Mr. Jervis, Vol. 2 (of 3)

Mark Jervis had resisted all Mrs. Brande’s invitations to “take him home and nurse him.” He would be far better, quoth she, in her comfortable spare room, with the best of fresh eggs and new milk, than in that smoky Haddon Hall, at the mercy of his bearer, his meals irregular, and no comforts. She was well accustomed to nursing young men. How many junior civilians, brought to the verge of the grave by India’s new scourge, typhoid, had owed their lives to Sara Brande—young men in her husband’s district, who, just out from home, had scorned such precautions as the purchase of a filter and a cow! What tales, if she had chosen, could Mrs. Brande have related of these same reckless invalids! How, at their first weak, but convalescent and ravenous stage, they had been so happy, so amazed, to find themselves yet in the land of the living, that they had babbled freely to their kind sympathetic nurse, forgetting how often they had laughed at “old Sally Brande.” She seemed an angel, a more than mother to them now. Reclining on sofas and long chairs, in clothes much too large, twilight, or especially moonlight, often found them murmuring experiences and confidences into their nurse’s attentive ear—“of girls at home,” of debts, of scrapes, of good resolutions, of “new leaves” that were about to be turned over;—were not all these things written in the chronicles of Mrs. Brande’s memory? Afterwards, when restored to life and vigour, with a sharpened appetite for life’s enjoyments, these patients marvelled at themselves, their poor weak wagging tongues, their indiscretions! They felt hot as they thought of the secrets which were buried in Mrs. Brande’s bosom; but they were always polite to her, never would suffer a word in her disfavour, and many of them loved her. The cards, letters, and mementoes she received at Christmas were astonishing in variety, and in the difference of post-marks; from Tongoo to Suakim, from Kohat to Galle, these tokens of affectionate remembrance poured in from what Mrs. Brande was wont to term “her boys.” She (very low be it whispered) was fond of young men! She liked Mark Jervis particularly, and would gladly have enrolled him in her brigade; for her boys were not merely Indian civilians—she had her recruits in the police, the opium department, the army, and the law.

This friendless young Englishman actually held out against notes (or chits), messages, even visits, and steadily refused to “come and be nursed.”

His cousin was more at home these latter days; he was packing and preparing for a move.

“I say, Mark,” he said, “your wrist will be all right in about ten days, so Kane says. I advise you to think better of it, and follow on to Simla. It’s a ripping place—very different to dead-and-alive Shirani—I must go to-morrow, you know. I’ve promised to escort Mrs. Atherton and Miss Potter; the roads between this and the station are broken, and they are in a deadly fright. We shall do the whole journey together, and I have now only to ask and have.”

“That is satisfactory, but as far as I’m concerned I’m a fixture here,” replied Mark, “and you know why. I wrote to my father again urgently, and told him that time was flying, that I was going back in October, but I would wait here till then.”

“So you may! I know the style your father is, Mark. He is a man who has lived so long out here, he has become fossilized—nothing outside India appeals to him, not even his son. There are dozens like him; the easy-going life has penetrated to their very bones. He has his well-trained servants, his excellent food and liquor, his cheroots or his huka, his Pioneer, his long armchair, his pet grievance; he wants no more, least of all a smart young chap, with all sorts of advanced fin-de-siècle ideas, to come and rout him out.”

“This is a fancy sketch, Clarence.”

“Well, grant it! I will draw you a true portrait from life, and I could draw you half a dozen.”

“We will have one to begin with—don’t be too long about it, for I have promised to meet Scrope at four o’clock sharp; and I see Dum Sing waiting with the grey pony.”

“Once upon a time I knew an old colonel (retired) who lived in the Nielgherries,” began Waring. “All his family were out in the world, sons in the service, daughters married, and he was left stranded. He had his garden, his ponies, some ancient chums and old retainers, and though all his relations were at the other end of the world, he would not budge. No less than three times he took his passage home; twice he went down to Madras, bag and baggage, accompanied by his servants. Once he was actually on board ship and in his cabin, but when they said, ‘Any one for the shore,’ he bundled his kit together and went back in a Massulah boat. He is out here still. I recollect another instance, an old general, a regular old derelict, clinging, as to a spar, to the last station he commanded. I saw him—and this was in the plains, mind you—going for his evening drive in his old carriage, with a pair of antediluvian horses—all alone, too. He had a venerable, long white beard, and was eighty-six years of age, and fond of saying, ‘Thirty years ago, when I commanded this station!’ The authorities and folks in general humoured him—people are not so much hustled out here, and have time to indulge old folk’s fancies. He came to all the field days, and drew up behind the saluting post in his old barouche. He thought the army was going to the dogs, I can tell you, and white helmets, white clothes, and canes, so many scandalous innovations. He had a heap of relations in England, never wrote to one of them, and left all his money to the grandson of his first love and the Friend in Need Society! Your father is just another of these people, as you will see.”

“Time will tell; and, talking of time, Clarence, I think it is time that we should put an end to our little farce.”

Clarence, who was sitting opposite to his companion, and leaning his arms on a rickety writing-table, raised his head and gazed at him rather blankly.

“Old boy, you must surely see that it has gone far enough—in fact, just a bit too far. When Miss Paske fired a wild shot in the dark, and said that I did not consider it always necessary to tell the whole truth about myself, I felt downright guilty; when she said I was a bit of an impostor, I know I blushed like a peony! The deception, small at first, has grown to a big thing. I go by the name of ‘the poor relation,’ and all the mothers fight shy of me!”

“And is not that just what you particularly aimed at?” demanded Clarence, sharply. “I think the whole scheme has worked capitally. I’m sure I have played my part well, and so have you”—with a loud laugh of unnatural hilarity.

“Yes, but I feel as if I was acting a lie, though I have never actually uttered one in so many words. I have never said that I was poor——”

“Just as I pay the bills,” interrupted his companion, “and have a prosperous air, but I never said I was rich.” (Nevertheless, he acted and spoke precisely as a man to whom money was no object. Nor was it, being not his own, but Mr. Pollitt’s.)

“When I started to play polo, men were politely amazed,” continued Jervis; “when I gave fifty rupees for the new harmonium, people looked astonished; the peon with the church-books, who gathers up our Sunday offerings, gazes at my chit for four rupees doubtfully; as he hands it to me, I know that he wonders at my extravagance, and whether I can afford it? We are going to give a bachelors’ ball as a set off against the married ladies’ picnic.”

“I hope the supper will be within ten miles of the ball-room,” interposed Waring, briskly.

“And Hawks the secretary, a very good sort, said to me, quite confidentially, ‘You are not a rich Johnnie. I’ll let you down easy; I’ll take fifteen rupees.’”

“Yes; and what do you think of that young brute Skeggs, who has been going steadily to everything ever since he came up, breakfasts, teas, tiffins, dinners, balls—an ugly, pudding-faced chap?”

“Yes, fearfully handicapped by his hands and feet.”

“He was asked to join, and make some return for the great hospitality that had been shown to bachelors. He said no, promptly, he would not give an anna; and why, do you suppose?” pausing dramatically. “Because, in his opinion, a young man was a sufficient reward in himself for any amount of civilities.”

“Mean beast! He was lunching at the Brandes’ yesterday. But to return to our subject”—feeling conscious that his clever companion was slipping away from it. “You are off to-morrow, and before we go I really think we ought to take the opportunity of each appearing in our true and real character. Are you, like Barkis, willing?”

Clarence coloured a deep red, and looked annoyed.

“No—I am not—willing,” he said with an effort. “We have only a few months more to play our parts, and I vote we see them out. I adopted the rôle of purse-bearer and leader to satisfy a caprice of yours, as you know, and I mean to stick to it till we are in Bombay Harbour.”

“Well, I am very sorry now I was such a sensitive, vain idiot, as to get into a regular funk, simply because a few third-rate globe-trotters threw themselves at my money-bags. Why on earth did you not tell me that they were not a true specimen of Indian society? There are heaps of wealthy men out here—we have met them—heirs to titles, or really distinguished fellows, and no one bothers about them. I was too conceited and too great a fool.”

“It’s too late to think of that now!”—with easy scorn.

“No, better late than never! I intend to tell the Brandes and Mrs. Sladen, and Clifford, Scrope, Villiers, and one or two other fellows—that I am not what I seem.”

“You must reckon with me first!” cried Clarence, hoarsely. “Your confidences, which mean blazoning the truth from one end of Shirani to the other, will play the very devil with me!”

“Why? What do you mean?” asked Jervis, with an air of cool surprise.

“Cannot you see? I’ve dropped into my old set and my old temptations; I cannot resist a bit of a gamble. The name of ‘millionaire,’ given for fun, has gained me credit. I owe money all over the place—rent, club, bills, Manockjee; three thousand rupees would not clear me, and if it comes out, say, to-morrow, that I am their dear customer of former days, without a penny to bless myself with, they will all be on me like a pack of hounds. Give me time, and I will sell the ponies well up at Simla, pick up a race or two, and marry”—with a laugh—“the heiress.” (Never, to quote Lord Lytton, was there a man, who was an habitual gambler, otherwise than notably inaccurate in his calculations of probabilities in the ordinary affairs of life. Is it that such a man has become such a chronic drunkard of hope, that he sees double every chance in his favour?) “I am owed some money myself, but I must not press my debtor. However, I am safe to get it some day, and it’s a tidy sum. I have a first-rate book on Goodwood; I can’t lose, and I must win. All I want is time, a long day, your honour”—grinning at his companion; nevertheless, although he grinned, his mouth was working nervously at the corners.

“But surely there are a good many thousand rupees still at the agent’s?” asked Mark, rather blankly.

“Not a pice,” was the astounding reply. “No, I was badly hit over the Liverpool, and of course I had no right to appropriate the funds in such a way. You need not tell me that. Gambling is a disease with me, and I cannot help it; it’s worse than drink—comes far more expensive. There ought to be a retreat for confirmed gamblers such as I am, same as for dipsomaniacs. I may as well make a clean breast of it. I hoped to land a large stake, and make all square, but that brute ‘Queer Customer’ curled up and ran a cur in the finish, and put us all in a hole. I would give ten pounds to get a shot at him! I’ve had confounded bad luck, and I must say in my own defence, that it was all your fault, from first to last. You put temptation in my way, you handed over the accounts and cheque-book, and asked no questions; and, by Jove!” he concluded with an air of virtuous resignation, “I’ve told you no lies. I am cleaned out.”

“And supposing your Simla schemes fall through, and you are not paid, and your book on Goodwood is on the wrong side—what will you do?”

Clarence simply shrugged his broad shoulders.

“How are we to pay our bills here?” inquired the other, gravely.

“I don’t know.”

“And our passage money?”

“I don’t know,” he repeated doggedly.

“Surely you must have some idea?” urged Jervis, with a touch of asperity.

“Yes, you can write to the uncle for fresh supplies.”

“No, I will not do that,” returned the uncle’s heir, who was rapidly losing his patience.

“There is your own allowance, a most liberal one.”

“I have not drawn it because I thought Uncle Dan’s cheque covered everything.”

“And it seems that you were too sanguine.”

“What have you got in your cash-box, Waring?” he demanded sternly. “Do you mean to tell me seriously that you are quite penniless?”

“No, I’ve got a thousand rupees; that will pay the servants here, take me to Simla, and keep me there quietly, till events arrange themselves. I cannot pay my mess bill in Shirani—a whopping one! You see, I punished their champagne, and I was always asking guests.”

A dead silence, broken only by the jingling bit of Jervis’s impatient pony.

“Well, what do you propose to do to get me out of this hat? How are we both to get out of the country?” inquired Clarence, whose effrontery was of a rare and peculiar character.

Jervis sat for some time with his hands in his pockets and a frown on his brow. At last he said—

“I suppose, if the worst comes to the worst, I must draw out six hundred pounds, though I think it’s a mean encroachment on the old man’s generosity. One hundred will keep me here till we start, and the remaining five will pay mess bill, rent, passage money, and so on. I shall tell the Brandes the truth the first time I see them, and that will be to-morrow morning.”

“Then, by George! if you do,” cried Clarence in a harsh, discordant voice, “you need not trouble about my passage home, for as sure as you open your lips”—tugging furiously at the table-drawer as he spoke—“and expose me as a wretched impostor, a paid companion, and a beggar—do you see this revolver?” suddenly producing one as he spoke—“I swear I’ll put it to my head and blow my brains out! Here!” he continued, snatching up Mark’s little Prayer-book and kissing it vehemently, “I swear it on the book!”

Then he pushed away both book and weapon, and, resting his elbows on the table, contemplated his vis-à-vis with a grey, drawn, haggard face—a face expressing such anxiety and desperation, that it was difficult to believe that it was the countenance of good-looking, popular, débonnaire Captain Waring.

“I don’t want to drive you to anything,” said Mark, who was also deadly pale; “but if I keep my lips sealed and continue to feel a mean, double-faced hound, I must have my stipulation also. It is not for the sake of any extra consideration or popularity I might gain that I wish to speak—you believe that? But you know I am deliberately playing a double part, and sailing under false colours. It all seemed so easy and harmless at first, from sending off the valet and baggage and——”

“All that sort of thing, as Sir Gloster would say,” interrupted Clarence, with a ribald laugh.

“But now it has grown from small beginnings, it leads on from one deception to another. I am almost afraid to open my mouth; I never dare to allude to hunting or yachting, or anything that sounds like money, or even to speak of my uncle or my home, for fear people may think that I am lying.”

“You never wanted to make these confidences when you were in Columbo or Calcutta,” sneered Clarence. “You have been exciting some one’s interest, eh? And pray, what is your stipulation?”

“That I may tell the whole truth to one person.”

“As a dead, dead secret. I don’t mind if you do—as long as it is not a woman.”

“But it is a woman,” said Jervis, quickly.

“Ah, I need not ask her name—Miss Gordon,” exclaimed Waring, with a peculiar grating emphasis. “Now, there’s a girl I don’t like—nasty, snubby way with her, and the most haughty smile I ever beheld.”

“Her ways and her smiles are not likely to concern you much, I fancy; but she is the girl I wish to marry, if I can prevail upon her to accept me.”

“Prevail! And you doubt if you would prevail without telling her of the coin?” cried Clarence derisively.

“She is the last person in the world to care for money; in fact, it is a disadvantage in her eyes, as I happen to know.”

“The young woman must be indeed a rara avis!” observed Clarence, with an insolent laugh.

“But,” pursued the other, “if I ask her to accept me, I should like her to know all about me.”

“Pollitt’s pearl barley, and all! You don’t think that will go against the grain—see? Eh? Not bad!”

“I wish you could be serious for five moments,” exclaimed Jervis, angrily, “and let me finish what I am saying. I am not the least ashamed of Pollitt’s pearl barley—nor would I begin by having a secret from her.”

“Whatever you might come to later, eh? And Uncle Dan—have you thought of him? Is he to be let into the news about the young lady, or will you begin by having a secret from him?”

“Of course I shall tell him at once.”

“Oh! very proper indeed! Well now, I suppose we have talked over everything, and at any rate I have talked myself into first-class thirst! You are to keep five hundred pounds to settle up with in case of accidents, and you are to continue to hold your tongue, and keep up your present rôle with every one but a certain young lady—that’s about it?”

“Yes, I suppose that’s about it,” acquiesced Mark, rising and taking his cap.

As Captain Waring watched him hurrying towards his waiting pony, mounting and galloping away up the compound, he said to himself as he deliberately struck a fusee—

“Well, Clarence Waring, I think you got considerably the best of that bargain! You have the brains; and if you had money and opportunity, you could do great things!” Nevertheless, he took up the revolver, and looked at it with a sober face ere he returned it to the table-drawer.