These black devils have broken loose at last, and they're going to fire
the officers' quarters.' "Well, Harry, my boy, I needn't tell you all about it at full length
to-day; but in the end, as you know, we fought the men for our own
lives, and held our ground until the detachment came from Etawah to
relieve us. However, before we could get to the Bibi's bungalow--the
sepoys used to call your mother the Bibi, Harry--those black devils had
broken in there, and when next morning early I burst into the ruined
place, with three men of the 47th and a faithful havildar, we found
your poor mother--well, there, Harry, I can't bear to think of it, even
now, my boy: but she was dead, too, quite dead, with a hundred
sabre-cuts all over her poor blood-stained, hacked-about body. And in
the corner, under the cradle, the eight-month-old baby was lying and
crying--crying bitterly; that was you, Harry." The young man listened intently, with a face now once more ashy white,
but still he answered absolutely nothing. "I took you in my arms, my boy," the old Colonel continued in a softer
tone; "and as you were left all alone in the bungalow there, with no
living soul to love or care for you, I carried you away in my arms
myself, to my own quarters. All through the rest of that terrible
campaign I kept you with me, and while I was fighting at Futteypoor, a
native ayah was in charge of you for me. Your poor father had owed me a
trifling debt, and I took you as payment in full, and have kept you with
me as my nephew ever since. That is all your history, Harry." The young man drew a deep breath, and looked across curiously to the
bronzed face of the simple old officer. Then he asked, a little huskily,
"And why didn't my father's or mother's relations reclaim me, sir? Do
they know that I am still living?" Sir Thomas coughed, and twirled his watch-chain more nervously and
uneasily than ever. "Well, you see, my boy," he answered at last, after
a long pause, "your mother--I must tell you the whole truth now,
Harry--your mother was a Eurasian, a half-caste lady--very light, almost
white, but still a half-caste, you know, and--and--well, your father's
family--didn't exactly acknowledge the relationship, Harry." Harry's face burnt crimson once more, and the hot blood rushed madly to
his cheeks, for he felt in a moment the full force of the meaning that
the Colonel wrapped up so awkwardly in that one short embarrassed
sentence. There was another long pause, during which Harry kept his burning eyes
fixed fast upon Sir Thomas, and Sir Thomas looked down uncomfortably at
his boots and said nothing. Then the young man found voice again feebly
to ask, almost in a whisper, one final question. "Had you ... had you any particular reason for telling me this story
about my birth and my parents at this exact time ... just now, uncle?" "I had, Harry. I--I have rather suspected of late ... that ... that you
are falling somehow into ... into your poor father's unhappy vice of
gambling. My boy, my boy, if you inherit his failings in that direction,
I hope his end will be some warning to you to desist immediately." "And had you ... any reason to suspect me of ... of any other fault ...
of ... of any graver fault ... of anything really very serious, uncle?" The Colonel held his head between his hands, and answered very slowly,
as if the words were wrung from him by torture: "If you hadn't yourself
asked me the question point-blank, Harry, I would never have told you
anything about it. Yes, my boy, my dear boy, my poor boy; I know it all
... all ... all ... absolutely." Harry lifted up his voice in one loud cry and wail of horror, and darted
out of the room without another syllable. "I know that cry," the Colonel said in his own heart, trembling. "I have
heard it before! It's the very cry poor Walpole gave that night at
Boolundshahr, just before he went out and shot himself!" IV. Harry had rushed out into the garden; of that, Sir Thomas felt certain. He followed him hastily, and saw him by the seat under the lime-trees in
the far corner; he had something heavy in his right hand. Sir Thomas
came closer and saw to his alarm and horror that it was indeed the small
revolver from the old pistol-stand on the wall of the vestibule. Even as the poor old soldier gazed, half petrified, the lad pushed a
cartridge home feverishly into one of the chambers, and raised the
weapon, with a stern resolution, up to his temple. Sir Thomas recognized
in that very moment of awe and terror that it was the exact attitude and
action of Harry's dead father. The entire character and tragedy seemed
to have handed itself down directly from father to son without a single
change of detail or circumstance. The old man darted forward with surprising haste, and caught Harry's
hand just as the finger rested upon the trigger. "My boy! my boy!" he cried, wrenching the revolver easily from his
trembling grasp, and flinging it, with a great curve, to the other end
of the garden. "Not that way! Not that way! I haven't reproached you
with one word, Harry; but this is a bad return, indeed, for a life
devoted to you. Oh, Harry! Harry! not by shuffling off your
responsibilities and running away from them like a coward, not by that
can you ever mend matters in the state you have got them into, but by
living on, and fighting against your evil impulses and conquering them
like a man--that's the way, the right way, to get the better of them. Promise me, Harry, promise me, my boy, that whatever comes you won't
make away with yourself, as your father did; for my sake, live on and do
better. I'm an old man, an old man, Harry, and I have but you in the
world to care for or think about. Don't let me be shamed in my old age
by seeing the boy I have brought up and loved as a son dying in
disgrace, a poltroon and a coward. Stand by your guns, my boy; stand by
your guns, and fight it out to the last minute." Harry's arm fell powerless to his side, and he broke down utterly, in
his shame and self-abasement flinging himself wildly upon the seat
beneath the lime-trees and covering his face with his hands to hide the
hot tears that were bursting forth in a feverish torrent. "I will go," he said at last, in a choking voice, "I will go, uncle, and
talk to Milly." "Do," the Colonel said, soothing his arm tenderly. "Do, my boy. She's a
good girl, and she'll advise you rightly. Go and speak to her; but
before you go, promise me, promise me." Harry rose, and tried to shake off Sir Thomas's heavy hand, laid with a
fatherly pressure upon his struggling shoulder. But he couldn't; the old
soldier was still too strong for him. "Promise me," he said once more
caressingly, "promise me; promise me!" Harry hesitated for a second, in his troubled mind; then, with an
effort, he answered slowly, "I promise, uncle." Sir Thomas released him, and he rushed wildly away. "Remember," the
Colonel cried aloud, as he went in at the open folding windows,
"remember, Harry, you are on your honour.