THE DILEMMA.
CHAPTER VII.
As Yorke rode home to his bungalow at the other end of the station, after the dinner-party in the eminent personage's camp, smoking his cigar and reviewing the events of the evening, he felt for the time an elation which he had never before experienced. Miss Cunningham, he thought, must surely now understand my feelings. True, I have not said a word which could be taken to mean distinctly what I long to express; but I could not, if I would, disguise the passion I feel. She must see that I worship the very ground she treads on; and, seeing that, she is too noble to trifle with my love. She would have discouraged me ere this if it had been displeasing to her. There would be no such kind greetings if she thought my homage unworthy. But then what, after all, has passed between us that I should dare to build any hopes upon it? We have not spoken more than half-a-dozen times, and only a few words at a time; what is this to build a romance upon? And what am I, with no good looks worth speaking of, no money, no position, to hope to win this noble woman, so beautiful, so accomplished, so well-placed? I may know a little more than other fellows about some things, but I have given her no opportunity to find this out; a donkey's braying were scarcely more inane than my conversation whenever I have been talking to her. Yet, after all, to be sure, women don't choose men for their good looks or their wit. There is Tirtell of the 80th N.I., certainly not much to look at, and about as stupid a fellow as there is in the army, yet he found a pretty woman to fall in love with him, and one with ten times his brains. Look at Grumbull, too, our doctor; what little chance the climate leaves a fellow will be lost if he gets into his hands. And yet if he were a perfect Galen, Mrs. Grumbull could not have a higher opinion of him; and she is a clever woman enough. No; there is no accounting for tastes, as Jerry would say; if only she chooses to fancy a penniless sub, neither face nor empty purse need be against me; and as for fortune, why, after all, every man in India starts in the race of life from "scratch." Lawrence and Outram were once penniless subs, and with no better prospects than I have; and something tells me that if I do ever get a chance, I too shall be able to turn it to good account.
But then, again, whispered conscience, what are your chances in the race you are now running? You may be right in thinking that women throw away their hearts at random, but there must be opportunity — companionship — the means of meeting. Here are you, only a few miles off, 'tis true, but what are your chances and opportunities? A few stray words at a ball or dinner-party. What do you know of her inner life, and thoughts, and feelings? What chance have you, you awkward, shy gowk, of pushing yourself forward, and making the most of such small chances as offer themselves? And do you suppose that the prize will remain unwon forever, or for long? Wake up from your trance of folly, young dreamer that you are.
But no — he argues again. Love needs no rules of time and opportunity. Has not my poor mother often said that she fell in love at first sight with my father, and that they were engaged to be married before they had known each other a week? And is it true that we are even now common acquaintances? Does she greet other men as she greets me? And then, as a vision came up before the young man of a life to be spent in companionship with the woman he loved, with no need to long and look for scanty interviews, a constant presence of her beauty, those eyes always looking into his, his awe at speaking to her exchanged for perfect trust, to learn the secret of her noble mind, to have the sympathy of her noble heart to urge him onwards in his aims for a high career — as the young man, pacing to and fro along the gravel-path in front of his little dwelling, conjured up this picture of a heaven on earth, his step under the excitement became so loud as to arouse his brother subaltern from sleep.
"I say, old fellow," said Spragge, rising on his elbow in bed and looking at his chum through the open door, "you ain't paid for doing watchman, you know. You might let a fellow go to sleep, I think. We've got a parade at gunfire."
Thus rebuked, Yorke retired to his own room, but only to toss about on his bed, recalling time after time the record of each word Miss Cunningham had spoken to him, and picturing incoherent visions for the future, till summoned to rise again by the sound of the morning gun.
The next opportunity for meeting the
