Rujub, the Juggler

“Well, he won’t have much to do with his troop of horse, and time will hang heavy on his hands.”

“Well, there is shooting, uncle.”

“Yes, there is shooting, but I don’t think that is much in his line. Tiffins and calls, and society generally occupy most of his time, I fancy, and I think he is fonder of billiards and cards than is good for him or others. Of course, being here by himself, as he is, we must do our best to be civil to him, and that sort of thing, but if we were at Cawnpore he is a man I should not care about being intimate in the house.”

“I understand, uncle; but certainly he is pleasant.”

“Oh, yes, he is very pleasant,” the Major said dryly, in a tone that seemed to express that Forster’s power of making himself pleasant was by no means a recommendation in his eyes.

But Captain Forster had apparently no idea whatever that his society could be anything but welcome, and called the next day after luncheon.

“I have been leaving my pasteboard at all the residents,” he said; “not a very large circle. Of course, I knew Mrs. Rintoul at Delhi, as well as Mrs. Doolan. I did not know any of the others. They seem pleasant people.”

“They are very pleasant,” Isobel said.

“I left one for a man named Bathurst. He was out. Is that the Bathurst, Major Hannay, who was in a line regiment—I forget its number—and left very suddenly in the middle of the fighting in the Punjaub?”

“Yes; I believe Bathurst was in the army about that time,” the Major said; “but I don’t know anything about the circumstances of his leaving.”

Had Captain Forster known the Major better he would have been aware that what he meant to say was that he did not wish to know, but he did not detect the inflection of his voice, and went on—“They say he showed the white feather. If it is the same man, I was at school with him, and unless he has improved since then, I am sure I have no wish to renew his acquaintance.”

“I like him very much,” the Major said shortly; “he is great friends with Dr. Wade, who has the very highest opinion of him, and I believe he is generally considered to be one of the most rising young officers of his grade.”

“Oh, I have nothing to say against him,” Captain Forster said; “but he was a poor creature at school, and I do not think that there was any love lost between us. Did you know him before you came here?”

“I only met him at the last races in Cawnpore,” the Major said; “he was stopping with the Doctor.”

“Quite a character, Wade.”

Isobel’s tongue was untied now.

“I think he is one of the kindest and best gentlemen I ever met,” the girl said hotly; “he took care of me coming out here, and no one could have been kinder than he was.”

“I have no doubt he is all that,” Captain Forster said gently; “still he is a character, Miss Hannay, taking the term character to mean a person who differs widely from other people. I believe he is very skillful in his profession, but I take it he is a sort of Abernethy, and tells the most startling truths to his patients.”

“That I can quite imagine,” Isobel said; “the Doctor hates humbug of all sorts, and I don’t think I should like to call him in myself for an imaginary ailment.”

“I rather put my foot in it there,” Captain Forster said to himself, as he sauntered back to his tent. “The Major didn’t like my saying anything against Bathurst, and the girl did not like my remark about the Doctor. I wonder whether she objected also to what I said about that fellow Bathurst—a sneaking little hound he was, and there is no doubt about his showing the white feather in the Punjaub. However, I don’t think that young lady is of the sort to care about a coward, and if she asks any questions, as I dare say she will, after what I have said, she will find that the story is a true one. What a pretty little thing she is! I did not see a prettier face all the time I was at home. What with her and Mrs. Doolan, time is not likely to hang so heavily here as I had expected.”

The Major, afraid that Isobel might ask him some questions about this story of Bathurst leaving the army, went off hastily as soon as Captain Forster had left. Isobel sat impatiently tapping the floor with her foot, awaiting the Doctor, who usually came for half an hour’s chat in the afternoon.

“Well, child, how did your dinner go off yesterday, and what did you think of your new visitor? I saw him come away from here half an hour ago. I suppose he has been calling.”

“I don’t like him at all,” Isobel said decidedly.

“No? Well, then, you are an exception to the general rule.”

“I thought him pleasant enough last night,” Isobel said frankly. “He has a deferential sort of way about him when he speaks to one that one can hardly help liking. But he made me angry today. In the first place, Doctor, he said you were a character.”

The Doctor chuckled. “Well, that is true enough, my dear. There was no harm in that.”

“And then he said”—and she broke off—“he said what I feel sure cannot be true. He said that Mr. Bathurst left the army because he showed the white feather. It is not true, is it? I am sure it can’t be true.”

The Doctor did not reply immediately.

“It is an old story,” he said presently, “and ought not to have been brought up again. I don’t suppose Forster or anyone else knows the rights of the case. When a man leaves his regiment and retires when it is upon active service, there are sure to be spiteful stories getting about, often without the slightest foundation. But even if it had been true, it would hardly be to Bathurst’s disadvantage now he is no longer in the army, and courage is not a vital necessity on the part of a civilian.”

“You can’t mean that, Doctor; surely every man ought to be brave. Could anyone possibly respect a man who is a coward? I don’t believe it, Doctor, for a moment.”

“Courage, my dear, is not a universal endowment—it is a physical as much as a moral virtue. Some people are physically brave and morally cowards; others are exactly the reverse. Some people are constitutionally cowards all round, while in others cowardice shows itself only partially. I have known a man who is as brave as a lion in battle, but is terrified by a rat. I have known a man brave in other respects lose his nerve altogether in a thunderstorm. In neither of these cases was it the man’s own fault; it was constitutional, and by no effort could he conquer it. I consider Bathurst to be an exceptionally noble character. I am sure that he is capable of acts of great bravery in some directions, but it is possible that he is, like the man I have spoken of, constitutionally weak in others.”

“But the great thing is to be brave in battle, Doctor! You would not call a man a coward simply because he was afraid of a rat, but you would call a man a coward who was afraid in battle. To be a coward there seems to me to be a coward all round. I have always thought the one virtue in man I really envied was bravery, and that a coward was the most despicable creature living. It might not be his actual fault, but one can’t help that. It is not anyone’s fault if he is fearfully ugly or born an idiot, for example. But cowardice seems somehow different. Not to be brave when he is strong seems to put a man below the level of a woman. I feel sure, Doctor, there must be some mistake, and that this story cannot be true. I have seen a good deal of Mr. Bathurst since we have been here, and you have always spoken so well of him, he is the last man I should have thought would be—would be like that.”

“I know the circumstances of the case, child. You can trust me when I say that there is nothing in Bathurst’s conduct that diminishes my respect for him in the slightest degree, and that in some respects he is as brave a man as any I know.”

“Yes, Doctor, all that may be; but you do not answer my question. Did Mr. Bathurst leave the army because he showed cowardice? If he did, and you know it, why did you invite him here? why did you always praise him? why did you not say, ‘In other respects this man may be good and estimable, but he is that most despicable thing, a coward’?”

There was such a passion of pain in her voice and face that the Doctor only said quietly, “I did not know it, my dear, or I should have told you at first that in this one point he was wanting. It is, I consider, the duty of those who know things to speak out. But he is certainly not what you say.”

Isobel tossed her head impatiently. “We need not discuss it, Doctor. It is nothing to me whether Mr. Bathurst is brave or not, only it is not quite pleasant to learn that you have been getting on friendly terms with a man who—”

“Don’t say any more,” the Doctor broke in. “You might at least remember he is a friend of mine. There is no occasion for us to quarrel, my dear, and to prevent the possibility of such a thing I will be off at once.”

After he had left Isobel sat down to think over what had been said. He had not directly answered her questions, but he had not denied that the rumor that Bathurst had retired from the army because he was wanting in courage was well founded. Everything he had said, in fact, was an excuse rather than a denial. The Doctor was as stanch a friend as he was bitter an opponent. Could he have denied it he would have done so strongly and indignantly.

It was clear that, much as he liked Bathurst, he believed him wanting in physical courage. He had said, indeed, that he believed he was brave in some respects, and had asserted that he knew of one exceptional act of courage that he had performed; but what was that if a man had had to leave the army because he was a coward? To Isobel it seemed that of all things it was most dreadful that a man should be wanting in courage. Tales of daring and bravery had always been her special delight, and, being full of life and spirit herself, it had not seemed even possible to her that a gentleman could be a coward, and that Bathurst could be so was to her well nigh incredible.

It might, as the Doctor had urged, be in no way his fault, but this did not affect the fact. He might be more to be pitied than to be blamed; but pity of that kind, so far from being akin to love, was destructive of it.

Unconsciously she had raised Bathurst on a lofty pinnacle. The Doctor had spoken very highly of him. She had admired the energy with which, instead of caring, as others did, for pleasure, he devoted himself to his work. Older men than himself listened to his opinions. His quiet and somewhat restrained manner was in contrast to the careless fun and good humor of most of those with whom she came in contact. It had seemed to her that he was a strong man, one who could be relied upon implicitly at all times, and she had come in the few weeks she had been at Deennugghur to rely upon his opinion, and to look forward to his visits, and even to acknowledge to herself that he approached her ideal of what a man should be more than anyone else she had met.

And now this was all shattered at a blow. He was wanting in man’s first attribute. He had left the army, if not in disgrace, at least under a cloud and even his warm friend, the Doctor, could not deny that the accusation of cowardice was well founded. The pain of the discovery opened her eyes to the fact which she had not before, even remotely, admitted to herself, that she was beginning to love him, and the discovery was a bitter one.

“I may thank Captain Forster for that, at least,” she said to herself, as she angrily wiped a tear from her cheek; “he has opened my eyes in time. What should I have felt if I had found too late that I had come to love a man who was a coward—who had left the army because he was afraid? I should have despised myself as much as I should despise him. Well, that is my first lesson. I shall not trust in appearances again. Why, I would rather marry a man like Captain Forster, even if everything they say about him is true, than a man who is a coward. At least he is brave, and has shown himself so.”

The Doctor had gone away in a state of extreme irritation.

“Confound the meddling scoundrel!” he said to himself, as he surprised the horse with a sharp cut of the whip. “Just when things were going on as I wished. I had quite set my mind on it, and though I am sure Bathurst would never have spoken to her till he had told her himself about that unfortunate failing of his, it would have been altogether different coming from his own lips just as he told it to me. Of course, my lips were sealed and I could not put the case in the right light. I would give three months’ pay for the satisfaction of horsewhipping that fellow Forster. Still, I can’t say he did it maliciously, for he could not have known Bathurst was intimate there, or that there was anything between them. The question is, am I to tell Bathurst that she has heard about it? I suppose I had better. Ah, here is the Major,” and he drew up his horse.

“Anything new, Major? You look put out.”

“Yes, there is very bad news, Doctor. A Sowar has just brought a letter to me from the Colonel saying that the General has got a telegram that the 19th Native Infantry at Berhampore have refused to use the cartridges served out to them, and that yesterday a Sepoy of the 34th at Barrackpore raised seditious cries in front of the lines, and when Baugh, the adjutant, and the sergeant major attempted to seize him he wounded them both, while the regiment stood by and refused to aid them. The 19th are to be disbanded, and no doubt the 34th will be, too.”

“That is bad news indeed, Major, and looks as if this talk about general disaffection were true. Had there been trouble but at one station it might have been the effect of some local grievance, but happening at two places, it looks as if it were part of a general plot. Well, we must hope it will go no farther.”

“It is very bad,” said the Major, “but at any rate we may hope we shall have no troubles here; the regiment has always behaved well, and I am sure they have no reason to complain of their treatment. If the Colonel has a fault, it is that of over leniency with the men.”

“That is so,” the Doctor agreed; “but the fact is, Major, we know really very little about the Hindoo mind. We can say with some sort of certainty what Europeans will do under given circumstances, but though I know the natives, I think, pretty nearly as well as most men, I feel that I really know nothing about them. They appear mild and submissive, and have certainly proved faithful on a hundred battlefields, but we don’t know whether that is their real character. Their own history, before we stepped in and altered its current, shows them as faithless, bloodthirsty and cruel; whether they have changed their nature under our rule, or simply disguised it, Heaven only knows.”