Read Online The Karma of Love (Bantam Series No. 14) by Barbara Cartland - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Barbara Cartland
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“I thought you would wish to know, Sir, that Khartoum has fallen!”
“I cannot believe it!” the General exclaimed. “And General Gordon?”
“Reports, not yet confirmed, are that he has been killed!”
The General banged his fist down heavily on the table.
“If any one man is responsible for this,” he said angrily, “it is the Prime Minister. It was unbelievable that he should have delayed so long in sending out an Expeditionary Force.”
“I have always said that at seventy-seven Mr. Gladstone is too old to hold such an office,” Lady Critchley said tartly.
“Poor General Gordon!” Mrs. Onslow cried. “He was so brave and so confident that Khartoum would not fall.”
“The British troops should have reached it in time!” Colonel McDougal exclaimed. “The whole thing must have been disgracefully mishandled.”
“I think we must wait,” Major Meredith said quietly, “before passing judgment. There is no doubt that the troops encountered unexpected difficulties when they reached the Cataracts.”
“What will happen now?” the General asked.
“I have no idea, Sir.”
“You think Sir Charles and Major Kitchener will withdraw?”
“It is difficult to hazard a guess at this distance,” Major Meredith replied. “It depends on whether they think they have enough troops to meet and defeat the Mahdi’s army.”
“Rabble! Natives armed with spears!” the General murmured contemptuously.
“The Mahdi is a brilliant leader of men,” Major Meredith replied, “and you must remember, Sir, that it is a religious war. Men fight fanatically when they are inspired by Faith.”
That was true, Orissa thought, and wondered whether the General or the two Colonels at the table would understand as apparently Major Meredith did, that a man’s belief in his cause gave him a greater strength.
General Gordon’s death caused a gloom on the party and Orissa was glad to escape when dinner was over.
The Purser had not failed her and had found in the Third Class an Indian called Mr. Mahla who had been a teacher in England at one of the London Universities.
He was a man of about thirty-five who was returning to India with his family.
He was very dark-skinned, coming from Bengal. His thick black shining hair was brushed back from a square forehead. His features were fine-cut.
But he looked desperately tired, older than his age and his elegant dark eyes often held an expression of despair.
He was, Orissa discovered, extremely hard-up but, when she pressed him to accept a little more for the lessons than he had first asked, he told her proudly that he made arrangements with the Purser and would not even consider any increase.
It was a joy to be able to converse in fluent, liquid Urdu, and Orissa soon found that she had in fact not forgotten the language of her childhood.
All she really had to do was to enlarge her vocabulary since, having been interested only in childish subjects when she had lived in India, she now had so many others on which she wished to converse.
It was fascinating to be able to discuss the developments which had taken place in India during the last few years and even more interesting to talk of religion.
It was this subject Mr. Mahla had taught in England and whilst Orissa had a certain understanding of Buddhism, Hinduism and the Moslem faith, she had learnt a great deal from him in the few lessons he had already given her.
Every Indian wants to talk and, as they had set no particular time limit on how long her lessons should last, Orissa was not surprised, when finally Mr. Mahla rose almost reluctantly to his feet to say good-night, to find it was after midnight.
He bowed and made Namask , the traditional Indian salutation, fingers to fingers, palm to palm and the hands raised to the level of his forehead.
Orissa walked to her cabin to find Neil was fast asleep.
On an impulse she decided to go out on deck, and picked up the glittering scarf she wore over all her evening
“I thought you would wish to know, Sir, that Khartoum has fallen!”
“I cannot believe it!” the General exclaimed. “And General Gordon?”
“Reports, not yet confirmed, are that he has been killed!”
The General banged his fist down heavily on the table.
“If any one man is responsible for this,” he said angrily, “it is the Prime Minister. It was unbelievable that he should have delayed so long in sending out an Expeditionary Force.”
“I have always said that at seventy-seven Mr. Gladstone is too old to hold such an office,” Lady Critchley said tartly.
“Poor General Gordon!” Mrs. Onslow cried. “He was so brave and so confident that Khartoum would not fall.”
“The British troops should have reached it in time!” Colonel McDougal exclaimed. “The whole thing must have been disgracefully mishandled.”
“I think we must wait,” Major Meredith said quietly, “before passing judgment. There is no doubt that the troops encountered unexpected difficulties when they reached the Cataracts.”
“What will happen now?” the General asked.
“I have no idea, Sir.”
“You think Sir Charles and Major Kitchener will withdraw?”
“It is difficult to hazard a guess at this distance,” Major Meredith replied. “It depends on whether they think they have enough troops to meet and defeat the Mahdi’s army.”
“Rabble! Natives armed with spears!” the General murmured contemptuously.
“The Mahdi is a brilliant leader of men,” Major Meredith replied, “and you must remember, Sir, that it is a religious war. Men fight fanatically when they are inspired by Faith.”
That was true, Orissa thought, and wondered whether the General or the two Colonels at the table would understand as apparently Major Meredith did, that a man’s belief in his cause gave him a greater strength.
General Gordon’s death caused a gloom on the party and Orissa was glad to escape when dinner was over.
The Purser had not failed her and had found in the Third Class an Indian called Mr. Mahla who had been a teacher in England at one of the London Universities.
He was a man of about thirty-five who was returning to India with his family.
He was very dark-skinned, coming from Bengal. His thick black shining hair was brushed back from a square forehead. His features were fine-cut.
But he looked desperately tired, older than his age and his elegant dark eyes often held an expression of despair.
He was, Orissa discovered, extremely hard-up but, when she pressed him to accept a little more for the lessons than he had first asked, he told her proudly that he made arrangements with the Purser and would not even consider any increase.
It was a joy to be able to converse in fluent, liquid Urdu, and Orissa soon found that she had in fact not forgotten the language of her childhood.
All she really had to do was to enlarge her vocabulary since, having been interested only in childish subjects when she had lived in India, she now had so many others on which she wished to converse.
It was fascinating to be able to discuss the developments which had taken place in India during the last few years and even more interesting to talk of religion.
It was this subject Mr. Mahla had taught in England and whilst Orissa had a certain understanding of Buddhism, Hinduism and the Moslem faith, she had learnt a great deal from him in the few lessons he had already given her.
Every Indian wants to talk and, as they had set no particular time limit on how long her lessons should last, Orissa was not surprised, when finally Mr. Mahla rose almost reluctantly to his feet to say good-night, to find it was after midnight.
He bowed and made Namask , the traditional Indian salutation, fingers to fingers, palm to palm and the hands raised to the level of his forehead.
Orissa walked to her cabin to find Neil was fast asleep.
On an impulse she decided to go out on deck, and picked up the glittering scarf she wore over all her evening
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