MR. JERVIS




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                  LONDON: CHATTO & WINDUS, PICCADILLY.




                               MR. JERVIS

                                   BY
                              B. M. CROKER

                               AUTHOR OF
    “PRETTY MISS NEVILLE,” “DIANA BARRINGTON,” “A BIRD OF PASSAGE,”
                       “A FAMILY LIKENESS,” ETC.

                             [Illustration]

                            IN THREE VOLUMES
                               VOL. III.

                                 London
                      CHATTO & WINDUS, PICCADILLY
                                  1894




    “Lord of himself, though not of lands;
    And having nothing, yet hath all.”

    SIR H. WOTTON.




                         CONTENTS OF VOL. III.


CHAPTER                                                             PAGE

     XXX. WHAT PEOPLE SAID--ESPECIALLY WHAT TWO PEOPLE SAID            1

    XXXI. THE SUMMONS                                                 22

   XXXII. “THE PELA KOTHI,” OR “YELLOW HOUSE”                         39

  XXXIII. “HEREDITARY”                                                57

   XXXIV. THE INITIALS “H. G.”                                        81

    XXXV. “OSMAN’S SUBSTITUTE”                                        98

   XXXVI. “GOOD-BYE FOR EVER! GOOD-BYE, GOOD-BYE!”                   114

  XXXVII. THE SON AND THE HEIR                                       126

 XXXVIII. THE VOICE IN THE CONDEMNED CANTONMENT                      142

   XXXIX. A FRIENDLY VISIT                                           156

      XL. THE NEW WEARER OF THE CORNELIAN RING                       173

     XLI. “IT WAS A HYENA”                                           186

    XLII. BY THE OLD RIFLE-RANGE                                     198

   XLIII. “RAFFLE IT!”                                               217

    XLIV. A ROSE--CARRIAGE PAID                                      240

     XLV. ONLY MR. JERVIS                                            257

    XLVI. A WEDDING WITH TWO CAKES                                   276




                              MR. JERVIS.




                             CHAPTER XXX.

          WHAT PEOPLE SAID--ESPECIALLY WHAT TWO PEOPLE SAID.


When Mark Jervis came all eagerness to claim his supper dance from Miss
Gordon, he saw at once that something was wrong. The merry smile--her
greatest charm--he sought in vain upon her face; her expression was
grave, almost stern. She was actually looking at him as if he was an
absolute stranger. _She knew!_

He glanced quickly at her partner, and the mystery was instantly
solved. Yes, he recollected the man’s goggling blue eyes. Where had he
seen him? Where? The cordial accost--

“Hallo, Jervis! Came out with you in the _Victoria_!” promptly
dispelled his last hope.

“Yes, so you did,” nodding. “Glad to see you here to-night. I suppose
you have been globe-trotting, like the rest of us!”

“_You_ have not done much trotting, by all accounts, of late.”

“No, not much,” rather shortly. Then, to Honor, “This is our waltz.”

She gazed at him for an instant in haughty silence, then she answered--

“Yes; but I don’t think I shall dance, thank you.”

“Oh do,” he urged, as the stranger moved off. “Let us have just one
dance. After the dance--the deluge! I see you know. We can have that
out later on--but _don’t_ let us miss this.”

The young lady was passionately fond of dancing, the floor, the
inspiriting waltz, a first-rate partner, proved too tempting--“Yes,”
she said to herself, “just one last waltz, and then--the deluge.”
Not one word did she utter when they halted for a few seconds. She
kept her face purposely averted, and appeared to find an absorbing
interest in other people. When they once more launched into the
vortex, it appeared to him that she did not dance with her usual
buoyancy and light-heartedness. She was as stiff and as rigid as a
china doll--apparently she shrank from the support of a millionaire’s
arm--his embrace was contamination. At last the waltz was over, every
one was streaming out, and they naturally followed the crowd. They
passed Mrs. Brande, concealing (she fondly believed) enormous yawns
behind a black transparent fan; they passed Mrs. Langrishe, issuing
bulletins of Sir Gloster’s condition to several interested matrons.
They went through the verandah side by side, down the steps, and were
brought up at last by the rustic railing overlooking the gardens
and tennis-court. It was a warm moonlight night, bright as day, and
breathlessly still. Dozens of other couples were strolling, standing,
or sitting about in the open air, even the chaperons had come forth
(a new and in some instances fatal departure) to taste the sweets of a
June night in the Himalayas.

Before their eyes rose the long range of snows--India’s white crown;
beneath them lay the gardens--a jungle of dew-steeped roses, tall
lilies, and great shrubs of heliotrope. Balsac declares that perfume
reminds more vividly than words; be that as it may, the slightest
perfume of heliotrope invariably recalled that scene and hour to Honor
Gordon’s memory.

“So I see that it has all come out!” began Jervis, intrepidly, on the
principle that the first blow is half the battle, “and that you know.”

“Yes”--turning slowly to face him--“and no thanks to you, Mr. Jervis.”

“Of course you are awfully angry with me. Nearly” (oh, most unfortunate
speech!) “as angry as you were with that imp the day you tore up her
picture.”

“I am not exactly angry,” she replied with tremulous dignity. “Why
should I be angry? I am merely enlightened. I know who is who now.
I dare say you found the little game of deceiving every one most
entertaining. You seem to have quite a genius for playing a double
part.”

“You are awfully rough on me,” he interrupted. “But I suppose I deserve
it.”

“Now I have but one character, such as it is, so I cannot reciprocate
_your_ surprise. I am merely what you have always seen--a country-bred
girl, without fortune, or prospect of one, with a taste for playing the
violin, and for speaking out my mind at any cost.”

(Yes, there never was any one less at pains to be on the safe side than
this young woman.)

“You are disgusted to find that I am not a poor relation,” he ventured
to remark.

“I am. You remember that on this very spot”--touching the railings with
her fan--“two months ago, Colonel Sladen, with his usual delicate
taste, joked pleasantly about the millionaire, your cousin. You laughed
immoderately then. Yes, I remember, you actually shook the railings!
And”--with increasing wrath--“you are smiling _now_. Of course it must
be capital fun to take people in so successfully! to be able to laugh
openly--as well as in your sleeve.”

“Will you permit me to remind you of one small fact? Do you remember
that you turned to me and said, that if I were _rich_ you would never
speak to me again? You were offering a premium on poverty.”

“And I repeat that speech here,” she said, once more turning to face
him. “Now that I find you _are_ rich”--she caught her breath--“I will
never speak to you again.”

“Oh, come, I say, Miss Gordon, you can’t mean that,” he expostulated.
“At least you will give me a hearing. Be angry--but be just.”

She made no reply, but began to strip little bits of bark from the
rustic railing, to the utter destruction of her gloves.

“Admitted that I am the millionaire, that is merely to accept the
nickname; for it is not I, but my uncle, who is wealthy. He made a
fortune in trade, you know--Pollitt’s pearl barley--and I am his
adopted son. He has brought me up ever since I was ten years old, and
has been awfully good to me.”

Here she made an impatient movement, as much as to say, What was Mr.
Pollitt’s goodness to her?

He hurried on faster.

“I wanted to see something of the world. I was deadly sick of the
routine of English life--hunting, balls, regattas, theatres; and I got
my uncle’s consent, with great difficulty, to spend a year in India.
I was despatched with a valet, a cargo of kit, and the reputation of
millions, with Waring as my guide, companion, and adviser. He is not
related to me.”

Honor looked at him with a half ironic smile, as much as to say, “Of
course not! I should be surprised if he _were_.”

“He is Mrs. Pollitt’s brother; and she got him the berth, such as it
was,” pursued the young man doggedly.

“Little dreaming how luxurious it would become,” added the young lady
sarcastically.

“No, that was quite unpremeditated. When I first landed, I found that I
had achieved a celebrity far beyond my wishes. I was supposed to be a
Rothschild. I was bothered to death with touts and hawkers and all that
sort of thing”--with a constrained laugh. “I saw that I’d have no peace
till I got rid of all my extra luggage and the man. The combination
branded me as ‘valuable.’ Waring had been in the country before, he
knew the language and customs, so I made over my account at the bank
into his name. He became paymaster, and we held our tongues--that was
all. Waring looks rich, and has a genius for spending and making a
splash. Now I have not. My tastes are inexpensive, and I have always
told my uncle that nature intended me for a poor man.”

Miss Gordon picked off another piece of bark with elaborate care, and
then threw it away with an air of profound disgust.

“Our arrangement worked splendidly, as long as we were merely shooting
and moving about; but when we came up here and began to know people, I
saw that things were getting rather mixed--that it would not _do_, that
we were carrying the idea too far. I spoke to Waring, and suggested
taking the public into our confidence. He treated the matter as a joke,
and asked if he should announce it in the _Pioneer_? I said, I thought
that if he told it to one or two people as a dead secret, that it would
be amply sufficient. But he would not hear of this, either in jest
or earnest. He had, he acknowledged, played first fiddle too long to
wish to change parts. He was most urgent that I should leave what he
considered ‘well’ alone, and worked himself up into such a frightful
state of mind--he put the whole thing so--so--so strongly--that I was
obliged to leave matters _in statu quo_.”

“Obliged!” echoed his fair listener, in a cool, incredulous tone.

“Yes, forced to do so.” (He could not tell her of the reason which had
been Waring’s sole alternative.) “He said we had only a short time to
put in, that it would make him look such an awful fool, that he had
taken the reins to please me, and now I must sit tight to oblige _him_.
In fact--to tell you a secret--that he would be in dreadful financial
difficulties. All he wanted was _time_. If his creditors believed him
to be a poor man, they would be down on him like a flock of kites. Two
or three months would set him straight. So I yielded. But I made one
stipulation; I said I must tell the truth to one person.”

“And that highly honoured person?” she asked, with arched brows.

“Was yourself.”

“Oh, monsieur, _c’en est trop_!” And she made him a deep inclination.

“Don’t jeer at me, please,” he exclaimed, in a low, sharp voice. “Once
I was about to speak, and I was interrupted by the panther. Afterwards
that intolerable child took the words out of my mouth, and you scorned
them. For once in her life she told you the truth, the whole truth--I
do love you.”

There was no tremble or hesitation about these four syllables, but
there was considerable amount of trembling about the hand which
held a certain white feather fan, resting on the railings. The fan,
unaccustomed to such uncertain treatment, slid swiftly away, and fell
like a dead white bird into a lily bed below. No one sought it; seconds
and sensations were priceless.

“I do love you, better than my own life; but I was afraid to speak, you
were so down on money.”

How could he guess at the nods, and becks, and wreathed smiles of
certain busy old ladies near Hoyle, who had more than hinted at a
speedy wedding and a rich husband, as the result of a trip to India?
How could he know of blazing eyes and scarlet cheeks, and of a
passionate repudiation of, if not India, at any rate a handsome future
partner, and money?

“I meant to have told you to-night, on my honour I did; but with my
usual cruel bad luck, that little beggar cut in before me. And you are
dead against me, and with some reason, I confess; but you must not
say that you will never speak to me again. Come, Miss Gordon, give me
another chance.” As she remained obdurately dumb, he continued with an
air of quiet determination, “You will give me an answer by the time I
have fetched your fan?”

Honor’s anger had as usual cooled. She now began to see things from
his point of view, and her indignation immediately transferred itself
to Captain Waring. Mr. Jervis had been the tool and catspaw of that
unscrupulous free-and-easy gentleman. Yes, she now understood the
former’s halting allusions to hunting and polo, his half-uttered
sentences, and how he had suddenly paused, stammered, and would
evidently have been glad to recall his own words. Once or twice she
had caught a glimpse, instantly suppressed, of a slightly peremptory
manner, the tone and air of one accustomed to being obeyed. She
remembered, too, his easy familiarity with money, his--as she had
hitherto considered it--insane generosity.

Meanwhile Mark ran down and picked up the white fan from its lily bed,
shook the dew-drops from its delicate feathers, and, as he restored it
to its owner, he looked straight into her eyes.

“Honor,” he said, in a low eager voice, “you will let bygones be
bygones, and forgive me, won’t you?”

Honor hesitated, her lips trembled as if uncertain whether to laugh or
to cry.

“You like me a little--I hope,” he pleaded anxiously.

The lips broke into a faint but unmistakable smile.

“You are the only girl I have ever cared two straws about. I swear
that this is the _truth_, and not the usual stock statement. I had
a presentiment that you were my fate that night we walked along the
railway line. That Eurasian fellow in the hut had a prophetic eye!”

“I am not so sure of that!” she said, with sudden vehemence. “You knew
very well that you ought to have spoken out _long_ ago.”

“I would have spoken to you weeks ago, but that I was uncertain what
answer you would give me.”

“Oh!” recoiling with a gesture of indescribable horror. “What do you
think I meant? I mean, that you might have let us all know who you
were.”

“Better late than never, I hope,” he rejoined quickly. “My uncle knows
all about you. May I speak to your aunt to-night?”

“What do you wish to tell her?” she faltered.

“That I am going to be her nephew,” he answered, with the utmost
composure.

“No--no--no,” bursting into a half-hysterical laugh, “you must give me
time--I want to think it over.”

“Honor,” coming close to her, and resolutely taking her trembling hand
in his, “can you not think it over _now_? Will you marry me?”

Although her fingers shook in his hold, she held herself nervously
erect, as she stood looking out over the moon-flooded mountains in
silence, her eyes fixed on the far-away horizon with the gaze of one
lost in meditation. She was crowding many thoughts into the space of
seconds. Among them this--

“The gloved hand in which hers was imprisoned, how strong and
steadfast--a brave hand to guide and support and defend her through
life.”

At last, with tremulous nervous abruptness, she made this totally
irrelevant and unexpected remark--

“I wonder what people will say when they hear what a dreadful impostor
you have been! Of course, I know what they will say of _me_--that I
have guessed the truth all along--and have played my cards beautifully!
Oh, I can hear them saying it!”

And she hastily withdrew her fingers, and looked at him with a mixture
of defiance and dismay.

“You think more of what people will say than of me, Honor!” he
exclaimed reproachfully.

“No, no!” filled with instant compunction, and her blushes as she spoke
were visible even by moonlight. “I think more of you than of any one,
Mark.” Then, as if frightened at her own confession, she hastened to
add, “Every one is going in, and here is my next partner coming to look
for me.”

“Let him look!” was the unprincipled answer. “Shall we go down and sit
on the seat in the tennis-ground, by the big verbena tree?”

“But I am engaged to Major Lawrence,” she objected, though she knew
that resistance was useless.

“No doubt; but you are engaged to _me_--you and I are to be partners
for life. Ah, ha!” with a triumphant laugh. “There, he has been waylaid
by Mrs. Troutbeck--he won’t get away from her under an hour. They are
all going back,” glancing at many other couples who were gravitating
towards the club; “we shall have the place to ourselves. Come
along,” and leading her down the steps, they passed among glimmering
flower-beds, and faint sweet flowers, to a recently vacated rustic
bench. “I dare say you have often wondered what kept me at Shirani?” he
began. “I came, in the first instance, hoping to meet my father. He has
been thirty years out here, he was in the Indian Cavalry, and settled
in this country, which he loves. My uncle is my adopted father, and
I have seen very little of my real father since I was a kid; he lives
in mysterious retirement in these hills, about fifty miles away, and
is a widower for the second time. I have been waiting on week after
week, hoping that he would send for me--that was my chief motive for
remaining at Shirani. It is no longer so--as you very well know--in
fact, of late, you have driven him clean out of my head!”

“If he were _my_ father, I would go and visit him, without waiting for
an invitation,” said Honor, resolutely.

“I have written several times to say that I should like to see him, and
asking when I might start--a plain enough hint, surely?”

“You are too punctilious. Why wait to be asked? There, that waltz is
over; what a short one it was. Now I must really go in.”

“What a thing it is to have a conscience! A strong sense of duty to
one’s partners!” he exclaimed with a laugh. “However, I am one of them
myself, and I will let you off easily.”

“No, thank you,” she answered, with uncompromising rectitude. “Pray
what about your own partners? And you are one of the hosts, too!”

“I see that I may always look to you now to remind me of my duty,” he
said, rising with extreme reluctance. “And I never felt more inclined
to shirk it than now.”

“I am sure I shall have quite enough to do to remember my own
shortcomings; but at any rate I can manage to remind you of yours
to-night. _We_,” with a happy little sigh, “shall have to-morrow,” and
she also stood up to depart.

“Yes, please God, thousands of to-morrows. But, Honor, this one moment
that you are so anxious to pass by and leave behind can never be
repeated or effaced; this hour, when you gave yourself to me here, in
this over-grown Indian garden, under the Southern Cross. When we are
old Darby and Joan, sitting by our fireside in cold work-a-day England,
we shall--at any rate, _I_ shall--look back on this hour as sacred,”
and he put his arm round her and kissed her.

The intelligence that Jervis was the Simon Pure, the real, true, and
only millionaire, was buzzed from ear to ear, and had soon spread over
the club like wild-fire. Mrs. Brande ceased to yawn, fanned herself
feverishly, and snappishly refused to believe “one single word of it.”
Mrs. Langrishe, for once, sat dumb and glum. More unlikely things had
happened within her somewhat extensive experience. Colonel Sladen
spluttered out his whole vocabulary of ejaculations and expletives,
and Lalla Paske’s eyebrows were almost lost to sight under her fringe!
Of course it was the one and only topic; the air was still throbbing
with the news, when, during a pause between two dances, Mr. Jervis
and Miss Gordon walked into the ball-room. Their entrance produced
quite a dramatic effect. How well-bred his air, how fine his profile
and the pose of his head; with what easy grace his clothes sat upon
him--clothes that were undeniably fashioned by a first-rate London
tailor. These little details now struck people who had hitherto
scarcely spared him a glance. As for Miss Gordon, she was always
beautiful and charming. The pair made an uncommonly effective couple,
and they looked so radiant, that their future happiness was evidently a
settled thing. Yes, now that one came to think of it, they had _always_
been good friends.

“And was it really thirty thousand a year? Was it in soap or pork? At
any rate, it was a magnificent match for a penniless girl!” whispered a
married lady to her partner.

“Of course the old woman was in the secret all along,” remarked Mrs.
Langrishe to a neighbour; “she is much cleverer than any of us have
supposed. Oh, what a deep game she has played! _What_ an old serpent!”




                             CHAPTER XXXI.

                             THE SUMMONS.


In the moonlight, bright as day, Mr. Jervis rode home beside Miss
Gordon’s rickshaw. Her tell-tale fan stuck out of the pocket of his
overcoat.

Yes, their little world was not blind; it was evidently a settled
thing. Most people were glad. The Brandes were sure to do the wedding
in “style;” and a wedding would be an agreeable variety from dances and
picnics.

“I shall come up to-morrow morning,” he said, as he reluctantly
released her hand, “to-morrow before twelve.”

Mr. Brande, who had effected his escape early, had returned home, and
been in bed and asleep for some hours.

He was suddenly aroused by his wife standing at his bedside, her cloak
hanging off her shoulders, her coiffeur a little deranged, a lamp in
her hand illuminating an unusually excited countenance.

“Well, _what_ is it?” he demanded with pardonable irritation.

“Oh, P.! what do you think? A man has come from Simla----”

“Yes,” suddenly sitting erect, his official mind at once on the alert
for some pressing and important dispatch.

“He came out with them in the same ship,” she panted.

Had Sarabella his wife gone suddenly out of her mind?

“He says that Mark, not Waring, is the rich man.”

“He said it after supper, I suppose,” snarled Mr. Brande. “He was
_drunk_!”

“Not a bit of it! I tackled Mark himself, and he confessed. I was very
angry at being taken in. He declares they did it without meaning a bit
of harm at first, and that when it went too far he did not know what
to do. He is very sorry.”

“That he is a millionaire! Oh yes, I should think so!”

“He is coming up first thing to-morrow to tell you all about it; and,
unless I’m mistaken, to speak to you about Honor.”

“What about her?” sharply.

“Why, you dear, stupid man, are you asleep still? Can’t you guess?”

“You told me that there was nothing of that sort; in fact,” with an
angry laugh, “that ‘the boy,’ as you called him, was desperately
devoted to _you_.”

“What stuff!” she ejaculated indignantly. “He will have thirty thousand
a year! I know that I shall never close an eye to-night!”

“And are good-naturedly resolved that I am to keep you in countenance.
You might, I think, have reserved this double-barrelled forty-pounder
for the morning.”

“And that’s all the thanks I get,” she grumbled, as she slowly trailed
away to her dressing-room.

Just about this very time, Mark Jervis was smoking a cigarette in his
bare sitting-room. Before him, on the table, lay a white feather fan
and a programme. He was much too happy to go to bed, he wanted to
sit up and think. His thoughts were the usual bright ones incident
to love’s young dream, and as he watched the smoke slowly curling up
the air was full of castles. These beautiful buildings were somewhat
rudely shattered by the entrance of his bearer--wrapped in a resai, and
looking extremely sleepy--with a letter in his hand.

“A Pahari brought this for the sahib three hours ago,” tendering a
remarkably soiled, maltreated envelope.

Of course it was from his father at last. He tore it open, and this was
what it said--


 “MY DEAR SON,

 “I am very ill. If you would see me alive, come. The messenger will
 guide you. I live forty miles out. Lose no time.

                                              “Your affectionate father,
                                              “H. JERVIS.”

The letter was forty-eight hours old.

“Is the messenger here?” he asked eagerly.

“Yes, sahib.”

“Then call up the grey pony syce; tell him to take gram and a jule,
and saddle the pony. I am going off into the interior. I must start in
twenty minutes.”

The bearer blinked incredulously.

“I need not take you.” The bearer’s face expanded into a grin of
intense relief. “I shall be away several days. Get out my riding kit,
shove some clothes in a bag, and ask the cook to put up some bread and
meat and things, and tell the coolie I will be ready very shortly.”

Then he sat down, drew his writing-case towards him, and began to write
a note to Honor. Her first love letter--and strange, but true, _his_
also. It was merely a few lines to say he had been most suddenly called
away by his father, and hoped that he would be back within the week.

It was both a keen disappointment and a keen pleasure to the girl when
the ayah brought the letter to her at nine o’clock. She read it over
and over again, but she will not allow our profane eyes to see it, nor
can it be stolen, for she carries it about with her by day, and it
rests under her pillow by night: at the end of the week it was getting
a little frayed.

When the ayah handed the note to the Miss Sahib, the writer was already
twenty miles out of Shirani, following a broad-shouldered Gurwali with
his head and shoulders wrapped in the invariable brown blanket.

Their course was by mountain bridle-paths, and in an eastern direction;
the scenery was exquisite, but its beauties were entirely lost upon
Jervis, who was picturing other scenes in his mind’s eye. The road
crept along the sheer faces of bare precipices, or plunged suddenly
into woody gorges, or ran along a flat valley, with cultivated fields
and loosely built stone walls. The further they went, the lovelier
grew the country, the wilder the surroundings. At twelve o’clock they
halted to rest the grey pony--the messenger’s muscular brown legs
seemed capable of keeping up their long swinging trot all day. It was
four o’clock in the afternoon when they arrived at their journey’s end;
they abruptly descended into a flat wooded dale, surrounded by hills on
three sides, sloping away to the plains on the fourth. A path from the
bridle-road led them into a dense jungle of high grass, full of cattle,
pack ponies, and mules. Emerging from this, they came to a wall, along
which they kept for about three hundred yards, and turning a sharp
corner they found themselves outside a great square yellow house, two
stories high.

It seemed as if it had been bodily transplanted from England. There
was nothing irregular or picturesque about it--the windows were in
rows, the roof was square and had a parapet, the sole innovation was a
long verandah, which ran all round the building, and was apparently of
recent date, a mere after-thought.

Mark, as he rode up to the steps, looked about him for the coolie; he
had suddenly disappeared. There was no one to be seen. He ascended
to the verandah, it was deserted, save for some fowl, who seemed
delightfully at home. It was more the verandah of a native dwelling
than the entrance to the home of an Englishman.

The new-comer gazed around expectantly, and saw three string charpoys,
a bundle of dirty bedding, a pair of shoes, a huka, and a turban.

The door, which was innocent of paint or bells, was ajar. He pushed it
open and found himself in a large, dim, very dirty hall. Here he was
confronted by an old nanny goat, and two kids; to the left he saw a
room, which appeared to be a mere repetition of the verandah.

As he hesitated and looked about, a man suddenly appeared, a servant
presumably, wearing a huge red turban, and a comfortable blue cloth
coat. He was stout and well to do, had a fat face, a black square
beard, and remarkably thick lips.

He seemed considerably disconcerted, when he caught sight of the
stranger, but drawing himself up pronounced the words, “Durwaza, Bund,”
with overwhelming dignity. Adding in English--

“The sahib never see no one.”

“He will see me,” said Mark, with decision.

“Sahib sick, sar, seeing no one, those my orders. Sahib seeing no
sahibs for many years.”

“Well, he sent for me, and I have come. Let me see him immediately. I
am his son.”

The Mahomedan’s expression instantly changed from lofty condescension
to the most unqualified astonishment.

“The sahib’s--son!” he repeated incredulously.

“Yes. I have told you that once already. Look sharp, and send some one
to see after my pony; I have come a long distance.”

The bearer went away and remained absent about five minutes, during
which time Mark had leisure to note the dirt, and neglected, almost
ruinous, state of the house--which had originally been a fine
mansion--to listen to loud jabbering and whispering in the room beside
him, and to observe several pairs of native eyes eagerly peeping
through a crack in the door.

“Come with me,” said the bearer, with a sullen air. “The sahib will see
you presently.”

“Is he better?”

“Yes, he is quite well; please to sit here,” and he opened the door
of an immense dining-room, furnished with Bombay carved black wood
furniture, and a dusty Indian carpet. It was a room that was evidently
never used, and but rarely opened. Its three great long windows, which
were caked and dim with grime, looked out upon the snows. This was
evidently the back of the house; the front commanded a view of the
plains. The site had been admirably selected.

A black tray, with cold meat and some very sour bad bread, was borne
in, and a place cleared on the dusty table by the joint efforts of the
sulky bearer and a khitmaghar, with a cast in his eye, and the very
leanest figure Mark had ever beheld. However, he was much too hungry to
be fastidious, and devoured the refreshments with a capital appetite.
Meanwhile, after their custom, the two men stood by in silence with
folded arms, staring with concentrated attention and unremitting gaze
until the conclusion of the meal.

It was quite dark when the bearer reappeared, and, throwing open the
door, announced in a deeply resentful tone--

“The sahib will see the sahib.”

Mark followed the fat, square, aggressive-looking back, till he came
to a curtained archway, and was ushered into a lofty dim room, so dim,
that he could barely discern the figure which rose to greet him--a tall
bent man in a dressing-gown.

“Mark, my boy, it was like you to come so soon,” said a shaky voice.
“Like what you were as a child,” and he held out both his hands eagerly.

“I only got your letter at four o’clock this morning, sir,” said his
son. “I hope you are better?”

“I am for the present. I sent for you by a private messenger
post-haste, because I believed that I had but a few hours to live, and
I longed desperately to see you.”

“I have been hoping you would send for me for the last two months. I
have been waiting, as you know, in Shirani.”

“Yes--yes--yes! Sometimes the temptation was almost irresistible, but
I fought against it; for why should I cloud over your young life?
However, I had no choice; the situation has been forced upon me--and
you. My faithful companion, Osman, died ten days ago, but we will talk
of this another time. These voices in my head interrupt me; especially
that woman’s voice,” with an irritable gesture.

His son could not, for the life of him, think of any immediate or
appropriate remark, and sat in embarrassed silence, and then Major
Jervis continued--

“You are six and twenty now--a grown man, Mark, and speak like a man! I
have not had a good look at your face yet. I wonder if it is the same
face as that of my own honest-eyed boy?”

The answer would be prompt, if he so pleased, for the lean khitmaghar
now staggered in under the weight of a large evil-smelling “argand”
lamp (a pattern extinct everywhere save in remote parts of India).

Mark looked over eagerly at his father. His head was bent in his
hands. Presently he raised it, and gazed at his son with a look of
unmistakable apprehension. His son felt as if he were confronting
an utter stranger; he would never have recognized this grey-haired
cadaverous old man as the handsome stalwart sabreur he had parted with
sixteen years previously. He looked seventy years of age. His features
were sharpened as if by constant pain, his colour was ashen, his hands
emaciated, his eyes sunken; he wore a camel’s-hair dressing-gown, and a
pair of shabby slippers.

“You are just what I expected,” he exclaimed, after a long pause. “You
have your mother’s eyes; but you are a Jervis. Of course you see a
great change in me?”

“Well, yes--rather,” acquiesced his son, with reluctant truthfulness.
“India ages people.”

“You think this a strange life that I lead, I am sure; miles away from
my fellow-countrymen, buried alive, and long forgotten?”

“No, not forgotten, sir. Do you recollect Pelham Brande of the Civil
Service? He was asking for you only the other day.”

“I think I remember him--a clever fellow, with a very pretty wife, who
people said had been a servant. (How long these sort of things stick to
people’s memories.) I’ve been out of the world for years.”

“But you will return to it. Come back to England with me. What is there
to keep you in this country?”

“What, indeed!” with a jarring laugh. “No, my dear boy, I shall never
leave the Pela Bungalow, as they call it, until I am carried out of it
feet foremost.”

“Why do you say this? You are a comparatively young man--not more than
fifty-five.”

“I feel a thousand years old; and I often wish that I was dead.”

“I don’t wonder! I should say the same, if I had lived here alone for
seven years. How do you kill time?”

“I don’t kill time. Time is killing me. I walk in the garden sometimes,
but generally I sit and think. You must be tired, my boy,” as if struck
by a sudden thought.

“Well, I am, I must confess. I was at a ball until four o’clock this
morning.”

“A ball till four o’clock this morning!” he repeated. “How strange it
sounds. It seems the echo of a voice speaking twenty years ago!”

       *       *       *       *       *

Dinner was served at a small table; a fowl for Mark, some patent
food for Major Jervis. The cooking was atrocious, the attendance
careless, the appointments splendid, but grimy. It was the same in
every department--an extraordinary mixture of squalor and magnificence.
It seemed to the indignant young man that these ruffians of servants
thought anything good enough for his father.

When Major Jervis’s huka was brought in he looked over at his son and
said--

“You smoke, of course?”

“Yes, thanks; but not that sort of thing. I would not know how to work
it.”

Last time he had lit a cigarette between four walls he little guessed
at the style of his next surroundings. The room was not uncomfortable,
the furniture was massively carved and luxurious, the carpet rich
Persian; there were book-cases full of volumes, and there were fine
pictures on the walls; but the paper was peeling off in strips, and
cobwebs hung like ropes from the corners. The books were grimy with
mould, the carpets and curtains inches deep in dust; certainly a sort
of oasis had been cleared around Major Jervis’s chair, but everywhere
the eye turned were tokens of neglect, poverty, and decay. His father’s
slippers were in holes, his linen frayed; apparently he was a poor man.
What had become of the begum’s fortune?




                            CHAPTER XXXII.

                 “THE PELA KOTHI,” OR “YELLOW HOUSE.”


When Mark Jervis awoke the next morning, in a totally unfamiliar room,
he wondered if he was dreaming, as he gazed at the heavy old carved
furniture, the faded window hangings, the curious devotional pictures,
and the little black crucifix and holy water receptacle at the foot of
the bed. (The Cardozo family had of course been Catholics.) No, he was
not dreaming, but actually under his father’s roof at last.

As soon as he had dressed, he went out before breakfast to see after
the welfare of his syce and pony. The yard resembled that of a serai,
it was so full of natives, who gazed at him inquiringly, as he made
his way through sheep, goats, buffalo calves, and children, to the
stables, the tumble-down remains of what had once been an imposing
pile. An old hairy Bhoetia pony and his own were now the sole
occupants. His syce came to him eagerly, with a face of pitiful dismay.

“No gram for pony, sahib”--holding up his hands dramatically. “Never
giving gram here--nothing.”

“I’ll see about that--go and buy some”--handing him rupees.

“Oh, sahib”--now putting his hands into an attitude of prayer. “Plenty,
plenty Budmashes in this place. Sahib, let us travel to-day, quickly to
Shirani.”

“In a few days, Dum Sing--not yet; meanwhile take care of yourself and
the pony.” And he walked on to the garden.

The gardens, though somewhat neglected, were in perfect order in
comparison to the house; they were laid out in stony terraces,
the walls of which were loaded with fruit; there were flowers and
vegetables in abundance, a round fish-pond, several statues,
summer-houses, and a large staff of mallees working away with
surprising zeal. A broad terrace walk commanded, as you arrived at one
end, the snows, and a grand panorama of the plains as you reached the
other. A well-worn track was beaten in the middle of this path, which
indicated that it was a favourite promenade, and at the end nearest to
the plains there was a seat.

Here Mark was joined by his father. He was dressed in a shrunken Puttoo
suit, and looked frail and feeble, but such a gentleman in spite of all
his shabbiness!

“This is my walk and my seat,” he explained. “I sit here for hours.
That white line far below is the cart road, and with a good glass you
can make out carts and tongas; and far away on the plains, twice a day
in clear weather, you can see the smoke of the train. So I get _some_
glimpses of the world after all.”

“And how are you off for neighbours, sir?”

“My nearest is an American missionary and doctor; he is twelve miles
from here; and there is a German mission fifteen miles across that
hill”--pointing with a stick.

“And your post? What about your letters?”

“Oh, I don’t want a post; once in six months or so I send a coolie down
to Ramghur.”

“Then you don’t take a daily paper?”

“Oh no; why should I? There are stacks of old ones about the house,”
was the amazing reply.

“And books?”

“I’m a man of one book. I read the Indian Army List; that is quite
enough literature for me. Some fellow’s names alone call up a whole
novel.”

“You feel better to-day, I hope?”

“Yes, I am unusually well. You are not married, are you?” he asked
abruptly.

“No, not yet”--rather startled at the sudden change of topic. “But I
hope to marry before long.”

“Hope, hope; that’s what we all say. Don’t let it go beyond that. Hope
told a flattering tale. I don’t believe in hope.”

“Why not?” inquired his companion rather anxiously.

“You see this terrace,” he exclaimed, as if he had not heard; “I walk
up and down it exactly a hundred times a day; I take a hundred beans
in my pocket, and put one of them on that bench every time I come to
it. I find it most interesting; only sometimes birds steal my beans,
and that puts me out, and I lose count, and I have to begin the whole
hundred over again, and I get so tired. But I must do it, or they would
be angry.”

“Who would be angry, sir?”

“I forget, just this minute--the beans or the birds.”

“You seem to have wonderfully fine fruit-trees here,” said Mark, after
an expressively long silence.

“Yes, the mallees work well, the rascals, because I give them all the
vegetables and flowers and fruit, as well as their wages. They make a
good thing out of it; the peaches and pears and plums from the Yellow
House are celebrated.”

Mark now remembered having heard of their fame in far Shirani.

“Let us sit down here and talk,” continued Major Jervis. “For once I
will forego my walk; it is not every day that I have my son to listen
to me. Recent events seem blurred and dim, but I remember years back
distinctly. Mark, my boy, shall I tell you something about myself, and
how I have spent my life? Would you care to know?”

“I would, of course.”

“Then listen to me. You know I am the younger son of a good old
family--Jervis of Jervis. My father, your grandfather, was General
Vincent Jervis, and--I can’t tell him _that_” (aside to himself). “My
family bequeathed me a handsome profile, an aristocratic type of face,
and something else (but I can’t tell him _that_). I married for love,
and I can recommend the experiment. Your mother and I scrambled along
most happily, though I had always extravagant tastes--inherited, like
my nose and yours. When she died, I lost my better half indeed--my
headpiece, my best adviser, my all. I drifted back into my old
squandering bachelor ways, and into debt; but I paid for you to the
hour. Then I came across Miss Cardozo. She was not very young, but
handsome, pleasant, and rich--she fell in love with me. I was a
good-looking, dashing, devil-may-care major in a crack native cavalry
regiment. She belonged to this country by race and taste. There was a
good deal of the begum about her; she hated the idea of a stepson, and
I reluctantly allowed your uncle to adopt you. I knew you would be rich
and well cared for; but even then, I struggled against your uncle’s
persuasions. I must have had a presentiment of these days, when I would
be desolate and alone. I was happy enough with Mércèdes; we led a gay,
roving, extravagant life. We had plenty of friends, plenty of spirits,
plenty of money. Mércèdes had no relations, but one, thank God; a
greasy-looking cousin in Calcutta. Lord forgive me, but I hate him! My
wife had a kind, warm heart, but she was passionate, excitable--and
jealous. She allowed her feelings too much liberty; she slapped another
woman’s face at a public ball, she slippered her servants, she ran up
huge bills, and she could never speak the truth. She actually preferred
to tell a lie, even when she had nothing to gain by it. Can you imagine
such a thing? However, we have all our faults; and she was a good soul,
though she was not like your mother. They say a man prefers his first
wife, a woman her second husband--what is your opinion, eh, Mark?”

“I am not in a position to offer one,” he answered, with a smile.

“Oh, I forgot--of course not. Well, eight years ago this very month
we were coming away from Mussouri to our place in the Doon; we were
in the mail tonga, our ponies were half broken; though we had a good
driver--the best on the road--it was all he could do to hold them, as
they rattled down with the heavy steel bar, going clank, clank, clank.
Just one mile out a goat on the cliff dropped suddenly into the road,
the brutes shied wildly across, the strong wooden railings caught the
side of the tonga, they strained--I hear them now--snapped, crashed,
then there was a moment’s mad struggle of driver and ponies--too late,
over we went! They show the place still, I dare say--a drop of two
hundred feet. The ponies were killed, and the driver and my wife. How
I escaped was a marvel. My leg was broken, my head cut about, but I
survived. Osman, my orderly, who had been in the old regiment for
twenty years, nursed me, at Mussouri; and, as soon as I could be moved,
I came here. I remembered it as a retired, quiet spot, with a charming
garden. I wanted rest; my head was injured, and I thought I would pull
myself together here, and then go home--but here I am still.”

“Yes, but not for much longer,” added his son, cheerily; “you will come
home with me.”

“Mércèdes’ will was produced,” he proceeded, calmly ignoring the
question; “she had made it when she was not pleased with me, seemingly.
This place and three hundred acres are mine, and one thousand rupees a
month for life; also her jewels and gold ornaments--as much use to me
as a heap of stones. Fernandez receives a fine income even now. All her
wealth accumulates till my death, and then everything--jewels, rents,
shares--goes to him. He is my heir. I cannot leave you a penny; nothing
but the old Yellow House.”

“I don’t want the Cardozo money, sir.”

“No; and you will have plenty. Meanwhile Fuzzil Houssan spends my
income on his relations to the third and fourth generation, and laughs
and grows fat.”

“Surely you do not leave it all in his hands?” asked his listener
incredulously.

“Yes, most of it. Only for that, I suppose he would poison me. I
believe he is in Fernandez’ pay--Fernandez, who I am keeping out of
thousands a year. Occasionally he comes in person to see if there is
any chance of my dying? I have given him great hopes more than once.
Now that Osman is dead, he and Fuzzil will certainly hurry me out of
the world--and that speedily.”

“Who was Osman?”

“He was a sowar in my regiment--a Sikh--we had known each other for
half a lifetime, and he was more to me than a brother. We joined the
same month, we left the same day. He gave up home, country, people,
and followed my fortunes, and died in my arms last week.” Here Major
Jervis’s voice became almost inaudible.

“We had braved heat and snow, fire and water, together, and in the
long evenings here whilst I smoked my pipe, he would talk to me by the
hour of the old regiment; such talk is better than any book. If Osman
had lived, I never would have summoned you--no, never; he stayed with
me till death took him, and you must remain here till death takes _me_.”

“_I_ will take you with me,” said his son, resolutely. “All you have
been telling me shows me that this country is not the place for you.
The sooner you are back in England, the better; you will come home with
me, will you not?”

“I don’t want to see England,” he answered peevishly. “India is my
country, it has got into my blood. I have spent my bright days out
here, and here I’ll spend my dark ones. My days are dark indeed, but
they will soon be over, and so much the better. And now it is eleven
o’clock,” he said, rising stiffly. “Let us go in to breakfast.”

After breakfast Major Jervis promptly disappeared, leaving his guest
to wander about alone; to wonder at the extraordinary _ménage_,
the troops of native children, pattering in and out, the fowl, the
goats--who stumped through the hall as if they wore boots--the
overpowering smell of huka, the great dreary rooms, piled up with
rotting furniture, saddlery, and carpets. Among other wrecks, he
noticed an old dandy and a side-saddle--doubtless the property of the
dead Mércèdes.

He strolled about the valley, to the amazement of the hill people,
who stared at him open-mouthed. How, he asked himself, was he to pass
the long empty hours till sunset? For the bearer had condescendingly
assured him, that “the sahib would sleep until then.” He had taken a
violent dislike to fat-cheeked Fuzzil, who scarcely troubled himself
to obey an order, and had invariably to be summoned several times
before he condescended to appear. A civil Pahari, touched by the young
sahib’s forlorn and aimless wanderings, volunteered to guide him to
the cantonment. “A cantonment here?” he echoed incredulously, and
accepted the offer with alacrity. A brisk walk by narrow tracks and
goat-paths brought them to the brow of a hill in a southward direction,
overlooking an abandoned station, Mark’s guide volubly explaining to
him that thirty years before had been full of gorrah-log (soldiers)
from the plains. There were the barracks, the bungalows, and gardens,
with trees that bore apples even now! But the cholera came one year and
killed half a pultoon (regiment) and the rest went away, and never came
back, except once or twice, so folks said, for “a tamashah.”

“A tamashah--what do you mean?” asked Jervis, sharply. Was this burly
hill man daring to chaff him?

“Sahibs and mem sahibs--eating, drinking, and having music and
nautches. For the rest,” with a shrug, “the place was given over to
Bhoots and fiends.”

A wide cart road, grass grown, led into the deserted cantonment, and
Mark followed it on to the parade ground. There was the mess-house
still habitable, the church roofless, encircled by a well-filled God’s
acre, kept in perfect order. Here was, indeed, a most surprising sight,
a graveyard in the wilds, not over-grown or choked with weeds and
bushes, but every stone and slab free from moss, every grave tended
with reverent care. He went into the old echoing mess-house, and
found it in excellent repair--thanks to its beams and doors of deodar
wood--as the Pahari proudly pointed out. There were at least twenty
bungalows standing, half buried among trees and jungle; with creepers
matted down over their windows; in some the verandahs had given away,
in some the roofs had fallen in, some, on the other hand, appeared to
set time at defiance. The site was beautifully chosen, nestling in the
lap of the hills, with a peep of the far-away plains; not a sound was
to be heard save the trickling of a streamlet, nor a living thing to be
seen, save a few hill cattle, and under a tree some vultures who were
picking the bones of a dead pony. The condemned cantonment was, for all
its beauty, a melancholy place. Beyond Haval Ghat, and sloping towards
the plains, were fields of golden corn, and villages sheltering in
clumps of trees, picturesque bananas waving their graceful leaves over
huts, that with their comfortable slab roofs resembled English cottages.

The coolie now explained that he wished to show his honour yet another
sight, and to guide him home by a different route.

Half an hour’s climbing brought them to a good-sized street, of
carved-fronted, flat-roofed hill houses. To the stranger’s horror it
seemed to be altogether populated by lepers--lepers who were old,
middle-aged, young--there were also leper children. They swarmed out
and surrounded the sahib, exhibiting every form of their hideous
disease, as they clamoured for assistance. Jervis emptied his pockets
of everything they contained in the shape of money, dispensed alms
hastily, and among the worst cases, and then hurried away. He felt
heartily ashamed of his feelings of shuddering repulsion. Supposing he
had been a leper himself--and such things as Englishmen who were lepers
were known to exist. Still he turned headlong from that awful village
of life in death, and hastily reascended the hill towards the Pela
Kothi.

The desolate cantonment and the leper-colony combined to depress
him beyond words, although the scenery was unsurpassed, the air as
exhilarating as a tonic, and the scents and sounds of the forest enough
to stir the most torpid imagination; nevertheless, Mark Jervis felt as
if he had a load upon his back, as if he had grown ten years older in
the last two days. It was not merely the scenes of the afternoon that
preyed on his spirits. There was his father--his mind was undoubtedly
shaken--he must endeavour to get him away, to take him home; yes, at
all costs.

“What a curious way he talked. Sometimes so well and sensibly;
sometimes in such incomprehensible jargon. What did he mean by saying,
‘Osman stayed here till death took him. You must remain here until
death takes _me_’?”




                            CHAPTER XXXIII.

                             “HEREDITARY.”


His long afternoon rest had revived Major Jervis; he appeared to be
another man as he sat opposite his son at dinner, and talked not
merely sensibly, but wittily, across the grimy tablecloth, on which
was exhibited smoked goat-chops and other undesirable comestibles.
He discussed the condemned cantonment--he recollected its bygone
existence. The lepers--they were his pensioners, and came for their
dole weekly--they were well looked after between missionaries and other
people. He spoke of his regiment, his former comrades; he gave vivid
descriptions of shikar expeditions, of pig-sticking, of thrilling
scenes on active service. He related anecdotes of well-known people of
his acquaintance; he boasted of his brothers-in-arms, and described a
polo tournament as if it had come off yesterday!

“And you have quite lost sight of all these friends?” inquired his son,
after a pause.

The question seemed to break a spell; all animation suddenly faded from
the major’s face, his whole expression changed into that of a shrunken
old man as he replied--

“Yes; I left the herd, like a wounded deer, seven long years ago. I
have hidden myself from them, and I am entirely forgotten. People are
forgotten out here sooner, more completely, than in any other country.”

“Why do you say so?” asked his son, incredulously.

“Because life is so full; events march rapidly, changes occur daily.
Cholera, war, accidents, sweep away men--and memories.”

When the table had been cleared and cigarettes produced, and Fuzzil and
his satellite had somewhat reluctantly departed, Major Jervis looked
steadily at his companion for some time, and exclaimed at last--

“You are very like me, Mark! I can see it myself; and I was considered
a good-looking fellow. I had a bigger frame, though; I rode a couple of
stone heavier. But you are a stronger man than your father; you have a
square jaw and a stern will. You can say _no_. I never could get out
that word in time--and many troubles were my lot. You wish me to go
home with you, my boy?”

“I do,” was the laconic and emphatic reply.

“And I want you to stay with _me_; you must remain with me. I have not
long to live. Look at me well.”

Mark glanced at his sunken eyes, his worn, emaciated features.

“And you must see the last of me. I don’t intend to let you go; no,
for once I, too, can say _no_.”

“But, nevertheless, I’m afraid you must let me go, sir, and shortly. I
promised Uncle Dan----”

“Yes,” he interrupted with unexpected passion, “I understand what you
would say; that you would thrust your uncle down my throat. But, after
all, are you not _my_ son--not his? I reared you until you were ten
years old. When you were a small child and burning with fever, who was
it that used to walk up and down with you in his arms for hours? Not
your uncle Dan. Who was it that first set you on the back of a pony and
taught you to sit like a Bengal sowar? Not your uncle Dan. Who was it
that lifted you out of your dying mother’s embrace? Not your uncle Dan.
You are my own flesh and blood; in all the wide world I have now no one
but you. Since Osman died I have not a single friend. I am surrounded
by vampires of servants. My heir prays on his knees nightly to his
patron saint for the telegram that will carry the news of my death. I
believe the form is here in Fuzzil’s possession, filled up, all but the
_date_! I am a miserable, solitary, dying wretch, and I appeal to you,
my son, to spare me a few months of your healthy, happy life, and to
stay beside me and protect me. Do I,” leaning his elbows on the table,
and searching his son’s face intently, “appeal in vain?”

“You wish me to live here with you altogether?”

“Yes,” with curt emphasis.

“To give up my uncle?”

“For a time, yes. I seem cruelly selfish, but I am as a drowning man
snatching at a spar. You _will_ stay?” A tremor ran through his voice.

“I cannot. No; I promised Uncle Dan that I would certainly return,”
rejoined his son firmly.

“Your uncle has health, wealth, a wife, and many friends. Surely he can
spare you to a sick and desolate man. The Almighty has afflicted me
sorely. If you abandon me to my fate, and gallop back to your gay life
and companions, the day will come when you will bitterly repent it.
Osman’s burthen has fallen on you, and will my own son do less for me
than an alien in blood, a Mahomedan in faith, a poor, unenlightened,
faithful sowar?”

And he stretched out his hand, and fixed an interrogative gaze on his
companion. The paleness of concentrated feeling tinged the young man’s
face, a few drops of sweat stood on his forehead.

“Mark, what is your answer?” he demanded in a hoarse whisper. “Be
quick. Say yes or no--yes or no.”

“Not now, sir,” suddenly standing up. “You must give me time. Give me
forty-eight hours.”

“Ah, there is something more than your uncle,” with a swift expressive
glance; and he rose and put his hands heavily on his son’s shoulders.
“I know,” gazing straight into his eyes with a mad keenness in his
look, “there is, of course, a _woman_ in the case?”

“There is,” admitted Mark, holding himself erect. “An hour before I got
your letter, I had asked a girl to be my wife.”

“And you need not tell me her answer--_yes_, of course; young, rich,
handsome! The world is full of women--over-run with them. A man can
have fifty sweethearts, but he has only one father!”

“There is only one sweetheart in the world for me,” returned his son
proudly.

Major Jervis drew himself up with an air of formidable dignity, and
deliberately surveyed the speaker in sarcastic silence. Suddenly his
expression changed, and became charged with fury; he made a frantic
gesture, as if he would sweep both son and his sweetheart off the face
of the earth. Then he tore back a purdah, beyond which he instantly
disappeared--leaving it quivering behind him.

After waiting for a quarter of an hour, Mark went up to his own room,
which he began to pace from end to end. Presently he turned down the
lamp, flung open the window, looked out, and drew a long, long breath.
His temples throbbed like engines in his burning head, every fibre of
his being, every shred of his understanding, was now engaged in an
inner soul-struggle.

On one side was arrayed Honor Gordon, his good-hearted, indulgent
uncle, to whom he was sincerely attached--friends, wealth, the life
to which he was accustomed--a life of ease and sunshine. On the other
hand, there was _this_!--and he gravely surveyed the dim, weird
landscape, the starlit sky, stretching to the mysterious horizon, and
shuddered--his afflicted, forlorn father, who would not be removed, and
who could not be abandoned.

His father, who had cared for him in his childhood. Yes! it was _his_
turn now; and would he be behind Osman, the Mahomedan, who had done
from love, what he should do from duty?

“But his father might live years! Was he a brute to wish him dead?
_Did_ he wish his father dead?” he asked himself fiercely, and
shuddered again. What was he coming to? Had two days in the jungle
turned him into a beast?

If he accepted what was plainly his duty, his uncle would cast him off,
and he must renounce Honor Gordon! Was this a home to bring her to?
common sense grimly demanded. And he would now be penniless indeed!
He was tortured with heart-wearing doubts and temptations, as duty or
inclination gained the upper hand. Two nights ago he could not sleep
for happiness; now, he could not rest for misery! He resolved to walk
down this raging fever, to quell this mental turmoil, by sheer bodily
fatigue. He made his way through the silent house, where he found all
the doors open, and nearly fell over a goat and two kids who were
dozing in the hall, otherwise the lower regions were untenanted.

Suddenly he became aware of a great noise and brilliant light outside;
laughing, loud chattering, and the complacent humming of dissipated
tom-toms! The compound was illuminated by a large fire, and half a
dozen flaming torches, and crowded with a mob of natives, who were
enjoying, with intense appreciation, the solemn gyrations, and shrill
high-pitched songs of a couple of tawdry Nautch girls. The surrounding
go-downs were full of animated visitors. One was evidently a drinking
den, whilst in another were gamblers. Standing in the shadow on the
steps, unnoticed, Jervis surveyed these orgies entirely at his leisure.
He distinguished the khitmatghar, though without a turban, his sleek
black hair parted like a woman’s, and falling over his shoulders. He
was playing cards with three other men; a bottle and a beaker stood
by for general enjoyment. The “khit” was absorbed in the game, his
eyes seemed to protrude from his head as they greedily followed the
cards. Meanwhile Fuzzil was solemnly superintending the Nautch, and
applauding occasionally, with fitful, tipsy condescension.

A few sharp words from the young sahib, who appeared among them like
a spirit, had an electrical effect. An awed and immediate silence was
followed by a simultaneous helter-skelter rush and scurry.

“What is the meaning of this madness?” demanded the sahib sternly of
Fuzzil, who with drunken valour stood his ground, whilst the Nautch
girls, tom-toms, and spectators, melted away like so many rabbits
scuttling to their burrows.

“Madness!” repeated Fuzzil, with an air of outraged dignity; “it is a
grand tamasha for the marriage of my wife’s brother’s son. Does the
sahib not like Nautches, and cards, and drink, like other young sahibs?
Of a surety he _does_”--answering his own question with insolent
emphasis, and a little stagger. “As for madness; this house is a
poggle-khana” (madhouse).

“What do you mean, you rascal?” said Jervis, sharply.

“Of a truth, all the world know that. Is the fair-haired sahib, his
son, the _last_ to learn that the old man is mad? Ask the doctor;
ask Cardozo Sahib. Sometimes for one year he never speaks. Sometimes
bobbery and trying to kill himself; but Osman took care of him. Now,
lo! Osman is dead; there will be an _end_ soon. This house will cease
to be a poggle-khana, and all the worthy ‘nouker log’ (servants) can
return to their own country.”

“You, for one, can return to-morrow,” responded the sahib, in
surprisingly fluent Hindostani.

“You are not the master here,” blustered Fuzzil, in amazement. “I
taking no orders.”

“You will find that I am; and if you ever again come into my presence,
with your shoes on your feet, I will thrash you within an inch of
your life. Send away all these people; tell them the tamasha is over
for to-night; put out the lights, and get to your go-down, and sleep
yourself sober.”

Fuzzil stared, swallowed, gasped. The young man’s resolute air and
stern eye were altogether too much for him, and he obediently slunk
off, without further dispute.

Major Jervis did not appear the next morning, and his son mounted his
pony and went for a long ride. Where he went he but vaguely remembered;
his thoughts were far too preoccupied to note his surroundings. There
was no doubt that his father’s mind was affected; no doubt this was
attributable to the fall over the khud, and injury to his head.
The vital question remained to be decided, was he, Mark Jervis, to
sacrifice his youth to filial duty?--one would soon grow old in the
Yellow Kothi--to renounce friends, fortune, sweetheart, to lead a
semi-savage existence, entirely cut off from what is called Life.

But, on the other hand, if he set his pony’s head for Shirani, and
returned to Honor, to all the delights of the world, would not the
recollection of the miserable father he had abandoned to strangers
poison every pleasure, and force itself into every joy?

“But to live there”--and he drew rein and gazed down upon the
square house, standing out distinctly against a blue, purplish
background--“will be,” he exclaimed aloud, “a living death. Like a vain
young fool, I wanted a chance to do something--some special task, some
heroic deed, that would set me apart from other men; but, God knows, I
never thought of _this_!”

It was late in the afternoon when he rode up to the verandah, and was
amazed to meet a coolie leading away a steaming-hot hill pony--a hired
animal--and more surprised still to discover a visitor comfortably
established in a long chair, with his fat legs elevated above his head,
enjoying a peg and a cheroot. Evidently there was no occasion to ask
him to make himself at home! The stranger slowly put down his feet and
stood on them, when he first caught sight of Mark.

After staring hard for a few seconds, he said, with an air of great
affability, “I am Fernandez Cardozo, and you are Major Jervis’s son--my
cousin.”

“I am Major Jervis’s son,” assented the young man, stiffly; and he, in
turn, critically surveyed his father’s heir. He was low-sized, fleshy,
and swarthy, about forty years of age; he had a closely cropped bullet
head, sprinkled with grey hairs, a round good-natured face, a pair of
merry black eyes, and a large mouthful of flashing white teeth. An
Eurasian, and possibly not a bad sort of fellow, was Mark’s verdict.

The other was thinking, “What a fine young man! Quite tip-top. How
strange it seemed that he should be the son of the poor, crazy old
major inside.” And his eyes travelled over his smart country-bred pony,
his English saddlery, his well-cut boots and clothes.

“Yes--you are his son,” he said at last, “but I am his _heir_. We are,
son and heir,” and he laughed--an oily laugh.

“You are heir of course to Mrs. Cardozo--I mean Mrs. Jervis’s fortune.
Won’t you sit down?”

“You have not been long here, have you?” now reseating himself.

“No; only two or three days.”

“And how,” with a jerk of his thumb in the direction of the major’s
apartments, “do you find the old man?”

“Well, I never knew until now, that his mind was rather--affected.
He has not written to me for years, and I only got his address with
difficulty.”

“Yes, he prefers to lie low--as Mr. Jones. But ‘_rather_ affected,’ is
putting it mildly.”

“Do you think so?” considering Cardozo with a pair of hostile eyes.

“You will think so too before long. Now don’t be vexed with me, my dear
boy. No one is ever angry with Ferdy Cardozo, they know I am a good
fellow, and that I mean well. Shall we go inside and see if there is
anything to be had to eat?”

“Certainly, I ought to have thought of it before.”

“Oh, please don’t apologize, I’m quite at home. Fuzzil, you fat lazy
swine,” to the now obsequious bearer, “get me something to eat, none
of your dogs’ food--such as brain cutlets or Irish stew, and bring up
some of _my_ wine. It’s very hot in here, awfully frousty,” opening a
window. “The major hates me like poison, and when he hears I’m in the
house he won’t come out, he will go to ground like a snake, but I shall
be off to-morrow.”

“Yes?” interrogatively.

“Are you in the army?” continued Fernandez with half-closed eyes.

“No, I am not in the regular army; I’m in the yeomanry.”

“No profession then?” raising his arched brows in rather supercilious
surprise.

“No, not any.” His profession as heir to his Uncle Dan, would soon be a
thing of the past.

Mr. Cardozo’s surmise was perfectly correct. Major Jervis did not
appear, he merely sent his salaams and dined in his own apartments,
leaving his son and his heir to consume that meal _tête-à-tête_. It was
a great improvement on the usual _menu_. Evidently Fuzzil had resources
that he drew upon on worthy occasions.

“It’s a fine moonlight night,” remarked Fernandez. “Let us go and smoke
in front of the house, it’s better than being indoors, and I like to
make the most of the hill air when I’m up, and we are out of the way of
eavesdroppers.”

In a few moments they were sitting on the low wall in front of the Pela
Kothi.

“Osman was a desperate loss,” began Fernandez as he struck a fuzee--“a
desperate loss.”

“So I gather from what I hear,” assented his companion.

“That’s partly what brought me up. I have business round here, of
course, though. I live in Calcutta. I like to keep my eye on the
property, and I look after the major and manage his affairs as well as
I can--I feel it my duty.” And he began to smoke.

Was here yet another man, of no kin to Major Jervis, who was to put his
own flesh and blood to shame?

“I wish you would tell me something about my father--the last seven
years are a sealed page to me.”

“Well, first of all he got a fall on his head pig-sticking, and that
made him rather foggy for a bit, he saw everything double. Then of
course the tonga business was a finisher. Osman brought him here, and
at times he was perfectly well, as sane as you or I, and interested in
the garden, and the news, and all that, but he got worse by degrees,
fits of silence and depression, never opening his lips for maybe a
whole year--melancholy, suicidal mania--tried to hang himself with a
stirrup leather, you understand,” lowering his voice expressively.

“I--I--understand,” acquiesced the other, almost in a whisper.

“He must have some one always with him, more or less. Some one whom
he likes, and who has influence and a strong will, such as Osman--he
was invaluable. I don’t know how we are to find a substitute for him,”
continued Fernandez thoughtfully, as he crossed his legs, leant his
elbow on his knees, and puffed meditatively.

“The servants he has about him now must be shunted,” said Mark,
emphatically. “I never saw such a pack! They had a feast and tom-toms
last night. They are lazy, insolent, useless blackguards!”

“Not a doubt of it,” agreed Fernandez, cheerfully. “And Fuzzil will
retire a rich man, keep a gharry, and send his sons to college. They
come here fairly decent servants--but the desperately dull life, no
bazaar, no other ‘nauker log’ to bukh with, is a want no wages can
repay. Then the household has no head, no regular hours, and so they
all do as they please and go to the bad. I don’t know what is to be
done now--your father won’t allow a stranger near him. The question
is, Who is to replace Osman? Tell me that”--and he flung out his hand
with a dramatic gesture.

“I will replace Osman,” was the totally unexpected reply.

“You!” cried Cardozo, gazing at the speaker with round-eyed
incredulity. The young man’s face was pallid, his lips set hard. “You
don’t know what you are saying”--and he took his cheroot out of his
mouth and continued to stare at his companion exhaustively. “You are
accustomed to the big world of London; you have seen and done what I
have only read about--for I have never been home; you are accustomed
to a whirl of society, to novelty, excitement, luxuries, and immense
wealth. _You_ to live here? Upon my word, excuse me, my dear fellow,
the very _idea_ makes me laugh. Even I, born and bred in the country,
would go mad in a very short time. I could not stand the life for more
than a week--a month would kill me!”

“I am not so easily killed as you imagine. I am tougher than you
think,” rejoined Jervis.

“But you do not know what you would have to endure”--throwing out his
arms excitedly. “The solitude, the silence, day after day, exactly the
same--breakfast, tiffin, dinner, bed--nothing to do, nothing to hope
for, no one to see, except the hill-folk or a missionary. I tell you
that you would do one of two things--either cut your throat, or take to
drink.”

“Your eloquence is a loss to the bar, Cardozo.”

“So I have often been told”--with a hasty movement of his hand; “but
it is not a question now of my eloquence, but of your future. Do
you genuinely mean what you say? Do you intend to live here as your
father’s sole companion?”

“I do,” replied the young man, answering his look with eyes full of
indomitable fire.

Mr. Cardozo puffed away in solemn silence for some time, but there was
a certain brisk cheerfulness in his air as he suddenly remarked--

“The major is going downhill rapidly, poor old chap! His health is bad;
I see a great change in him. His mind will never recover. Of course
_that_ is not to be expected; you know that it runs in the family--it
is hereditary.”

“What runs in the family? What is hereditary?” demanded the other, with
a look full of pain and excitement.

“Insanity. He told Mércèdes, who told me, that his brother jumped
overboard at sea, going home in charge of two keepers; and his father
died in Richmond lunatic asylum.”

“Is--this--true?” Mark brought out the words in three quick gasps.

“You don’t mean to say that you never knew? Oh, I’m awfully vexed! I
entirely forgot you were his son. You look so different, upon my word,
as you stand there, that I cannot realize that he is anything to you.”

Jervis struggled to articulate again, but signally failed. With a
shaking hand he tossed his cigarette over the parapet, and then walked
away up the steps, and was instantly merged in the gloom of the
entrance.

“Hereditary.” The word seemed written before him in letters of
flame--“hereditary.”




                            CHAPTER XXXIV.

                         THE INITIALS “H. G.”


When it became known at the club, and subsequently all over Shirani,
that young Jervis had suddenly disappeared the night of the bachelors’
ball, great was the sensation.

No, no, there was no suspicion of foul play; there were his servants to
be questioned. Jan Mahomed, his respectable, grey-bearded attendant,
had declared that the night his master had come home, he had got
straight from his evening clothes into his riding things, and had taken
the grey pony and galloped away into the darkness. Whither? How could
he say? holding out a pair of lean, empty hands, with a gesture of
pitiable ignorance. He made no mention of the letter; for this prudent
retainer had lived with bachelor sahibs before.

Mrs. Langrishe and Lalla were for once agreed. They were convinced that
Mr. Jervis had gone further than he had intended with Miss Gordon,
and to repair the error, had subsequently put miles between them--was
probably by this time on blue water. But they did not venture to air
this opinion openly; it was reserved for “ladies only.” Major Langrishe
had laughed it to scorn; and as for Toby Joy, he and Lalla almost had a
quarrel on the subject--their very first quarrel.

“Jervis to propose to a girl, and then run away!” he cried indignantly.
“About the last fellow in Shirani to do such a mean trick. Jervis is a
gentleman to the soles of his boots, and a real good chap, worth fifty
of Waring.”

“Yes, so we all learn _now_, when it’s rather late in the day,”
retorted Lalla, sarcastically.

“You mean about the money! But I mean in other ways. He took it
awfully well the day I nearly smashed up him and Mrs. Sladen; you saw
that yourself! He certainly lay low with regard to the fact of his
being wealthy. He is the least ostentatious fellow I ever met, and as
straight as a die, a complete contrast to the great Clarence, who has
been playing the deuce up at Simla, by all accounts, and making ducks
and drakes of any quantity of coin.”

“Well, at least, we know _where_ he is, and _what_ he is doing!”
retorted Lalla. “But no one can say the same of the cousin. Where is
he, and what is _he_ doing? He was always very close about himself, and
I consider the whole thing most suspicious. Supposing a man proposed
for me.”

“Yes, supposing a man proposed for you,” repeated Toby, edging nearer
to the lady.

“And I accepted him. Now, don’t look so utterly idiotic, for mercy’s
sake! And he simply took to his heels and ran away, would I not think
that peculiar conduct? I must say Honor Gordon takes it better than I
should, under the circumstances.”

“How soon are you going to get rid of that fellow Gloster?” inquired
Toby irrelevantly.

Sir Gloster was bringing a tedious convalescence to an end, and taking
daily airings in Mrs. Langrishe’s rickshaw; and people, who were
disappointed of a wedding in one quarter, were eagerly expecting to
hear of one in another.

“I don’t know,” coquettishly. “Perhaps I may _never_ get rid of him!”

“You know you only say that to make me wretched. You don’t really mean
it, do you?” pleaded Toby, with such a look of misery on his usually
merry face, that Miss Paske burst into an uncontrollable scream of
laughter, and said--

“Toby, how can you be so exquisitely silly?”

The few days Mark Jervis had written of had grown into ten, and he
had almost slipped out of people’s minds, save when a string of ponies
being led along by their syces, and wearing smart jhools, with the
initials M. J., brought him momentarily to remembrance.

And now Captain Waring suddenly reappeared. He came direct from Simla,
back to despised Shirani, and in anything but his usual cheery spirits.
How he had cursed his coolies and ponies on the way up! What a life the
_débonnaire_ Clarence had led his miserable servants, as if the poor
wretches were responsible for his discomfiture, his bad luck, his ruin,
for it had come to that--and it was a desperate man, who spurred his
distressed country-bred pony up the last two miles of the dusty cart
road.

He was surprised to find Haddon Hall tenantless; but when the bearer
explained how “a Pahari had brought a note, and his master had gone
‘ek dum,’” _i.e._ on the spot, he nodded his head sagaciously, and
appeared to understand all about it. What he could not comprehend was
Mark’s prolonged absence. “Ten days gone,” Mahomed said; two days,
were he in Mark’s shoes, would be amply sufficient time to devote to
his eccentric parent.

Clarence was in a bad plight, and almost at the end of his resources,
which had hitherto been as unfailing as the widow’s cruse. He had
gambled recklessly, with stronger men than himself; he had thrown
good money after bad, in the usual wild attempt to recover both. His
I.O.U.’s and debts of honour and lottery accounts came to a large
total; he would be posted in a few days if he did not pay up. As to
other debts, they were legion--shop bills, club and mess accounts,
wages--they poured down on him in all directions, ever since that
little brute Binks had peached at Simla and spoiled everything. Miss
Potter had bitterly upbraided him, and subsequently snubbed him
unmistakably; the men at the club looked coldly on him; the high
players in the card-room had seemed stiff and curiously averse to his
“cutting in.” People suddenly stopped talking when he joined them; yes,
he was at a crisis in his life, a crisis brought on by his own insane
recklessness, and raging passion for play. He had come expressly to
Shirani to get Mark to assist him; if he failed him, if he refused to
stretch out a hand, and drag him back from the gulf of insolvency and
disgrace, on the brink of which he tottered, down he must go, and be
swept away and swallowed up, among the thousands and thousands who have
similarly gone under!

After a bath, a meal, and a smoke, Captain Waring felt better, and set
to work to think things out steadily, and to pull himself together. He
had sold his own ponies and guns, their price was a sop to his most
urgent creditors. He would now proceed to dispose of Mark’s battery.
Yes, they were fine weapons--he would put them and the ponies on the
notice board at the club at once--the price of them would pay their
passages and immediate expenses; Mark’s £500 would cover all debts; he
had not a rupee left at the agent’s, and he would make Mark come home
at once. It was true that their year’s leave had yet four months to
run, this was the middle of June, but he had made India too hot to hold
him for the second time. The sooner he set about winding up affairs the
better, and he rose on the spur of the moment, resolved to cast an eye
over his cousin’s saleable effects.

He went into Jervis’s room, the smaller and worst of the bedrooms, and
very plainly furnished. There was a bare camp bed, a rickety chest of
drawers, a washed-out dhurrie on the floor, also a long row of boots;
a couple of saddles on a stand, and a first-rate battery of guns--“a
double-barrel central-fire breach-loader, by Purdy, that will fetch
250 rupees; a 500 express, by Lancaster, 400 rupees; 8-bore rifle, 600
rupees; rook rifle, 100--say, 1300 rupees,” was his mental calculation.

When he had examined these, a parcel on the chest of drawers arrested
his attention; there was also a programme. He took it up and looked it
over; he was extremely inquisitive in such small matters. The card was
full, and opposite three dances were scribbled the initials “H. G.”

“Humph!” he muttered aloud. “So _that_ is going on!” And as his gaze
travelled to a ladylike parcel in silver paper--“What the dickens is
_this_?”

He promptly unrolled it, and beheld a most superior white ostrich
feather-fan, with the monogram H. G. on the handle. Captain Waring
unfurled it, fanned himself slowly, folded it up once more, and said--

“A feather shows how the wind blows, Mark my boy! Well, I’ll go over
to the club and hear what is going on, look up the mail steamers, and
offer your ponies and rifles, my fine fellow. You will have to come
home with me sooner than you think, and I’ll get great kudos from the
uncle for carrying you off from a dangerous entanglement--in other
words, from H. G.”

And Captain Waring sauntered out to the stables in a surprisingly good
humour.

“I’m sorry he has got the grey with him!” he muttered to himself;
“the grey is a long way the best of the three! The grey is worth five
hundred rupees.”

Strange to say, the grey, carrying his owner, arrived home that same
day about four o’clock, much to the bearer’s joy. His master spent the
afternoon packing, making arrangements, giving orders, writing letters.
He announced that he was going away again the next morning, and Jan
Mahomed and his son were to follow with all his baggage. In future he
would live with his father near Ramghur.

Jan Mahomed received this astounding piece of information in the usual
native fashion, merely with a stolid face and a long salaam.

Yes, his choice was made, the die cast, to Major Jervis’s intense
satisfaction, and to Fernandez Cardozo’s intense amazement. The former
had been ill, and had detained his son from an earlier return to Haddon
Hall to wind up his affairs, and open his letters, the latter including
one from his uncle, which had been lying on the writing-table for a
whole week. It said--

 “DEAR MARK,

 “Yours received, and I answer it within the _hour_. I note all you
 say about the young lady, and I don’t like the idea _at all_. My boy,
 you know I have never refused you anything, but I must say _no_ to
 this. I have only your welfare at heart. I cannot allow you to throw
 yourself away on an ordinary Indian spin. You are right to tell me all
 about it; and, as you have not yet proposed for her, _don’t_. You must
 marry some pretty, well-born girl, who has never been through the Suez
 Canal. Come home immediately; these idle days in a hill station have
 had a bad effect on your steady brain. Come home as soon as ever you
 can. Your father has evidently become naturalized; he does not want
 you--_I do_. As for the girl, you might give her a pony, or a diamond
 brooch--anything--everything, but yourself.

                                               “Your affectionate uncle,
                                               “D. POLLITT.”

As Mark looked up from this letter he met the scrutinizing black eyes
of Jan Mahomed which were fixed upon his face.

“This sahib has been ill,” he said, severely. “Jungle fever getting?”

“No, Jan, I am all right. This is the day the English dâk goes out, and
I want you to take a letter to the post for me, it will be ready in
twenty minutes, and send word to the Captain Sahib, that I have come
back.”

Then he drew his writing-case towards him and began a letter to his
uncle. Evidently this letter was not an easy composition, in fact, he
had already written it several times at Ramghur, and then instantly
destroyed it, but it must be written somehow, and _now_. The post left
within the hour. At length he wrote--

 “DEAR UNCLE DAN,

 “Since I last wrote to you I have been with my father; he sent for
 me suddenly, and I went off the same hour, as his note said that
 he was very ill. I found him living forty miles from this, in an
 isolated house, part of the Cardozo property, and under the name of
 Mr. Jones--a name he has adopted for the last seven years. I never
 would have recognized him, he is so broken down, and quite an infirm
 old man. This is the effect of the accident that killed his wife.
 But this is not the worst. His mind is deranged, which accounts for
 his strange silence and many other things. At times, such as at the
 present moment, he is perfectly clear and collected, but at others
 he suffers from depression and melancholia, and sits silent for days
 and weeks. He is alive to his own infirmity, and that is why he has
 chosen this life of seclusion. Until recently he had one of his former
 sowars living with him, an invaluable companion; and now that he is
 dead--an irreparable loss--Uncle Dan, I am going to tell you something
 that will be a shock, as well as displeasing, to you--I am about to
 take the place of this faithful servant, and endeavour to be his
 substitute. My father is a forlorn and stricken man; he has no one but
 me to look to--he does look to me, and I will not fail him. He is not
 wealthy--the begum’s riches, Mrs. Jervis’s fortune (minus a certain
 annuity), is strictly reserved for her next of kin, Fernandez Cardozo.
 He is not a bad sort, and has been looking after my father and his
 affairs--in short, fulfilling _my_ duty; but I shall relieve him of
 all this, and remain out here as long as my father lives. I am afraid
 that at first you will think I am treating you badly and ungratefully;
 but this I know, that, were _you_ in my place, you would do the same
 yourself. Of course I forfeit all claim on you by such a step as I
 am about to take, and it is a step which has cost a struggle. I am
 going to lead a different life to that to which I have been brought
 up. I shall be isolated and out of the world, for I can never leave my
 father even for a day. Once I take up my post, I shall stick to it.

 “I have found your letter here awaiting me--your letter about Miss
 Gordon. Of course that is all at an end now. As for her not being good
 enough for me, it is the other way about. She is the only girl I ever
 cared for. I shall never marry now, but will adopt the profession I
 chose as a child, and live and die a bachelor. I wonder that I can
 joke, for I need hardly tell you that I am not in a merry mood. I feel
 as if everything had gone from me at one blow, and I am left face to
 face with a new life and an inflexible duty. Whatever you may think
 of me, Uncle Dan, my feelings towards you will never change; I shall
 always think of you with affection and gratitude.

 “Clarence came back to-day from Simla. I have not seen him as yet.
 I only arrived a couple of hours ago, to collect my kit, dismiss my
 servants, and say good-bye to Miss Gordon. If you had ever seen her,
 and spoken to her, you would not have written that suggestion about a
 pony or a brooch. I go back to Ramghur to-morrow. My lot is not likely
 to be a very bright one; do not make it harder, Uncle Dan, by being
 implacable. I know that at first you will feel certain that you never
 _can_ forgive me, but you will by-and-by. Write to me and send me
 papers to care of Mr. Jones, Ramghur, _viâ_ Shirani. You may as well
 take my name off the clubs, sell the horses down at the farm, and tell
 Windover not to put the drag in hand.

                                              “Your affectionate nephew,
                                              “M. JERVIS.”

This letter, hastily written, with numerous erasures, the writer did
not trust himself to read over, but thrust it into an envelope,
addressed and despatched it on the spot, as if he almost feared that he
might be tempted to recall it, and change his mind.




                             CHAPTER XXXV.

                         “OSMAN’S SUBSTITUTE.”


“Hullo, Mark!” cried his travelling companion, with cordial,
outstretched hands. “So you are back? I only arrived this morning--came
straight through from Simla. What’s the matter, eh? You seem rather
choop.”

“Oh, I’ll tell you presently. Let us have your news first.”

“On the principle of keeping the best for the last, eh? for mine is
_bad_. Well, as for news”--removing his cap and sitting down--“I
suppose you have heard that our secret is now public property. That
blatant ass, little Binks, had it all over Simla. What business had
_he_ to thrust himself into our private affairs?”

“It was never what you would call private,” rejoined Mark, who was
leaning against the end of a real old-fashioned hill sofa, with his
hands in his pockets. “I am only surprised that it never came out
before.”

“Yes, now that you mention it, so am I. We had a good many
fellow-passengers, but they none of them came up this way; they were
mostly for Burmah, or Madras, or globe-trotters. I could not give the
name of one of them if I got a thousand pounds. There is nothing one
forgets so soon as a fellow-passenger. Of course you have been to see
your governor?”

“Yes. I’ve been away nearly a fortnight.”

“And how did you find him?”

“I am sorry to say very broken down--ill and desolate.”

“But with sacks of gold mohurs all round the rooms, and chandeliers
of real diamonds. I hope you have some in your pockets?” said Waring,
gaily.

“No. He is a comparatively poor man; at least he has just enough to
live upon--an annuity. The bulk of his fortune goes, as it ought to go,
to the Cardozo family.”

“Well, one fortune is enough for you,” rejoined Clarence. “I came up
post haste. I rode your bay pony in the last ten miles, and, by Jove!
I thought I had killed him. It was frightfully hot, and I put on the
pace. I gave him a whole bottle of whisky when I got in.”

“A whole bottle! Well, I hope you will give him some soda-water
to-morrow morning. What a head the poor brute will have!” he added,
with a wintry smile. “But what was the reason for such desperate
riding? Has Miss Potter come back?”

“Miss Potter be hanged!” was the unchivalrous reply. “I came up as hard
as I could lay leg to the ground to get you to help me out of an awful
hole--an infernal money muddle.”

“To help you again! I thought that five hundred pounds would put you
straight.”

“Good heavens, man! it’s not hundreds, but thousands that would do
that!” cried the prodigal.

Jervis ceased to lounge, and now assumed a more uncompromising attitude.

“Explain,” he said laconically.

“Yes; I’ve been going it, my boy,” admitted Waring, with a reckless
laugh. “Old faces, old places, were too much for me, and I dropped a
pot of money. There was a fellow from New Orleans, a long-headed chap,
a born gambler, and a wild-looking Hungarian count; they carried too
many guns for me. One night we had three thousand pounds on the turn of
a card. Ah, that is living! There is excitement, if you like! Better
twenty hours of Simla than a cycle of Shirani.”

“Nevertheless you have returned to Shirani?”

“Yes, only because I am cleared out,” was the absolutely unabashed
reply.

“I’m sorry to hear it, Clarence; but it is not in my power to help you
beyond the five hundred pounds that will pay our expenses here. The
table was papered with bills when I came back.”

“Oh, those!” with a gesture of scorn, “rubbishy little shoeing
accounts, stable accounts, and rent. I don’t mind _them_, it’s others.
I’m really in an awful hat this time and no mistake, and you must
assist me.”

“I cannot.”

“I tell you again that you must!” cried Waring, throwing himself
back in his chair, with an energy that made that venerable piece of
furniture creak most piteously.

“There is no ‘must’ in the matter,” retorted the other steadily, “and
if I were in the humour for joking--which I am not--the comic side of
the situation would make me laugh. You were sent out by Uncle Dan as my
mentor, to keep me straight, to give me the benefit of your experience
and to show me round. Wasn’t that the arrangement? But, by Jove,”
suddenly springing up and beginning to pace the room, “I have been
lugging you out of scrapes ever since we landed in the country!”

“It is a true bill, oh wise, cool-headed, and most virtuous Saint Mark!
This, I most solemnly swear to you, is my last and worst scrape. Get
me a cheque for a certain sum, wire to the uncle to lodge it at the
agents, and I’ll be a truly reformed character, and never touch another
card, for ever and ever, amen.”

“And afterwards?”

“Afterwards we will reward the old man, and rejoice his heart, by
packing up and going home by the next steamer. He would give many
thousand pounds to get you back again--you are the apple of his
little pig’s eye. This country does not agree with me--I don’t mean
physically, but morally. It’s an enervating, corrupting, beguiling
land. We will sell off your guns and ponies, dear boy. I’ve put them
up at the club--I hope I have not broken the wind of that dark bay--we
will go down in the mail tonga this day week, _en route_ for Bombay.
There are temptations for _you_ in this Indian Empire too. The sooner
you say good-bye to H. G. the better. Now, there is my programme for
you--my new leaf. What have you to say to it?”

Brisk and confident as his speech had been, there was a certain
unmistakable lameness in its conclusion. Waring had secretly winced
under his listener’s eyes--his listener, who sat motionless,
contemplating him with an expression of cool contempt.

“The first thing I have to say is, that my guns and the ponies are not
for sale, or only the chestnut with the white legs.”

“Great Scot! You don’t mean to tell me that you intend to take three
ponies home! And what do you want with an express rifle and an elephant
gun in England?”

“I may require them out here. I am not going back to England.”

Captain Waring sat suddenly erect.

“Of course this is all humbug and rot!” he exclaimed vehemently.

“No. I am quite in earnest. I intend to remain with my father; it is
the right thing for me to do. He is alone in the world; his mind is
weak.”

“So is his son’s, I should say,” burst out Waring, throwing his
cigarette into the verandah. “Get him a keeper--two keepers, by all
means; a baby house, a barrel organ, every comfort, but don’t _you_ be
a lunatic. Come home with me. Think of Uncle Dan!”

“Yes, I know very well that Uncle Dan will cast me off; he told me he
would, if I remained out here with my father.”

“Cast you off!” almost screamed the other. “Do you mean to tell me that
you will never see the colour of his money again?”

“Never.”

“I believe that Miss Gordon has something to say to this scheme, as
well as this mad Quixotic idea about your father,” cried Clarence,
crimson with excitement. “As for the girl, you must let her slide,
we have all been through _that_; but, for God’s sake, hang on to the
uncle, and the coin. You are the only mortal for whom he will open his
purse-strings.”

“I have written to him, and told him that I am not going home.”

“Is the letter posted?”

Mark nodded.

“Then,” turning on him fiercely, “you have burnt your boats.”

“I have.”

“You are mad to chuck everything at twenty-six years of age. You give
up your life at home----”

“I know best what I am giving up,” interrupted his companion
impatiently. “I know that I am going back to Hawal Ghât to-morrow.
There is nothing to be gained by remaining on here, and Cardozo is
staying with my father till I relieve him. I am winding up my affairs,
and paying off my servants, except Jan Mahomed, and his son, who are
coming with me, and to-morrow I turn my back upon Shirani.”

“Short--sharp--and decisive is the word,” sneered Waring, with bitter
emphasis. “Have you got over your good-byes yet?” he added, with
pitiless significance.

“No,” becoming rather white, “not yet.”

“I was told at the club that you were engaged to her. Is _she_ to form
part of the new scheme? Will marrying her also come under the head of
the ‘right thing to do?’ Eh?”

“You may spare your gibes,” said Jervis, sternly. “Miss Gordon is
absolutely free. As for myself--I shall never marry.”

“Oh, ho!” with a derisive laugh, “never is a long word. Well, to
descend to more prosaic matters, what about these Shirani bills and
that five hundred?”

“You shall have it, of course.”

“Yes, you are a man of your word, even if it is a question of a
thrashing. I’ll never forget the day that the cad who was ill-using a
horse on the towing-path riled you and taunted you; he got hold of the
wrong man that time, and no mistake, poor beggar. He never guessed how
you could use your fists. You looked so slim and genteel, but you left
him with two lovely black eyes.”

Mark made a gesture of protest. Time was precious. What was the use of
raking up irrelevant old stories?

“Can’t you draw upon the uncle for a couple of thousand, at least?”
urged Waring, after a considerable silence; “it will be no more to him
than a couple of pence--and will save me from--from----”

“What?” asked his companion quietly.

“From,” avoiding his penetrating eye, “a lot of bother and worry.”

“I cannot draw on him now for a penny, beyond the five hundred; but
I am sure he will help you when you see him. How soon are you going
home?”

“In a week. Hullo!” starting up, “there is the mess bugle. Are you
coming over to dinner?”

“No; tell the mess sergeant to send me something.”

“Any champagne? I’d recommend a bottle of the pink wine of France. You
are bound to see things more _couleur de rose_.”

Jervis shook his head with an air of impatient negation.

“Well, I must go and change; but I’ll look you up again, of course,
before you turn in.”

Clarence proved as good as his word; besides, he had as yet to receive
a certain sum of money. He duly appeared about eleven o’clock,
unusually flushed, and in a state of boisterous good humour. He
found his former comrade still sitting at their joint writing-table,
scribbling notes and servants’ chits.

“You look as if you were making out your last will and testament.
Writing your own obituary notice, eh, old chappie?”--slapping him
familiarly on the back. “In one sense you _are_ committing suicide,
and burying yourself alive. I’ve sold your chestnut pony, and got the
cheque--two fifty rupees--dirt cheap.”

“It will go towards paying off some of these,” said Mark, nodding at
the bills.

“Oh, a mere drop in the ocean,” rejoined Clarence, with easy scorn.
“However, we can’t have our cake and eat it,” ignoring the fact that it
was he who had devoured not only his own cake, but the other man’s as
well.

“Here is the cheque for five hundred pounds,” said Mark, producing his
cheque-book. “I told Uncle Dan I was going to draw it some time ago, so
it will be all right”--writing rapidly and handing it over. “It will
clear all bills here--mess, rent, and shops; or”--still retaining it--
“shall _I_ keep it and pay them? I can send the money by post.”

Waring glanced at the slip of paper held towards him. His eyes blazed
with a curious light; his voice was husky as he eagerly answered,
“No, no; you may rely on me. I’ll be paymaster to the very end of the
chapter,” and he seized upon the cheque somewhat precipitately.

“And you will not make any other use of it than paying off our joint
debts? You will promise me that, Clarence?” speaking with an air of
cool authority. “On your honour, Waring?”

“On my word and honour. What do you take me for, old man? I’ll get it
cashed at the treasury here, pay all the bills like a gentleman, and
send you the receipts. I hope that will please you?”

“Yes, that will do, of course; and mind you settle them at once.”

“I hear old Double Gloster and Miss Paske are engaged,” said Clarence,
hastily changing the subject.

“Are they?” indifferently. What was Shirani news to him now?

“And there is not a road in India wide enough for Aunt Ida. Well, Mark,
I am sorry you are so headstrong. You were always a bit hard in the
mouth, though you never kicked over the traces. You’ve been a brick, I
must say. What time are you off to-morrow?”

“About seven o’clock.”

“Then I think I’ll say good night. You look pretty fagged, and you had
better turn in. This”--nodding--“is not good-bye; I’ll make a point of
seeing you in the morning.”

Nevertheless Mark stood erect, and held out his hand in silence.

How pale he looked; how worn and haggard he had become! Clarence
intuitively felt that this was their last interview; something
indefinable assured him that they would never again stand face to face.

He was conscious of an extraordinary mixture of regret and relief.
Jervis had represented a sort of conscience. His example, his
disagreeably rigorous standard of honour, his steady eyes, had shamed
him from doing many things that he ought not to have done. Mark was
a young saint, a hero; yes, Miss Valpy was right, he had the face
of one. It was the act of a hero to renounce the world, wealth, and
love--occasionally synonymous with the flesh and the devil--and devote
his life to a crazy old man. He was a cool, reliable comrade, ready
with tongue, arm, or rifle. It was true that he had been the means of
pulling him out of several nasty scrapes, and this cheque for five
hundred pounds, now in his waistcoat pocket, would pull him out of the
worst scrape of all!

He waited until he saw Mark go into his room and close the door, and
then he slipped back to the club to play “snookers” and black pool.
He was not home until three o’clock in the morning; and when he awoke
about noon, and shouted for his bearer and his tea, he was informed
that the “chotah sahib,” as the servants called Jervis, “had been gone
many hours.”




                            CHAPTER XXXVI.

               “GOOD-BYE FOR EVER! GOOD-BYE, GOOD-BYE!”


It was about eight o’clock in the morning, and Mrs. Brande, as she put
the last touches to her toilet, was certain that she heard a man’s (a
gentleman’s) voice in the verandah. Pelham was from home; who could
it be at such an hour? Some one come for “Chotah Hazree.” Well, Honor
would look after him! Ten minutes later she came out, flourishing in
her hand a freshly unfolded handkerchief, and gave quite a little gasp
of pleasure as she recognized Mark Jervis. He was leaning against the
stone pillar of the verandah talking earnestly to her niece, and his
pony was waiting at the steps.

“Why, I do declare, this _is_ a pleasure,” she cried; “a sight for sore
eyes! Where have you been hiding yourself this ten days?”

But somehow her exuberant delight was instantly quenched, when she
caught sight of the faces of the two young people. Mark looked
strangely agitated and as if he had but just recovered from some all
but mortal sickness. Honor, her bright, happy Honor, was as smileless
and white as death.

“I have come,” said Jervis, advancing with an outstretched hand, “to
say good-bye.”

“Dear, dear, dear!” waving away his salute. “You have not said, ‘How do
you do?’ to me yet!”

“No, I’m afraid I am very stupid to-day. I don’t intend to have any
secrets from you, Mrs. Brande.”

“Oh, I know your secret, so does every one,” nodding. “I think you
might have given us a _little_ hint.”

“You mean about the money; and I would have done so only my hands were
tied.”

“And your cunning cousin never let on!”

“No, but that is not what I have to tell you----”

“Then come into the drawing-room and sit down like a Christian, and
send the pony round.”

He shook his head emphatically as he said, “I can only wait a short
time. I am going off now to a place forty miles away, to live with my
father.”

“Your father!” she repeated, incredulously.

“Yes, my uncle adopted me when my father married again. My father is
Major Jervis, he has lived in these hills for some years. I never knew
his whereabouts until recently. The night of the ball he sent for me,
he believed that he was dying, and I went off at once--I found him very
ill, and quite alone and desolate. I am going to keep him company for
the rest of his days. You see, he has no one in the world belonging to
him but me.”

“Well, I declare!” said Mrs. Brande, after a pause. “It is awfully good
of you, that I will say; but if you are your uncle’s adopted son, how
will _he_ take it?”

“Badly, I am afraid, but I cannot be in two places; my uncle has a
wife, and heaps of friends, and money, and first rate health.”

“Make your father come in to Shirani; we will put him up; and why not
get him to go home?”

“It would be of no use to urge him to either step; he is a fixture in
his present home for as long as he lives.”

“Well, at least you will often come in and see us--_you_ are not a
fixture!” she urged eagerly.

“Mrs. Brande, you are very good--I shall never forget all your kindness
to me--but as far as I can see, I shall never come back to Shirani
again. My father could not spare me, for one thing--and for another,”
and there was a ring of passion in his voice as he added, “I could not
endure it. Think of me, as companion to an invalid, with every moment
occupied,” and here his words sounded a little husky. “Do not tempt me.”

“Oh, Mark, my boy, I am so sorry!” she exclaimed; “to think that this
is good-bye--that we shall not see you again.”

Mark told himself that this so-called underbred, vulgar woman had
accepted the news of the shattering of her niece’s fortune in a manner
that no duchess could have surpassed. Apparently it was not the loss of
position, of thousands a year, that had cut her up--she had stood that
with marvellous stoicism--it was the loss of Mark himself!

“You know, of course, what my hopes were,” he said, glancing towards
Honor, who stood at the far end of the verandah, gazing out at what--?
“There is an end to them now. Some explanation is due to you and Mr.
Brande, and I will write. She need never know _all_. Let people in
Shirani suppose what they please, as long as it does not reflect on
_her_. Our engagement was never given out--it was a mere matter of
hours. My father is peculiar, he wishes to keep his name and existence
a secret--you will understand all--later on.”

“I remember him well,” said Mrs. Brande; “such a handsome fellow,
and so fond of society, and so popular. His second wife--I have seen
her--a dark person, with----Well, she is dead; let her rest. Oh, Mark,
I suppose this must be. But is there not some way out of this trouble,
some loophole, some alternative? Surely you would not sacrifice my poor
Honor and yourself for nothing?” And her still pretty blue eyes swam in
tears.

“No, Mrs. Brande, you may rely on me in that. To hold to Honor--I give
up Honor. May she come as far as the gate with me?”

“Yes, she may, to be sure.”

“And give me something--you have no photograph, I know--just to show
that we part friends?” And he looked at her appealingly.

Mrs. Brande, who had been crying, deliberately wiped her eyes, and
threw both her arms round his neck and kissed him. It was no mere
playful threat this time! The dirzee, who had just arrived, and was
slowly unfolding his mat, could hardly believe his senses. He told the
scandal in the bazaar that evening, and was laughed to scorn for his
pains!

The young couple, closely followed by syce and pony, walked slowly to
the gate; ay, and up the road.

“I little thought how I should next see you, and what I should have to
tell you, when we last parted at this very gate,” he said at last.

“You are giving up a fortune and great prospects, I know, Mark, because
you find your duty lies out here; you are giving up the world and
going into banishment. But, Mark, I prepare you, that I am going to
say something”--with a catch of her breath--“that may lower me in
your eyes; still I will venture. Surely you need not give up _me_.
Please”--speaking forcibly--“hear my reasons. I am accustomed to a very
quiet life at home. I was brought up in poverty; I shall make a capital
poor man’s wife. You say your father’s affairs are in a fearful muddle,
and that he has but an annuity. I can nurse him, read to him, walk out
with him, and amuse him; I will be very good to your father. I don’t
want society, or new dresses, or anything, or any one--but you, Mark.
I know that I am shamefully bold and unmaidenly--it would kill Mrs.
Grundy to hear me--but I believe you think that I shall mind your dull,
lonely jungle life; that I shrink from poverty. You are quite mistaken;
I shall enjoy it with you. Do not say ‘No,’ Mark, even if we must wait.
I am ready to wait--ten, twenty years--thirty years,” concluded this
reckless young woman.

She was waiting now for his answer, white and trembling from the force
of her own emotion.

“Honor, I know you will pity me,” he began at last, “pity me, when I
tell you that I must say ‘No.’ I must face this life alone. God bless
you, and give you a double share of happiness--your own, and what might
have been mine. I have lately learnt something”--and his pale face grew
ashy grey--“that will prevent my ever calling any woman ‘wife.’ The
sacrifice I am bound to make is bitter; yes, bitter as death. I am not
going to sacrifice you; you must forget me, darling. You have all your
young life before you; put me out of your mind--gradually, sorrowfully,
tenderly--as if I was dead.”

“I shall never do that, Mark. Tell me; may I write to you?”

“No!” was the most unexpected and chilling reply.

“But yes, as your sister?” she pleaded, boldly.

He shook his head.

“I could never come to think of you as my sister.”

“At least you will give me your address? Once, we were to have spent
our lives together; now, I may not even know where I am to think of you
as spending yours.”

“You had much better not think of me at all,” he answered, with a
tremor in his voice.

“I must, and I shall. Be quick and tell me.”

“My father calls himself Mr. Jones; he lives beyond Hawal Ghât, about
forty miles away, and I must be with him before dark. By-the-by, I have
kept your fan; it may seem an odd notion, but you will understand. And
now I must go.”

Hearing the sound of clattering hoofs and gay laughing voices rapidly
approaching, he held her hand in his but for one second and dropped it.
Then the syce hurrying forward with the pony, he mounted and galloped
off. No--he never looked back.

Honor stood for a moment as in a sort of trance; then she turned and
leaned against the palings, which bordered a pine-forest sloping to the
road. The gay riding party cantering past, rather wondered to see Miss
Gordon without her hat, evidently looking for something in the wood.
They had no time to stop and ask her what it was that she had lost?

They would have been rather astonished if they could have learnt the
truth--that she had just that moment lost her lover,--and for ever.
They might have guessed at a tragedy of the kind, had they seen her
white set face, and the expression of the clenched hands that grasped
the palings. But they did not see, nor did they suspect any connection
between Miss Gordon looking into a wood, and a momentary vision of a
young fellow on a bay pony, who had flashed up a side path, before they
could identify either man or beast.

Honor, with a perfectly colourless face, walked up to her aunt, who was
still softly sobbing in the drawing-room, and leaning her hand upon
her shoulder, said in a strange emotionless voice--

“It is all over, auntie. We have said good-bye for ever.”

She stooped and kissed her, and went and shut herself up in her own
room, from which she did not emerge for several hours; and then the
girl who did appear was a different Honor Gordon.




                            CHAPTER XXXVII.

                         THE SON AND THE HEIR.


“I never expected to see you again,” cried Fernandez, as with a napkin
over his arm, and a lamp held above his round black head, he surveyed
Jervis, who was stiffly dismounting from his pony.

“Why not?” inquired the traveller, as he came up the steps.

“_Every_ why not, my dear fellow. If I had been in your shoes, you’d
never have seen _me_ again. I’d have taken my _jawab_. You are a young
man in a thousand.” And he patted him affectionately on the shoulder.

“Not at all”--following him into the dining-room, where the remains of
an excellent repast was on the table--“I’m simply a young man of my
word.”

Fernandez may have belied himself, but the chances were that his own
estimate of his character was correct. There is much in heredity! He
came of an easy-going, voluptuous, volatile stock, as his soft fat
face, loose mouth, and merry but unsteady eye indicated. His companion
was descended from another and stronger nation; his character was cast
in a sterner mould; he was the scion of a race of soldiers, who had
fought, suffered, and died for a cause. Jervis’s square jaw, resolute
glance, and firmly-cut thin lips, told a tale of where the flesh had
warred against the spirit, and had _not_ prevailed.

“How is my father?” he asked, ere he seated himself.

“Perfectly well--that is, his mind. He has been looking for you all day
with the spy-glass. He was tired and went to bed early. He said he knew
you would be here by morning. If you _had_ deserted him, I don’t know
how it would have been”--touching his forehead significantly.

Fernandez gesticulated incessantly with a pair of small, plump,
delicately shaped hands, on which flashed rings of great value, and of
which he was equally proud.

He played the part of host to the son of the house, anxiously pressed
him to eat dainties, and drink champagne, and was exceedingly
loquacious and confidential. The pale and worn-looking traveller ate
but little, and supported his share of conversation by monosyllables,
whilst Mr. Cardozo discoursed volubly of his late cousin, and threw a
somewhat lurid light upon her married life.

“Oh yes, Mércèdes was very generous and hospitable, and not bad
looking--no, when she did not disfigure herself with a mask of pearl
powder; but she was frightfully extravagant, as intriguing as her
grandmother, and as jealous as”--immediate words failed him for a
simile, and after a considerable pause, he added--“the devil. No, the
poor major had his own troubles. He might not speak to another woman;
he was handsome and popular, and had a taking manner; he could not help
that. But she made some awful scenes.”

“Did she?” returned Jervis, with the provoking indifference of a young
man to whom domestic “scenes” are merely a figure of speech.

“Yes, there is a great deal to be said in favour of the zenana system,”
continued Fernandez, solemnly. “There are no open scandals, no
hysterics at balls, no slapping of other ladies at dinner-parties, no
making a man look small before his comrades. Mércèdes took good care
never to look small herself. She always rented the biggest bungalow
in a station, and had it coloured outside to suit her taste--it was
generally pink-and-white, like a Christmas cake! She kept open house
and about fifty servants. She liked to sit behind four spanking
horses--the major was a capital whip. And as to her diamonds--why, she
blazed like a catherine-wheel. She left all the jewels to the major for
life, as a mockery, for they are no use to him, he cannot sell a stone;
but I can, and will, by-and-by. The native jewels are worth lakhs. Most
of them are in the bank at Calcutta; but there are a few here in a
safe--jewelled daggers, horse pistols, gold battle-axes, betel-boxes.
There is one emerald and ruby necklace, with pearl tassels, that is
worth fifty thousand rupees, and a sirpesh or forehead ornament, set
with huge rubies, said to have belonged to Ahmed, the last native
conqueror of India----”

These descriptions were rolling off Fernandez’ fluent tongue, when it
occurred to him that he was speaking to deaf ears. What would rouse
this odd, abstracted young man--the mention of money?

“The jewels, I see, do not interest you,” he exclaimed; “but I must
tell you something about your father’s income.”

The abstracted young man turned a pair of steady eyes on the
descendant of a Portuguese free lance and nodded assent.

“Mércèdes made her will in a tantrum; she had made and revoked dozens.
However, as she was suddenly cut off, this one had to stand. She left
me, her sole heir, a fine present income--_everything_ at your father’s
death. He has a thousand pounds a year as long as he lives, or until
he marries, and up till now the money is thrown away and wasted; it
goes to blood-suckers and hangers-on in hundreds--to every one but
the owner. When he has one of his bad attacks, he will draw a cheque
for the asking. Unprincipled tradespeople have sent in accounts for
articles that have never come here. There are, however, four hundred
military saddles in one of the lumber-rooms, and about nine hundred
pairs of long jack-boots. He raises a regiment, you see, when he is not
in one of his melancholy fits. A great deal of money sticks to Fuzzil’s
greasy palms.”

“So I should suppose; but that is over.”

“There is a leper village chiefly supported by the major in his lucid
intervals. The beggars and lepers assemble on Sunday for their alms. It
is a great charity.”

“Yes; which is more than we can say for Fuzzil”--with a mechanical
smile.

“Well, I am off to-morrow; my wife is expecting me,” continued Cardozo,
briskly.

“Then you are married!” exclaimed the other, with unqualified surprise.

“No, I don’t look it, do I? But I married when I was eighteen--the more
fool I!--to a pretty little girl you could almost blow away. Yes; and
now she weighs sixteen stone. She has very bad health, and seldom goes
out, though I keep a fine carriage and horses for her. She does not
care for anything much, as long as she has her priest, her doctor, her
woman cronies, who tell her all the gossip, and her coffee. Oh, she
is very particular about her coffee. She is not fond of clothes, or
jewellery, or show; indeed, poor woman, she is too unwieldy to dress
and go about. Now, _I_ am a society man;” and he threw himself back
with a smile of extravagant superiority. “I go round looking after the
property, I run up to Mussouri often, I have plenty of friends. I do a
little betting, I play billiards, I am passionately fond of dancing.
I appreciate a good dinner and a pretty woman--and pretty women
appreciate _me_. Oh yes!”

He half closed his eyes, and puffed and blinked alternately, with an
air of ineffable content. It was all that his _vis-à-vis_ could do to
keep his countenance; indeed, he was not entirely successful.

“Oh, you may laugh!” exclaimed Mr. Cardozo, with perfect good humour.
“Other men laugh, too; but _I_ win--I walk in,” he concluded, with an
air of superb complacency.

Mark gazed dispassionately at his little stout, sleek companion. He
was fat and forty, effeminate and vain; but then he was wealthy and
good-natured. Were these the traits that appeal most strongly to
women-kind?

“I am a great ladies’ man, I do assure you. I could show you
letters----”

Jervis made a gesture of frantic dissent.

“Bah, bah, bah! Why, you know very well you’ve had fifty love affairs
_yourself_.”

“If I had I should keep them to myself.”

“That’s a snub”--with a roar of laughter. “And you _would_; you are a
close sort of fellow, I should say. Now, I am not; I like talking about
my experiences.”

“With Mrs. Cardozo, of course.”

“Mrs. Cardozo knows there is no harm in _me_; but I must have my own
friends, just as she has hers.” And he stretched out his arm and
amorously contemplated a slender gold bangle. “I suppose”--with a
self-conscious smile--“you don’t possess one?”

“Great aunt! I should think not. Do you wear a necklace, too?”

Mr. Cardozo, who was certainly the soul of good humour, burst into
another roar of laughter; and Fuzzil, who was listening at the door,
reported that “the Kala Sahib and the other were talking like brothers.”

“Well, well; enjoy life while you may--that’s _my_ motto.” And he drank
off a bumper of Madeira and smacked his lips audibly. “You need not be
shocked; I shall take the best care of Maria as long as she lives, and
when she dies I shall marry again--probably a young girl.”

Mark offered no comment, none being required.

“Yes, I enjoy life. And you; what will you do here? Wait”--with a
dramatic gesture--“I will answer my own question. Either this”--holding
a glass to his lips--“or this”--drawing his hand significantly across
his throat.

    “Satan finds some mischief still
    For idle hands to do.”

“My hands will be full,” rejoined the other resolutely. “I intend to
work great reforms. I shall manage the domestic budget; I shall get
rid of Fuzzil and his clan.”

“Ho, ho, ho! you will just as easily get rid of the sun, moon, and
stars. He is a fixture; he has been here for years. His brother is
khitmatgar; his father is cook; his uncle is dhobie. Oh, Fuzzil has
struck in his roots; he knows when he is well off.”

“And I know when we are _not_ well off. He is a gambling, drunken,
insolent ruffian. Rooted, you say! I shall turn him out, root _and_
branch.”

“You will be very strong if you do that,” rejoined Fernandez, looking
between his eyelashes at the spare, stern-faced young man across the
table, who continued--

“I will depend on you to send me up a decent cook. I shall put my
bearer at the head of the staff; his son will attend my father.”

“They will rob you, of course,” remarked Cardozo, with a shrug.

“I doubt it. But if they do, it will be in a quiet and respectable
manner--not indecently and extravagantly--and to no great extent. The
money will pass through my hands. The mallees must learn that they
will no longer receive a garden rent free, and wages for working for
themselves. We will have some new furniture, the house cleaned and
routed out, a daily dâk, papers, books, a pony for my father.”

“You will never do all this--never. I wish you every success, you
know”--nodding towards him--“but the labours of Hercules, the cleaning
of the Augean stables, were a mere joke to your task. Come, now, I’m
a sporting fellow; I bet you fifty rupees to twenty, that when I come
back in a couple of months’ time, just to see if you are alive, I shall
find our friend Fuzzil and the goats, old hags, children, and chickens,
_in statu quo_.”

Jervis shook his head; he was not in the mood to bet or joke. Life was
real, life was earnest--grim earnest, with him now.

“Well, ta-ta! it is nearly twelve o’clock, and I have to make an early
start,” said Mr. Cardozo, rising, and with a yawn that seemed to
divide his head in two parts, he waved a valediction with his pet hand
and ring, and swaggered off to bed.

But Mark Jervis was of stronger stuff than flabby, emotional,
self-indulgent Fernandez; and after a desperate struggle he carried out
his plans. The desperate struggle being on the part of his father’s
good-for-nothing retinue. When in one brief sentence he informed Fuzzil
that he no longer required his services, Fuzzil looked as if he could
not credit his ears. He blew out his fat cheeks, and struck an attitude
of defiance, as with folded arms and head on one side he said--

“You not my master. I take no orders.”

“I am your master now,” said Jervis.

“I never going. This Mr. Cardozo’s house.”

“Indeed! I think he would be surprised to hear that; and you will find
that you are mistaken. You have made a very good business out of this
situation. Your time is up, and you clear out to-morrow.”

Mahomed, the bearer, and his following arrived, and a grand
transformation scene ensued. Some old women in the compound and
stabling had to be carried out bodily, shrieking vociferously, with
their beds and cooking things and other luggage--the collection of
years of thieving--like so many magpies’ nests. Fuzzil himself had also
to be assisted off the premises, being extremely drunk, his turban
askew, and uttering wild cries of vengeance, with spluttering, foaming
mouth. And then the new _régime_ came into working order. The house
underwent a consolidated spring cleaning; sun and air were admitted
to dusty old locked-up rooms--rooms that offered many surprises in
the shape of their contents; a mixture of the properties of East
and West--old howdahs and silver horse-trappings, rusty swords and
spears, images of saints, holy water stands, crucifixes, pictures,
tulwars, bonnets, betel-nut boxes, hookahs, armour. It was, in fact, a
combination of a native “tosha-khana,” or wardrobe room--an oratory and
a pawnbroker’s shop.

Dust, and dirt, and cobwebs were swept out, as well as goats, and
kids, and poultry. House linen, glass, and crockery, and carpets were
replaced--money and the telegraph wires can do great things--walls
were white-washed, windows cleaned, jungle cut down. Thus was order
and energy infused into every department. The “Pela Kothi,” though
shabby, was neat and cheerful. The meals were good, and served by
snowy-clad servants; flowers and fruit were actually to be seen on the
table. There was a daily post, books, magazines, and a steady hill
pony to carry Major Jervis. But he preferred to hobble on his son’s
arm a hundred times up and down the terrace, talking of old times, and
noting each turn with a bean. He was a different man already, roused at
any rate for the moment from his stupor; he took an interest in the
news of the day, in the garden, and, above all, in his pensioners, the
lepers.

The young reformer, who had been the means of all these changes, had
worked hard, worked ceaselessly from morning till night. He felt that
incessant occupation was his only refuge; he dared not give himself
time to think. He walked over the hills of an afternoon, when his day’s
work was done, walked until he was so completely worn out that he
was safe to sleep like a log, and, above all, safe from what he most
dreaded--dreams.




                           CHAPTER XXXVIII.

                THE VOICE IN THE CONDEMNED CANTONMENT.


The condemned cantonment had an extraordinary fascination for Mark
Jervis, and he frequently made a considerable detour, in order to
return home by the path that led through this beautiful but melancholy
spot. The world had abandoned it for a good reason--he had abandoned
the world for a good reason, they had something in common in their
isolation. He was familiar with the barracks, the mess-house, the
ruinous bungalows, their wild tangled gardens, where flower and tree
fought desperately against extinction by savage cousins and distant
wild relations. Apple and rose trees still managed to hold their
own, but heliotrope and geraniums had long succumbed. The churchyard
was his constant haunt, he knew the names and short histories on the
grave-stones, head-stones, crosses, and not a few immense square
tombs, such as appear to be peculiar to old Indian cemeteries. It was
as if a small house, or mortuary chapel, had been reared over the
departed, and the more sincerely mourned, the larger loomed these great
dark weather-stained erections! There was a big and stately edifice
dedicated to the memory of Constance Herbert, aged nineteen. What had
poor Constance done to deserve to be weighted down with so many tons of
masonry? The inscription was effaced. There was another sarcophagus,
erected over the remains of a man who was killed by a fall from a
precipice; and a tomb, the size of an ordinary gate lodge, was raised
to the memory of an infant aged eighteen months.

One evening Mark descended the hill after a long and very erratic
tramp; it was the hour of sunset; he stood for a few moments a
captive to the influence of his surroundings--the bluish hills, the
amethyst-tinted distance, the quiet smokeless bungalows, nestling among
their flower-choked verandahs, the soft yellow light flooding the
entire valley, the uncanny silence, a silence befitting this forsaken
spot.

He sat down on the grass-grown chabootra (or band-stand), drew out and
lit a cheroot. It was Sunday, and he instinctively glanced over at the
roofless church. What had been the last service held between its walls?
A service for the burial of the dead, no doubt--the long-forgotten
dead, who were buried in its precincts. As he sat there alone in the
midst of dumb witnesses of the past, his mind travelled back over his
whole life, and he steadily reviewed its most memorable incidents one
by one; the most noteworthy of all had befallen him in these very
mountains. His thoughts dwelt on his uncle, then on Honor Gordon. What
was she doing just now? Perhaps she was sitting in church, listening
attentively to one of Mr. Paul’s brief and excellent sermons. Had her
thoughts, or prayers, ever strayed to him? Was it true what Miss Paske
had said about woman’s thoughts? Could he honestly tell his own heart
that he hoped Honor Gordon had forgotten him? Would he prefer to be
what the Bible terms “a dead man, out of mind?”

The sun had drawn away his bright warm cloak foot by foot, the grey
pall of a short Indian twilight was rapidly spreading over the
valley. Shadows advanced stealthily and momentarily, the woods were
inscrutable, and the first cry of the jackal rose through the sharp
hill air.

Jervis had risen already to depart, when his attention was arrested
by an unexpected sound--no jackal this, it was a voice, a human
voice--coming from the direction of the church or churchyard. He
almost held his breath to listen, and this is what he heard, in what
had been once a full rich contralto. Every syllable was distinctly
audible, and there was a slight almost imperceptible pause between each
word--

    “Oh, where shall rest be found--
      Rest for the weary soul?
    ’Twere vain the ocean’s depths to sound,
      Or pierce to either pole.”

There was a silence of a full minute, during which the young man’s
heart thumped loudly against his ribs. Was he listening to the voice of
one risen from the grave?

Then the weird singing recommenced, with a wail of passionate despair
in the notes--

    “The world can never give
      The bliss for which we sigh;
    ’Tis not the whole of life to live,
      Nor all of death to die.”

He waited for a considerable time in a fever of thrilling
expectancy--but there was no more. Having made certain of this,
his next move was to acquaint himself with the personality of the
performer. He ran over to the ruins of the church, climbed in across a
pile of broken masonry--the small square enclosure was easily measured
at one glance--it was empty.

Then he walked slowly round, and examined the walls by the dying light.
No, his quest was vain, there was not a soul--undoubtedly it had been a
soul--to be seen. In the gathering darkness, the now silent valley had
grown very sombre, the trees made awful shadows, and the forest seemed
to stretch away up the mountains, until it was lost in the dusky sky.

       *       *       *       *       *

“In what direction did you ride to-day, Mark?” inquired his father as
they sat over their dessert.

“I cannot tell you precisely, sir; but I came home by the cantonment.”

“A lovely spot; the authorities could not have chosen better, if they
had searched five hundred miles--good air, good water, good aspect; and
yet the last regiment died there like flies. The natives say it is an
accursed place, and not a man of them will go near it after sundown.”

“I suppose you don’t believe in that sort of thing, sir; you are not
superstitious?”

“Not I,” indignantly. “Mércèdes was superstitious enough for fifty; she
had all the native superstitions at her finger-ends, and the European
ones to boot! There was very little scope left between the two! Almost
everything you said, or did, or saw, or wore, was bound to have a
meaning, or to be an omen, or to bring bad luck. I remember she was
reluctant to start from Mussouri the day she met her death, simply
because she found a porcupine’s quill upon the doorstep! I have seen
some queer things in my day,” continued Major Jervis. “When we were
quartered at Ameroo I got a fright that I did not recover from for
months. I had lost my way out pig-sticking, and was coming back alone,
pretty late. At one part of the road I had to pass a large irregular
strip of water, and there standing upright in the middle of it was
actually a _skeleton_, swaying slowly to and fro; I shall never forget
that blood-curdling sight--and I don’t know how I got home, to this
very day.”

“And how was it accounted for?”

“By perfectly natural causes, of course! Cholera had broken out at a
village close to where I saw the spectre, and the people had died in
such numbers that there was no time for the usual funeral pyre. It was
as much as those spared could do to bring the corpse to the spot, tie
a gurrah (those large water vessels) to head and feet, fill them with
water, push the body out, and then turn and fly almost before it could
sink out of sight! My ghost was one of these bodies. The gurrah from
the head had broken away, and that at the feet had pulled the corpse
into an upright position, and there it was, a spectacle to turn a man’s
brain! We were quartered at Ameroo for four years, and I never passed
that miserable spot without a shudder. When I last saw it the water
lay low, covered with the usual reddish-looking Indian water-weed; down
by the edge was a skull blackening in the sun. That hideous pool was
the grave of two hundred people.”

“And so your ghost was accounted for and explained away,” said Mark.
“Did you ever come across anything, in all your years out here, that
could _not_ be accounted for or explained away?”

“Yes, I did; a queer, senseless, insignificant little fact, as
stubborn as the rest of its tribe. One morning many years ago I was
out pigeon-shooting with some fellows, and we came upon a large
peepul tree, among the branches of which waved sundry dirty little
red-and-white flags, and under its shade was a chabootra, about fifteen
feet square, and raised three feet off the ground. Mounting this, in
spite of the protest of a fakir, we discovered a round hole in the
centre, and looking down, we perceived filthy water, covered with
most unwholesome-looking scum. The sides of the well were hollow and
uneven and had a sort of petrified appearance. We asked the reason of
the signs of “poojah” we beheld, and heard the simple story of the
water in the well. It never increased or decreased, no matter if the
weather were hot and dry, or cold and wet; no matter whether rain fell
in torrents, or the land was parched with drought, whether sugar-cane
juice or the blood of the sacrificial goat was poured in by buckets
full, or not at all. It might be closely watched, to show that it
was not regulated by human hands, and it would be seen that it never
changed. Therefore it was holy. The god “Devi” was supposed to be
responsible for the curious phenomenon of the water always standing at
the same level--about four feet from the mouth of the well, and never
increasing its depth--said to be thirty feet. Over and over again I
revisited the spot, so did others--and we never discovered any change.
That was a fact we could not explain. All the same, I do not believe in
the supernatural!”

As his father did not believe in the supernatural and was likely to be
a sceptical listener, Mark resolved to keep his experience to himself;
perhaps there might be a natural cause for _it_ too.

The arrival of a visitor to the Yellow House was not lost upon the
neighbourhood; several young planters flocked down to look him up, and
discussed fruit crops, tea crops, and the best beats for gurool, the
best rivers and lakes for mahseer, and gave him hearty invitations
to their respective bungalows. The German missionary sought him out,
also Mr. Burgess the American doctor and padré, who worked among the
lepers. He, like his predecessors, had been struck with the remarkable
and almost magical change that had been wrought in and around the Pela
Kothi. He beheld his patient, Major Jervis, in a comfortable airy room,
dressed in a neat new suit, reading a recent _Pioneer_ like a sane man.
Like a sane man, he discussed politics, local topics, and with greater
enthusiasm his son, who unfortunately was not at home. Presently an
excellent tiffin was served to the visitor, he was conducted round the
garden, and as he noted the improvements in every department, he came
to the conclusion that Jervis, junior, must be a remarkable individual.
He had an opportunity of judging of him personally before he left, for
he rode up just as Mr. Burgess was taking his departure, regretted that
he had not arrived sooner, and calling for another pony, volunteered to
accompany the reverend guest part of the way home.

A spare resolute-looking young fellow and a capital rider, noted Mr.
Burgess, as Mark’s young pony performed a series of antics all the way
down the path in front of his own sober and elderly animal.

“Your father is wonderfully better. I am his medical adviser, you
know,” said the missionary.

“Yes, and I wish you lived nearer than twelve miles.”

“He has a wonderful constitution. He has had one stroke of paralysis,
he may be taken suddenly, and he may live for the next thirty years. Is
it long since you met?”

“I have not seen him till lately--since I was a child.”

“That is strange, though of course India does break up families.”

“I was adopted by an uncle, and lived in London most of my time.”

“Ah, I understand; and came out to visit your father.”

“Yes, partly; indeed, I may say chiefly.”

“And have thrown in your lot with him. Mr. Jervis, I honour you for
it.” Mark looked uncomfortable, and his companion added, “This life
must be a great change, indeed, as it were another form of existence,
to you; you must not let yourself stagnate now you have set your house
in order, but come among us when you can. There are Bray and Van Zee,
the two nearest planters to you, both good fellows. You have a much
nearer neighbour, that you will never see.”

“Indeed, I am sorry to hear that. May I ask why?”

“It is one who shrinks from encountering Europeans, even holds aloof
from me. Though we work in the same field, we have rarely met.”

Mark would have liked to have gleaned more particulars, but the burly
American missionary was not disposed to be communicative, and all he
could gather about his mysterious neighbour was, that the individual
was not a European, not a heathen, and not young.




                            CHAPTER XXXIX.

                           A FRIENDLY VISIT.


Captain Waring had departed for England without ceremony or beat of
drum (leaving his debts behind him), also presumably his cousin, who
had not had the common decency to leave P. P. C. cards--no, not even on
the mess or the club--and who had treated poor Honor Gordon shamefully;
indeed, several matrons agreed that in the good old days such a man
would certainly have been shot or horsewhipped!

How Colonel Sladen had chuckled, surmised, and slandered, had bemoaned
the girl’s lost good looks, and her aunt’s idiotcy to all comers, as he
waited impatiently for his afternoon rubber! Next to his whist, the
relaxation he most thoroughly enjoyed was a _bonâ fide_ ill-natured
gossip, with a sauce in the form of sharp and well-spiced details.

No reliable information respecting Mr. Jervis had as yet been
circulated--for Clarence, on second thoughts, had kept his late
comrade’s plans and whereabouts entirely to himself.

Mrs. Brande knew, and held her tongue. What was the good of talking?
She was much subdued in these days, even in the colour of her raiment.
She rarely went to the club; she dared not face certain questioning
pitiless eyes in the awful verandah; indeed she kept in the background
to an unparalleled degree. Nevertheless she had her plans, and was
prepared to rise phoenix-like from the ashes of her former hopes. She
was actually contemplating a second venture, in the shape of a niece.
She thought Honor wanted cheering up, and a face from home--especially
such a lovely face--would surely have a happy result. But Honor’s
thoughts were secretly fixed upon another countenance, a certain
colourless, handsome face--a face she never expected to see again. Her
mind dwelt with poignant memories on a pair of eyes, dim with wordless
misery, that had looked into her own that hateful June morning.

“We can well afford it, P.,” urged his wife, apropos of her scheme.
“One girl is the same as two--one ayah between them.” She little knew
Fairy.

“Please yourself,” cried Mr. Brande, at last; “but Honor shall always
be my niece, my chief niece, and nothing shall ever put her nose out of
joint with her uncle Pelham.”

“No one wants to! I should like to see any one try that, or with me
either. But what a nose Fairy has! Just modelled to her face like a
wax-work.”

Mrs. Brande talked long and enthusiastically to Honor about her sister.
But Honor was not responsive; her eyes were averted, her answers
unsatisfactory; indeed, she said but little, and looked positively
uncomfortable and distressed. And no doubt she felt a wee bit guilty
because she had prevented the child from coming out before. But that
was very unlike Honor; Mrs. Brande could not understand it.

How she would exult in a niece who was a miracle of loveliness, instead
of being merely a pretty, bright, and popular girl. Not that Honor was
very bright now; she was losing her looks, and Honor’s love affair had
come to such a woeful end. Honor was not the sort of girl to take up
with any one else; and, indeed, she could not wonder. Poor Mark! of all
her boys, he was the one nearest to her heart.

Still she considered that he had carried filial love a great deal
too far, when she had thought over his sacrifice in moments of cool
reflection. It was a shame that Mark, and Honor, and a magnificent
fortune should all be sacrificed to an eccentric old hermit.

Mrs. Brande said little; she was not receiving the support and
encouragement she expected. She placed Fairy’s photograph in poor
Ben’s silver frame in a conspicuous place in the drawing-room, and she
mentally sketched out the rough draft of another letter to Hoyle.

Before this letter took definite shape, Mrs. Langrishe came to call--a
dinner “call”--in full state and her best afternoon toilet. Seating
herself on the sofa, she began to tell Mrs. Brande all about her
dear invalid, exactly as if she were talking to a most sympathetic
listener--instead of to a deadly rival.

“He is such a nice man, and so quiet in a house.”

“For that matter,” retorted Mrs. Brande, “he is quiet enough out of the
house, and everywhere else.”

“And he is so contented and easily amused,” continued Mrs. Langrishe.
“I left him with Lalla reading aloud to him.”

“Do you think that is _quite_ the thing?” inquired Mrs. Brande, with a
dubious sniff.

“Why should she not do it as well as hospital nurses?” demanded her
visitor.

Mrs. Brande reflected on the result of her own nursing. Would this
nursing have the same effect?

“Hospital nurses are generally young, single, and very frequently
pretty,” resumed Mrs. Langrishe. “They read to their patients, and take
tea with them, and no one says a word. All the difference between them
and these girls is, their uniform and their experience; and surely _no_
one ever dreams of making a remark about those excellent, devoted young
women!”

Lalla was not excellent, but she had certainly been most devoted--as
her aunt thankfully acknowledged.

“Well, I don’t know that I should allow Honor to do it,” said Mrs.
Brande, with a meditative air.

“Possibly not. It would, of course, depend upon circumstances.
Now”--laying two fingers playfully on Mrs. Brande’s round arm--“I am
going to be a little bird, and whisper a little secret in your ear.”

Mrs. Brande drew back, as if she thought Mrs. Langrishe was going to be
a little rattlesnake.

“It is not to be given out for a few days, but Lalla and Sir Gloster
are engaged. It is quite settled.”

Sir Gloster had only proposed the previous evening, and had begged
that the fact of the engagement might be kept quiet for a week, until
he had wired home to his all-important mother. She must be told before
any one. Yes, he had succumbed to Lalla’s bright blandishments. He
was a dull, heavy man; he liked to be amused. He would have amusement
all day long when Lalla was his wife. She had a charming voice, and
read aloud well. She brought him all the scraps of news, she was an
admirable mimic, an adroit flatterer, and altogether a charming girl;
and her daily _tête-à-têtes_ were of a most stimulating character,
and he looked forward to them with keen anticipation. She gave him a
capital description of the unmasking of Captain Waring, the sensation
created by the _soi-disant_ poor relation; how every one was certain
that it was going to be a match between him and Miss Gordon; how he had
absconded, and Miss Gordon was left. He had evidently joined his friend
in Bombay--_wise_ young man!

Sir Gloster, who was naturally of a huffy and implacable disposition,
had never recovered the shock to his affections and self-esteem. He
was by no means sorry to hear that in her turn Miss Gordon had been
spurned, and he was resolved to show her how speedily _he_ had been
consoled.

Mrs. Langrishe, when she entered Mrs. Brande’s house, had not intended
to divulge her great news--merely to throw out hints, draw comparisons,
and trample more or less on the fallen and forsaken.

But for once human nature was too strong for her: she would have had a
serious illness if she had not then and there relieved her mind of her
overwhelming achievement.

Mrs. Brande opened her blue eyes to their widest extent; her worst
fears were confirmed.

She however mustered up an artificial smile, and said--

“I am sure you are very pleased,” which was true--“and I am glad indeed
to hear it,” which was not true.

“It is to be kept quiet for a week,” murmured Mrs. Langrishe; “but I am
telling you as an old friend, who I feel _sure_ will be pleased with
the news. Of course, we are all delighted; it is everything we could
wish,” and she drew herself up.

“I should rather think it was!” rejoined Mrs. Brande, tartly; she was
but human after all.

“My brother and all my people will be much gratified--Sir Gloster is
such a dear good fellow, and so well off, and _so_ steady.”

“I hope he won’t be a little _too_ steady for Lalla!”

“Not he; and he delights in all her fun, and singing----”

“And dancing?” suggested Mrs. Brande, significantly.

“It will not be a long engagement,” ignoring this little thrust. “This
is the second week of September; we shall all be going down in another
six weeks. We will have the wedding in about a month.”

It was on the tip of Mrs. Brande’s tongue to say, “Delays are
dangerous,” but she closed her lips.

“Where is Honor?” inquired Mrs. Langrishe, with rare effusion.

“She has gone off down the khud to get ivy for the table. I have a
small dinner this evening.”

“You are always having dinners, you wonderful woman.”

“Well, you see, in Pelham’s _position_, we must entertain, and I make
it a rule to have a dinner once a week.”

“You are quite a providence to the station!” cried her visitor
affectedly. “How pretty those grasses are. I suppose Honor arranged
them? What a useful girl she is!”

“Yes, she takes all trouble off my hands. I don’t know how I shall ever
get on without her.”

“How lucky for you, that there is no chance of her _leaving_ you! My
dear, that was a most unfortunate affair about Mr. Jervis.”

“What do you mean?” inquired Mrs. Brande, whose crest began to rise.

“Oh,” with a disagreeable laugh, “it is what did _he mean_! He paid
Honor the most devoted attention, and the moment he was revealed in his
true colours--he fled. No one knows what has become of him.”

“Pardon me--_we_ do!” returned his champion, with a quiver of her
double chin.

“And--where is he, dear? what is he doing?”

“He is doing a good--a noble action. Putting himself and his wishes
aside for the sake of others,” returned Mrs. Brande in a white heat of
emotion.

“Oh well,” rather disconcerted, “if you and Honor, and above all _Mr.
Brande_, are satisfied, of course there is no more to be said----”

“No,” pointedly. “I hope no more will _be_ said. Have you seen the
photograph of my other niece, Honor’s sister?” making a desperate
effort to rally and change the conversation, and reaching for the
frame, which she solemnly placed in Mrs. Langrishe’s hand.

“What do you think of her?” Here at least she was certain of scoring a
small triumph.

“Think, my dear woman! Why, that she is perfectly lovely.” (It was safe
to praise a girl who was in England.)

“At first she was coming out to me,” her aunt pursued, “but she changed
her mind. Now we are thinking of having her out in November with the
Hadfield’s girl.”

“Indeed,” said Mrs. Langrishe, reflectively, and still nursing the
picture, as it were, on her knee.

She had a wonderful knack of picking up odd bits of news, and her brain
contained useful little scraps of the most promiscuous description.
Her mind was a sort of ragbag, and these scraps often came in
appropriately. She rummaged out a scrap now.

She had recently heard, from a cousin of hers (an artist), of a Mrs.
Gordon, a widow with two daughters, one of them lovely, who was sitting
to him as Rowena--an ideal Rowena--but who was also a dwarf--a sort of
little creature that you might exhibit.

“Does your niece live at Hoyle, and is her name Fairy?”

“Yes. Why do you ask?” rather eagerly.

“I have heard of her, recently, from my cousin, Oscar Crabbe. And why
did she not come out?” looking at her with a queer smile.

“Her health was not very good--and there was some other reason--which I
have not been told.”

“I know the reason, and can tell you, if you like,” said Mrs.
Langrishe, with an air of affectionate confidence.

Here was an unexpected opportunity of planting a dart in her
adversary’s side.

“There is no object in keeping the matter secret, it is just as
foolish as that scheme of young Jervis’s, who was like an ostrich
sticking his head in the sand. By the way, it appears that _that_ is
quite an exploded idea! Every one in Hoyle knows Miss Fairy Gordon’s
appearance--she is extraordinary lovely--but----”

“But not mad? Don’t say she is mad!” protested Mrs. Brande, excitedly.

“No, no; not so bad as that. But,” looking steadily into her listener’s
eyes, she added, “poor little creature, she is a _dwarf_! She never
grew after she was ten, I am told. Yes, it is a dreadful pity,” gazing
into her hostess’s horrified countenance. “Sitting down, she is just
like other people--but when she stands up, she seems to have no legs.”

“A dwarf! No legs! And she thought of coming to me! And I was just
going to write and ask her to start in November,” repeated Mrs. Brande
in gasps.

“Well, my dear, it is a most fortunate circumstance that your letter
has not gone. What could you have done with her? You could never have
taken her out except _after dark_.”

This was a terribly effective thrust. Mrs. Brande was wholly unable to
retaliate, and made no reply.

“A dwarf!” Her mind conjured up a little fat sallow woman, such as she
had once seen outside a show at a fair, and that miserable stunted
native who was carried about Shirani, begging, on the shoulders of a
boy.

And her niece, of whose picture she was so proud, that she had placed
it in a solid silver frame--her lovely niece was like that!

“I wonder Honor never told me,” murmured Mrs. Brande at last.

“And I do not,” was the emphatic rejoinder. “From all accounts,
the mother and sisters have always spoiled the little one, who
believes that she is in no way different to other people, and is too
ridiculously vain. Even if she had been five foot six, I am sure that
you are far happier without her,” concluded Mrs. Langrishe, rising and
squeezing her hostess’s hand as she spoke. And having offered this
small fragment of consolation, she rustled away.

Mrs. Brande, poor woman, had been indeed trampled upon, and crushed
to the very earth. She had been asked to join in her rival’s song of
triumph over Miss Paske’s superb success; she had been condoled with on
her own dear girl’s misfortunes; and she had been informed that she was
aunt to a dwarf!

She sat for some time in a shattered, stupefied condition; then she got
up, and hastily carried off Fairy’s photograph and locked it away in a
box, secure from all eyes, and from even the ayah’s inquisitive brown
fingers.

Honor noticed the absence of her sister’s picture from its usual post
of honour--it was nowhere to be seen--the absence of Fairy’s name in
conversation, the sudden cessation of all interest in Gerty Hadfield’s
movements, and guessed rightly that some one had kindly enlightened her
aunt, and that she was in possession of the _other_ reason now.




                              CHAPTER XL.

                 THE NEW WEARER OF THE CORNELIAN RING.


Six weeks had crawled by. With all his occupation Mark found time
desperately hard to kill; he felt as if he had lived his present life
for at least six years. The monsoon had broken, and on some days the
torrents compelled him to remain indoors; and whilst sheets of rain and
hurricanes of wind swept the valley, an appalling loneliness settled
down upon the miserable young man. His father passed many hours in
sleep, and he had not a soul with whom to exchange a word. One evening,
during a welcome break, he was riding homewards down a steep and
slippery path that wound through wet dark pine-woods, when his pony
suddenly shied so violently as almost to lose its footing; he had taken
fright at an undefined object beside the road, something which at first
his rider mistook for a bear, until it emitted a groan of unmistakable
human anguish.

“What is the matter?” asked Jervis, as he quickly dismounted.

“Alas, I have hurt my foot!” replied a female voice in Hindostani. “I
fell down--I cannot walk.”

Jervis threw the bridle over his arm, lit a match, and, shading it with
his hand, saw, huddled up, what appeared to be an old native woman. She
explained to him, between groans and gasps, that she had twisted her
ankle over a root on the path, and could not move.

“Are you far from home?” he inquired.

“Three miles.”

“In which direction?”

“The hill above the old cantonment.”

“I know. If you think you can sit on my pony, I will lead him and take
you home safely.”

“Oh, I am such a coward,” she cried. “Is the pony gentle?”

“Yes, he is all right; I will answer for the pony.”

“I--and I cannot bear pain. Oh--oh! but I must”--vainly struggling to
rise, and sinking down again.

She proved a light weight, as Jervis raised her bodily in his arms,
and placed her in the saddle. Fortunately the pony, who bore the
suggestive name of “Shaitan,” was too much sobered by a long journey to
offer any active opposition to carrying a lady. The homeward progress
proved exceedingly tedious; the road was bad and nearly pitch dark. The
native woman, who appeared to know every yard of the way, directed her
companion by a path almost swallowed up in jungle, to a hill behind the
old mess-house. Up and up they climbed, till they came to a tiny stone
bungalow, with a light in the window. The door was thrown open by
another native woman and an old man, whose shrill voluble lamentations
were almost deafening.

“You had better let me carry you in?” suggested Jervis.

“No, no.” Then imperiously to the other woman, “Anima, bring hither a
chair and help me down.”

But Anima, of the lean and shrivelled frame, had been set a task far
beyond her strength, and in the end it was the muscular arms of the
young Englishman that lifted the other from the saddle. As he placed
her carefully on the ground, her shawl, or saree, fell back, and the
lamplight revealed a fair-skinned woman with snow-white hair, and a
pair of magnificent black eyes. She was possibly fifty years of age--or
more--and though her lips were drawn with pain, she was remarkably
handsome, with a high-bred cast of countenance. No native this; at any
rate, she resembled no native that Jervis had ever seen. Who was she?

A glance into the interior surprised him still further; instead of the
usual jumble of cooking-pots, mats, and hookahs, he caught a glimpse of
a round table, with a crimson cover. A newspaper, or what looked like
one, lay upon it; there was an armchair, a fire blazing in a fireplace,
with a cat sedately blinking before it.

Who was this woman? He was not likely to learn any further
particulars--at present, for she was helped in by her two servants; and
as he waited, the door was abruptly closed and barred, and he was left
outside, alone in the cold and darkness. Here was gratitude!

He rode slowly home, the pony figuratively groping his way, whilst his
master was lost in speculation. This was the mysterious neighbour, he
felt certain; this was the tender of the graves--the owner of the voice.

He related his adventure to his father whilst they played picquet.

Major Jervis was not half as much surprised as the young man had
anticipated--he simply stroked his forehead, a favourite trick of his,
and said, with his eyes still fastened on his cards--

“Oh, so you have come across the Persian woman! I so seldom hear of
her, I had forgotten her.”

“Persian?”

“Yes. She has been in these hills for years, working among the lepers.
A fair-skinned woman, with great haunting dark eyes.”

“But who is she?” throwing down his cards and looking eagerly at his
father.

“She is what I tell you,” impatiently--“a Persian; they are generally
fair, and I dare say she has been handsome in her day, about thirty
years ago. Why are you so interested?”

“Because I have another idea in my head; I believe she is an
Englishwoman.”

The major’s laugh was loud, and sound, and not at all mad.

“She is a Persian--only, of course, you are no judge--and to the very
tips of her fingers.”

“But what is she doing up here?”

“I would rather you asked her that than I did,” was the extremely sane
reply. “She is a Christian, I believe, and is working out her sins. I
have no doubt she is a woman with a past. You can read it in her eyes.
Come, my boy, take up your hand; it’s your turn to play.”

Mark Jervis, as we know, had not been permitted time or opportunity to
read anything, whether referring to past or present, in the Persian’s
eyes; but this omission was corrected ere long.

One afternoon he noticed a figure, stick in hand, resting on the
mess-house steps, as he rode by--a figure which raised the stick, and
imperatively summoned him to approach.

It was undoubtedly his recent acquaintance, who pulled the veil further
over her head, as she said--

“Sahib, I wish to thank you for your charitable benevolence. Truly, but
for you, I should have lain all night in the forest, in the rain, and
among the beasts.”

“I hope you are better?” he asked, doffing his cap.

“Yea, nearly well. Though I am a stranger to you, I know that you are
Jones Sahib’s son.”

“Major ‘Jervis’ is his real name. Yes--I am his son.”

“I have heard of you,” she continued, rather loftily.

“Indeed!”

“From the leper-folk,” she added, significantly.

“It is you who keep the graves yonder in order?”

“May be!” was her cautious reply.

“And who sing English hymns in the old church?”

A slight contraction passed over her face as she replied--

“Nay--I am a Persian woman from Bushire. What should I know of thy
songs or thy tongue?”

“Then who--can it be?” inquired Jervis, looking at her steadfastly.

“Noble youth--why ask me? A woman from the dead, perchance,” she
retorted mockingly.

“At least, it is you who do so much good among the sick Pahari-folk and
lepers?” he persisted.

“Yea, I am but one--the field is great. Who can fill jars with dew? I
would I could do more.”

“I believe that were hardly possible.”

“As far as these hands go,” extending a pair of delicately-shaped
members, “I do what I can; but what is one lemon for a whole village
to squeeze! If I had a big house that would serve as a hospital, I
should have my heart’s desire. I am skilled in medicine, so also is my
servant; we would have our sick beside us, and could do much--that is
my dream. It will never come to pass till the sun shall be folded up
and the stars shall fall.”

“Surely one of these bungalows would answer. Why not this mess-house?”
suggested Jervis generously.

“True; but the sircar would not yield it to me. Already the sircar
has given me my abode; and, doubtless, were I to ask for the Mess
Khana, they would aver that I was like to the man who, on receiving a
cucumber, demanded a tope of mango trees! Moreover this dead station
may reawaken once more. Even in _my_ memory the merry sahibs and mem
sahibs have sojourned here, and held great tamashas; but it is years
since they came, and the place, perchance, is forgotten.”

“And so you have lived here alone--for years?” said the young man. His
remarkably expressive eyes distinctly added the “_Why?_” his tongue
refrained from uttering.

“Yea, I have been dead to the world and the roar of strife and life for
many moons! If all tales be true--tales whispered even in this empty
land--you have forsaken many delights to give your days to the old
man, your father? Is it not so?” She looked up with a quick gesture,
and her saree fell back.

As Jervis gazed down into the dark eyes turned towards him, he agreed
with his father; here was undoubtedly a woman with a past--and a tragic
past!

“It is a noble sacrifice,” she continued; “but what saith the Koran?
‘Whatever good works ye send on for your behoof, ye shall find them
with God.’ I am old enough to be your mother. I marvel if I had had a
son, would he sacrifice himself thus for me--were I of your people, a
Feringhee woman, I marvel?” she repeated meditatively, as she put up
her hand to draw her veil further over her head.

As she did so, the young man started as he recognized her ring--Honor’s
cornelian ring. Many a time he had noticed it on her finger, and her
peculiar trick of turning it round and round, when in any mental
quandary, had been the subject of more than one family jest. How came
it to be on the hand of this Mahommedan woman?

She instantly interpreted his glance, and exclaimed--

“You observe my ring. Truly it is of little value--in money--but to me
it is beyond price. It was given to me by a maiden I saw but once. Her
words were pearls, her lips were rubies, but her music, and her eyes,
drew the story of my life from my inmost soul.”

“I am sure I know the lady!” cried her listener impetuously,
“young--and tall--and beautiful. She plays what you call the sitar.
Where did you meet her?”

“Ah, sahib, that is _my_ secret,” she answered after an expressive
pause; “but, lo! I can reveal yours,” and she looked at him steadily as
she added, “_you love her_.”

“What do you mean?” he stammered. “Why do you say so?” and he coloured
up to the roots of his crisp brown hair.

“Of a truth, I read it in your face. It is not for naught that folk
call me a magic wallah.” And she rose stiffly to depart. “You have
abandoned her, I see,” she continued, with a flash of her wonderful
eyes, “and lo, the fat old mem sahib, her mother, will marry her to
some one else! Behold your reward, for doing your duty!” And entirely
forgetting her previous quotation from the Koran, with this unpleasant
and cynical remark, the Persian made him a profound salaam, and hobbled
away.




                             CHAPTER XLI.

                           “IT WAS A HYENA.”


The rains were over by the middle of August, and Shirani cast
off mackintoshes, discarded umbrellas, and society--restless and
fluctuating--looked about for some fresh and novel form of out-door
amusement.

Among the second-leave arrivals, the most active and enterprising of
the new-comers, was a Captain Bevis, the moving power in whatever
station he was quartered; the very man for getting up dances, races,
and picnics. He was resolved to strike out an entirely original line on
the present occasion, and inaugurated a grand joint expedition into the
interior--none of your exclusive “family parties,” or a petty little
“set” of half a dozen couples. No, this sanguine individual actually
proposed to move Shirani _en masse_. He had heard of the abandoned
cantonment, of Hawal Bagh, galloped over to inspect it with his
customary promptitude, and came flying back to the station on the wings
of enthusiasm. “It was a perfect spot,” this was his verdict; scenery
exquisite, good road, good water, lots of bungalows, a mess-house to
dance in, a parade ground for gymkanas. Every one must see the place,
every one must enjoy a short informal outing, the entertainment to be
called the “Hawal Bagh week.” Captain Bevis threw himself into the
project heart and soul; he invited another hill station to join; he
sent out circulars, he collected entries for gymkanas and polo matches,
and the names of patronesses for the grand ball at Hawal Bagh. Dead and
long-forgotten Hawal Bagh, that was to awake and live once more!

Subscriptions poured in, parties went over to explore, empty houses
were allotted, a vast army of coolies was enlisted, the jungle was cut
down, the bungalows cleaned up, the very gardens were put in order. A
quantity of supplies and cart loads of furniture were soon _en route_,
and the servants of Shirani entered into the project with the zeal
of the true Indian-born domestic, who hails a change, a “tamasha,”
anything in the shape of a “feast,” with a joy and energy totally
unknown to the retainers of the folk in these colder latitudes.

Hospitable Mrs. Brande was to have a house and a house-party. “P.” was
absent on official business; but, under any circumstances, he would not
have been a likely recruit for what he called a “new outbreak of jungle
fever.” The Dashwoods, the Booles, the Daubenys, the Clovers, were to
have a married people’s mess. There were also one or two chummeries,
which made people look at one another and smile! The bachelors, of
course, had their own mess; moreover, there were tents.

Mrs. Langrishe joined neither mess nor chummery, this clever woman
was merely coming as the Clovers’ guest for two days, and Lalla was
Mrs. Dashwood’s sole charge. Mrs. Sladen, of course, stayed with Mrs.
Brande, who had been relegated to the old commandant’s house, an
important-looking roomy bungalow, standing in a great wilderness of a
garden and peach orchard. Once or twice during the last twenty years
it, and one or two other bungalows, had been let (to the Persian’s
great annoyance) for a few months in the season to needy families from
the plains, who only wanted air, good hill air, and could afford but
little else!

Mrs. Brande and her party arrived a whole day before the general
public, travelling comfortably by easy stages through great forests
of pine, oak, or rhododendron, along the face of bold, bare cliffs,
across shallow river-beds, and through more than one exquisite
park-like glade, dotted with trees and cattle--naturally, Mrs. Brande
kept a suspicious eye on these latter. When the travellers reached
their destination, they found that roads had been repaired, lamp-posts
and oil lamps erected, the old band-stand was renovated--servants
were hurrying to and fro, carrying furniture, shaking carpets, airing
bedding and picketing ponies. There were coolies, syces, soldiers, and
active sahibs galloping about giving directions. In fact, Hawal Bagh
had put back the clock of time, and to a cursory eye was once more the
bustling, populous cantonment of forty years ago!

       *       *       *       *       *

And how did the scanty society who dwelt in those parts relish the
resurrection of Hawal Bagh? To the neighbouring poor hill villagers
this event was truly a god-send; they reaped a splendid and totally
unexpected harvest, and were delighted to welcome the invaders, who
purchased their fowl, eggs, grain, milk, and honey.

Mark Jervis beheld the transformation with mingled feelings. He had
broken with his old life; most people, if they thought of him at all,
believed him to be in England--two months is a long time to live in the
memory of a hill station. Honor--she would be at Hawal Bagh--she had
not forgotten him yet. He would hang about the hills, that he might
catch a distant glimpse of her, or even of her dress. Surely he might
afford himself that small consolation.

As for the Persian, she surveyed the troops of gay strangers from her
aerie with a mixture of transports and anguish.

It was a fine moonlight night early in September, the hills loomed
dark, and cast deep shadows into the bright white valley. The air was
languorously soft, the milky way shone conspicuous, and fully justified
its Eastern name, “The Gate of Heaven.”

There was to be a ball in the old mess-house, and Mark took his stand
on the hill and watched the big cooking fires, the lit-up bungalows,
the hurrying figures; listened to the hum of voices, the neighing of
ponies, the tuning of musical instruments. Could this be really the
condemned, deserted cantonment of Hawal Bagh, that many a night he
had seen wrapped in deathlike silence? The dance commenced briskly,
open doorways showed gay decorations, the band played a lively set of
lancers, and a hundred merry figures seemed to flit round and pass and
repass; whilst the jackals and hyenas, who had been wont to hold their
assemblies in the same quarter, slunk away up the hills in horrified
disgust. Presently people came out into the bright moonlight, and began
to stroll up and down. Mark recognized many well-known figures. There
was Honor, in white, walking with a little man who was conversing and
gesticulating with considerable vivacity. She seemed preoccupied, and
held her head high--gazing straight before her. Lookers on see most of
the game. The man must be a dense idiot not to notice that she was not
listening to one word he said.

There was Miss Paske, escorted by a ponderous companion with a
rolling gait--Sir Gloster, of course--and Miss Lalla was undoubtedly
entertaining him. It almost seemed as if he could hear his emphatic
“excellent” where he stood. Mrs. Merryfeather and Captain Dorrington,
Captain Merryfeather and Miss Fleet, and so on--and so on--as pair
after pair came forth.

Suddenly he became aware of the fact that he was not the only
spectator. Just below him stood a figure, so motionless, that he had
taken it for part of a tree. The figure moved, and he saw the Persian
lady standing gazing with fixed ravenous eyes on the scene below them.
He made a slight movement, and she turned hastily and came up towards
him. They were acquaintances of some standing now, and met once or
twice a week either among the lepers or about the cantonment. Mark had
never ventured to call at the mysterious little bungalow, but he sent
her offerings of flowers, fruit, and hill partridges, and she in return
admitted him to her friendship--to an entirely unprecedented extent.
Whether this was due to the young man’s handsome face, and chivalrous
respect for her privacy and her sex, or whether it was accorded for the
sake of another, who shall say?

“You are looking on, like myself,” he remarked, as she accosted him.
“Are you interested?”

“Nay, ‘the world is drowned to him who is drowned,’ says the proverb. I
came to Hawal Bagh to retire from the crowd, and lo! a crowd is at my
gates!”

“This, surely, must be quite a novel sight to you?”

She gazed at him questioningly, and made no answer.

“Of course you have never seen this sort of thing before, English
people in evening dress, dancing to a band?”

“I have known phantoms--yea, I have seen such as these,” pointing, “in
a--dream--thousands of years ago.”

Her companion made no reply, the Persian often uttered dark sayings
that were totally beyond his comprehension. Possibly she believed in
the transmigration of souls, and was alluding to a former existence.

“Mine are but spirits, whereas to you these people are real flesh and
blood,” she resumed. “You were one of them but three months ago. Think
well ere you break with your past, and kill and bury youth. Lo, you
grow old _already_! Let me plead for youth, and love. Heaven has opened
to me to-day. She,” lowering her voice to a whisper, “is among those--I
have seen her--she is there below.”

“I know,” he answered, also in a low voice.

“Then why do you not seek her--so young, so fair, so good? Oh! have you
forgotten her sweet smile, her charming eyes? Love, real love, comes
but once! Go now and find her.”

Mark shook his head with emphatic negation.

“What heart of stone!” she cried passionately. “Truly I will go myself
and fetch her here. I----But no--I dare not,” and she covered her face
with her hands.

“Do not add your voice to my own mad inclinations. It is all over
between us. To meet her and to part again would give her needless pain.”

“Ah! again the music,” murmured the Persian, as the band suddenly
struck up a weird haunting waltz, which her companion well
remembered--they had played it at the bachelors’ ball. “Music,” she
continued, clenching her two hands, “of any kind has a sore effect on
me. It tears my heart from my very body, and yet I love it, yea, though
it transport me to----” She paused, unable to finish the sentence. Her
lips trembled, her great dark eyes dilated, and she suddenly burst
into a storm of tears. The sound of her wild, loud, despairing sobs,
actually floated down and penetrated to the ears of a merry couple
who were strolling at large, and now stood immediately below, little
guessing that another pair on the hillside were sadly contemplating a
scene of once familiar but now lost delights, like two poor wandering
spirits.

“Surely,” said Mrs. Merryfeather, “I heard a human voice, right up
there above us. It sounded just like a woman weeping--crying as if her
heart was broken.”

“Oh, impossible!” scoffed the man. “Hearts in these days are warranted
unbreakable, like toughened glass.”

“Listen! There it is again!” interrupted the lady excitedly.

“Not a bit of it, my dear Mrs. Merry; and your sex would not feel
flattered if they heard that you had mistaken the cry of a _wild
beast_, for a woman’s voice! I assure you, on my word of honour, that
it is nothing but a hyena.”




                             CHAPTER XLII.

                        BY THE OLD RIFLE-RANGE.


A powerful and determined temptation, that was deaf to reason or
argument, struggled hourly to drag Mark Jervis to Hawal Bagh. It
changed its fierce wrestlings, and passionate and even frantic
pleadings to soft alluring whispers. It whispered that life was but
an hour in the æons of time--a drop in the ocean of eternity. Why not
taste the drop--enjoy the hour? Snatch the sunshine and live one’s
little day, ere passing for ever into eternal darkness and oblivion! It
even quoted the Scriptures, and vehemently urged him to take no thought
for the morrow--that sufficient unto the day was the evil thereof.
It seized the brush from the hand of memory, and painted Honor Gordon
as an angel. It babbled of a visit to Mrs. Brande--_she_ had always
been his friend. Surely there was no harm in going to see _her_! But
the young man sternly silenced alike whisperings or pleadings. He beat
the mad tempter to its knees, choked it, and, as he believed, put it
to death. Why undergo the anguish of parting twice--why walk across
red-hot plough-shares a second time?

For four whole days he held aloof, and never visited the
cantonment--save in his thoughts and dreams. On the fifth he
conscientiously set forth in the opposite direction, and after a long
and aimless ride was astonished to find himself--no, not exactly on the
enchanted ground, but close to the old rifle-range, which lay at the
back of its encompassing hills. To the left dipped a long valley, on
the right of the path towered a forest of rhododendrons and ever-green
oaks, carpeted with ferns, and a blaze of delicate autumn flowers;
here and there the Virginia creeper flared, and here and there a pale
passion-flower had flung abroad its eager tendrils and attached two
noble trees. All at once, a fat white puppy came bustling through the
undergrowth; he was chasing a family of respectable elderly monkeys,
with the audacity common to his age and race. Truly the pup is the
father of the dog; and Jervis, who was walking slowly with his pony
following him, recognized this particular pup at once as an old friend.
He had bought him and presented him to Mrs. Brande, when her grief was
as yet too fresh--and this same rollicking, well-to-do animal had once
been indignantly spurned! To whom did he now belong? Who was his master
or his mistress? There was a sound of light young footsteps, a crashing
of small twigs, a glimpse of a white dress, and an anxious girlish
voice calling, “Tommy, Tommy, Tommy!”

In another second Honor Gordon ran down into the path, about thirty
yards ahead of Tommy’s donor. She was almost breathless, her hat was in
her hand--possibly it had been snatched off by an inquisitive branch as
she struggled after the runaway. The soft little locks on her forehead
were ruffled, and she had an unusually brilliant colour.

As Mark’s starving eyes devoured her face he thought he had never seen
her look so lovely. He summoned up all his self-command--there must be
no going back to “old days,” no moaning over “what might have been.”
No; he was the stronger, and must set a stern example.

For quite twenty seconds there was a dead silence, a silence only
broken by the trickling of a snow-born mountain stream, passing
lingeringly through the ferns and orchids--who seemed to stoop and bend
over--listening intently to its timid silvery song.

“How changed he was!” thought Honor, with a queer tight feeling in her
throat, “only three short months, and the bright look of buoyant youth
had faded from his face.”

“Ah!” she exclaimed, with a supreme effort. “I had a presentiment that
I should see you soon--I dreamt it!”

“Dreams sometimes go by contraries,” he answered, with a rather fixed
smile.

“And how clever of Tommy to find you! The dear dog remembered you.”

“Well, up to the present he has not shown any symptoms of recognizing
me; on the contrary, he has cut me dead. He is in hot pursuit of some
venerable lumgoors. How long is it since he has seen me?” asked Mark.

“The day of the bachelors’ ball. I recollect you gave him a _méringue_,
and very nearly killed him! It was on the eighth of June. This is the
tenth of September; just three months and two days.”

“So it is,” he acquiesced, with forced _nonchalance_.

“Do you live near here?” she continued.

“About four miles, by a goat path across that hill.”

“Pray are you aware that we are picnicing below, with half Shirani?”

“Yes, I know; but not another starvation picnic I hope?”

“And yet,” ignoring his ill-timed jest, “you have never come to see us,
and we leave to-morrow!”

He looked down to avoid her questioning eyes, and made no answer,
beyond a faint, half-strangled sigh.

“At least we are still friends,” she urged, swallowing something in her
throat.

“Yes--always; but I thought I had better remain away. The Shirani folk
would take me for a ghost, and I might upset their nerves. What is the
latest station news?”

“Our latest news is, that Mrs. Sladen is to go home at Christmas. Miss
Clover is engaged to Captain Burne, and Miss Paske to Sir Gloster
Sandilands,” she answered stiffly.

“Poor Toby! I suppose my former acquaintances believe me to be in
England--if they ever think of me at all?”

She hesitated, twisted her ring round and round, and then said--

“Your friends,” with emphasis, “know that you are out in this country,
looking after your father. How is he?”

“Wonderfully better, thank you.”

“And you--you have been ill?” she remarked rather tremulously.

“No, indeed; I never was better in my life. Of course you saw Waring
before he went down?”

“No,” with undeniable embarrassment. “In fact, he copied your example,
and dispensed with all farewells. He--he--left rather suddenly,” and
she coloured.

“Why do you hesitate?” looking at her keenly. “What did he _do_? He has
been doing something, I can see.”

“It was rather what he did _not_ do,” with a constrained laugh. “Of
course it is no business of mine. He did not pay any of his bills. I
am not sure whether I ought to tell you.”

“And I am quite sure you ought,” he answered with decision.

“But he left such quantities of debts behind him, and no--address----”

“Debts?” he repeated incredulously.

“Yes, he paid for nothing. Club accounts, card accounts, mess bills,
servants’ wages--not even his bearer’s bill for thread and buttons and
blacking. People,” with a nervous little laugh, “seem to think that was
the greatest enormity of all!”

“No!” cried Mark, his pale face turning to a vivid red, “I will tell
you of a greater. I knew he had spent and muddled away most of our
joint-funds, and the day I was last in Shirani I collected the bills
and gave him all the money I had in the world--a cheque for five
hundred pounds--to settle our affairs. He swore, on his honour, he
would pay them at once and send me the receipts. Now, of course, every
one in Shirani believes me to be as great a swindler and thief as he
is! They must naturally suppose that I--I--bolted from my creditors!
I,” with increasing warmth, “now understand why you stammered and
hesitated when I asked if I was not forgotten. Forgotten! I shall live
in people’s memories for years--on the principle that ‘the evil which
men do lives after them.’”

“I am sorry I told you----” she began eagerly.

“And I have chiefly myself to blame. I was an idiot to trust Waring.
I had had one lesson; but--I was half mad with my own troubles, and
determined to tear myself away from Shirani at once. I felt that if
I stayed on I might yield to temptation--good resolutions and fresh
impressions might fade--and I might never return here----”

The pup, flouted and evaded by the scornful lumgoors, and exhausted by
his tremendous efforts, now squatted on the path, apparently listening
open-mouthed to every word.

The grey pony had also drawn near, and occasionally rubbed his handsome
head against his master’s shoulder, as much as to say--“Enough of such
fooling; let us move on!”

“This is horrible!” continued Mark. “I hate to owe a penny, and I have
no means of paying our joint-debts, for Waring has wolfed the cheque.”

“And your uncle?”

“He has never written once. From his point of view I have treated him
atrociously, and I am awfully sorry he should think so, for I am very
fond of him. Of course he has done with me.” And, with a grim smile,
“I am now in sober truth--a _real_ poor relation. I am a pretty sort
of fellow,” he went on, “I have talked of nothing but myself--and
money--money--money, for the last five minutes. Tell me of _yourself_.
Are you having a good time?”

“_A good time!_” she echoed, with a flash of her dark grey eyes.

“I beg your pardon, Honor,” he said, humbly. “But it has been one of
my few consolations when I roam about these hills, to think that you
were happier than I am.”

“And had forgotten _you_?” she added expressively.

“And,” with a slight tremor in his voice--“had forgotten _me_.”

“Never!” she returned, with passionate energy.

“Yes--you will, in time; perhaps not for two or three years--for you
are not like other girls. I am your first lover--nothing can deprive me
of that memory.”

“No, nothing,” she admitted, almost in a whisper.

“But, you know, they say a woman generally marries her _second_ love,”
with a laborious effort to speak steadily.

“How calmly you can discuss my lovers, and my future!” cried Honor,
indignantly. “Oh, how hard you have become--how cold--how cruel!”

“Cruel--if I am cruel--only to be kind,” he replied steadily. “For,
years to come, you will thank me--and think----”

“I think,” she interrupted, with a pitiful little gesture, “that when
we meet so--seldom--scarcely ever--that you might be----” here her
voice totally failed her.

She had grown much paler, and her breath came quickly, as she tried to
keep down a sob.

Mark resisted a wild impulse to take her in his arms--and stooping,
picked up the pup instead.

“Your uncle got my letter?” he asked, in a cool formal tone.

“Yes, and was dreadfully concerned; but he said you were a man of
honour, and your views and his were identical--but--I don’t agree with
them.”

“You don’t agree with them! What do you mean?”

“He told auntie, of course--and of course I insisted on her telling
_me_. After all, it was my affair. I know the obstacle--I am ready to
be your wife, just the same. As for poverty----”

“Poverty,” he interrupted quickly, “is not the question! I have a
little money of my own, and I could put my shoulder to the wheel
and work for you, Honor. It is not that--it is that my future is
overshadowed, my reason stalked, by an hereditary and implacable enemy.
I have no right to drag another into the pit--and, please God, I never
will! When I lived a smooth luxurious sort of life, in those days that
seem years ago, I thirsted for some difficult task, something to do
that would single me out and set me apart from other men. My task has
been allotted to me; it is not what I desired----”

“No!” interposed Honor, whose heart was fighting against her fate
with a frenzy of despair. “Your task is to renounce everything--the
world, and friends, and wealth, and _me_--and to bury yourself in
these remote hills, with a crazy old gentleman who cannot realize the
sacrifice. Don’t!” with an impatient gesture of her hand, “I know that
_I_ am speaking as if _I_ were mad, and in my old foolish way. I know
in my heart that you are doing what is right--that you could not do
otherwise, and I--I am proud of you.”

Then, as she looked into his haggard, altered face and miserable
eyes, and caught a glimpse of the real Mark beneath his armour of
stoicism--“But, oh, it is hard--it is hard----” she added, as she
covered her face with her hands and wept.

“Honor! for God’s sake don’t--don’t--I implore you! I cannot bear this.
I would go through all I have struggled with over again to save you one
tear. Circumstances--destiny--or whatever they call it--is too strong
for us. You must not let me spoil your life. You know I shall love
you--you only as long as I draw breath.”

“I know that!” raising her wet eyes to his. “And you _dare_ to talk to
me of a good time, of marrying my second love! Oh, Mark, Mark! how
could you?”

“I was a brute to say it. I thought it would make it easier for
you--when----” and his voice broke--“sometimes--when--you think of
me----”

“Which will be every day--and often. And now I must be going. I was
already late enough when Tommy ran away. I was afraid of his meeting
poor Ben’s fate. Will you come with me as far as the brow of the hill,
where our paths part?”

“Yes--part for ever!” he added to himself.

As they turned, she asked him many questions concerning his life,
his associates, and his occupations. He on his side made the best of
everything, painting the Yellow Bungalow, the gardens, the planters and
missionaries with gorgeous colours.

“And are there no white women near you?” she inquired. “Have you never
met one lady to speak to since you left Shirani?”

“Yes, I have one acquaintance, and one who is a friend of yours. She
is a Persian, I believe. Your little cornelian ring has been a strong
link between us. She is a most mysterious person. No one can tell who
she is, or where she came from. All we know is, that she spends her
present time in doing good, nursing the sick and dying. She told me
that you knew the history of her life--you alone----”

“It is true,” bending her head as she spoke, and fixing her eyes on the
ground.

“She shrinks from all observation, but she does not hide from _me_--for
your sake; we talk about you constantly, I may say always.”

“Then give her a message from me, please. Tell her that I often think
of her, and ask her if I may write to her, or if she will write to me?”

“You forget that she is a Persian. How can she possibly write to you?”

Honor coloured painfully, and twisted her ring round and round before
she spoke, and then she said--

“Please give her the message all the same. I--I--can manage to get her
letter read. _I_ will understand it.”

They were now at the point where their roads diverged--his went along
the hill, hers led down into the valley. She stopped for a moment, and
caressed the grey pony’s sleek hard neck; then she turned and gave the
pony’s master both her hands. They gazed at one another, with sad white
faces, reading their life’s tragedy in each other’s eyes. Then she
suddenly tore her fingers from his clasp, and ran down the hill with
Tommy in pursuit. Jervis stood where she had left him, until the very
last echo of her footsteps had died away.

“And that is a sound I shall _never_ hear again,” he groaned aloud, and
flinging himself down on the root of a tree, he covered his face with
his hands. How long he remained in this attitude the grey pony alone
knew! By-and-by he became tired of waiting--for he was either too well
fed or too sympathetic to graze--he came and rubbed his soft black
muzzle against the man’s short brown locks (his cap lay on the ground).
It was his poor little attempt at consolation, and effectually roused
his owner, though it did not comfort him, for what could a dumb animal
know of the great distresses of the human heart?

       *       *       *       *       *

Honor was late for tiffin, in fact it was getting on for afternoon
teatime when she arrived. She discovered the bungalow in a state of
unusual commotion. There was visible excitement on the servants’
faces, an air of extra importance (were that possible) in the bearer’s
barefooted strut--he now appeared to walk almost entirely on his heels.

Mrs. Brande was seated at a writing-table, beginning and tearing up
dozens of notes; her cap was askew, her fair hair was ruffled, and her
face deeply flushed. What could have happened?

“Oh, Honor, my child, I thought you were never coming back, I have
been longing for you,” rushing at her. “But how white you look,
dearie; you have walked too far. Are you ill?”

“No, no, auntie. What is it? There is something in the air. What has
happened?”

For sole answer, Mrs. Brande cast her unexpected weight upon her
niece’s frail shoulder, and burst into loud hysterical tears.

“Only think, dear girl!”--convulsive sobs--“a coolie has just come--and
brought a letter from P.--They have made him a K.C.B.”--boisterous
sobs--“and your poor old auntie--is--_a lady at last_!”




                            CHAPTER XLIII.

                             “RAFFLE IT!”


“Major and Mrs. Granby Langrishe request the honour of Mr. and Mrs.
Blanks’s company at St. John’s church at two o’clock on the afternoon
of the 20th inst., to be present at the marriage of their niece and Sir
Gloster Sandilands.”

These invitation cards, richly embossed in silver, were to be seen in
almost every abode in Shirani. The wedding dress was on its way from
Madame Phelps, in Calcutta. The cake and champagne were actually in the
house. There were to be no bridesmaids, only two little pages--“they
were cheaper,” Mrs. Langrishe said to herself; “a set of girls would
be expecting jewellery and bouquets.” Happy Mrs. Langrishe, who had
been overwhelmed with letters and telegrams of congratulations. She
had indeed proved herself to be _the_ clever woman of the family. It
was her triumph--more than Lalla’s--and she was radiant with pride
and satisfaction. Yea, her self-congratulations were fervent. She
was counting the days until her atrocious little incubus went down
the ghaut as Lady Sandilands. A little incubus, securely fastened on
another person’s shoulders--for life!

Lalla was entirely occupied with letters, trousseau, and preparations.
She was to have taken the principal part in a grand burlesque, written
specially for her, by Toby Joy. The burlesque had been on hand for
two months, and was to bring the Shirani season to a fitting and
appropriate close. The piece was called “Sinbad the Sailor.” Lalla had
been rehearsing her songs and dances most industriously, until she
had been called upon to play another part--the part of Sir Gloster’s
_fiancée_.

Sir Gloster did not care for burlesques; he had never seen Miss Paske
in her true element--never seen her dance. It was not befitting her
future position that she should appear on the boards. No, no; he
assured her that he was somewhat old-fashioned, his mother would not
like it. She must promise him to relinquish the idea, and never to
perform in public again. But Lalla was stubborn; she would not yield
altogether. Urged by Toby Joy, by the theatrical troupe--who felt
that they could not pull through without their own bright particular
star--she held out in a most unreasonable and astonishing manner. At
length she submitted so far as to declare that “she would wear Turkish
trousers, if he liked!” This she reluctantly announced, as if making an
enormous concession.

“He certainly did _not_ wish her to wear Turkish trousers!” he
returned, greatly scandalized. “_How_ could she make such a terrible
suggestion?” He was heavy and inert, but he could oppose a dead,
leaden weight of resistance to any scheme which he disliked. This
_he_ called “manly determination;” but Lalla had another name for
it--“pig-headed obstinacy!” However, she coaxed, promised, flattered,
wept, and worked upon her infatuated lover so successfully, that he
reluctantly permitted her to take a very small part, so as not to have
her name removed from the bills; but this was to be positively “Her
last appearance,” and she might announce it on the placards, if she so
pleased. He himself was summoned to Allahabad on urgent business--in
fact, to arrange about settlements--and he would not be present, he
feared; but he would do his best to return by the end of the week.

Miss Paske’s part, the dancing, singing peri, was given to a very
inferior performer--who was the stage manager’s despair, and a most
hopeless stick. Toby Joy, who was in woefully low spirits respecting
the certain failure of the burlesque, and--other matters--came to Lalla
on the night but one before the play.

“She has got influenza--so it’s all _up_,” making a feint of tearing
his hair, “and every place in the house sold for two nights, and--an
awful bill for dresses and properties. What is to become of me?
Can’t you take it? It was your own part--you do it splendidly--no
professional could beat you. Come, Lalla!”

“I promised I would not dance,” she answered with a solemn face.

“Time enough to tie yourself up with promises after you are married!
Take your fling _now_--you have only ten days--you’ll never dance
again.”

“No, never,” she groaned.

“He is away, too,” urged this wicked youth; “he is not coming up till
Saturday; he won’t know, till all is over, and then he will be as
proud as a peacock. You have your dresses, you had everything ready
until he came and spoilt the whole ‘box of tricks.’” And Toby looked
unutterable things. “Did he say anything to your aunt?” he asked.

“No--not a word. You don’t suppose that I allow _her_ to mix herself up
in my affairs? It was merely between him and me----”

“Well, you can easily smooth him down--and if you don’t take your
own original part, I must send round a peon this afternoon, to say
that the burlesque has been put off, owing to the illness of the
prima-donna--the ‘incapability’ is the proper word. But you are a
brick, and you won’t let it come to _that_; you will never leave us in
a hole.”

A little dancing devil in each eye eagerly assured him that she would
not fail them! Yes, the combined entreaties of her own set--their
compliments and flattery--her own hungry craving for what Toby called
“one last fling,” carried the point. _He_ would not be back until
Saturday. The piece was for Wednesday, Thursday, and Friday, and she
could (as she believed) easily talk him over. Yes, she made up her
mind that she would play the peri; and she informed her aunt, with
her most off-hand air, “that she had been prevailed on to take the
principal part; that Miss Lane was ill (and any way would have been
a dead failure); that she could not be so shamefully _selfish_ as to
disappoint every one; that the proceeds were for a charity (after the
bills were paid there would not be much margin)”, and Mrs. Langrishe,
in sublime ignorance of Lalla’s promise, acquiesced as usual. She now
subscribed to all her niece’s suggestions with surprising amiability,
assuring herself that the days of her deliverance from “a girl in a
thousand” were close at hand!

The burlesque of Sinbad was beautifully staged, capitally acted, and a
complete success. Miss Paske’s dancing and singing were pronounced to
be worthy of a London theatre--if not of a music-hall. People discussed
her wherever they met, and all the men hastened, as it were in a body,
to book places for the next performance.

The ladies were not altogether so enthusiastic; indeed, some of them
were heard to wonder how Sir Gloster would have liked it?

Sir Gloster, on the wings of love, was already half way through
his return journey. He had transacted his business with unexpected
promptitude, and was breakfasting at a certain dâk bungalow,
encompassed with many parcels and boxes. Here he was joined by two
subalterns, who were hurrying in the opposite direction--that is,
from Shirani to the plains. They were full of the last evening’s
entertainment, and could talk of nothing but the burlesque.

“It was quite A1,” they assured their fellow-traveller. “It could not
be beaten in London--no, not even at the Empire. Miss Paske was simply
ripping!”

“Yes,” returned Sir Gloster, complacently, “I believe there is a good
deal of nice feeling in her acting, but she had only a minor part.”

“Bless your simple, innocent heart!” exclaimed the other, “she was the
principal figure; she was the whole show; she filled the bill.”

“May I ask what you mean?” demanded the baronet, with solemn white
dignity.

“She was the peri--didn’t you _know_? She dances every bit as well as
Lottie Collins or Sylvia Grey, doesn’t she, Capel?” appealing eagerly
to his comrade.

“Yes; and I’d have gone to see her again to-night, only for this
beastly court-martial. I gave my ticket over to Manders, for he
couldn’t get a place. She draws like a chimney on fire; there is no
squeezing in at the door--even window-sills were at a premium. You
ought to go on, Sir Gloster; of course _you_ will get a seat,” with a
significant laugh. “This is the last performance, and, upon my word,
you should not _miss_ it.”

Sir Gloster remained mute. Was it possible that his little Lalla, who
wrote him such sweet, endearing notes, had deliberately broken her
word, and defied him?

At the very thought of such a crime his white flabby face grew rigid.
Seeing was believing. He would take this crack-brained young man’s
advice, and hurry on. He might manage to be in Shirani by eight o’clock
that evening--just in time to dress and get to the play.

His wrath was hot within him--and the anger of a quiet and lethargic
person, when once roused, is a very deadly thing. His sturdy hill
ponies bore the first brunt of his indignation; and Sir Gloster, who
was naturally a timid horseman, for once threw fear to the winds,
and galloped as recklessly as Toby Joy himself. He arrived at the
club just in time to swallow a few mouthfuls, change his clothes,
and set off to the theatre. He could not get a seat, but “he might,
if he liked, stand near the door, with his back to the wall,” and
for this handsome privilege he paid four rupees--the best-laid-out
money he ever invested, as he subsequently declared. The curtain had
already risen; the scene looked marvellously like fairyland. Toby
Joy had just concluded a capital topical song, when a large egg was
carefully rolled upon the stage. The egg-shell opened without the
application of a spoon, and hatched out a most exquisite creature, the
peri, whose appearance was the signal for a thunder of hand-clapping.
The peri--yes--was Lalla, in very short, fleecy petticoats, with a
twinkling star in her hair--his own present, as Sir Gloster noted with
an additional spasm of indignation.

Presently she began to dance.

Now, be it known, that her performance was perfectly decorous and
delightfully graceful. Lalla’s glancing feet scarcely touched the
ground, and she danced as if from pure happiness and lightness of
heart. (Toby Joy danced as if he had _le diable au corps_.) After
entrancing the spectators for ten thrilling minutes with several
entirely fresh variations, Lalla finished up with the tee-to-tum spin,
which is to the dancer what the high note, at the end of a song, is to
the singer!

The result of this effort was a hurricane of frantic applause, in which
Sir Gloster took no part; he was not a theatre-goer--he was provincial.
His mother and his surroundings were strictly evangelical; and whilst
his _fiancée_ enchanted the whole station, he stood against the wall
glowering and pale. The only character present to his mind was _the
daughter of Herodias_! Frankly speaking, the performance had filled
him with horror. That the future Lady Sandilands should offer herself
thus to public contemplation; that any one who chose to pay four rupees
might see this indecorous exhibition--including soldiers in uniform, at
the low price of four annas!

He was actually beside himself with fury, and forced his way out, with
his head down, like a charging animal. Few noticed him or his hasty
exit; every one had eyes for Lalla, and Lalla only. She received
an ovation and a shower of bouquets as she was conducted before the
curtain by Toby Joy, modestly curtseying and kissing her hand. Miss
Paske subsequently remained to enjoy a merry and _recherché_ supper,
chaperoned by the invaluable Mrs. Dashwood; and Mrs. Langrishe, as was
not an unusual occurrence, went home alone.

To that lady’s great amazement, she discovered Sir Gloster awaiting her
in the drawing-room, and she gathered from his strange and agitated
appearance that something terrible had occurred.

“I was thinking of writing to you, Mrs. Langrishe,” he began in a
curiously formal voice, “but I changed my mind, and came to see you
instead. All is over between your niece and myself.”

Mrs. Langrishe turned perfectly livid, and dropped into the nearest
chair.

“Pray, explain!” she faltered at last.

“Miss Paske will doubtless _explain_ to you why she gave me a solemn
promise to renounce dancing on a public stage. I reluctantly allowed
her to appear for the last time in a very small part--that of an old
nurse. I return unexpectedly, and discover her in the character of a
ballet-girl, exhibiting herself--well, I must say it--half naked to
the whole of Shirani. Such a person is not fit to be my wife. She has
broken her word. She has a depraved taste; she has no modesty.”

That Ida Langrishe should live to hear such epithets applied to her own
flesh and blood!

She covered her face with her hands, and actually sobbed aloud. Who had
ever seen Mrs. Langrishe break down before? No one.

“Oh, dear Sir Gloster,” she began hysterically (she would need all
her fascinations now), “Lalla is so young” (only twenty-six). “She is
easily worked upon, she is in great request; the burlesque would have
fallen through--and it is for _such_ a good charity--if she had not, at
the eleventh hour, consented to take a part.”

“I cannot accept your excuses, my dear madam” (waving both fat hands,
like the flappers of an angry seal). “I could never trust Miss Paske
again. Imagine the future Lady Sandilands, displaying her arms--and,
excuse me, her legs--in ungraceful antics for the amusement of any
one who chose to pay two or three rupees. At the eleventh hour, I
absolutely refuse to marry her!”

“You are not afraid of a breach of promise case?” asked Mrs. Langrishe
in despair. She was indeed dying in the last ditch.

“Not in the least,” was the bold reply. “No man--no gentleman is
compelled to marry an amateur mountebank! Oh, if my poor dear mother
had been present this night, I believe the shock would have killed her!
However, I am grateful for small mercies; I am thankful that I saw Miss
Paske in her true colours, before it was too late!”

“The invitations are out days ago; the trousseau is almost complete;
the presents have come in shoals; the cake is actually in the
house,--what _am_ I to do?” pleaded unhappy Mrs. Langrishe, in a
transport of anguish.

“I’m sure I don’t know. I wash my hands of the whole affair. I am going
down to-morrow morning.”

“To-morrow morning!” repeated the unfortunate lady.

“Yes, I have no personal ill-will or ill-feeling against _you_, Mrs.
Langrishe,” he continued, as if he were offering her some superb token
of generosity. “It is not your fault, though I must confess that I
always thought you rather spoiled Miss Paske. However, in the present
instance, I hold you entirely blameless; but _noblesse oblige_--and
I--a--really could not ask my mother, and friends, to receive a young
a--a--lady--whose proper sphere is pantomime and--all that sort
of thing!” And waving his adieux, with a large tremulous hand, he
stalked out, and with him Mrs. Langrishe saw depart Lalla’s brilliant
prospects, her own reputation as a clever woman, and the solid
embodiment of an immense outlay of forbearance--flattery--and rupees.

She sat for a long time over the dying wood fire, her face the colour
of its ashes.

At three o’clock in the morning Lalla (a true rake at heart) had not
returned, and her impending interview was thus postponed for twelve
hours. It was past three o’clock in the afternoon when Miss Paske
sauntered into her aunt’s room. Mrs. Langrishe was prostrate, from the
double effect of a sleepless night and a nervous headache.

Lalla listened to her outburst incredulously. She had dressed herself
with special care, collected all her bouquets, and had resolved
to enact a pretty little semi-penitential scene, with her stolid,
easy-going, somewhat dull _fiancé_. She expected him now at any moment.
What was this her aunt was saying? He had come; and seen; and fled!
Impossible! He had been present last night! For once, she signally
failed to sneer down, laugh down, or in any way suppress or silence
her relative. Oh! she had been _mad_ to listen to Toby Joy, she was
always too ready to be over-persuaded by him. He had had nothing on the
hazard, whilst she had her all at stake. And her magnificent prospects,
her title, her diamonds, were at that moment rapidly rumbling down hill
in the rickety mail tonga.

The presents, the invitations, the breakfast--what people would say,
especially her own people, and the not unnatural elation of old Mother
Brande, on whom she had ruthlessly trampled--all these things flashed
through her mind.

She would, of _course_, be sent home immediately. What a horrible
outlook. To remain till the end of her days, as a sort of “object
lesson,” a terrible living example, in the corner of her father’s large
shabby country house. She would be pointed out to her younger sisters,
and to others, as the old maid who had had her chance, and had danced
it away!

During all this time her aunt was speaking fluently, ceaselessly,
passionately, but to deaf ears--for Lalla was listening to her own
thoughts, and too much occupied by the clamour of an inward voice to
heed these outpourings.

At last one sentence struck her ear.

“And what is to be done with the cake, that has cost two hundred
rupees, and is now in my storeroom?” demanded Mrs. Langrishe,
dramatically.

“Raffle it,” cried Lalla, with a reckless laugh, “or have another
starvation picnic, and give them wedding-cake and sugar ornaments!”

“_Lalla!_” shrieked her aunt, in a voice that would have sounded
strange even to her most intimate friends. “You are the most
abominable, unprincipled, devilish----”

“Oh, don’t bother!” interrupted Lalla, savagely; and she went out of
the room, and gave the door a bang that caused the very cheval-glass
to stagger in its place.

Once in her own bower, Lalla turned the key and flung herself into an
armchair, knocking, as she did so, a parcel off a table at her elbow.
She stooped and picked it up mechanically. It was a birthday-book,
one of her numerous wedding presents, and had arrived that morning.
She opened it in order to search for the verse opposite the date of
the day. Perhaps it would give her a clue as to her future plans. For
Lalla was extremely superstitious, and often shaped her course by
means of the most trivial instruments, which were accepted by her as
signs, tokens, and omens. Idiotic and preposterous as it may appear,
she attributed all her present misfortune, not to her own deceit and
folly--oh dear, no!--but to the disastrous fact of having had a _green_
dress in her trousseau, and that was entirely Aunt Ida’s doing, no
fault of hers.

Yes, Lalla had a curious temperament, and an imagination open to every
fantastic influence. As she whirled over the leaves of the book, she
said to herself, “I will take this as final, and abide by it, for bad
or good.”

It was the eleventh of September, and the lines were--

    “Retired from all, reserved, and coy,
    To musing prone alone.”

    SCOTT.

“What utter bosh!” she exclaimed, passionately; then, like all
dissatisfied inquirers, she determined to cast her first resolve to the
winds and have yet another experiment--one more dip into the lottery of
Fate.

“I’ll see what it says for the twentieth--my wedding day, that was to
have been----”

She turned to the page, and the lines were--

    “He has not a shilling, nor has he a care.”

    ANON.

“There, that settles it,” cried Lalla, tossing the book down and
moving quickly to her writing-table.

       *       *       *       *       *

In a few hours the news of the ruptured alliance was all over Shirani.
Another piece of intelligence was faintly whispered, but not credited,
for it was really _too_ much for the gossip-mongers to digest all
at once. This last item declared “that Miss Paske and Mr. Joy had
been seen flying down the cart road in a special tonga. They had run
away--she, from her aunt’s reproaches, and he, from his regimental
duty. They were both absent without leave.”

For once rumour proved to be true in every particular. The pair were
married at the first church they came to, and subsequently joined an
English theatrical company that were touring in India, and accompanied
them to the Straits Settlements, China, and Japan.

Toby and Lalla act under the professional alias of “Mr. and Mrs.
Langrishe,” to the unspeakable indignation of the rightful owners of
the name.

Lalla had written her aunt a most wicked, flippant, impertinent,
heartless, in fact, diabolical letter, mentioning that the name of
Langrishe would now be surrounded by distinction and a lustre of
fame,--and for the first time.

It was many months before the stately Ida recovered her mental
equilibrium, and her spirits. The experiences she had undergone at the
hands of “a girl in a thousand” had aged her considerably; there are
now a good many lines in her smooth, ivory-tinted face, and silver
threads among her well-dressed brown locks.

Every one tacitly avoids the subject of broken-off engagements,
theatricals, and nieces in her presence; and it would be a truly bold
woman (such as is _not_ Mrs. Brande) who would venture to inquire
“what had become of her charming niece, who _was_ to have married the
baronet?”




                             CHAPTER XLIV.

                        A ROSE--CARRIAGE PAID.


“Sahib, there is some one coming--in a jampan,” was the bearer’s
surprising announcement to Jervis, who was sitting under a tree in the
garden, busily engaged in painting a portrait of the bearer’s grandson.
Now, a jampan, or dandy, is a sort of hill sedan-chair, and a mode of
conveyance exclusively reserved for ladies.

Who could the lady be who was coming to the Pela Kothi? thought the
young man, starting to his feet. Honor? Impossible! Mrs. Brande?
No--the big picnic had dispersed ten days ago. He hurried out into
the verandah, and shaded his eyes with his hand. Yes, sure enough, a
dandy, borne by four men, and containing some one holding an enormous
white umbrella--some one being carried backwards up the hill, followed
by a native on a pony and two coolies with luggage. The _cortége_
were distinctly making for the house, for they turned off the road
into the direct path; but all that was visible was the white umbrella
bobbing along among the tall jungle grass--and the white umbrella was
approaching, as sure as fate.

       *       *       *       *       *

For the last week Mark had noticed a great change in his father. As
his mind strengthened, his bodily health appeared to fail--the hundred
turns on the terrace were gradually lessening each morning as the steps
that paced them became feebler and feebler, and the daily routine was
now entirely set aside. An early ride had been Mark’s chief relaxation,
then breakfast with his father, afterwards he read the paper to him,
talked to him, walked with him, until about three o’clock, when Major
Jervis went to sleep--and slept almost uninterruptedly till dinner
time. Meanwhile his son walked over to see one of the neighbours, or
sketched--he had made quite a gallery of types and portraits--or took
his gun to try his luck among the hills.

The major was always at his best in the evening. He enjoyed a game of
chess, picquet, or _écarté_; and he liked to talk of his experiences,
his old friends and comrades, to smoke, to tell the same long stories
over and over again, and it was often one or two o’clock in the morning
ere his son could prevail on him to extinguish his hookah and go to
bed. But for the last week or ten days there had been no late hours,
and no strolling round the garden, or basking in the sun, and Mark had
never left the place. He feared that his father was about to have some
kind of an attack--whether bodily or mental, he was too inexperienced
to say--and he had despatched a note that very morning to Mr. Burgess,
asking him to ride over and see his patient.

Meanwhile the visitor was coming steadily nearer and nearer, the
umbrella effectually concealing his or her identity. In due time
the dandy was carried up backwards into the verandah, turned
right-about-face, and set down. And behold--under the umbrella sat--Mr.
Pollitt!

Mr. Pollitt, looking exceedingly pleased with himself, and wearing a
neat tweed Norfolk jacket, a courier bag, and an Elwood helmet. In one
hand he clutched the umbrella, in the other an Indian Bradshaw.

“Uncle Dan!” almost shouted his nephew.

“There, my boy! Now, now, don’t drag me--don’t drag me. Let me get out;
give me time. I,” as he stood beside his nephew, “thought I would take
you by surprise.” And he shook his hand vigorously.

“A surprise--I should just think so! How on earth did you ever find
your way here? Why did you not write?”

“I’ll tell you everything presently--meanwhile, get me something to
drink. I don’t want lunch--get me a drink; and then walk me about like
a horse, for my legs are so stiff with sitting in that infernal chair,
that I believe I have lost the use of them.”

As Mr. Pollitt drank off a whisky and soda, his little eyes wandered
round the big dining-room with its faded magnificence, then strayed to
the matchless prospect from the open window, and finally rested on his
companion.

“Hullo, Mark, my boy! I see that this country has not agreed with you.”

“Well, apparently it suits you, Uncle Dan,” was the smiling reply. “You
are looking very fit at any rate.”

“And how is your father?”

“Rather shaky, I am afraid; he has been ailing for the last week. He is
asleep just now.”

“Ah, very well, then you can explain _me_ to him when he awakes; and,
meanwhile, I have a good many things to explain to _you_--why I am
here, for instance. So, take me outside, where I can stretch my legs.
There seems to be a great garden hereabouts.

“And now, to begin my story at the beginning,” continued Mr. Pollitt,
as they paced along side by side, “I got your letter, of course--and
of course it upset me terribly. I was like a lunatic, and it did not
smooth me down when some one kept saying, ‘I told you so; still waters
run deep!’ and so on. At first I was resolved to cut you adrift, and
to take no further notice of you. I was in this mind for a whole
fortnight, and then I got another communication that drove me stark
mad. I heard through my bankers that you had drawn on me for five
thousand pounds. Now you know, Mark,” coming to a full stop and holding
up a finger, “I have never grudged you money, have I? but to take it
like this. Don’t interrupt me. I had given Bostock and Bell a quiet
notification that I would honour your cheques to an additional small
extent, in case, I thought to myself, the boy runs short of a couple of
hundred or so--but five thousand! Yes, yes; I know you never had it!
Don’t _interrupt_, I tell you; let me go straight on. I wrote out to
Bombay at once, asking for particulars, and the answer came back, ‘That
Mr. Jervis had drawn the money personally, in notes and gold, and had
sailed for Australia--with a _lady_.’”

“Sailed for Australia with a _lady_!” repeated Mark, now halting in his
turn on the gravel walk.

“Yes. At first I thought that I saw the whole thing as clear as print.
Your letter was a ruse to gain time. You knew I was dead against your
engagement to Miss Gordon, that I wanted you to come home, so you had
just taken the matter into your own hands, helped yourself to what
would start you fairly well, married the girl, and emigrated to the
colonies. I kept this idea to myself, I am now most thankful to say,
and I worried and worried over the business night and day. The whole
affair was unlike you; but it was not very unlike Clarence. And where
was Clarence? I thought of writing and making more inquiries--indeed,
the sheet of paper was actually before me--when I suddenly said, ‘Why
should not I go out myself, instead of twopence-half-penny worth of
paper?’ Mrs. Pollitt was away at Homburg, I was alone, and, to tell you
the truth, had no heart for shooting or anything. To put the matter
in a nutshell, instead of writing, I went straight off to the P. and
O. office and booked my passage to Bombay by the following mail. I
thought I would just go out quietly and see for myself how the land
lay. I came out the end of August. Phew! I feel hot now, when I think
of those days in the Red Sea--a blazing sun, an iron steamer. I was
like a lobster in a fish-kettle! Needless to say, there were no lords
or dukes on board; but I travelled with what suited me _better_--an
uncommonly clever lawyer chap, who lives in Bombay, and put me up to
everything. We became great cronies, and as we smoked together a good
bit, I told him the whole of my affairs, and placed myself unreservedly
in his hands; and for once in my life I did a wise thing. He wanted
me to stay with him, but I put up at an hotel. However, he rigged me
out, engaged a first class Goanese servant for me, who speaks English,
and takes me entirely in charge, just as if I was a baby, and he set
about ferreting out the cheque business. I saw the cheque--it was your
signature sure enough; but the writing of ‘five thousand pounds’ was
another hand--Clarence’s. I discovered that he had passed off as you.
His photograph was identified at the bank. I could not hear anything
about the lady; but she was entered in the passenger list for Melbourne
as ‘Mrs. Jervis.’ So exit Waring--and a nice child’s guide _he_ has
proved!”

“That is not all,” burst out Mark. “He owes money all over the place! I
gave him the command of all our funds, and he squandered every penny.”

“Serve you jolly well right,” returned his uncle with emphasis.

“Yes; it certainly did. I also gave him a cheque for five hundred to
pay off everything the day I left Shirani. I was so bothered, that I
conclude that I never filled in the cheque properly.”

“Evidently not, and your little oversight cost me four thousand five
hundred pounds. Well, never mind that now. I heard pretty stories of
Clarence at the hotel--people talking at the table beside me; how he
had gambled, betted, and played the deuce, and made a regular cat’s-paw
of the young fool he was travelling with, meaning _you_--an undeniable
fact. I then, having finished off Waring, came straight away to look
you up, Master Mark. Pedro, that’s my fellow, took great care of me,
and I have had as many adventures as would fill a volume of _Punch_.
I travelled in comfort as long as I was on the rail, bar the heat;
but once the rail came to an end, and I had to take to a box--I am
too old to begin riding--I was uncommonly sorry for myself. However,
everything I saw was new and interesting, the scenery splendid; I came
_viâ_ Shirani, of course, and I broke my journey at the Brandes--Sir
Pelham and Lady Brande. By the way, you never told me that he had a
handle to his name! Eh, how was that?”

“And how came you to know the Brandes?” asked his nephew gravely.

“Ah, that is another story! And how came _you_ to tell Sir Pelham that
there was insanity in the Jervis family, eh?”

“Because it is true. And I only heard it since I came here. My
grandfather died in Richmond lunatic asylum, my uncle jumped overboard
at sea, my father has now, thank God, a lucid interval, but he has been
insane for years.”

“Lies, every one of them!” blazed out Mr. Pollitt.

“Uncle Dan, what do you mean?” demanded Jervis, with trembling lips and
a pair of sternly searching eyes.

“I know the Jervis family; why, man, I made it my business to study it
up. Your grandfather, a splendid old soldier, died at Richmond in his
own house, as sane as I am--saner, indeed, for I’ve been near losing
my senses several times of late. Your uncle, noble fellow, jumped
overboard to save life and lost his own. Your father’s head was cracked
by a fall. Who told you this other balderdash?”

“Fernandez, my father’s heir. He was informed by Mrs. Jervis, my late
step-mother. And it is all true what you tell me?”

“As true as I am a living man and sinner. Your father, no doubt,
believed every one of his people to be lunatics, a phase of his own
delusions.”

“Uncle Dan,” broke in his nephew, “I don’t think you can ever realize
what you have done for me. You have restored me--to life--to hope. That
was the reason why I gave up Miss Gordon.”

“And she is staunch to you still,” nodding his head emphatically.

“How on earth do you know?”

“Oh, I know a good deal, considering that I have only been a fortnight
in the country! Mark, my dear boy, I see that all this sudden news is
too much for you.”

“Go on--go on,” cried the other, white with excitement; “such news is
never too much for any one.”

“Well, you know, I came up by that maddening, twisting cart road--I
began to think it had no ending, like eternity. You recollect the
fountains, every few miles? At one of them, my fellows stopped to
drink and smoke, and there was a lady watering her horse--a remarkably
handsome girl, riding a fine black Arab. She had a white puppy on her
knee. She looked so pleasant, that though, as you know, I’m a shy man,
I ventured to speak to her, and asked her if the road led to any place,
short of China? or if she had ever _heard_ of Shirani? Yes, she lived
there; and it was just four miles further. We fell into talk, we were
going the same way--her horse would not stand the puppy at any price,
but reared, and flung about like a mad thing. She sat him splendidly,
I will say, and held on to the dog like grim death; she said he was
tired--and the long and the short of it was, that _I_ took the pup in
the dandy, and of all the nasty fidgeting little brutes!--but that girl
has such beautiful eyes--I could do anything for her. And I’d like
to see the man that could resist her! I told her my name, and said I
had come out after my nephew, and asked her if she had ever heard of
him--his name was Jervis. She immediately became bright scarlet, I do
assure you, and said ‘Yes.’ I ventured to inquire her name. She said it
was Gordon; and when I replied, ‘I have heard of _you_,’ she grew, if
possible, still redder. We became as thick as thieves in no time. I got
out and walked beside her, actually carrying the pup--for he would not
sit in the dandy alone--and she told me a lot about the hill folk, and
the mountain peaks, and taught me a few words of Hindostani. I inquired
about an hotel, and she declared that there was none, and I must come
to her uncle’s; he and her aunt would be very glad to see me, for Mr.
Jervis was a particular friend of theirs. And is he not a particular
friend of _yours_ too? I asked as pointedly as I knew how. And she
looked me straight in the face, and said ‘_Yes_.’ I stayed with the
Brandes, to make a long story short, and I was delighted with my visit.
I now know what people mean when they talk of Indian hospitality and
Indian friends. I believe I am getting quite attached to the country!”

“Then you had better remain out here, Uncle Dan, and live with me.”

“A case of Mahomet and the mountain, eh? No, no, my boy; I mean to
fetch you home. I cannot spare you. At my age it is impossible to throw
out new roots.”

“And about Miss Gordon?” urged his listener impatiently.

“Honor, you mean. She was charming. She may have wished to turn my
poor silly old head, and she succeeded. She played the violin--_that_
settled me. Yesterday morning, before I left, she and I were walking
in the garden quite early, and she picked me a button-hole; and I
said, ‘I’m off now to see my boy. Will you give me a flower for him,
and have you any message?’ She made no answer for a full minute; so,
to put her at ease, I said, ‘I know all about it, my dear. I was angry
to think that he could leave me; but what was that to leaving _you_!’
‘He did what was right,’ she said, firing up like a sky-rocket. When
we had made peace again, she chose a flower with most particular care,
and said with a face as red as the rose, ‘You may give him that, with
my love.’ ‘Certainly,’ I said; ‘but the carriage must be prepaid.’ At
first she did not understand.”

“And I must confess that I am equally at sea,” admitted his companion.

“Why, you young donkey, of course I made her give me a kiss.”

“Which is more than she has ever given me. Uncle Dan, you are an
extraordinarily able man. No wonder you made a great fortune! You have
brought me nothing but good news--my head feels reeling--I can hardly
grasp it all at once.”

“Well, my dear boy, I am glad of it. For it seems to me that you and
good news have been strangers for many a long day! And now, suppose we
go in, and find out if your father is awake?”




                             CHAPTER XLV.

                           ONLY MR. JERVIS.


“I never saw such a change in any one!” faltered Mr. Pollitt, with some
emotion, as he followed Mark out of his father’s room. “He is years
younger than I am, and he is so cadaverous and shrunken that he looks
seventy at the very least. Poor fellow! he was in a desperate state
at first, when he thought I had come to carry you off. I am glad you
reassured him so completely. Well, as long as he is here, he shall have
you. I understand matters now; I have seen with my own eyes, and one
look is worth a ton of letters.”

Mr. Pollitt was enchanted with his present quarters, with the great
rambling house, its gardens, its situation, its quaint furniture. The
solitude and silence were an extraordinary refreshment to the little
world-worn cockney, after the roar of the London traffic, the throbbing
of engines, and the rumbling of railway carriages.

In honour of the new arrival, the khansamah sent up a remarkably
well-cooked dinner, not at all a jungle _menu_. There was excellent
soup, fresh fish from a mountain “tal” (a lake), _entrées_, a brace of
hill partridges, sweets, yellow cream, fruit, and black coffee. The
claret was a still further agreeable surprise; it had been laid in by a
connoisseur, and imported direct from Bordeaux _viâ_ Pondicherry. But
the greatest surprise of all was presented in the person of the host
himself. With his heart warmed by sound old wine and the presence of a
sound old friend, Major Jervis kindled up into a semblance of what he
once had been. He talked connectedly and even brilliantly; he laughed
and joked, and listened with unaffected delight to the history of
Mr. Pollitt’s journey and adventures _en route_. His eyes shone with
something of their ancient fire; the lines and wrinkles seemed to fade
from his face; his voice was that of a man who could still make himself
heard on parade. Mr. Pollitt gazed and hearkened in blank amazement; he
was entranced and carried away breathless by chronicles of hairbreadth
escapes, tiger shooting, and elephant catching; by tales of Eastern
superstitions, of lucky and unlucky horses, places, and people, stories
of native life; of an English nobleman who lived in a bazaar, earning
his bread by repairing carts and ekkas; of a young officer of good
family and fortune, who had lost his head about a native girl, had
abandoned his country, profession, and religion, and had adopted her
people, and embraced her faith; how, in vain, his wealthy English
relatives had besought him to return to them; how they had come out
to seek him--had argued and implored, and finally prevailed on him to
abandon his associates; and how, ere they had reached Bombay, they
had lost him--he, unable to break the spell of the siren, had escaped
back to his old haunts. He told of Englishmen who were lepers, living
in sad solitude among the hills, unknown and nameless; of the burning
of witches, of devil-worship, black magic, and human sacrifices. The
most thrilling and extraordinary items of his past were unrolled as a
scroll, and recapitulated in vivid and forcible language.

Who was this that held them spell-bound? thought his listeners. Not
the shattered wreck of the forenoon, but the soldier who had seen
much service, who had felt the pulse of events, who had absorbed
India through his eyes and ears--_real_ India, during a residence of
thirty-five years in that mysterious, intoxicating, gorgeous land!
Of frontier skirmishes, kept out of the newspapers, of friendly
interchanges between foes in the field, of mysterious disappearances,
of men who had laid down their lives for their country--heroes unknown
to fame, whose deeds were unrecorded by one line of print, whose
shallow graves were marked by rotting crosses on the bleak Afghan
frontier.

Major Jervis kept his audience enthralled; even Mark’s attention
_rarely_ wandered to a coolie who was at the moment running through the
wooded hillsides by the light of the cold keen stars, with a letter in
his loin-cloth addressed to “Miss Gordon.”

It was one o’clock before the party dispersed; and as Major Jervis
clapped his brother-in-law on the shoulder, with a hearty good night,
he added--

“Who knows, Pollitt, but that I may be persuaded by your eloquence to
go home with you, after all?”

       *       *       *       *       *

“My father is very ill,” said Mark, as he entered into his uncle’s room
at eight o’clock the next morning. “He wants to see you. I have been
with him since six o’clock; and, Uncle Dan, I’m afraid that this is the
end.”

Yes, there was no doubt about that, thought Mr. Pollitt; death was
surely written on the countenance that was turned to him. Last night
had been the final flicker before the flame of life went out.

The invalid was propped up in a chair by a window looking towards the
snows; but his face was ghastly, his breathing laboured.

“I’m glad you are here, Dan; glad we met once more.” And he made a
movement as if he would offer his wasted, helpless-looking hand. “You
and Mark wanted me to go home,” murmured the grey lips; “and I am
going--sooner than you thought.” He turned his dull eyes and fixed
them intently on his son. “God bless you, Mark,” he whispered almost
inarticulately. These were his last words.

When Mr. Burgess arrived, an hour later, he was dead.

“Died of a failure of the heart’s action, brought on by some
overpowering excitement;” but, as far as he could judge, “under
any circumstances he could not have outlived a week.” Such was the
missionary’s verdict.

“Ah, sahib!” cried Mahomed, with up-raised hands and eyes, “I knew how
it would be; there was the warning, the never-failing warning at twelve
o’clock last night--_the voice_.”

“What do you mean, Jan Mahomed?” Jervis returned quickly.

“The voice of a stranger, sahib, shouting in the yard. He was calling
for his horse. He was going a long journey. Surely the Protector of
the poor knows the truth of this? It is ever thus before a man’s
death--there is an order loudly spoken, ‘Gorah tiar hye!’” (“Bring my
horse!”)

Major Jervis was laid in the cantonment cemetery the following morning.
Mr. Burgess read the funeral service. Mark, Mr. Pollitt, and one or two
neighbours assembled round the grave, whilst afar off stood servants,
coolies, and many sick and poor, and lepers, to whom the “dear
brother,” now being laid to rest, had been a kind and generous friend.

Fernandez arrived, in answer to a telegram, full of joy, bustle, and
importance. He could not understand the faces of the two Englishmen.
It was, as he frankly stated, a happy release. He delighted in
organization, change, and excitement, and undertook all arrangements
with zeal. He seemed to be everywhere at once. He talked, strutted,
gesticulated, and made such a stir that it seemed as if ten men had
been added to the party.

“The house and land are Mark’s,” he explained to Mr. Pollitt; “not
worth much,” shrugging his shoulders. “Everything else comes to
_me_--all the jewels. I wish I could show you those in the bank,” and
his eyes glittered as he thought of them. “But we will get out what
is here and let you have a look at them, for they are native and very
curious.”

A big safe was accordingly unlocked, the contents brought forth and
poured out, nay, heaped, upon a crimson-covered table, which displayed
them to advantage.

Mr. Pollitt sat down deliberately, to examine what evidently
represented an immense quantity of money, thus sunk in gold and
precious stones. There were aigrettes of diamonds, the jewels dull and
badly cut, but of extraordinarily great size. There were vases and
boxes of gold, and white and green jade inlaid with rubies. Khas-dans,
or betel boxes; jars for otto of roses; crescent ornaments for the
turban, set with emeralds and diamonds; gold anklets, with the ends
formed of elephant heads; forehead ornaments, set with great pearls
with pendant drops; plumes or turahs for turbans, with strings of
diamonds; armlets, bangles, rings for nose or ear, back-scratchers of
gold and ivory, glorious ropes of pearls, and many huge unset emeralds
and rubies. It was the collection and stores of generations, now about
to be scattered to the four winds by the plump and restless hand of
Fernandez Cardozo.

“I would like to give you something, Mark,” he said, carelessly turning
over piles of gold and precious stones as he spoke. “Will you accept a
present from me, my good fellow?”

“Of course he will,” said the little Londoner, with business-like
promptitude.

“You joked with me about wearing a--a--necklace, eh, you remember,
when I showed you a certain little bit of jewellery?” Fernandez looked
conscious, and actually believed that he was blushing. “Well now, I
am going to present _you_ with one! Look at this!” holding towards
him a string of large emeralds, pierced and run on a silken cord, and
fastened off by a gold tassel. “These are for your future bride, Mark
my boy.”

“How did you know about her?” eyeing him gravely.

“Ho, ho, ho! Not a bad shot, I see! A bow drawn at a venture! Then
there is such a young lady?”

“Yes,” assented Mr. Pollitt, “and a very handsome young lady; you may
take my word for _that_!”

“What is she like?” turning to Mark with sparkling eyes. “Fair or dark?”

“You shall see her some day, Fernandez. You must come to our wedding.”

“I shall be most happy; but, my dear fellow, _do_ describe her
appearance. I am such a ladies’ man, you know, such an admirer of
beauty.”

“Oh, she is tall, a head over you, Cardozo,” said Mr. Pollitt, “and has
dark hair, dark-grey eyes, and a very delicate colour, the air of a
princess.”

“Ah! then she shall have these pearls, instead of emeralds!” cried
Fernandez with enthusiasm, plunging his fat fingers into ropes of the
former, and holding them aloft for inspection. Four rows of large
pearls fastened off by a quaint old clasp, and a little tassel of
rubies.

“They are far too valuable--it is much too handsome a gift,” objected
Mark, holding back instinctively.

“Nothing is too handsome for a handsome girl! and, for the matter of
value, the emeralds, though they look like so many balls of green
glass, beat them! If you refuse them in her name, I assure you I shall
be quite affronted; and, surely, it is only right that the major’s
daughter should have one small gift from amid all the begum’s jewels.”

“I do not call that a small gift, Fernandez, and I am very much obliged
to you; but I will take it to Miss Gordon, and, later on, she will
thank you personally.”

“They are superb!” exclaimed Mr. Pollitt, rapturously. “I shall give
her diamonds--to correspond.”

Incongruous pair though they were, Mr. Pollitt and Mr. Cardozo hit it
off surprisingly well. Fernandez’s florid manner, Oriental ideas, and
ornamental language interested the hard-headed matter-of-fact little
Englishman. They walked and smoked and argued noisily together, whilst
Mark rode away to visit a certain newly-made grave, and to take leave
of the Persian lady.

“Ah, my friend, I have been waiting for you,” she said, rising from
the chabootra, or band-stand. “I thought you would surely come to say
farewell. Of course you are going away?”

“Yes. I am going away immediately.”

“And you will marry her--now--and gain your heart’s desire?”

“I hope so. And I am come to offer you what may fulfil yours!”

She stared at him with an air of almost fierce inquiry.

“It is the Yellow House. Will you accept it, for your lifetime? You
said you wished for a large bungalow in a central position--and there
you are!”

“The Yellow House! Oh, it is too much. No, I could not take it, not
even for my poor. No, no, no!” and she shook her head with an air of
decision.

“Why not?” he argued; “it is mine to do with as I will; and there is
nothing that will give me greater pleasure than to feel that it is in
your hands--and the means of doing good--instead of standing closed,
empty, and falling into ruins. There is the garden for the patients
to walk in, the grazing for cows, the big rooms for wards. I will
thankfully pay an apothecary and assistant, and whatever is necessary.”

“You wish to establish a sort of hill hospital for the poor in these
parts?” inquired the Persian, incredulously.

“Nay; you have already done that. I only ask leave to help you. If you
will not accept the Pela Kothi from me, take it from--us both--or from
Honor. You will not refuse her!”

“And shall I never see you again--or her?” she faltered.

“Who can say? Perhaps one day we may come and visit you. At any rate,
she will write to you.”

“But how can she write to me--a--a--Persian woman?” looking at him
with an intensity that was not pleasant to contemplate.

“At least, _I_ shall write to you,” he rejoined, slightly disconcerted.
“I will send you a certain yearly sum to spend on the wretched lepers,
and in any charitable form that you may think best. Mr. Burgess will
translate my letters for you, and also any answers that you may be good
enough to send me. We do not wish to lose sight of you, if we can help
it.”

“_We!_ how soon you have learnt to say it! You are so happy, where
you have hitherto known great misery, and the poor native woman will
soon have passed from your mind. You are released. I shall never be
released--but by death. You will be in another world--you, and the
Miss Sahib! Will you give her this from me? It is a little charm.
Nay, do not laugh. What am I but an ignorant, superstitious native?
Nevertheless, I mean well. This is an amulet against sickness, poverty,
or the loss of friends; an old hill woman gave it to me. She said it
never failed. I have no friends to lose, but I am a stranger to poverty
and sickness.”

“I will give it to her to-morrow,” taking from her hand a smooth
dark-green stone, about the size of a filbert. “As to having no
friends, may Miss Gordon and I not call ourselves your friends?”

“How can an English lady, and an English sahib, be the friends of--a
woman of my people?” she inquired, with a face as expressionless as a
mask.

“It shall be as you will,” he answered gravely. “But I see nothing to
stand between us. Remember that we wish to be your friends, if you will
have us. And now I’m afraid I must go.”

He saw her lips quiver, as she suddenly turned away her face, and
dismissed him with a quick imperious gesture.

Ere he left the valley he looked back once. The Persian was standing
precisely where he had left her. In answer to his farewell signal, she
waved a handkerchief--and thus involuntarily betrayed herself. It was
the action of an Englishwoman!

       *       *       *       *       *

Mr. Pollitt was actually reluctant to abandon this life of pastoral
simplicity. The fragrant garden, the clear exhilarating air, the sturdy
simple hill folk, the view of hill and plains, steeped in a blue or
violet haze, appeared to hold him fast. He and Fernandez agreed to
travel together in a leisurely comfortable fashion; but Mark would not
and could not wait. He was in love. Where love exists, it is the only
thing in life--all else is nothing. He laid a dâk of his three ponies
on the road, and, early one afternoon, galloped off to Shirani, with
two wedding presents in his pocket.

       *       *       *       *       *

Perhaps the grey and bay ponies were as anxious as their rider to
return to their former haunts; at any rate, the forty miles which
lay between the Pela Kothi and Rookwood were accomplished at a
pace that has never yet been approached, and as the result of this
rapid travelling, Mark Jervis arrived a considerable time before
he was expected. That evening Lady Brande had been entertaining a
dinner-party, one of her most superior “burra-khanas.” People had
left the table and were assembled in the drawing-room, where it was
generally noted that Miss Gordon was looking brilliantly handsome. Yes,
she had entirely recovered her looks. A few months ago she had gone off
most terribly; but that queer hushed-up love affair of hers had been
quite enough to blanch her face and waste away her flesh. Some one was
at the piano singing a penetrating Italian love song, when it became
evident that an exceedingly late guest was on the point of arrival.
There was the flash of a lantern outside, the stamping of ponies’
hoofs, and the sound of a manly voice that set Honor’s heart beating.

Sir Pelham slipped away for a moment, and then returned and glanced
significantly at his wife.

She rose at once, and hurried out of the room, and was seen through the
open verandah in animated conversation with a young fellow in riding
dress. Etiquette forbade Honor--the most concerned--to move. Propriety
chained her hand and foot.

“I hope you will excuse me,” panted Lady Brande, returning somewhat
breathless, and addressing her guests, in a voice between laughing and
crying. “He declares that he is not fit to appear. He has just come
back.--It is only Mr. Jervis!”




                             CHAPTER XLVI.

                       A WEDDING WITH TWO CAKES.


The following is a portion of a letter from a lady in Shirani, to her
dearest friend on the plains:--

 “It is true that you have the hideous journey over, all the packing,
 getting off of carts, paying farewell calls, and nasty little bills,
 and that you are settled on the plains in winter quarters--all this
 misery is before me. Nevertheless I think you took up your winter
 quarters prematurely. October is quite my month in the hills, the air
 is so crisp and clear, you can see for miles, the Autumn tints are
 exquisite, and the low country seems veiled in a wash of the most
 exquisite cobalt and amethyst tints.

 “Moreover, I have been here for _the_ wedding. You want to know all
 about it, of course, and I will do as I would be done by, and begin
 at the very beginning. When young Jervis unexpectedly returned, every
 one was quite vulgarly astounded; the explanation of his absence
 was perfectly simple, and he brought in his train, his uncle--the
 rich man--the real, true, and only millionaire! And of course they
 stayed at Rookwood, and Miss Gordon’s engagement was given out at
 once--I must say the pair looked delightfully happy. I used to meet
 them riding about the pine roads, they also came down to the club,
 and tennis, and actually behaved like reasonable people, and a great
 deal less like lovers (in public), than other couples who were not
 engaged. Lady Brande was simply one large smile whenever you saw her,
 and indeed she and the withered little millionaire were preposterously
 radiant. He was delighted with everything he saw. (A complete
 contrast to some of our visitors from home.) Among other things, he
 appears to be particularly pleased with his future niece; I have
 noticed them constantly together--in fact, I think he monopolized her
 rather more than was fair. Lady Brande and the nephew have always been
 _au mieux_! At first there was an awful rumour that owing to a recent
 affliction in the bridegroom’s family--the death of his father--the
 wedding was to be very quiet--bride to be married in her habit, and to
 go away from the church. But, after all, a compromise was effected--in
 deference to Lady Brande’s wishes. There was to be no band, no grand
 breakfast, no fuss--in deference to the young man’s wishes; but the
 bride was to have an orthodox white gown, and any one who pleased
 might come to the church and see them married, and afterwards adjourn
 to Rookwood for cake and champagne. Needless to tell you, that every
 one pleased to attend the only wedding of the season, and a wedding
 that had an air of romance about it, and was certainly a love match.
 The presents were really tokens of good will--not given for show, and
 were ‘numerous and costly,’ as they say in the papers; the handsomest,
 in my opinion, was a splendid necklace of rows of pearls, most quaint.
 One of the smallest was a button-hook from Mrs. Langrishe. I don’t
 know _how_ she can be so mean! I believe she was very urgent in
 pressing Lady Brande to take some of her preparations for that other
 wedding off her hands. And Lady B., who is the soul of good nature,
 was forced into purchasing the wedding cake, never unpacked--she
 had a superb one, of course, from Pelitis; but this she bought as a
 supplementary affair for cutting up afterwards and sending away.

 “Sweet Primrose and Dolly Merton were the little bridesmaids; and as
 the former insisted on having ‘a gentleman to walk with,’ Mrs. Paul’s
 two handsome boys, in white page suits, accompanied the pair of small
 maids. They made the prettiest quartette--Dolly and Sweet in such
 smart frocks, Sweet looking really like a young angel, with her golden
 hair. However, she came out in her true colours before the end of the
 day. I wondered that she was invited to be present in any form, but
 Miss Gordon said that Mr. Jervis particularly wished it. There is no
 accounting for tastes--of course he does not _know_ her. I declare to
 you, that child strutted up the aisle, in her white silk shoes and
 stockings, as if she were spurning criticism, and as if the whole
 packed church full of people were assembled solely to gaze at Sweet
 Primrose! There were several outsiders present--friends the bridegroom
 had picked up--two or three young planters, whose hair wanted cutting
 badly, a missionary with an immense brown beard, who took part in the
 ceremony, that funny Mr. Cardozo, who seemed all teeth and diamond
 rings. The bride wore a lovely plain white satin and _the_ pearls.
 She was rather nervous; but the bridegroom was perfectly composed.
 They looked so triumphantly happy coming down the aisle arm-in-arm.
 After all, there is nothing like a love match!

 “We assembled in immense force at Rookwood, to drink the health of the
 newly-married couple. Sir Pelham made a capital speech--neat, brief,
 and witty. There were one or two unofficial remarks which may be
 recorded; for example, Colonel Sladen said, ‘She came up with him--a
 case of the early bird. The first day she was brought to the club I
 gave her a piece of sound advice--I told her to keep her eye on the
 millionaire. Though I had got hold of the wrong end of the stick, it
 appears that she had _not_!’

 “But it was generally acknowledged that Sweet Primrose made _the_
 speech of the occasion! fortunately it was to a comparatively small
 audience. As she sat stuffing herself with almond paste, she suddenly
 announced, in that shrill little pipe of hers, ‘_This is Miss Paske’s
 wedding-cake!_’ And Mrs. Langrishe, who was sitting close by, looked
 as if she was about to faint, and no wonder. Of course it was not Miss
 Paske’s wedding-cake; but the prying elf, who had been to Rookwood
 the previous day, whilst her mother was examining the presents, had
 overheard certain whisperings, and, having a particular eye for
 _cake_, had noted cake number two. Mrs. Sladen almost threw herself on
 the child, and managed to silence her and stifle her terrible tongue;
 but I believe the imp actually exacted a solemn promise that she was
 to have a large sample of what she pleasantly called ‘_the other one_’
 at the very earliest opportunity.

 “None of this by-play came to the eyes or ears of the wedding party,
 and soon we were all on the _qui vive_ to speed the bride. There was a
 great deal of kissing, but no tears. The happy pair were accompanied
 by a white dog, and drove off (quite a new departure) in a smart
 victoria, which was almost buried in slippers. If slippers are any
 sign of good feeling, they are the most popular couple that were
 married here for years. I don’t believe that there is one single old
 shoe to be found in the whole of Shirani.”

                                THE END.

    PRINTED BY WILLIAM CLOWES AND SONS, LIMITED, LONDON AND BECCLES.




                          Transcriber’s Notes

Punctuation errors and omissions have been corrected.

Page 2: “in in the _Victoria_!” changed to “in the _Victoria_!”