Mr. Jervis, Vol. 3 (of 3)

“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.

“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.