“Did you hear what Mrs. Swelter said?” he asked.
“Yes,” I replied.
“I hoped you had not heard what she said. She ought not to have made any such remark as that,” and Cockear said, for I heard him, “A dog would not have made such a remark, even about a jungly cur.”
Then Mr. Percy explained it all as kindly as possible. “And,” he went on, “I assure you it makes not the slightest difference to me. I look to find in you, truthfulness, chastity, industry and ability. You have been to me, thus far, all I could wish, so never let the thought of that word trouble you.”
These kind words took the sting out of Mrs. Swelter’s remark; yet I did not forget it and never will. I always forgive those who injure me, but never forget them. That is, I remember them enough to keep out of their way so as not to give them a second chance to wound me. This Mrs. Swelter was a kind of sergeant-major of our station society, and all paid deference to her, chiefly on account of the position of her husband, but she never got more than a silent bow from “That Eurasian.” Why should she? Once she asked Mr. Percy, why Charles never spoke to her, and he told her that I had overheard her remark, and she could not blame me for not being friendly. I was glad she knew my reason, and after that I took delight in avoiding her, for I had feelings as well as whiter-faced people.
Several evenings after this, when we three were assembled as usual, Mr. Percy asked me, “Do you remember when I first saw you?” “Yes,” I replied, “just as well as if it was this evening.”
“That was a strange meeting, wasn’t it?” he said. “Have you ever heard of that little sister of yours?”
What memories that question revived! I had not forgotten her by any means, for often at school I had recalled all I remembered of her; our leaving that wretched court, our tramp on the dusty road, her smiles and playfulness, the good old faqir, the death of the new mama, and then the sad separation; and I cried many a time as I thought of these things, and resolved that as soon as I was a little older I would go in search of her.
Then I told Mr. Percy the story of our lives, beginning with the first conscious knowing that I was in the world, the clinking sound of those rupees, the sahib, my mother’s tears and cries, her death, our destitution and wanderings up to that serai where he found us.
He had got to his feet by this time, and was walking back and forth in the room, with his head down, listening intently. When I had finished he asked, “Did you ever see or hear of that sahib again, or learn his name?” “Never,” I answered. “The brute!” he exclaimed, with such energy that I think if he had a ruler in his hand he would have broken it into a number of pieces, and it was well for the sahib not to have been within hitting reach just then. He was silent some minutes, when he said: