Mr. Jervis, Vol. 2 (of 3)

The little excursion into the interior lasted ten days. Mr. Brande was fond of thus throwing off the trammels of office and putting many miles of mountain and valley between himself and official letters, telegrams, and scarlet chuprassis, with their detestable tin boxes. He remained away until the last hour of his leave, enjoying leisurely marches, al fresco tiffins and teas in inviting spots, also friendly discussions with the sturdy Paharis or hill-folk. He returned to Shirani as much refreshed by the change as his good lady.

Tea was ready in the verandah when they reached home. Everything appeared in apple-pie order even to the mistress’s keen eye, from the snowy-clad khitmatgars, the glossy dark-green ferns to the flouted pup, newly washed and be-ribboned, who was in attendance in the ayah’s arms. In a short time Mrs. Sladen appeared to welcome the family. She was speedily followed by Mrs. Paul in a rickshaw and Miss Valpy on a smart chestnut pony.

“We have come to hear all your news,” said the latter, as she helped herself to a nice little hot cake.

“News! Pray where should we get news?” demanded Mrs. Brande, whose spirits had evidently revived.

“Come, tell us what has been going on in Shirani.”

“We are all on the qui vive for the bachelors’ ball; heaps of people are coming to it,” said Miss Valpy.

“Bachelors, I hope?” put in Mr. Brande, briskly.

“Yes; it is to be on the eighth.”

“I hope that our dresses have arrived,” said Honor, anxiously.

“I think I can relieve your mind,” rejoined Mrs. Sladen; “there is a large new deal box in the back verandah that looks very like dresses. But poor Mrs. Curtice! The cart that was bringing up her boxes went over the broken bridge into the river-bed, and all her new frocks are in a state of pulp!”

“Who is Mrs. Curtice?” inquired Honor. “A new-comer?”

“Yes; an elderly youngerly bunchy person,” responded Miss Valpy. “She reminds me exactly of an old Java sparrow! She would look the same, no matter what she wore.”

Mr. Brande, the only gentleman present, put up his eye-glass and gazed at the young lady meditatively.

“Any more news?” continued his insatiable wife.

“They say that Captain Waring is engaged to Miss Potter, up at Simla. Does that cause you a pang, Honor?”

“Yes, a pang for Miss Potter,” she retorted. “I can’t endure Captain Waring.”

“Oh, why not? Most people are long-suffering with respect to him!”

“I hate a man who, when he talks to me, every now and then chucks me metaphorically under the chin.”

Mr. Brande now gravely focussed his eye-glass upon his niece.

“I see what you mean, dear. I’m sure, from what I know of you, he never took a second liberty with you. Sir Gloster has come back.”

Here Mrs. Brande showed signs of increased attention.

“He has got snow-blindness. He went to the glacier.”

“Why, it seems only the other day that he went away,” observed Mrs. Brande.

“Yes, just after the starvation picnic,” supplemented Honor.

“Everything will be dated from that now!” exclaimed her aunt, irritably. “And is he laid up in Shirani?”

“Yes; Mrs. Langrishe has taken him in to nurse.”

“Mrs. Langrishe! She never did such a thing before in all her life,” cried Mrs. Brande, “and besides, she has no room.”

“Oh, she has contrived it; she has given him Major Langrishe’s dressing-room, and sent him to the club.”

“Well, I never!” gasped her listener.

“You see,” continued Mrs. Paul, laughing at her hostess’s face, “the force of your good example.”

“Force of example! I call it the force of being a baronet. And have you seen anything of Mark Jervis?”

“Yes; he and some of the Scorpions. Captain Scrope and Mr. Rawson are laying out a paper-chase course. I am sure he will be here presently,” added Mrs. Sladen. “He is on this ball committee, and extremely energetic. Here he is,” as Jervis and two officers cantered up to the verandah somewhat splashed.

“Welcome back,” he said, dismounting. “No, no, thanks; I will not come in, at any rate further than the mat. We have been through bogs and rivers, and are in a filthy state.”

“Never mind; it’s only the verandah! Do come in,” said Mrs. Brande, recklessly.

“But I mind very much; and besides,” with a laugh, “nothing makes a fellow feel so cheap as dirty boots.”

“I thought you were accustomed to feeling cheap,” said Honor, with a playful allusion to his nickname.

“No,” throwing the reins to his syce and mounting the steps, “I much prefer to be dear.”

“Dear—at any price!” exclaimed Miss Valpy, who, instead of chatting with Captain Scrope, was giving her attention to Mr. Jervis.

“Dear at any price,” emphatically. “How did you enjoy the interior?” turning to Honor.

“It was delightful.”

“Any adventures this time? Any buffaloes, Mrs. Brande?”

“No, thank goodness, for I have the same wretches of Jampannis.”

“And you, Miss Gordon? Had you no adventures?”

Miss Gordon coloured vividly, and muttered an inaudible reply, as she deliberately put the tea-cosy over the sugar-bowl. He recalled this little incident long afterwards, and then read its meaning.

“Here is Scrope waiting for a cup of tea after his hard day,” he said, suddenly turning the subject and slapping Captain Scrope on his solid shoulder. “Scrope is wasting to a shadow with work, work, work.” He and Captain Scrope were enthusiastic fellow-artists and racket-players.

“Yes, it’s a fact; it’s nothing but schools and classes, and drill and drawing maps. The army is not what it was,” remarked Captain Scrope, a round-faced, portly individual with a merry countenance. “We have garrison classes, signalling classes, musketry classes; but the most odious class I have ever attended is the meat class! I never bargained for all this sort of thing when I came into the service——”

“What did you bargain for? What would you like? Do pray name it?” urged Miss Valpy.

“Well, since you ask me, a nice gentlemanly parade once a week, would, in my opinion, fulfil all requirements.”

“How moderate!” she exclaimed sarcastically. “Has any one been to see poor Sir Gloster? It must be so dull for him sitting all day with his eyes bandaged.”

“Yes, I looked in yesterday, he was quite cheery and chatty.”

“Nonsense! What did he talk about?”

“Well—a—chiefly himself.”

“Rather a dry topic,” muttered Jervis, sotto-voce.

Captain Scrope laughed.

“He is by no means so dull as you suppose,” he rejoined significantly.

“No; Miss Paske is a sympathetic little creature, and has a pleasant voice,” observed Miss Valpy, with a satirical tightening of the lips. “By the way, with his chubby cheeks and bandaged eyes, did Sir Gloster not strike you as a grotesque copy of the god Cupid?”

“To quote the immortal Mrs. Gamp—I don’t believe there was ever such a person. Do you, Jervis?”

“Mr. Jervis will not agree with you,” rejoined Miss Valpy, scrutinizing him critically. What sincere eyes he had—eyes only for Honor Gordon—and there was a wonderful amount of dormant force in the curve of that well-formed chin and jaw.

“I am not a coarse heretic like Captain Scrope, but I cannot say that I have ever made his personal acquaintance.”

“No!” exclaimed Miss Valpy, with a slightly incredulous glance. “Then I do not think you will have long to wait.”

Miss Valpy’s sharp eyes and tongue were notorious all over Shirani. Jervis surveyed her with a look of cool polite scrutiny as he answered with a nonchalance impossible to convey—

“Possibly not—they say every thing comes to those who wait.”

“And how is Sweet? our own choice particular Sweet?” inquired Mr. Brande, as he laid down his cup and addressed himself to Captain Scrope. “I am languishing for news of the little darling.”

“The pretty child still endears herself to every one! All our special skeletons continue to be dragged out into the light of day. Her last feat was to ask Mrs. Turner where her second face was, as Mr. Glover said she had two! I wish some one would take your little darling home! Poor as I am, I would gladly contribute to her passage.”

“Talking of sending home,” said Mrs. Paul, “our collection for that poor widow and her children is getting on famously; we have nearly two thousand rupees; I must say that Anglo-Indians are most liberal, they never turn a deaf ear to a deserving charity.”

“It is probably because they are shamed into it by the noble example set them by the natives,” remarked Mr. Brande. “A man out here will share his last chuppatty and his last pice with his kin—thanks to the fact that the well-to-do support all their needy relations; we have no poor rates.”

“There is one mysteriously charitable person in Shirani,” continued Mrs. Paul, “who has repeatedly sent Herbert fifty rupees in notes anonymously, we cannot guess who he is?”

“He? why should it not be she?” inquired Miss Valpy, combatively.

“The writing is in a man’s hand, and the notes are stuffed in anyhow—they are extremely welcome, however—always come when most wanted. It is some one who has been here since March.”

“No, no, Mrs. Paul; you need not look at me,” exclaimed Captain Scrope, with a deprecating gesture; “I am an object of charity myself.”

“Have you no idea, have you formed no conjecture?” inquired Mr. Brande, judicially.

“I was thinking that perhaps Sir Gloster,” she began.

“Oh!” broke in Miss Valpy, hastily, “I can assure you that he is quite above suspicion: the only thing about him that is not large—is his heart. It is much more likely to be one of the present company,” and her smiling glance roved from Mr. Brande to Honor, from Honor to Mr. Rawson, from Mr. Rawson to Mr. Jervis.

His face was determinedly bent down, he was playing with “Jacko” (the friend of dead-and-gone Ben, who now honoured Rookwood with much of his society), and all she could scrutinize was a head of brown hair and a neat parting. Presently the head was raised. She met his eyes point-blank. Yes, he looked undeniably embarrassed, not to say guilty, as he endeavoured to evade her searching gaze.

“The culprit is Mr. Jervis!” she proclaimed with an air of calm conviction.

At this announcement there was a shout of ribald laughter, even Mrs. Paul and Mrs. Sladen smiled. Jervis the impecunious, the unassuming, the unpaid travelling companion, why, he went by the name of “the poor relation!” Miss Valpy’s shots generally hit some portion of her target, but this one was widely astray. And now conversation turned upon the ensuing ball. Decorations were eagerly discussed. Was the dancing-room to be done in pink, or would men wear mess jackets? Had bachelors any distinctive colours, or would the colours of the Shirani gymkana be suitable? Should they select the colours of the most popular bachelor—this was Mr. Brande’s suggestion—or let each of the fifty hosts do a small bit of the room to his own fancy? Above this babel of tongues Jervis’s clear voice was heard saying—

“Take notice, Mr. Brande, that I am going to make a clean sweep of your sofas and armchairs. I have also made a note of your new standard lamp. We shall want a cheval glass——”

Mrs. Brande beamed. She liked people to borrow her belongings. She would have lent her boy Mark her best pink satin dress, and feather head-dress, if they would have been of the smallest use to him.

Presently the party broke up, the visitors going away, as usual, en masse.

Miss Valpy was helped on her pony by Mr. Jervis, and as he carefully arranged her foot in the stirrup and gave her the reins, he looked up and their eyes met.

“Thank you very much,” was all she said to him. To herself, “Aha! my good young man, I know two of your secrets!”