Mr. Jervis, Vol. 3 (of 3)

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.