another than herself had
made of Rosalind the woman, at the date of our introduction to her,
quite another person from Rosalind the hot-headed and thoughtless girl
that had quarrelled with her natural guardian for doing what she had
a perfect right to do, and had steered alone into unknown seas, a ship
without a rudder or a compass, and very little knowledge of the stars
of heaven for her guide. We can see what she is now much better than
we can judge what she was then.

It need not be supposed that this poor lady never felt any interest,
never made any inquiry, about the sequel of the life she had so
completely _bouleverse_; for, whatever blame we feel bound to express,
or whatever exculpation we contrive to concoct for her, there can be
no doubt what the result was to the young man who has come into the
story, so far, only under the name of Gerry. We simply record his
designation as it has reached us in the data we are now making use of.
It is all hearsay about a past. We add what we have been able to
gather, merely noting that what it seems to point to recommends itself
to us as probable.

"Nobody knoo, nobody cared," was our friend Major Roper's brief reply
to an inquiry what became of this young man. "Why, good Lard, sir!" he
went on, "if one was to begin fussin' about all the Johnnies that shy
off when there's a row of that sort, one would never get a dam night's
rest! Not but what if I could recollect his name. Now, what _was_ his
confounded name? Thought I'd got it--but no--it wasn't Messiter. Fancy
his Christian name was Jeremiah.... I recollect Messiter I'm thinkin'
of--character that looked as if he had a pain in his stomach--came
into forty thousand pounds. Stop a bit--was it Indermaur? No, it
wasn't Indermaur. No use guessin'--give it up."

Besides, the Major was getting purple with suppressed coughing. When
he had given it up, he surrendered unconditionally to the cough, but
was presently anxious to transmit, through its subsidence, an idea
that he found it impossible to shake across the table between us out
of an inarticulate forefinger end. It assumed form in time. Why not
ask the lady herself? We demurred, and the old soldier explained.

"Not rushin' at her, you know, and sayin', 'Who the dooce was
it married you, ma'am?' I'm not a dam fool. Showin' tact, you
know--puttin' it easy and accidental. 'Who was that young beggar
now?--inspector--surveyor--something of the sort--up at Umballa in
seventy-n