“I suppose it may be so. But though Surajah Dowlah may have grounds for complaint against the Council here, I can’t think he will carry his resentment so far as to injure the peaceable inhabitants of Calcutta.”
I turned towards her, amazed.
“What do you say?” I cried. “You speak as though you were in the Nabob’s interests! Have you been listening to the talk of some Moor or other? If so, let me tell you that they are nothing but liars and traitors, every mother’s son of them!”
“You needn’t be so fierce!” she returned, more warmly than she had yet spoken. “I have had no conversation with any Moor, or Gentoo either, upon the subject. Surely I may have leave to think as I choose, without being bound to take my opinions from Mr. Athelstane Ford!”
“Oh Marian, Marian!” I exclaimed bitterly, wounded by these unkind words. “What have I done to forfeit your confidence? Have I not been faithful and true to you from the first hour of our acquaintance till now? You know that I am the best friend you have, and one who would die to serve you. Yet these several days past you have behaved to me as if you had plans which you wished to keep from me. Do you doubt of my being ready to do anything you should bid me, even if it were to go to Moorshedabad and enlist with Surajah Dowlah himself? Why are we not to be open with each other? You know I love you; I have told you so often enough before we ever came out to this dreadful land; and I think I have shown myself ready to prove it as well. Even now I have come here simply to provide for your safety. In a few days the unfavourable monsoon will set in, after which no ship can leave the coast, but this week there is a vessel sailing for Madras, on which I am able to secure a passage for you, and for Mr. Rising as well, if he will go. I have come to offer you this opportunity, and entreat you to accept of it. And if there are any who would persuade you to remain, depend upon it, they are your enemies and not your friends.”
She heard me out, sitting quite still and showing no sign of impatience. But when I had finished she said—
“I thank you, Athelstane, for your kind intentions, and for your goodness in the past, of which I do not need to be reminded. As for what you say about your love for me, since you have spoken so plainly, I must needs tell you that I am not able to return it. I have tried, both on the voyage hither and since; and I have failed. Your loving friend I am, and hope to remain always, no matter what may happen to part us for a time. Nevertheless, I don’t share your fears of what the Moors may do against us, and I will not leave Calcutta, though I thank you for your offers.”
She seemed as if about to say more, but stopped abruptly. Of the deep distress which I felt to hear her declare that my love for her was hopeless, I say nothing, for what can be said? There are some to whom that great prize, the chief that life affords, namely the love of the woman they have chosen, is granted, but to most men, I suppose, it is denied; and I but shared the common lot. These things are the most important in our lives, they leave bruises whose marks are never quite effaced; yet all passes secretly; the business of life goes on, the world sees our actions, our outward triumphs and losses, and knows of nothing else. There was not a soul in Calcutta who ever knew what had passed between Marian and me on this occasion, and yet those few words were a worse grief to me than all the other sufferings I had to endure; and in that single hour I was changed from a boy into a man.
After this I dared not press her again on the subject of leaving Calcutta. With a heavy heart I watched the last ship go down the Hooghley on the way to England, and the very day after it had gone I received a message in writing from Mr. Holwell, in these words—
“Haste to the Council meeting, and ask for me. We are in receipt of threatening letters from Moorshedabad, and need your services.”