The Bubble Reputation

Chapter I

" THE BUBBLE REPUTATION." TE had dined at mess that night for the first ■*■■*■ time in his life ; he had attained tbe fulfilment of what had been for years tbe height of his ambition, yet as he sat alone late at night in the new quarters he occupied as an officer holding Her Majesty's commission, he felt no excitement, no natural elation at the change in his prospects. His thoughts reverted to a past that pride urged him to forget — to a past that, when it had been the present, had been both sweet and bitter, but in which the bitter had so predominated that the lad had fled from his home, thinking the mercies of VOL. I. E the world could not be less tender than those of his tyrannical step-father. It was strange that, just on that night when he ought to have been happy in the accomplish ment of long-cherished hopes, the mirror that youthful fancy held up to the future became blurred, and its reflections distorted by some bewildering flaw ; all that was substantially good in his advancement, under the sombre colouring of his thoughts, turned into mere dust and ashes — dead sea fruit, beautiful and alluring to look upon from a distance, but distasteful and disappointing when grasped by eager outstretched hands.

There was much in his experience that would have been common to any of his comrades in such a position, but they might perhaps not have discovered as quickly as he did how much was of necessity disagreeable and irksome in this change of position. For awhile, at least, the glitter of an officer's accoutrements would have blinded their eyes to the fact that they had left behind them all the familiar surroundings and belong ings in which they had hitherto lived, and had begun a march through an unknown country, the natural inhabitants of which regarded them with distrust, and were in many instances even inimical to the intruder, who was as foreigu to them in ideas, manners, tone of thought, as if he had really come from another world, instead of having merely risen from a lower grade in this.

Not that he had much right to complain of that kind of feeling as yet ; the officers of the company in which he had been ever since he entered the — th Hussars, and had gone with it to India, had always been kind to him, and on this special occasion they had vied with each other in their efforts to put him at his ease, and make him feel as if he were one of themselves. He was more pleased at, and more grateful for, this kindness on their part than he was with anything else connected with his promotion. He had flushed up, and glowed, and had even trembled with excitement and happiness, when the Colonel on parade had spoken of him as a man whom any regiment might be proud to count upon its roll ; he Avas ashamed as well as pleased when the Colonel, in continuation, had said " Owen Bourke was a credit to the British B Army, and a living proof that the glorious name it had won in many lands in former times would never be belied in these more peaceful days."

All this was delightful to him, but his heart had throbbed with a higher pride yet when the Colonel's wife had with her own white hands fastened the little bronze cross, that is the lode star of a soldier's ambition, on his breast, saying that she, and the women and children, who (she declared) had been saved by his gallant conduct, joined with the regiment iu thanking him for the splendid achievement that reflected credit on his corps — that had been the means of rescuing them from a cruel, a terrible fate. Tears came into his eyes then as he wished vainly that one far away in a distant land could have heard the words thus spoken ; he was ashamed of his weakness and rubbed his hand across his eyes hastily, but if Mrs. Fraser noticed that he was moved, she excused him on the plea that he had not yet regained his strength, or recovered completely from his wounds.

Then Colonel Fraser had told him that he was recommended for promotion, and when it became known that his name was in the Gazette, as holding a commission in the place of young Mr. Gordon, who fell on that fatal and, to young Bourke, most memorable day, it seem ed as if the senior officers of the regiment, in cluding the Colonel, vied with each other in making much of him, and in endeavouring to place him at his ease in his new position. He felt their kindness in this ; he knew as well as most soldiers know that officers will not always welcome warmly one who has risen from the ranks ; the reception given to such is sometimes stiff and cold ; between him and them there is a broad line of demarcation, and if he be forward enough to endeavour to cross that line, without the friendly sup port of one within the circle, there will be plenty of hands outstretched to push him back into the cold, solitary grandeur which is all of equality they will concede to him.

Owen Bourke had seen that kind of thing before, and though he had often dreamed of winning his commission, and had looked forward to such an achievement as an ultimate goal that he must struggle to reach, when the realization of the dream drew near, when he had but to stretch out his hand to touch the goal, he became afraid of what lay before him. From the comrades with whom he had long lived in good fellowship he must for ever sepa rate himself, and he did not dare to hope that, amongst those whom he had always regarded as so far above him, he should find as true a companion and friend as Sergeant Martin, to whom the night before he had sadly said fare well. But he had only been an officer for one day, and he persuaded himself, as he sat alone that night, that if he could but forget the past, his dread of the future would be unnecessary and futile ; he wondered why his new comrades had been so good to him— why they had made so much of him.

He had only done his duty, and had he failed to do it, not he alone would have perished, but all the women and children left under his charge. Oh ! even if a man had not been brave, in that strait he would have shown courage — the courage of despair. A bold fight might save, faint-heartedness was certain death. So he told the Colonel, when he had come to see him in hospital. Colonel Fraser's eyes were moist, though he answered roughly, telling Bourke not to talk nonsense ; adding in a voice that faltered as he spoke, " Neither Mrs. Fraser nor I will ever forget what we owe you, Owen Bourke, as long as we live." Then he went away, taking Bourke's baud before he left, as it lay weak aud listless beside him ; the doctor, he said, had told him that he must not talk long to the hero, who was too weak yet to bear excitement.

Owen Bourke, lying there, pleased, frightened, and bewildered that so great a man as the Colonel should take his hand, as though he were a gentleman, wondered who the doctor could mean when he spoke of the hero. Such a name seemed to him only applicable to a tall, stalwart, handsome man, one with the courage and strength of a lion, and who had proved that courage and strength by some mighty deed. That he, who was only of medium height, slight and sickly in appearance, he who had nothing heroic about him in physical appearance or moral worth, that he should be called by such a name would have seemed to him a mockery; yet after a time he began to perceive that they did call him so. Weak and weary and full of pain as he lay on his narrow hospital bed, it seemed to him a cruel jest. He had done his best as he knew how, and if the mutineers were so numerous that his party was just overpowered when help arrived, and he fell down fainting by the rude breastwork he had so long defended, when he saw the natives flying from the reinforcements, he had been unable to help succumbing.

He had never been very strong, and had received a dangerous wound. It had for long been only by a superhuman effort of will that he could main tain the conflict, and the excitement that had sustained him while the men were falling round him and every arm was needed for defence, failed utterly to support him when the need for exertion was past. He turned his face to the wall when he knew that he, poor, insignificant Owen Bourke, was the man whom the doctor had spoken of as a hero. Lying there he shed tears of weakness and mortification ; he was very low, or even the thought that he was made a laughing-stock would not thus have moved him. By-and-by the doctor came round again, and leaning over the bed, looked at him to see w-hether he was asleep. Bourke was not aware the doctor was near, being blinded with fast coming tears, and if he had been stronger, he would bave started when a pleasant voice said close beside him, "You have been over-excited and tired, Bourke ; I was afraid of this when Colonel Fraser came to see you.

However, he would not rest until he had thanked you, so I gave in, hoping you might be strong enough to bear his visit. Drink this." Owen took the draught held to his lips, and, controlling himself with an effort of which only the shame of having been caught crying ren dered him capable, he said, " You should not laugh at me, doctor. I heard you spoke of me as the hero ; perhaps you did not mean to make me a laughing-stock, but the nurses have taken it up also. I did the best I could; it was not my fault that I was not stronger, and could not help fainting as the re lief came up. I saw Captain Lacy's face as I was falling ; he looked astonished, but I could not keep up, though I assure you I tried hard to hold on a few minutes longer." Why did they all look so strangely at him Bourke wondered, listlessly watching the doctor's face as he spoke.

He was not crying then ; he was too weak and tired by that time, and so he could observe the others in a vague, purposeless way. Dr. Morgan turned away his head abruptly as Owen finished speaking, and his voice had a harsh, constrained sound as he answered, " How could you think we meant to mock you, Owen Bourke . If I as well as the whole regiment call you the hero, it is because, throughout the length and breadth of this great Indian Empire, there is no greater hero than you. There may be many men of higher rank, with more famous names, but there are none who better deserve the fame that attaches to a splendid deed, for since the mutiny broke out, no more splendid deed has been per formed." As he spoke, with glowing eyes and excited manner, something in Bourke's head seemed to go round and round, a heavy thump ing noise sounded in his ears, then the doctor's face and form faded into thick darkness, and all was quiet.

After that, when Bourke recovered conscious ness again, he was kept very quiet; no one spoke to him, and nothing was said to him about what had occurred at B until he was getting strong and beginning to go about. Then he found suddenly that in some way, whilst doing his duty quietly, and without thought of reward for actions that he could not have helped, unless he had been less than a man, he had become famous, and fame had brought fortune with it ; he had acquired dis tinction and honour more than he had ever dared to hope might be his. Sitting alone in his new quarters, in the deep, throbbing stillness of night, his thoughts travelled back over the past — to his far-away humble home, and to the days when life had first been made bitter to him through his step-father's cruelty, coupled with the sight of his mother's impotent anguish.

How well he remembered the day when, un able to endure any longer the tyranny to which he was subjected, and anxious in part to relieve his mother from the misery of being witness to his unhappiness, he told her that he had determined to run away and enlist. The red coats of the soldiers in the neighbouring town had taken his fancy, and, besides, he knew well that, once he came under the hands of the drill sergeant, his step-father would lose all power over him, as it was not likely that a poor me chanic would be either able or willing to buy him off. His mother shed tears over him when he told her his determination, but she did not attempt to dissuade him from carrying out the project ; the separation would be for his happiness and advantage she knew, it was possible it might also be for hers, since her husband resented any attempt on her part to stand between her son and his wrath.

Owen said farewell to his mother late one evening, promising her that he would surely return some day, in such a manner that his step father's animosity would be smothered in his presence, and that they should be free to love each other, and be as much to each other as they had been before the time when she rashly con tracted a second marriage. Mother and son were standingalone by the moonlight in the little garden, the evening when his mother and he parted. It was about ten o'clock of a Summer's evening, and Mick Riley (it was thus Owen always called his step-father when speaking of him) was smoking in the kitchen. Owen knew he would not come near them while he was so occupied, so they could say their fare well in peace. He, a small, slight boy of eighteen, looked a mere child, as he stood with his arms folded round his weeping mother, trying to choke back his tears, and to show her by his composure that he had a man's courage and self-control, though he could not boast a man's stature and strength.

But when she continued al ways weeping, and would neither listen to, nor be comforted by, his bright pictures of future happi ness, nor appear to believe his predictions of a glorious career, he began to get vexed. Why should she grieve so because he was going out into the world to work out his own life, and make for himself a place among his fellows, as it was right he should do ? The hard work, the toil, the danger were for him, she wonld stay quietly at home, and be happier with her hus band in his absence than she had ever been in his presence. Women's tears are futile and weak, and it angered him to see them wept over him at the very outset of his career ; he drew himself away from the arms, and said angrily, clasp of her clinging " Give ever crying, sweeten no man's drink. quiet at home, and will mother.

Salt tears You will be safe and not miss me long, so you have no call to take on when I, that am turning out to look for my luck, say nothing." "Oh! Owen," she sobbed, holding him fast, when he would have broken away from her, "it is just because I have to sit at home and wait, while you are up and doing, that makes the separation hard to bear. I shall be always thinking — thinking ; plaguing myself for fear harm should come to you. If there should be war, and you should be killed, Owen, or if you are sent to the Ingies, and die there, what shall I do then, my child ?" The thought that, instead of winning the glory of which he had dreamed, he might only gain an obscure soldier's grave, sobered Owen for a minute; but he was young, and there was excitement and rapture in the thought of escape from tyranny, and in the sense of wide freedom of choice that lay before him.

As he was about to answer, Mick Riley's voice calling his mother broke the stillness. One more embrace passed between them, conveying, in the strength of her lingering clasp, a revelation of the force of a mother's love, revealing in his warm, yet hurried response, the fickle, facile affection of a childish heart. Then she went in, and he felt, as he shoul dered the bundle that contained all his worldly possessions, that he was cut off from all the old familiar ties ; he was like a straggler who has fallen out on the line of march, and slept while his companions passed onward ; awakening be lated and alone, cut off from the army that was at once his country, family, and home, he must succumb to the attacks of the enemy, or secure to himself his foe's friendship and support. But how could he secure the friendship of the world on which he had cast himself.

He was not old enough or wise enough then to be aware that success can alone do that ; it seemed to him that he had only to enlist and to become a soldier, and that immediately the world would be kind to him, while happiness, and even fame, would wait upon his footsteps. Well, those dreams were folly, and so he soon found them to be. After awhile he gave up extravagant anticipa tion, and resolved to do his duty honestly, im proving himself as much as lay in his power. Then it was that he resumed his schooling, the results of which were apparent in his rapid promotion. He must have had more ambition than he credited himself with, for he worked hard at learning everything connected with his profession that it came within his reach to learn. The officers remarked him, and Captain Lacy, of his company, was very kind to him, lending him books that he would never have been able to procure for himself.

Captain Lacy thought Bourke clever, and spoke so highly of him that he soon became observed by those above him, who, with few exceptions, appeared pleased that he should try to improve himself. Only Mr. Rainsford, a lieutenant in Bourke's troop, disliked the steady young soldier, and was al ways ready to find fault with him on any pretext that offered. It was Owen Bourke's pride that he never gave his officers occasion for blaming him, but a man must be more than mortal if he can avoid giving offence where his superior is de termined that he shall offend. Several times Rainsford had reprimanded Bourke for trivial faults, and but that the young sergeant's will not to swerve from his duty was stronger than his temper, and stronger even than the lieuten ant's determination to take him down, he would doubtless have resented this harshness in some way that would have cost him all the favour he had gained — that would have lost him the ad vancement he had won.

He had been four years in the Army at the time the mutiny broke out, and was at that time quartered at B , in the Bengal Presi dency. Though so young he was a sergeant, enjoying the good opinion of his superiors, and always entrusted with any business of import- VOL. I. c ance that came within the scope of a sergeant's duty. He was beginning to think then that it might be possible he should some day earn his commission ; all his studies, therefore, were di rected towards fittinghimself for the position he hoped to gain ; but though he had already raised himself so high in his profession, he never dreamt that it would not be years — long, weary years — before he should attain the goal of his ambition. As he came nearer to the honour he coveted, he began to see also that it would not bring him unmixed happiness ; he perceived that even those officers who thought most highly of him, as long as he remained in what was no doubt his proper position, would hardly be Avilling to welcome him as their comrade.

The best men are liable to class jealousy and class prejudice, and Bourke knew well that, improve himself as he might, he could hardly hope to meet on equal terms those who had been born in the position in life to which he desired to attain. Like one seeing the future dimly iu a magician's glass, he perceived solitude and neglect before him, side by side with the fulfilment of hope. On the one hand stretched the familiar faces and forms of his humble companions fading away from him in the mists of oblivion ; on the other hand, looming every day more sharply and clearly defined before him, was the higher society into which promotion must needs bring him, holding itself aloof in sullen displeasure at the in terloper. Between these two, the old life and the new, he sat solitary, borne down by the weight of the crown he had struggled to place on his brow, and which was composed, not of the glossy rounded laurel leaves of fame, but of the equally glossy, though sharply armed holly — emblem of valour truly, but of valour that suffers while it achieves.

He was but a young fellow — little more than a mere lad — at the time tbe mutiny broke out, and though it may seem strange that such should be the case, the officers of the regiment had undoubtedly more confidence in him, trusted him more in matters of importance than they trusted any of the other men of his rank, not excepting those of twice his age. This good opinion on their part was the result of special deserving ; it was perhaps the simple effect of C2 the fact that he had never been mixed up in any row or unpleasantness ; being naturally of a studious, orderly disposition, he was always well versed in matters connected with his duty, and managed everything that came under his control with precision and punctuality. Most of his comrades looked upon him as being little better than an automaton — a creature so desti tute of sudden impulse and fiery passion as to be removed immeasurably beyond reach of temptation.

In this view of his character they were only partially right ; he had his passions, his impulses, his temptations, but the causes that stirred these feelings in him would have excited no responsive emotion in them. Coarse, sensual, unthinking beings, as were most of those with whom he was associated, could never draw forth in him feelings of friendship, and thus ha was isolated from all companionship that might have undermined the steady determination which possessed him to conquer fortune and success by devotion to duty. One or two friends he had among his comrades — dear friends they were — spirits that, in many things, were congenial with his, though perhaps less sensitively organised ; they had risen to be non commissioned officers as he had, but now he had got before them. As he sat thinking of his altered prospects, it added to the perturbed doubting state of his mind to know that Martin, Hayes, aud Kane could perhaps never again be to him the dear friends and brothers they had been ; their intimate, familiar inter course was now a thing of the past ; the rigid precision of a military salute, and the insurmountable barrier of military grade and etiquette, divided him from their congenial companionship more irrevocably than if seas rolled between them.

He had gained the goal of his ambition ; he held Her Majesty's commission ; he triumphed even in his sadness to think that, when he returned to his native village, there could never again be any question of separation between bis mother and him. Even his step father's animosity would be dispelled or hidden, when the lad he had ill-used and driven from his home came back with the highest distinction valour can gain decorating his breast, and with a position in the eyes of the world to which the struggling mechanic never dreamed his fugitive step-child would ever attain. Revenge is sweet, and that was his dream of vengeance. He laughed as he thought how the tyrant would cringe before his sometime slave ; how abject would be his repentance for the blows he had dealt, the injurious words he had heaped upon his victim.

Yes, there was a passion in Owen Bourke that his comrades had failed to perceive — the passion of revenge ! but revenge accordingto his own fancy. He w-ould never have injured Mick Riley, even when he felt most bitterly against him ; his sole desire was to humble him by displaying before his eyes the prosperity to which his step-child would have been for ever a stranger, had he not been driven out from the loving shelter of his mother's arms, and from the lethargic contentment of a monotonous life, with its dull routine of physical labour and unintellectual care. Mick Riley had without intention, and with cruel acts and words, done Owen the greatest kindness that could have been done him. Though the injuries had been inten tional and the kindness undesigned, Bourke forgave his step-father much because of the good that had resulted.

Yet though Owen would not hurt Riley, though he only desired to humble his step-father by the sight of his good fortune, revenge was with him a passion, a motive power in his life. Without it he knew, as fast-coming thoughts crowded his mind in the still night, that he would have been contented with dull mediocrity ; that his comrades' idle, dissipated pleasures would have exerted their influence over him ; that he would perhaps never have been Sergeant Bourke, or only so after the lapse of long years. He acknowledged that the desire to humble his step-father, and have a glorious vengeance, had prompted him greatly, taken in connection with his natural disposition, to lead the pains-taking, self-improving life that had received its reward in the promotion, of which the dinner that night at the mess was the celebration.

This had been the over-mastering, all-controlling motive of his life, and the pleasures and pursuits of other men had passed him by, influencing him only as they had connection with the one great object that was always before his eyes. In the end the fulfilment of his hope and en deavour had come upon him suddenly, had come to him in the path of duty, and when the excitement of the work before him drove all thought of ulterior advantage out of his mind. Sitting in the stillness of the night, his thoughts travelled on, rambling iu their course from that distant past to the days not long gone by, and the remembrance of that ter rible, most momentous day iu his life-time, came back upon him. He could feel again the mad excitement flashing through the blood, and seuding it in one tumultuous blinding wave to the head, firing the brain with uncontrollable, unreasoning passion, nerving the arm with superhuman strength, hardening the heart against the promptings of pity.

He remembered well every incident of that memorable day, when he had been left behind in charge of the women and children, while the rest of the troops under Colonel Fraser's command pressed for ward to meet the mutineers, who were supposed to be advancing in force upon B , the town which they had received orders to garrison, and on which they were then marching. Marching slowly, on account of the women and children, yet persistently ; in anxiety to reach a place of safety, they had pressed onward far later than usual into the sultry hours preceding noon ; but at midday, just as they had called a halt, in a little clearing to one side of the road by which they traversed the jungle, to rest both them selves and their weary horses, a single horse man, one of those who had constituted their rear guard, came galloping in with desperate speed, shouting as he came, " The Sepoys are upon us !"

For one minute there was wild confusion. How well he remembered it, how well he re membered what followed. The habit of obedience gained him the instant control of his men, who for one moment had seemed to waver, and look towards the jungle, as those who hoped to find safety iu its recesses; but the women ran hither and thither, until, aided by Mrs. Fraser, who never lost her calm composure for one minute, he succeeded in persuading them all to enter the waggons and buggies, and con tinue their onward march. A little further on, the track, leaving the jungle, passed over a wide, open plain, and here, where no concealment was possible, he proposed to meet the enemy. Leaving two or three men in ambush on each side of the narrow jungle path, to retard the advance of the mutineers, they had pressed on, and had succeeded in gaining the open plain, and in forming a rude encampment of the vehicles that had conveyed the women and children on the march, when the rear-guard galloped in, closely pursued by the enemy.