CHAPTER XXXIII.
“HEREDITARY.”
His long afternoon rest had revived Major Jervis; he appeared to be another man as he sat opposite his son at dinner, and talked not merely sensibly, but wittily, across the grimy tablecloth, on which was exhibited smoked goat-chops and other undesirable comestibles. He discussed the condemned cantonment—he recollected its bygone existence. The lepers—they were his pensioners, and came for their dole weekly—they were well looked after between missionaries and other people. He spoke of his regiment, his former comrades; he gave vivid descriptions of shikar expeditions, of pig-sticking, of thrilling scenes on active service. He related anecdotes of well-known people of his acquaintance; he boasted of his brothers-in-arms, and described a polo tournament as if it had come off yesterday!
“And you have quite lost sight of all these friends?” inquired his son, after a pause.
The question seemed to break a spell; all animation suddenly faded from the major’s face, his whole expression changed into that of a shrunken old man as he replied—
“Yes; I left the herd, like a wounded deer, seven long years ago. I have hidden myself from them, and I am entirely forgotten. People are forgotten out here sooner, more completely, than in any other country.”
“Why do you say so?” asked his son, incredulously.
“Because life is so full; events march rapidly, changes occur daily. Cholera, war, accidents, sweep away men—and memories.”
When the table had been cleared and cigarettes produced, and Fuzzil and his satellite had somewhat reluctantly departed, Major Jervis looked steadily at his companion for some time, and exclaimed at last—
“You are very like me, Mark! I can see it myself; and I was considered a good-looking fellow. I had a bigger frame, though; I rode a couple of stone heavier. But you are a stronger man than your father; you have a square jaw and a stern will. You can say no. I never could get out that word in time—and many troubles were my lot. You wish me to go home with you, my boy?”
“I do,” was the laconic and emphatic reply.
“And I want you to stay with me; you must remain with me. I have not long to live. Look at me well.”
Mark glanced at his sunken eyes, his worn, emaciated features.
“And you must see the last of me. I don’t intend to let you go; no, for once I, too, can say no.”
“But, nevertheless, I’m afraid you must let me go, sir, and shortly. I promised Uncle Dan——”
“Yes,” he interrupted with unexpected passion, “I understand what you would say; that you would thrust your uncle down my throat. But, after all, are you not my son—not his? I reared you until you were ten years old. When you were a small child and burning with fever, who was it that used to walk up and down with you in his arms for hours? Not your uncle Dan. Who was it that first set you on the back of a pony and taught you to sit like a Bengal sowar? Not your uncle Dan. Who was it that lifted you out of your dying mother’s embrace? Not your uncle Dan. You are my own flesh and blood; in all the wide world I have now no one but you. Since Osman died I have not a single friend. I am surrounded by vampires of servants. My heir prays on his knees nightly to his patron saint for the telegram that will carry the news of my death. I believe the form is here in Fuzzil’s possession, filled up, all but the date! I am a miserable, solitary, dying wretch, and I appeal to you, my son, to spare me a few months of your healthy, happy life, and to stay beside me and protect me. Do I,” leaning his elbows on the table, and searching his son’s face intently, “appeal in vain?”
“You wish me to live here with you altogether?”
“Yes,” with curt emphasis.
“To give up my uncle?”
“For a time, yes. I seem cruelly selfish, but I am as a drowning man snatching at a spar. You will stay?” A tremor ran through his voice.
“I cannot. No; I promised Uncle Dan that I would certainly return,” rejoined his son firmly.
“Your uncle has health, wealth, a wife, and many friends. Surely he can spare you to a sick and desolate man. The Almighty has afflicted me sorely. If you abandon me to my fate, and gallop back to your gay life and companions, the day will come when you will bitterly repent it. Osman’s burthen has fallen on you, and will my own son do less for me than an alien in blood, a Mahomedan in faith, a poor, unenlightened, faithful sowar?”
And he stretched out his hand, and fixed an interrogative gaze on his companion. The paleness of concentrated feeling tinged the young man’s face, a few drops of sweat stood on his forehead.
“Mark, what is your answer?” he demanded in a hoarse whisper. “Be quick. Say yes or no—yes or no.”
“Not now, sir,” suddenly standing up. “You must give me time. Give me forty-eight hours.”
“Ah, there is something more than your uncle,” with a swift expressive glance; and he rose and put his hands heavily on his son’s shoulders. “I know,” gazing straight into his eyes with a mad keenness in his look, “there is, of course, a woman in the case?”
“There is,” admitted Mark, holding himself erect. “An hour before I got your letter, I had asked a girl to be my wife.”
“And you need not tell me her answer—yes, of course; young, rich, handsome! The world is full of women—over-run with them. A man can have fifty sweethearts, but he has only one father!”
“There is only one sweetheart in the world for me,” returned his son proudly.
Major Jervis drew himself up with an air of formidable dignity, and deliberately surveyed the speaker in sarcastic silence. Suddenly his expression changed, and became charged with fury; he made a frantic gesture, as if he would sweep both son and his sweetheart off the face of the earth. Then he tore back a purdah, beyond which he instantly disappeared—leaving it quivering behind him.
After waiting for a quarter of an hour, Mark went up to his own room, which he began to pace from end to end. Presently he turned down the lamp, flung open the window, looked out, and drew a long, long breath. His temples throbbed like engines in his burning head, every fibre of his being, every shred of his understanding, was now engaged in an inner soul-struggle.
On one side was arrayed Honor Gordon, his good-hearted, indulgent uncle, to whom he was sincerely attached—friends, wealth, the life to which he was accustomed—a life of ease and sunshine. On the other hand, there was this!—and he gravely surveyed the dim, weird landscape, the starlit sky, stretching to the mysterious horizon, and shuddered—his afflicted, forlorn father, who would not be removed, and who could not be abandoned.
His father, who had cared for him in his childhood. Yes! it was his turn now; and would he be behind Osman, the Mahomedan, who had done from love, what he should do from duty?
“But his father might live years! Was he a brute to wish him dead? Did he wish his father dead?” he asked himself fiercely, and shuddered again. What was he coming to? Had two days in the jungle turned him into a beast?
If he accepted what was plainly his duty, his uncle would cast him off, and he must renounce Honor Gordon! Was this a home to bring her to? common sense grimly demanded. And he would now be penniless indeed! He was tortured with heart-wearing doubts and temptations, as duty or inclination gained the upper hand. Two nights ago he could not sleep for happiness; now, he could not rest for misery! He resolved to walk down this raging fever, to quell this mental turmoil, by sheer bodily fatigue. He made his way through the silent house, where he found all the doors open, and nearly fell over a goat and two kids who were dozing in the hall, otherwise the lower regions were untenanted.
Suddenly he became aware of a great noise and brilliant light outside; laughing, loud chattering, and the complacent humming of dissipated tom-toms! The compound was illuminated by a large fire, and half a dozen flaming torches, and crowded with a mob of natives, who were enjoying, with intense appreciation, the solemn gyrations, and shrill high-pitched songs of a couple of tawdry Nautch girls. The surrounding go-downs were full of animated visitors. One was evidently a drinking den, whilst in another were gamblers. Standing in the shadow on the steps, unnoticed, Jervis surveyed these orgies entirely at his leisure. He distinguished the khitmatghar, though without a turban, his sleek black hair parted like a woman’s, and falling over his shoulders. He was playing cards with three other men; a bottle and a beaker stood by for general enjoyment. The “khit” was absorbed in the game, his eyes seemed to protrude from his head as they greedily followed the cards. Meanwhile Fuzzil was solemnly superintending the Nautch, and applauding occasionally, with fitful, tipsy condescension.
A few sharp words from the young sahib, who appeared among them like a spirit, had an electrical effect. An awed and immediate silence was followed by a simultaneous helter-skelter rush and scurry.
“What is the meaning of this madness?” demanded the sahib sternly of Fuzzil, who with drunken valour stood his ground, whilst the Nautch girls, tom-toms, and spectators, melted away like so many rabbits scuttling to their burrows.
“Madness!” repeated Fuzzil, with an air of outraged dignity; “it is a grand tamasha for the marriage of my wife’s brother’s son. Does the sahib not like Nautches, and cards, and drink, like other young sahibs? Of a surety he does”—answering his own question with insolent emphasis, and a little stagger. “As for madness; this house is a poggle-khana” (madhouse).
“What do you mean, you rascal?” said Jervis, sharply.
“Of a truth, all the world know that. Is the fair-haired sahib, his son, the last to learn that the old man is mad? Ask the doctor; ask Cardozo Sahib. Sometimes for one year he never speaks. Sometimes bobbery and trying to kill himself; but Osman took care of him. Now, lo! Osman is dead; there will be an end soon. This house will cease to be a poggle-khana, and all the worthy ‘nouker log’ (servants) can return to their own country.”
“You, for one, can return to-morrow,” responded the sahib, in surprisingly fluent Hindostani.
“You are not the master here,” blustered Fuzzil, in amazement. “I taking no orders.”
“You will find that I am; and if you ever again come into my presence, with your shoes on your feet, I will thrash you within an inch of your life. Send away all these people; tell them the tamasha is over for to-night; put out the lights, and get to your go-down, and sleep yourself sober.”
Fuzzil stared, swallowed, gasped. The young man’s resolute air and stern eye were altogether too much for him, and he obediently slunk off, without further dispute.
Major Jervis did not appear the next morning, and his son mounted his pony and went for a long ride. Where he went he but vaguely remembered; his thoughts were far too preoccupied to note his surroundings. There was no doubt that his father’s mind was affected; no doubt this was attributable to the fall over the khud, and injury to his head. The vital question remained to be decided, was he, Mark Jervis, to sacrifice his youth to filial duty?—one would soon grow old in the Yellow Kothi—to renounce friends, fortune, sweetheart, to lead a semi-savage existence, entirely cut off from what is called Life.
But, on the other hand, if he set his pony’s head for Shirani, and returned to Honor, to all the delights of the world, would not the recollection of the miserable father he had abandoned to strangers poison every pleasure, and force itself into every joy?
“But to live there”—and he drew rein and gazed down upon the square house, standing out distinctly against a blue, purplish background—“will be,” he exclaimed aloud, “a living death. Like a vain young fool, I wanted a chance to do something—some special task, some heroic deed, that would set me apart from other men; but, God knows, I never thought of this!”
It was late in the afternoon when he rode up to the verandah, and was amazed to meet a coolie leading away a steaming-hot hill pony—a hired animal—and more surprised still to discover a visitor comfortably established in a long chair, with his fat legs elevated above his head, enjoying a peg and a cheroot. Evidently there was no occasion to ask him to make himself at home! The stranger slowly put down his feet and stood on them, when he first caught sight of Mark.
After staring hard for a few seconds, he said, with an air of great affability, “I am Fernandez Cardozo, and you are Major Jervis’s son—my cousin.”
“I am Major Jervis’s son,” assented the young man, stiffly; and he, in turn, critically surveyed his father’s heir. He was low-sized, fleshy, and swarthy, about forty years of age; he had a closely cropped bullet head, sprinkled with grey hairs, a round good-natured face, a pair of merry black eyes, and a large mouthful of flashing white teeth. An Eurasian, and possibly not a bad sort of fellow, was Mark’s verdict.
The other was thinking, “What a fine young man! Quite tip-top. How strange it seemed that he should be the son of the poor, crazy old major inside.” And his eyes travelled over his smart country-bred pony, his English saddlery, his well-cut boots and clothes.
“Yes—you are his son,” he said at last, “but I am his heir. We are, son and heir,” and he laughed—an oily laugh.
“You are heir of course to Mrs. Cardozo—I mean Mrs. Jervis’s fortune. Won’t you sit down?”
“You have not been long here, have you?” now reseating himself.
“No; only two or three days.”
“And how,” with a jerk of his thumb in the direction of the major’s apartments, “do you find the old man?”
“Well, I never knew until now, that his mind was rather—affected. He has not written to me for years, and I only got his address with difficulty.”
“Yes, he prefers to lie low—as Mr. Jones. But ‘rather affected,’ is putting it mildly.”
“Do you think so?” considering Cardozo with a pair of hostile eyes.
“You will think so too before long. Now don’t be vexed with me, my dear boy. No one is ever angry with Ferdy Cardozo, they know I am a good fellow, and that I mean well. Shall we go inside and see if there is anything to be had to eat?”
“Certainly, I ought to have thought of it before.”
“Oh, please don’t apologize, I’m quite at home. Fuzzil, you fat lazy swine,” to the now obsequious bearer, “get me something to eat, none of your dogs’ food—such as brain cutlets or Irish stew, and bring up some of my wine. It’s very hot in here, awfully frousty,” opening a window. “The major hates me like poison, and when he hears I’m in the house he won’t come out, he will go to ground like a snake, but I shall be off to-morrow.”
“Yes?” interrogatively.
“Are you in the army?” continued Fernandez with half-closed eyes.
“No, I am not in the regular army; I’m in the yeomanry.”
“No profession then?” raising his arched brows in rather supercilious surprise.
“No, not any.” His profession as heir to his Uncle Dan, would soon be a thing of the past.
Mr. Cardozo’s surmise was perfectly correct. Major Jervis did not appear, he merely sent his salaams and dined in his own apartments, leaving his son and his heir to consume that meal tête-à-tête. It was a great improvement on the usual menu. Evidently Fuzzil had resources that he drew upon on worthy occasions.
“It’s a fine moonlight night,” remarked Fernandez. “Let us go and smoke in front of the house, it’s better than being indoors, and I like to make the most of the hill air when I’m up, and we are out of the way of eavesdroppers.”
In a few moments they were sitting on the low wall in front of the Pela Kothi.
“Osman was a desperate loss,” began Fernandez as he struck a fuzee—“a desperate loss.”
“So I gather from what I hear,” assented his companion.
“That’s partly what brought me up. I have business round here, of course, though. I live in Calcutta. I like to keep my eye on the property, and I look after the major and manage his affairs as well as I can—I feel it my duty.” And he began to smoke.
Was here yet another man, of no kin to Major Jervis, who was to put his own flesh and blood to shame?
“I wish you would tell me something about my father—the last seven years are a sealed page to me.”
“Well, first of all he got a fall on his head pig-sticking, and that made him rather foggy for a bit, he saw everything double. Then of course the tonga business was a finisher. Osman brought him here, and at times he was perfectly well, as sane as you or I, and interested in the garden, and the news, and all that, but he got worse by degrees, fits of silence and depression, never opening his lips for maybe a whole year—melancholy, suicidal mania—tried to hang himself with a stirrup leather, you understand,” lowering his voice expressively.
“I—I—understand,” acquiesced the other, almost in a whisper.
“He must have some one always with him, more or less. Some one whom he likes, and who has influence and a strong will, such as Osman—he was invaluable. I don’t know how we are to find a substitute for him,” continued Fernandez thoughtfully, as he crossed his legs, leant his elbow on his knees, and puffed meditatively.
“The servants he has about him now must be shunted,” said Mark, emphatically. “I never saw such a pack! They had a feast and tom-toms last night. They are lazy, insolent, useless blackguards!”
“Not a doubt of it,” agreed Fernandez, cheerfully. “And Fuzzil will retire a rich man, keep a gharry, and send his sons to college. They come here fairly decent servants—but the desperately dull life, no bazaar, no other ‘nauker log’ to bukh with, is a want no wages can repay. Then the household has no head, no regular hours, and so they all do as they please and go to the bad. I don’t know what is to be done now—your father won’t allow a stranger near him. The question is, Who is to replace Osman? Tell me that”—and he flung out his hand with a dramatic gesture.
“I will replace Osman,” was the totally unexpected reply.
“You!” cried Cardozo, gazing at the speaker with round-eyed incredulity. The young man’s face was pallid, his lips set hard. “You don’t know what you are saying”—and he took his cheroot out of his mouth and continued to stare at his companion exhaustively. “You are accustomed to the big world of London; you have seen and done what I have only read about—for I have never been home; you are accustomed to a whirl of society, to novelty, excitement, luxuries, and immense wealth. You to live here? Upon my word, excuse me, my dear fellow, the very idea makes me laugh. Even I, born and bred in the country, would go mad in a very short time. I could not stand the life for more than a week—a month would kill me!”
“I am not so easily killed as you imagine. I am tougher than you think,” rejoined Jervis.
“But you do not know what you would have to endure”—throwing out his arms excitedly. “The solitude, the silence, day after day, exactly the same—breakfast, tiffin, dinner, bed—nothing to do, nothing to hope for, no one to see, except the hill-folk or a missionary. I tell you that you would do one of two things—either cut your throat, or take to drink.”
“Your eloquence is a loss to the bar, Cardozo.”
“So I have often been told”—with a hasty movement of his hand; “but it is not a question now of my eloquence, but of your future. Do you genuinely mean what you say? Do you intend to live here as your father’s sole companion?”
“I do,” replied the young man, answering his look with eyes full of indomitable fire.
Mr. Cardozo puffed away in solemn silence for some time, but there was a certain brisk cheerfulness in his air as he suddenly remarked—
“The major is going downhill rapidly, poor old chap! His health is bad; I see a great change in him. His mind will never recover. Of course that is not to be expected; you know that it runs in the family—it is hereditary.”
“What runs in the family? What is hereditary?” demanded the other, with a look full of pain and excitement.
“Insanity. He told Mércèdes, who told me, that his brother jumped overboard at sea, going home in charge of two keepers; and his father died in Richmond lunatic asylum.”
“Is—this—true?” Mark brought out the words in three quick gasps.
“You don’t mean to say that you never knew? Oh, I’m awfully vexed! I entirely forgot you were his son. You look so different, upon my word, as you stand there, that I cannot realize that he is anything to you.”
Jervis struggled to articulate again, but signally failed. With a shaking hand he tossed his cigarette over the parapet, and then walked away up the steps, and was instantly merged in the gloom of the entrance.
“Hereditary.” The word seemed written before him in letters of flame—“hereditary.”