# The Dilemma/Chapter VIII

CHAPTER VIII.
​"A ticket for soup, by all that's powerful!" cried Spragge. "Well, I thought it was about time for the commissioner to do the civil. Two distinguished officers like us are not to be treated with neglect even by a bloated civilian. It's directed to you, Arty, "he continued, throwing the note across the table, "and from the lovely creature herself. You'd better keep it next your heart, only open it first, my boy, and let's know what's up. Say, oh, say!"
Had Spragge been more observant he would have noticed the blush and confusion of his companion. It was the first letter he had ever received from Miss Cunningham; the first time, indeed, that he had ever seen her handwriting.
He disguised his emotion, however, and rebuked his companion. "I wish you would have a little sense for once in your life, Spragge, "he said pettishly, calling that young officer by his surname, "and keep your foolish jokes for fit subjects."
"Oh! that's the line, is it?" replied the imperturbable Jerry; "some things are not to be talked about, or else we cut up rough, do we? with our Spragges and our Yorkes? We shall be having coffee and pistols next, I suppose? All right, old fellow; you've only got to give me the office, you know, and I'm mum. Still you haven't told us yet what the letter is about; come, out with it! ticket for soup? or a hop?"
Yorke replied that it was an invitation to dinner for the next day but one.
"And me left out," cried Jerry; "well, that is a shame, considering we both called on the same day. You have been making play since to any extent, of course; still there's a want of consideration about the thing; if we had both been asked the same night, we might have taken Nubbee Buksh's buggy between us."
"Consideration!" said Yorke, loftily. "As if Miss Cunningham would be likely to think about such details as the small economies of a subaltern's ménage."
"Ménage, eh? small economies, eh? We are coming it strong, and no mistake. What's the last book we got this out of? This comes of our Shakespeares and our Homers. Beg pardon, old fellow," he added, apologetically, seeing that Yorke was looking angrily towards him; "but don't you think you'd better answer the note, and not keep the sowar waiting? I'll take myself off and have a pipe in the stable, and then perhaps when I come back Richard will be himself again."
How the young man, left alone, discovered that there was no paper or ink in the bungalow fit to write his reply upon, and sent down to the Europe shop for a packet of the best creamlaid, and a bottle of fresh ink, the orderly waiting the while, dismounted, holding his horse under the shade of a tree; how, when the paper and ink arrived, he spoilt half-a-dozen sheets before his answer was ready, in doubt whether to say "My dear Miss Cunningham," or only "Dear Miss Cunningham," — need not be told; nor that he did as a fact deposit the note about his person, taking it out a dozen times in the day to read the contents. Yet they were not of much import, for the note merely ran thus: —
"Dear Mr. Yorke, — Will you give us the pleasure of your company to dinner on Thursday at half-past seven? — Believe me, yours very truly,
"Olivia Cunningham."
Needs not be said that Yorke engaged Nubbee Buksh's buggy for the Thursday evening, nor that, although until now he had never thought much about dress, he made as elaborate a toilet for the occasion as the conditions of undress uniform permitted; but not the less did he feel shy and nervous as he entered the large drawing-room at the residency, although his heart bounded within him at the cordial greeting of the hostess, as she advanced from the group of guests to meet him, and held out her hand with a smile and look of pleasure which sent the young fellow into raptures. There were only twelve persons in all, including the brigadier and Mrs. Polwheedle, and the dinner was served at a round table, permitting of general conversation, and to Yorke a full view of Miss Cunningham, in a perfectly enchanting demi-toilet. Certainly, he thought, it is even more becoming than the ball-dress, or the more costly apparel worn at his Excellency's party. It is the same picture, of course, that sets off any framing — the lovely face, the graceful figure, and the noble folds of rich brown hair.
The conversation turned to the subject then occupying all the dinner-tables in India, the misconduct of a guard of sepoys at Barrackpore.
"For my part,"said Mrs. Polwheedle, "I think the whole regiment ought to have been hanged, the rascally fellows! ​to stand by and see their officer wounded in that way. Disbanding was too good for them."
"But the whole regiment didn't see the thing done," observed the commissioner.
"Oh, that doesn't matter," she replied; "they were all sepoys together, and sepoys always stick by each other, with their nonsense about caste, and their not doing this or doing that. I have no patience with them."
"My dear,"said the brigadier, who sat opposite, in a voice of mild reproach, "you forget that your husband is a sepoy-officer."
"No, I don't," replied the lady; "but I wasn't always the wife of a native-infantry officer, you know; and I have my feelings on this point. Besides, I don't consider that you belong to the native army now that you are a brigadier; you command Europeans and natives too, so you ought to be impartial."
"For my part," observed Major Winge of the hussars, who was one of the company, "I should like to see every black regiment cut down to half its present strength, and a dozen more British regiments sent out."
"Native-infantry regiments, I suppose you mean?" interposed Colonel Falkland.
"Oh, of course," replied the other, "they are dark; same thing, you know."
"The same thing, perhaps, but not the same name; we will keep to the official designation, with your permission, if the thing is to be discussed at all."
"By all means, if you like," returned the major; "no offence was meant."
"You did not mean to be offensive, of course," said the colonel.
And so the conversation dropped, or rather a turn was given to it by the commissioner, who asked Major Winge across the table if his regiment had many horses entered for the coming races.
While it was going on, Yorke felt his face flush at the implied insult to his branch of the service. A feeling of bashfulness, however, kept him silent at first, and then just as he was about at last to burst out. Colonel Falkland had stepped in to the rescue.
That the offensive attack should have been properly put down was satisfactory, but there now succeeded to the indignation a feeling of shame that Miss Cunningham should have been witness of the scene. What must she think of military men, if they were ready to deal in such braggart ways across a dinner-table, till even Falkland, a man who seemed placed above such things by standing and natural dignity, was drawn into the squabble? It was all that horrid Mrs. Polwheedle's doing, and it was just the same on the day of his first call. How could this gentle and refined creature tolerate her society? Even if the commissioner was too good-natured to take care of his daughter in that respect, surely her godfather might interpose to shield her from such vulgarizing contact.
The person referred to, who sat next to him, seemed to be reading his thoughts, for he interrupted the current of them by remarking in an undertone: "I am afraid our hostess will think some of us have been taking our wine before dinner instead of at the proper time. It is a sad world this," he added with a smile; "shut one's self out as we may from all that is disagreeable, still the unpleasant will obtrude itself sometimes. The worst of it is that I am afraid the gentleman opposite had only too much truth on his side."
"Do you really think, sir," asked the youngster eagerly, "that the native army is not to be trusted?"
"I think that it might be reduced with great advantage, and the proportion of European troops brought up again to what it was when I first entered the service."
"Then do you really think that there is any mischief brewing in the native army?"
"It is a mercenary army," replied the colonel, "and it is an army which has nothing to do at present, two conditions which don't go well together. Of course you may keep mercenary troops in order by discipline; but we have merely the semblance of discipline left now. It would not need a very violent shake, I fear, to bring the military fabric to pieces, or at any rate to put it grievously out of joint."
"But surely there is nothing to show that things are worse now than they have been for the last fifty years? There have been repeated instances of misconduct before, but the army has outlived them. And, in the present instance, it seems to have been effectually put down. Why should things be worse now than at any time before?"
"Of course there is a great deal to be said on the optimist side. The men have all their pensions to look to, and then it is not likely that the Hindoos and ​Mahomedans would ever pull together, if either party were to fall out with their masters. And I suppose luck will befriend us in the future as it has in the past. Still a little tighter discipline and a few more European troops would not be bad precautions. But of course," said the colonel, turning towards him with a smile, "I don't want these doubts to go any further. We must put a good face on matters, whatever we may think about them."
"But surely," said Yorke, "holding these views, it would be proper for you at least to urge them on the government."
"Who? I? Oh no; that would be of no use. The headquarter people would pooh-pooh the advice of an alarmist civilian, as they would call me, and would say that they have as good opportunities for judging of these matters as he has, which is quite true, though whether they make use of them is another matter."
After dinner, as soon as the gentlemen came into the drawing-room. Miss Cunningham asked Captain Sparrow, who was of the party, to sing — which, after a little pressing, he consented to do, the lady accompanying him. Captain Sparrow had a tenor voice, which might have been pronounced sweet in quality, only that there was very little of it to judge by, and sang airs from the Italian opera of the more sentimental kind, delivered with a sort of caricature of stage manner, the retardations extra slow, the pathos extra pathetic. As he sang, with one hand resting on the piano and the other on his hip — his hair parted in the middle, a loosely-tied black ribbon under his turned-down collar, his eyes cast down, and face expressing all the pathos which could not find utterance through the voice, while the fair accompanist placidly followed all the changes of time in the performance — Yorke felt as by instinct that although she was perfectly grave and polite, and there was no trace of irony in her thanks to the singer when the performance was concluded, any remaining fear of rivalry in that quarter might now safely be dismissed.
"And now, Miss Cunningham, won't you sing something yourself," said the captain, "especially after I have set you so good an example? I am sure you will be in good voice to-night. There is something in the air conducive to song. I felt it myself."
Just then Yorke came up, and Sparrow moved off, to receive the thanks of the rest of the company.
"Are you fond of music, Mr. Yorke?" asked the lady.
"I should like above everything to hear you sing," replied the young fellow.
"How can you tell you will not be disappointed when you hear me?" she said, with a laugh and slight blush, as she stooped to turn over the loose pieces of music on the stand.
"No, no," rejoined the young man with ardour; "there is no doubt about it. Heaven gave you a sweet voice, and it gave you" — every other charm, he was going to add; but checking himself, continued, "besides, you must know that your fame has preceded you."
Miss Cunningham said nothing in reply, but looking downwards seated herself at the instrument and began to sing. Nor had rumour exaggerated her powers. She sang with the taste and finish given by Italian teaching, while her voice was like her speaking voice, low and rich, and expressing a sort of unconscious pathos, as if asking what romantic fate awaited its possessor in the future.
She sang two songs, the young lover standing by entranced, turning over the pages; one Italian, full of repressed passion — one German, kindling subtle, undefinable emotions. Then at his request she sang a third time; after which, some of the guests who had meanwhile been scattered about the room came up to express their thanks. But presently the two were left alone again, for the room was a very large one, and the young lady still sitting on the music-stool turned round.
"Do you really think," said she, "that the sepoys are not to be trusted? Perhaps I ought not to ask such a question from you; but your men, now, they look such simple honest fellows, and papa seems to have the most perfect confidence in them."
"I would answer for them with my life," replied the young man, earnestly.
"I like to hear you speak like that," said the young lady, with animation; "there is something to my mind quite revolting in discussing the character and loyalty of our soldiers in this way, whether their faces are light or dark."
As she looked up at him with a gleam of admiration in her dark eyes, the young man felt ready to throw himself at her feet in a transport of love. For him to worship her was only natural; but that she should regard him as worthy of respect seemed altogether beyond his ​deserts, so infinitely above him did she always seem to be. Something of this may have appeared in his look of devotion, for she blushed slightly, and turned away her head, and then changing the conversation said, "When is the inspection of your regiment to take place?"
"On Saturday — shall you come to see it?" And the young man hung on her answer as if his very life depended on it.
"I will come, if I possibly can. Papa has not been very well lately, and is often disinclined to ride of a morning; but if Colonel Falkland is still with us, I am sure he will escort me."
"Is Colonel Falkland going away?"
"His month's leave comes to an end to-morrow; but he hopes to get it extended. I don't quite understand the arrangement; it appears there are various contingencies involved, but he expects to hear how the matter is settled early in the morning."
Presently she added, "Colonel Falkland says you ought to be in the cavalry — the irregular cavalry I think he called it — because you are such a good rider."
"Colonel Falkland's praise of any one is valuable, but he seems always to speak kindly of everybody."
"Ah, then I see you have found out his generous nature, and think as highly of him as every one seems to do. I am so glad of that,"said Miss Cunningham, warmly.
"Think highly of him? why he is one of the finest fellows in the army. I always knew he was extremely popular, too, and now I have met him I can understand why he is. What a pity it is that he should be thrown away in civil employ, instead of being at the head of the army, or something of the sort!"
And the two cast their looks in the direction of the person spoken of, a middle-aged, not particularly handsome, and not well-dressed man, standing in another part of the room.
Then she asked him if he was going to take a part in the coming races; and he replied that he was going to enter a young horse he had just bought, for the steeple-chase. Had he still possessed only his old pony Jerry, he would in his present state of infatuation have committed himself to entering that useful animal.
Miss Cunningham asked whether steeplechase-riding was not a very dangerous thing; and Yorke laughingly replied that there was not much danger to be met with in the army nowadays, either in that or any other way; the only danger he ran was of making himself ridiculous by being nowhere in the race.
Here the conversation was interrupted; and, save at parting, when he held her slender hand for a moment in his, Yorke had no opportunity of again speaking to the young lady. But as he drove himself home in the still clear night, he rehearsed the scene of the evening over and over again, dwelling on each gracious look, each radiant smile, calling up each changing expression of the sweet face — now gracious, now arch — anon, when in repose, as he thought, pensive. Surely he could not be wrong in thinking both that she understood his devotion, and was not unprepared to reward it. To no one else, he felt sure, did she appear so tender and gracious. Even to her father she seemed hardly more so. To other persons, as he could not help persuading himself, her bearing, if gentle, was somewhat reserved and distant. Only to himself and Falkland was there shown this confidential manner; but then Falkland was an old friend, and her godfather — old enough indeed to be her father. Nevertheless, uneasy doubts crossed the young man's mind, especially when he reached home, and surveying by the dim light of a single candle the poverty of his little bungalow, contrasted it with the splendour of the residency and the well-lit-up salon, in the vastness of which a dozen guests seemed almost lost, till his heart sank within him. How could he dare to hope to bring that splendid creature to such a lowly roof? Still less possible did it seem to raise himself from his present humble grade to a level with her condition and her father's just expectations. And what if, after all, she were really in ignorance of his feelings, and he merely another Malvolio fancying his countess was in love with him, as much deceived and every whit as foolish? Thus, alternate hopes and fears coursing each other through his mind, the young man paced restlessly the gravel-walk before his bungalow — his usual nightly occupation now — but taking care not to wake his chum, till, tired out in mind and body, he sought his room and found at last the sound sleep of youth and health.