Mr. Jervis, Vol. 1 (of 3)

The grand dinner-party at 500, Princes Gate, was over, the last silken train had swept down the steps, the last brougham had bowled away, and a somewhat bored-looking young man indulged in a stretch and a prodigious yawn, and strolled slowly back to the library, where the master of the house, a spruce little person of sixty, with a rosy cheek and active eye, stood before the empty fireplace (the month was June) with his coat-tails under his arms, engaged in chewing a tooth-pick. Wealthy he may be, judging from his surroundings, but he is certainly not distinguished in appearance; his scanty locks are brushed out into two sharp horns over his large ears. In spite of his blazing solitaire stud and faultless claw-hammer coat, he is plebeian; yes, from the points of his patent leather shoes to the crown of his bald head. It is difficult to believe that he is the uncle of the aristocratic young fellow who has just entered and cast himself into a deep armchair. What the French call “the look of race,” is the principal thing that strikes one about Mark Jervis. It is afterwards—possibly some time afterwards—that you realize the fact that he is remarkably handsome, and considerably older than you took him to be at the first glance. His smooth face and sunny hazel eyes are misleading: young Jervis is more than nineteen, he is five and twenty.

“Well, Mark, that’s over, thank God,” exclaimed Mr. Pollitt. “I hate these big dinners; but your aunt will have them. She says we owe them; women are never backward in paying those sort of debts. It was well done, hey? That new chef is a success. Did you taste the Perdreaux aux Chartreuse—or the Bouchée à la financière, or that cold entrée?”

“No, Uncle Dan,” strangling another great yawn.

“Ah, you sly dog! You were too much taken up with Lady Boadicea! She is considered a beauty—at least her picture made rather a stir. What do you think? How does she strike you?”

“To me—she looks like a wax doll that has been held too close to the fire—and she is about as animated.”

“Well, you can’t say that of the American girl, Miss Clapper—there’s a complexion!—there’s animation!—there’s a stunner for you!”

“A stunner, indeed! She thrust her money down my throat in such enormous quantities that I could scarcely swallow anything else!”

“Then why the deuce did you not stuff some of mine down hers, hey?” chuckling. “I saw you at Hurlingham this afternoon.”

“Did you, sir? I had no idea you were there.”

“It was a frightful squash—hardly a chair to be had; the Royalties, a fine day and a popular match, brought ’em. I suppose that was the new pony you were trying, brown with white legs. How do you like him?”

“He is not handy, and he is a bit slow. He is not in the same class with Pipe-clay, or the chestnut Arab; I don’t think we will buy him, sir.”

“Lord Greenleg was very anxious to hear what I thought of him. He only wants a hundred and thirty—asked me to give him an answer there and then, as he had another customer, but I thought I had better wait till I heard your opinion. Is the pony worth one hundred and thirty guineas? What do you say?”

“I say, cut off the first figure, and that is about his value,” rejoined his nephew shortly.

Mr. Pollitt looked blank. He rather liked buying ponies from lords, even at a high figure, but a hundred guineas too much was a stiff sum. He knew that he could rely on the young fellow’s opinion, for lazy as he seemed, lounging there in an easy chair, he could both buy a horse and ride a horse—which does not always follow. The languid-looking youth was a hard rider to hounds, and a finished polo player.

“Then I suppose we shan’t mind the brown, eh, Mark?” said his uncle rather dolefully. “After all, it is getting late in the season, and his lordship has another offer.”

“Has he!” expressively. “Oh, then, that is all right.”

“Your side played up well to-day, my boy!”

“And were well beaten—two goals to four. Johnny Brind is no good as a back. He sits doubled up in his saddle, like an angry cat, and lets the ball roll out between his pony’s fore legs—and his language!”

“That did not come as far as my ears. I saw you speaking to Lord Robert Tedcastle. You were at Eton with him—you might bring him home to lunch some Sunday; and that Italian prince, did you come across him?” anxiously.

“No; I did not see him.”

“I noticed you having a long talk with that young Torrens; what was he yarning about? He was nodding his head and waving his hands like a cheap toy.”

“He was telling me of his plans. He and his brother are off to America next week, they are going on to Japan, Australia, and India. I say, Uncle Dan,” suddenly sitting erect, “I wish you would let me travel for a couple of years and see the world.”

A silence of nearly a minute, and then Mr. Pollitt burst out—

“Now, this is some stuff that young ass Torrens has been putting into your head. To see the world! What world? You see it at home. England is the world. You have the best of everything here—the handsomest women, finest horses, best food and drink, best——” he paused, and his nephew, who was nursing his leg, blandly suggested “climate.”

“Climate be hanged! best society,” bawled Mr. Pollitt. “The fact of the matter is, you young chaps don’t know when you are well off. Travel—see the world—skittles!”

“I know that I am exceedingly well off, thanks to you, Uncle Dan,” rejoined his nephew, quietly. “I have capital polo ponies, a first-rate stud of hunters, a splendid allowance—but a fellow can’t play polo, and hunt, and go to balls and theatres all his life; at least, that’s not my idea of life. I have nothing to do, no profession, you know; you would not hear of my going into the service.”

“No—I hate the army—what prospect does it offer the young idiots who are slaving to get into it—to live vagabonds, and die beggars!”

“There was the diplomatic corps; but I’ve not brains enough for that.”

“Bosh! You don’t want a profession, taking bread out of other people’s mouths. You are my heir—that’s your profession. As to intellect, there is a great deal too much intellect in these days; the world would be far easier to govern if there was less! You have brains enough, my boy, you did very well at Oxford.”

“I know that I am very fortunate,” repeated the young man, “and that thousands of fellows would give anything to stand in my shoes.”

“Clarence for one,” interrupted his uncle, with a loud chuckle.

“But I’m sick of the eternal treadmill round of the London season—Ascot, Goodwood, Cowes, Scotland. Then back to London, and we begin the whole business over again. We see the same people, and do the same things.”

“How old are you, Mark?” broke in Mr. Pollitt, excitedly.

“Five and twenty.”

“One would think you were eighty-five! But it is all the rage to be bored and blasé, and to give out that life is not worth living. You are in the height of the fashion, my boy! The fact of the matter is—that you are too prosperous. A blow of real trouble, cutting to the very bone, would do you no harm.”

“Perhaps so. Properly speaking, I believe I ought to have been a poor man’s son, and had to work my way. I feel that I could do it. I would not have minded being a soldier, a sailor, an explorer, or even a stock-rider.”

“In fact, to put the matter in a nutshell, anything but what you are.”

“Well, Uncle Dan, you have fought your way up to the front, step by step, and won your spurs, and enjoyed the battle. I should like to take some weapon, and strike into the fray.” Here he suddenly got up, and came over to his uncle, and, putting his hand affectionately on his shoulder said, “I would like to do something to make you”—with a nervous laugh—“proud of me;” and as he looked into his uncle’s shrewd little face, his eyes shone with repressed excitement.

“I’m proud enough. You are my own flesh and blood—a good-looking chap, a capital rider, and a gentleman; a bit too fond of dabbling with your nasty, dirty oil paints, a bit dreamy and Quixotic, but——”

At this juncture the door was gently pushed open, and a long, hooked nose came slowly into the room, followed by a tall, thin, elderly lady, attired in a clinging mist-coloured robe, and blazing with diamonds. A sallow, discontented-looking person, with a high-bred air, despite her touzled fringe.

“So you are both here!” she murmured sweetly.

“Yes,” assented Mr. Pollitt; “and here is Mark,” waving a short square hand towards him. “What do you think is his last craze, Selina? He wants to travel for a couple of years, in order to see the world. Just like the hero of a fairy tale.”

Mark hastened to place a chair for his aunt, into which she gently sank, keeping her eyes steadily fixed on his as she did so, and gradually narrowing her gaze to a cat-like glint.

“Do you know that I rather like the idea!” she remarked, after a momentary silence. “I think it is a shocking thing for a young man to waste his life, lounging in clubs gossipping and gambling, or playing a game on the back of a pony. Travelling improves the mind and enlarges the ideas.” Here, catching sight of Mr. Pollitt’s face of angry scorn, she lost no time in adding, “You know, it is all the fashion to travel, it’s only the second-rate people and nobodies who stay at home. Lady Grace and Lord Kenneth are going out to India this cold weather, so is the Duke of Saltminster, the Marquis and Marchioness of Tordale, and crowds of other smart people.”

Smart people were to Mr. Pollitt, as his crafty wife knew, the very salt of the earth; and his expression changed from that of repressed fury to grave attention.

“India! Perhaps I would not mind so much,” he admitted, after a pause. “The boy was born there, and he could look up his father. Yes, and he might have some shooting, and pick up a few tigers, and nice acquaintances and companions.”

“Oh, but, of course, Mark could not travel alone, dear. He must have a pleasant and experienced——”

“Bear-leader or keeper; or what would you say to a chaperon?” broke in her husband.

“My dearest!” she gravely expostulated. “You know perfectly well that it would be frightfully dull for the poor boy roaming about the country with no one to keep him company, not knowing where to go, or what to say. Now Clarence,” and she hesitated.

“Yes—now Clarence. What now?” sharply.

“Clarence,” speaking very distinctly, “was stationed in India for eight years. He is an experienced Anglo-Indian, has hundreds of friends, talks Hindostani fluently, and could get no end of shooting and introductions to native princes” (great emphasis on princes). “He would be a capital guide for Mark.”

“Umph!” with a short laugh. “I’m not so sure of that, Mrs. Pollitt.”

“Oh, my dear Dan, he is perfectly steady now. Why, he is thirty-five, and has sown his wild oats. I never quite believe in these wonderfully good young men,” and she shot a swift glance at Mark. “Except Mark, of course, and he ought to have been a parson, and,” with a little sneer, “he may yet become a missionary.”

“But India is no novelty to Clarence,” protested Mr. Pollitt; “and, by all accounts, he made it too hot to hold him. Mark can easily tack himself on to some party of friends, and do the tour with them. You say that the Rothmores——”

“Oh yes,” impatiently; “and they have made their arrangements months ago. Mark cannot tack himself on to people, as you express it; it would not do at all. On the contrary, he must have some one tacked on to him. The trip will be a boon to my brother, as well as to your nephew. Poor Clarence loves India. He is frightfully hard up; he would be an ideal companion for Mark,” turning to him. “What do you say, Mark? Answer us quite frankly.”

And under these circumstances what could Mark say but, “Yes; oh, certainly. Clarence is a good sort.”

“And at any rate, he can well be spared from home,” added Mr. Pollitt, dryly.

“Then you will consent to Mark’s request, darling?” said his wife, rising and tapping him playfully with her big feather fan. “Think of all he will have to tell you, and of all the pretty things he will bring us.”

“As long as he does not bring a wife!” growled the old gentleman. “Well, well, well, it is not often that you and Mark are on the same side in a debate, or that you second the resolution. When you combine, you are too strong for me. I’ll think it over.”

Mrs. Pollitt gave her nephew by marriage a quick significant glance, for this speech distinctly showed that the bill before the (head of the) house had passed, and that it now only remained to go into a committee of ways and means.