and full accounts of his daughter, her health, progress, and occupation, made up an interesting letter; and as soon as the child was able to write herself, each mail carried a letter from her to her unknown father, all to be carefully filed by the Indian exile, and containing a complete record of progress, beginning with the uncertain ink-tracings over her aunt's pencilled outlines, and so through the large round-hand and short stiff sentences of ​childhood and all the various developments of girlish hands, to the easy writing and ready expression of the accomplished young woman.
When Olivia was about twelve years old her uncle died, and his widow was shortly afterwards ordered for her health to the south of France; and having now no ties with England, and finding Continental life and climate to her taste, Mrs. Maitland had continued from that time to reside with her niece in various parts of the south of Europe. Meanwhile Cunningham remained in India; although not a brilliant man, his industry, temper, and judgment had gained for him a considerable reputation in his service, and whenever he was on the point of taking a furlough, the transfer to some new employment had always happened to prevent his doing so; now a neglected district to be brought into proper form; now a newly-annexed province to be reduced to order, — some call in the way of preferment appealing to his sense of duty and the love of distinction, and tempting him to stay in the country. Thus year after year passed away without the intended furlough being taken; till at last, when Olivia was arrived at womanhood, and the question arose whether instead of his going home the daughter should not rejoin her father in India, he was invited by the government to assume charge of the province ceded by the nawab of Mustaphabad, and to introduce the blessings of British rule into the districts so long misgoverned by that unfortunate prince. Such a request could not be refused; and Cunningham, feeling that his daughter was more at home with the aunt who had been a mother to her for so many years, than she could be with the father who had now become little more than a name, and being, it must be confessed, now quite reconciled to his solitary life, had just proposed a scheme for completing his new task and eventually retiring on the pension which he had now earned to join his sister and daughter in Italy, when the plan was upset by the news that Mrs. Maitland had accepted the offer of marriage from an Italian nobleman. To Cunningham the idea of such a connection seemed thoroughly repulsive; for although the count was reported to be unexceptionable in every respect save that he was a good deal younger than his intended bride, Cunningham's Indian experiences were not calculated to remove the insular prejudices of an Englishman; and notwithstanding that his sister wrote to him that her marriage should make no difference to Olivia, for that her future husband was equally desirous with herself that she should continue to make her home with them till her father returned from India, a sudden anxiety now possessed him lest his daughter, living in a foreign household, should also fall in love with a foreigner and so be altogether lost to him. He determined, therefore, that she should join him for the remainder of his service; and, writing to express his decision in terms so peremptory as seemed to the kind aunt a poor requital of the many years of loving care bestowed on his child, he knew scarcely an easy moment till he heard in reply that his instructions would be acted on at once. Mrs. Maitland and Olivia made a speedy visit to England, in order that the latter might be placed in charge of the wife of a brother civilian returning to India; and after a brief interval occupied in the preparation of Olivia's outfit, aunt and niece parted at Southampton with mutual tears and sorrowings, each to enter on a new life. The count had followed his intended bride to London, and the marriage was to take place immediately after Olivia's departure, when the married pair would return to live in Italy. "Farewell, my darling child!" she said, folding her niece to her breast in the little cabin of the steamer as it lay on the parting morning alongside of the quay in Southampton Docks; "farewell, and forever! even if you don't marry in India, your father will never let you come to me again." Olivia could only reply through her tears by returning the embrace; nor was there time for further words, for just at that moment rang the warning-bell, summoning those who were not passengers to leave the vessel.
​Thus was Olivia launched upon her new life, of the personages moving around which she had as yet had only two slight glimpses. Some eight years before. Colonel Falkland, returning to England to recover from a wound, had paid a visit to Florence to see his god-daughter, then just entering on girlhood. He stayed there for some weeks, living at an hotel in the neighbourhood of Mr. Mailland's apartments, and passing the greater part of each day with his friends; and visitors in those days to the picture-galleries in that city could not but ​notice with interest the two sight-seers — the bronzed soldier-like man, who walked lame and with the aid of a stick, accompanied by the slight young girl; surely not his daughter, they thought, he seemed too courteous and deferential in manner, and she, though deferential in turn and striving to tend him with care, yet did not evince the familiarity of a child with a parent. The young lady acted as guide and interpreter, while her companion, whose life had been spent in camps or the dull routine of an Indian official, was never tired of pursuing his first acquaintanceship with art under such auspices; and when his young companion would bring him before some favourite masterpiece, his eyes would often turn involuntarily from the beautiful saint or madonna on canvas to the still more beautiful face, as he thought, lighted up with the rays of innocence and youthful enthusiasm.
In such companionship it seemed to Falkland as if a vision of his youth had come back again, unalloyed by the sadness and sorrow which marked that episode of earlier days. It is her mother come back to earth again, he said to himself; God grant she may be spared to grace it longer! Olivia and her aunt on their part had been prepared to receive their new acquaintance with warmth, as one holding the highest place in Mr. Cunningham's esteem. The greatest friend I have in the world, he wrote to his daughter, and the finest soldier in the Indian army. "And the most perfect gentleman," declared Olivia's aunt with enthusiasm, after he had paid his first visit. "I thought Indian officers would be mere soldiers, with uncouth manners; but our colonel might be a prince, although I hope he will dress better when he gets to England, and take to wearing shirt-collars. Poor man! he seems to suffer a good deal from his wound, although he never complains. I think on the mornings when he comes in late, and won't take any breakfast, that he must have had a bad night." As for Olivia, who had never before met any gentleman, young or old, on intimate terms, and from whose girlish mind the germs of any tenderer emotions were absent, her godfather seemed the impersonation of all that was noble and dignified and kind. She would fain have asked him about the wars in which he had taken part, as the little party sate together of an afternoon or evening at Mrs. Maitland's lodgings, or rested by the wayside after a drive to some spot of interest in the neighbourhood; but Falkland was not a man to talk much about himself, or indeed to talk much about anything, and the conversation usually turned upon the travels and experiences of the ladies, Mrs. Maitland taking the principal share, and the colonel merely throwing in an occasional question or remark by way of fuel to keep the fire alight. Or if Falkland and Olivia were alone, their talk would mostly revolve about Olivia's pursuits and half-formed thoughts; for her new friend, while reserved about himself, was yet of a sympathetic nature which invited the confidence of others, although there was no want of humour or even a certain playful yet subdued sarcasm in his conversation. And had Olivia been capable of such analysis, she might have discovered that while she had opened to her new companion all the recesses of her young mind, she knew little about him save that he was kind, gentle, and unselfish, bent chiefly on ministering to the happiness of those around him. That the young girl should have endowed him with every noble attribute was a natural consequence of her being at the age of hero-worship. Thus when at last Falkland was obliged to bring his visit to an end, and to continue his journey towards England, the parting left Olivia with a new ideal of perfection to add to the gallery of saints and madonnas enshrined in the respect of her fervent young heart; while Falkland, although no definite ideas for the future yet possessed him, went off with a new interest in life awakened. The leave-taking was provisional only; for the plan was discussed of a meeting in the autumn on the Lake of Como, when, said Falkland in his low voice, looking into her ingenuous young face with a kindly smile, as he held her hand at parting, his young mistress should go on with her course of instruction in Italian. But when autumn arrived, he was summoned to India to take up the important appointment which he now held; and the letter from the governor-general himself containing the offer, was a form of application for his services which a zealous public servant could not refuse to obey. So their next meeting was deferred till seven years later, when Olivia arrived at Mustaphabad, and the child-girl had developed into the beautiful young woman.
One other Indian acquaintance was made by Olivia, four years later, when ​Rupert Kirke, a lieutenant in the Bengal army, arrived at Venice, where Mrs. Maitland and her niece were then staying, also, like Falkland, on his way home. Kirke was first cousin to Cunningham and his sister, and brought an introduction from the former. "A clever fellow," said the brother, in his letter, "and a first-rate soldier, with a great future before him, if he only keeps straight." And indeed Rupert Kirke looked every inch a soldier, and although not the least a lady's man, as the term is understood, was found to be excellent company; well-mannered, well-dressed, well-read, and apparently both good-natured and good-tempered. Olivia took a great liking to her new-found relative, while Kirke for his part did not conceal his gratification in her society, nor, although he made little pretence of caring for pictures or churches, his enjoyment of the sight-seeing excursions made under her guidance — excursions, however, in which Mrs. Maitland invariably joined, for Olivia was no longer a child. And after he had passed on to England, a correspondence was maintained between the two, when Kirke's clever letters came to be very interesting to the fair recipient. The elder lady, however, did not respond with warmth to the feelings of her companion about the letters and their writer, without being a keen judge of character, there appeared something of hardness and apparent unscrupulousness about Kirke which instinctively repelled her; and Olivia perceiving that her aunt did not share her admiration for him, did not seek to exchange confidences with her on the subject.
Kirke too, as well as Falkland, expressed the intention when leaving Italy of paying his relatives another visit, but was diverted from carrying it into effect by the outbreak of the Crimean war, at the first rumour of which he set out for Constantinople, seeking employment as a volunteer with the Turkish army. In this capacity he seemed on the road to enhance his military reputation, when he was unfortunately tempted to accept a commission in the Turkish contingent, and thereby found himself shelved from active service during the remainder of the war, on the termination of which he was obliged to return to India.
To Olivia Cunningham, sailing for India, the change of life was even more complete than to the other young ladies who were borne in the same steamer with her out of Southampton Docks. They, for the most part, though leaving friends and homes behind them, had been brought up to regard England as a temporary resting-place, and the voyage to India as the culminating point in their girlhood. To Olivia this departure for that country came as the result of a sudden resolve, made necessary by the breaking-up of European ties. Nor had she ever known the meaning of home as that term is understood. For her it had not meant sisters and brothers, and home interests, and a settled dwelling-place. Her home, so far as she had been able to realize the idea, had been a suite of apartments at Florence, succeeded by a suite of apartments at Rome or Naples; her friends had been passing visitors, acquaintances, foreigners and English, met and dropped; and although the relation between her aunt and herself had been based on mutual love and affection, her heart could not but whisper when the former announced her coming change of life, involving a new and absorbing interest of her own, apart from her niece, that after all there must be a difference between a mother and even the kindest aunt; henceforward, at any rate, their lives must run apart. Her father, on the other hand, had so far been a sort of shadowy providence watching over her from a distance, whose manifestations were mainly associated with punctual remittances, handsome presents, and brief, infrequent letters; and whose very form and features were as yet unknown.