CHAPTER XXXV.
“OSMAN’S SUBSTITUTE.”
“Hullo, Mark!” cried his travelling companion, with cordial, outstretched hands. “So you are back? I only arrived this morning—came straight through from Simla. What’s the matter, eh? You seem rather choop.”
“Oh, I’ll tell you presently. Let us have your news first.”
“On the principle of keeping the best for the last, eh? for mine is bad. Well, as for news”—removing his cap and sitting down—“I suppose you have heard that our secret is now public property. That blatant ass, little Binks, had it all over Simla. What business had he to thrust himself into our private affairs?”
“It was never what you would call private,” rejoined Mark, who was leaning against the end of a real old-fashioned hill sofa, with his hands in his pockets. “I am only surprised that it never came out before.”
“Yes, now that you mention it, so am I. We had a good many fellow-passengers, but they none of them came up this way; they were mostly for Burmah, or Madras, or globe-trotters. I could not give the name of one of them if I got a thousand pounds. There is nothing one forgets so soon as a fellow-passenger. Of course you have been to see your governor?”
“Yes. I’ve been away nearly a fortnight.”
“And how did you find him?”
“I am sorry to say very broken down—ill and desolate.”
“But with sacks of gold mohurs all round the rooms, and chandeliers of real diamonds. I hope you have some in your pockets?” said Waring, gaily.
“No. He is a comparatively poor man; at least he has just enough to live upon—an annuity. The bulk of his fortune goes, as it ought to go, to the Cardozo family.”
“Well, one fortune is enough for you,” rejoined Clarence. “I came up post haste. I rode your bay pony in the last ten miles, and, by Jove! I thought I had killed him. It was frightfully hot, and I put on the pace. I gave him a whole bottle of whisky when I got in.”
“A whole bottle! Well, I hope you will give him some soda-water to-morrow morning. What a head the poor brute will have!” he added, with a wintry smile. “But what was the reason for such desperate riding? Has Miss Potter come back?”
“Miss Potter be hanged!” was the unchivalrous reply. “I came up as hard as I could lay leg to the ground to get you to help me out of an awful hole—an infernal money muddle.”
“To help you again! I thought that five hundred pounds would put you straight.”
“Good heavens, man! it’s not hundreds, but thousands that would do that!” cried the prodigal.
Jervis ceased to lounge, and now assumed a more uncompromising attitude.
“Explain,” he said laconically.
“Yes; I’ve been going it, my boy,” admitted Waring, with a reckless laugh. “Old faces, old places, were too much for me, and I dropped a pot of money. There was a fellow from New Orleans, a long-headed chap, a born gambler, and a wild-looking Hungarian count; they carried too many guns for me. One night we had three thousand pounds on the turn of a card. Ah, that is living! There is excitement, if you like! Better twenty hours of Simla than a cycle of Shirani.”
“Nevertheless you have returned to Shirani?”
“Yes, only because I am cleared out,” was the absolutely unabashed reply.
“I’m sorry to hear it, Clarence; but it is not in my power to help you beyond the five hundred pounds that will pay our expenses here. The table was papered with bills when I came back.”
“Oh, those!” with a gesture of scorn, “rubbishy little shoeing accounts, stable accounts, and rent. I don’t mind them, it’s others. I’m really in an awful hat this time and no mistake, and you must assist me.”
“I cannot.”
“I tell you again that you must!” cried Waring, throwing himself back in his chair, with an energy that made that venerable piece of furniture creak most piteously.
“There is no ‘must’ in the matter,” retorted the other steadily, “and if I were in the humour for joking—which I am not—the comic side of the situation would make me laugh. You were sent out by Uncle Dan as my mentor, to keep me straight, to give me the benefit of your experience and to show me round. Wasn’t that the arrangement? But, by Jove,” suddenly springing up and beginning to pace the room, “I have been lugging you out of scrapes ever since we landed in the country!”
“It is a true bill, oh wise, cool-headed, and most virtuous Saint Mark! This, I most solemnly swear to you, is my last and worst scrape. Get me a cheque for a certain sum, wire to the uncle to lodge it at the agents, and I’ll be a truly reformed character, and never touch another card, for ever and ever, amen.”
“And afterwards?”
“Afterwards we will reward the old man, and rejoice his heart, by packing up and going home by the next steamer. He would give many thousand pounds to get you back again—you are the apple of his little pig’s eye. This country does not agree with me—I don’t mean physically, but morally. It’s an enervating, corrupting, beguiling land. We will sell off your guns and ponies, dear boy. I’ve put them up at the club—I hope I have not broken the wind of that dark bay—we will go down in the mail tonga this day week, en route for Bombay. There are temptations for you in this Indian Empire too. The sooner you say good-bye to H. G. the better. Now, there is my programme for you—my new leaf. What have you to say to it?”
Brisk and confident as his speech had been, there was a certain unmistakable lameness in its conclusion. Waring had secretly winced under his listener’s eyes—his listener, who sat motionless, contemplating him with an expression of cool contempt.
“The first thing I have to say is, that my guns and the ponies are not for sale, or only the chestnut with the white legs.”
“Great Scot! You don’t mean to tell me that you intend to take three ponies home! And what do you want with an express rifle and an elephant gun in England?”
“I may require them out here. I am not going back to England.”
Captain Waring sat suddenly erect.
“Of course this is all humbug and rot!” he exclaimed vehemently.
“No. I am quite in earnest. I intend to remain with my father; it is the right thing for me to do. He is alone in the world; his mind is weak.”
“So is his son’s, I should say,” burst out Waring, throwing his cigarette into the verandah. “Get him a keeper—two keepers, by all means; a baby house, a barrel organ, every comfort, but don’t you be a lunatic. Come home with me. Think of Uncle Dan!”
“Yes, I know very well that Uncle Dan will cast me off; he told me he would, if I remained out here with my father.”
“Cast you off!” almost screamed the other. “Do you mean to tell me that you will never see the colour of his money again?”
“Never.”
“I believe that Miss Gordon has something to say to this scheme, as well as this mad Quixotic idea about your father,” cried Clarence, crimson with excitement. “As for the girl, you must let her slide, we have all been through that; but, for God’s sake, hang on to the uncle, and the coin. You are the only mortal for whom he will open his purse-strings.”
“I have written to him, and told him that I am not going home.”
“Is the letter posted?”
Mark nodded.
“Then,” turning on him fiercely, “you have burnt your boats.”
“I have.”
“You are mad to chuck everything at twenty-six years of age. You give up your life at home——”
“I know best what I am giving up,” interrupted his companion impatiently. “I know that I am going back to Hawal Ghât to-morrow. There is nothing to be gained by remaining on here, and Cardozo is staying with my father till I relieve him. I am winding up my affairs, and paying off my servants, except Jan Mahomed, and his son, who are coming with me, and to-morrow I turn my back upon Shirani.”
“Short—sharp—and decisive is the word,” sneered Waring, with bitter emphasis. “Have you got over your good-byes yet?” he added, with pitiless significance.
“No,” becoming rather white, “not yet.”
“I was told at the club that you were engaged to her. Is she to form part of the new scheme? Will marrying her also come under the head of the ‘right thing to do?’ Eh?”
“You may spare your gibes,” said Jervis, sternly. “Miss Gordon is absolutely free. As for myself—I shall never marry.”
“Oh, ho!” with a derisive laugh, “never is a long word. Well, to descend to more prosaic matters, what about these Shirani bills and that five hundred?”
“You shall have it, of course.”
“Yes, you are a man of your word, even if it is a question of a thrashing. I’ll never forget the day that the cad who was ill-using a horse on the towing-path riled you and taunted you; he got hold of the wrong man that time, and no mistake, poor beggar. He never guessed how you could use your fists. You looked so slim and genteel, but you left him with two lovely black eyes.”
Mark made a gesture of protest. Time was precious. What was the use of raking up irrelevant old stories?
“Can’t you draw upon the uncle for a couple of thousand, at least?” urged Waring, after a considerable silence; “it will be no more to him than a couple of pence—and will save me from—from——”
“What?” asked his companion quietly.
“From,” avoiding his penetrating eye, “a lot of bother and worry.”
“I cannot draw on him now for a penny, beyond the five hundred; but I am sure he will help you when you see him. How soon are you going home?”
“In a week. Hullo!” starting up, “there is the mess bugle. Are you coming over to dinner?”
“No; tell the mess sergeant to send me something.”
“Any champagne? I’d recommend a bottle of the pink wine of France. You are bound to see things more couleur de rose.”
Jervis shook his head with an air of impatient negation.
“Well, I must go and change; but I’ll look you up again, of course, before you turn in.”
Clarence proved as good as his word; besides, he had as yet to receive a certain sum of money. He duly appeared about eleven o’clock, unusually flushed, and in a state of boisterous good humour. He found his former comrade still sitting at their joint writing-table, scribbling notes and servants’ chits.
“You look as if you were making out your last will and testament. Writing your own obituary notice, eh, old chappie?”—slapping him familiarly on the back. “In one sense you are committing suicide, and burying yourself alive. I’ve sold your chestnut pony, and got the cheque—two fifty rupees—dirt cheap.”
“It will go towards paying off some of these,” said Mark, nodding at the bills.
“Oh, a mere drop in the ocean,” rejoined Clarence, with easy scorn. “However, we can’t have our cake and eat it,” ignoring the fact that it was he who had devoured not only his own cake, but the other man’s as well.
“Here is the cheque for five hundred pounds,” said Mark, producing his cheque-book. “I told Uncle Dan I was going to draw it some time ago, so it will be all right”—writing rapidly and handing it over. “It will clear all bills here—mess, rent, and shops; or”—still retaining it— “shall I keep it and pay them? I can send the money by post.”
Waring glanced at the slip of paper held towards him. His eyes blazed with a curious light; his voice was husky as he eagerly answered, “No, no; you may rely on me. I’ll be paymaster to the very end of the chapter,” and he seized upon the cheque somewhat precipitately.
“And you will not make any other use of it than paying off our joint debts? You will promise me that, Clarence?” speaking with an air of cool authority. “On your honour, Waring?”
“On my word and honour. What do you take me for, old man? I’ll get it cashed at the treasury here, pay all the bills like a gentleman, and send you the receipts. I hope that will please you?”
“Yes, that will do, of course; and mind you settle them at once.”
“I hear old Double Gloster and Miss Paske are engaged,” said Clarence, hastily changing the subject.
“Are they?” indifferently. What was Shirani news to him now?
“And there is not a road in India wide enough for Aunt Ida. Well, Mark, I am sorry you are so headstrong. You were always a bit hard in the mouth, though you never kicked over the traces. You’ve been a brick, I must say. What time are you off to-morrow?”
“About seven o’clock.”
“Then I think I’ll say good night. You look pretty fagged, and you had better turn in. This”—nodding—“is not good-bye; I’ll make a point of seeing you in the morning.”
Nevertheless Mark stood erect, and held out his hand in silence.
How pale he looked; how worn and haggard he had become! Clarence intuitively felt that this was their last interview; something indefinable assured him that they would never again stand face to face.
He was conscious of an extraordinary mixture of regret and relief. Jervis had represented a sort of conscience. His example, his disagreeably rigorous standard of honour, his steady eyes, had shamed him from doing many things that he ought not to have done. Mark was a young saint, a hero; yes, Miss Valpy was right, he had the face of one. It was the act of a hero to renounce the world, wealth, and love—occasionally synonymous with the flesh and the devil—and devote his life to a crazy old man. He was a cool, reliable comrade, ready with tongue, arm, or rifle. It was true that he had been the means of pulling him out of several nasty scrapes, and this cheque for five hundred pounds, now in his waistcoat pocket, would pull him out of the worst scrape of all!
He waited until he saw Mark go into his room and close the door, and then he slipped back to the club to play “snookers” and black pool. He was not home until three o’clock in the morning; and when he awoke about noon, and shouted for his bearer and his tea, he was informed that the “chotah sahib,” as the servants called Jervis, “had been gone many hours.”