CHAPTER XLV.ONLY MR. JERVIS.
“I never saw such a change in any one!” faltered Mr. Pollitt, with some emotion, as he followed Mark out of his father’s room. “He is years younger than I am, and he is so cadaverous and shrunken that he looks seventy at the very least. Poor fellow! he was in a desperate state at first, when he thought I had come to carry you off. I am glad you reassured him so completely. Well, as long as he is here, he shall have you. I understand matters now; I have seen with my own eyes, and one look is worth a ton of letters.”
Mr. Pollitt was enchanted with his present quarters, with the great ramblinghouse, its gardens, its situation, its quaint furniture. The solitude and silence were an extraordinary refreshment to the little world-worn cockney, after the roar of the London traffic, the throbbing of engines, and the rumbling of railway carriages.
In honour of the new arrival, the khansamah sent up a remarkably well-cooked dinner, not at all a junglemenu. There was excellent soup, fresh fish from a mountain “tal” (a lake),entrées, a brace of hill partridges, sweets, yellow cream, fruit, and black coffee. The claret was a still further agreeable surprise; it had been laid in by a connoisseur, and imported direct from BordeauxviâPondicherry. But the greatest surprise of all was presented in the person of the host himself. With his heart warmed by sound old wine and the presence of a sound old friend, Major Jervis kindled up into a semblance of what he once had been. He talked connectedly and even brilliantly; he laughed and joked, and listened with unaffected delight to the history of Mr.Pollitt’s journey and adventuresen route. His eyes shone with something of their ancient fire; the lines and wrinkles seemed to fade from his face; his voice was that of a man who could still make himself heard on parade. Mr. Pollitt gazed and hearkened in blank amazement; he was entranced and carried away breathless by chronicles of hairbreadth escapes, tiger shooting, and elephant catching; by tales of Eastern superstitions, of lucky and unlucky horses, places, and people, stories of native life; of an English nobleman who lived in a bazaar, earning his bread by repairing carts and ekkas; of a young officer of good family and fortune, who had lost his head about a native girl, had abandoned his country, profession, and religion, and had adopted her people, and embraced her faith; how, in vain, his wealthy English relatives had besought him to return to them; how they had come out to seek him—had argued and implored, and finally prevailed on him to abandon his associates; and how, ere theyhad reached Bombay, they had lost him—he, unable to break the spell of the siren, had escaped back to his old haunts. He told of Englishmen who were lepers, living in sad solitude among the hills, unknown and nameless; of the burning of witches, of devil-worship, black magic, and human sacrifices. The most thrilling and extraordinary items of his past were unrolled as a scroll, and recapitulated in vivid and forcible language.
Who was this that held them spell-bound? thought his listeners. Not the shattered wreck of the forenoon, but the soldier who had seen much service, who had felt the pulse of events, who had absorbed India through his eyes and ears—realIndia, during a residence of thirty-five years in that mysterious, intoxicating, gorgeous land! Of frontier skirmishes, kept out of the newspapers, of friendly interchanges between foes in the field, of mysterious disappearances, of men who had laid down their lives for their country—heroesunknown to fame, whose deeds were unrecorded by one line of print, whose shallow graves were marked by rotting crosses on the bleak Afghan frontier.
Major Jervis kept his audience enthralled; even Mark’s attentionrarelywandered to a coolie who was at the moment running through the wooded hillsides by the light of the cold keen stars, with a letter in his loin-cloth addressed to “Miss Gordon.”
It was one o’clock before the party dispersed; and as Major Jervis clapped his brother-in-law on the shoulder, with a hearty good night, he added—
“Who knows, Pollitt, but that I may be persuaded by your eloquence to go home with you, after all?”
“My father is very ill,” said Mark, as he entered into his uncle’s room at eight o’clock the next morning. “He wants to see you. I have been with him since six o’clock; and, Uncle Dan, I’m afraid that this is the end.”
Yes, there was no doubt about that, thought Mr. Pollitt; death was surely written on the countenance that was turned to him. Last night had been the final flicker before the flame of life went out.
The invalid was propped up in a chair by a window looking towards the snows; but his face was ghastly, his breathing laboured.
“I’m glad you are here, Dan; glad we met once more.” And he made a movement as if he would offer his wasted, helpless-looking hand. “You and Mark wanted me to go home,” murmured the grey lips; “and I am going—sooner than you thought.” He turned his dull eyes and fixed them intently on his son. “God bless you, Mark,” he whispered almost inarticulately. These were his last words.
When Mr. Burgess arrived, an hour later, he was dead.
“Died of a failure of the heart’s action, brought on by some overpowering excitement;” but, as far as he could judge,“under any circumstances he could not have outlived a week.” Such was the missionary’s verdict.
“Ah, sahib!” cried Mahomed, with up-raised hands and eyes, “I knew how it would be; there was the warning, the never-failing warning at twelve o’clock last night—the voice.”
“What do you mean, Jan Mahomed?” Jervis returned quickly.
“The voice of a stranger, sahib, shouting in the yard. He was calling for his horse. He was going a long journey. Surely the Protector of the poor knows the truth of this? It is ever thus before a man’s death—there is an order loudly spoken, ‘Gorah tiar hye!’” (“Bring my horse!”)
Major Jervis was laid in the cantonment cemetery the following morning. Mr. Burgess read the funeral service. Mark, Mr. Pollitt, and one or two neighbours assembled round the grave, whilst afar off stood servants, coolies, and many sick and poor, and lepers, to whom the “dearbrother,” now being laid to rest, had been a kind and generous friend.
Fernandez arrived, in answer to a telegram, full of joy, bustle, and importance. He could not understand the faces of the two Englishmen. It was, as he frankly stated, a happy release. He delighted in organization, change, and excitement, and undertook all arrangements with zeal. He seemed to be everywhere at once. He talked, strutted, gesticulated, and made such a stir that it seemed as if ten men had been added to the party.
“The house and land are Mark’s,” he explained to Mr. Pollitt; “not worth much,” shrugging his shoulders. “Everything else comes tome—all the jewels. I wish I could show you those in the bank,” and his eyes glittered as he thought of them. “But we will get out what is here and let you have a look at them, for they are native and very curious.”
A big safe was accordingly unlocked, the contents brought forth and poured out, nay,heaped, upon a crimson-covered table, which displayed them to advantage.
Mr. Pollitt sat down deliberately, to examine what evidently represented an immense quantity of money, thus sunk in gold and precious stones. There were aigrettes of diamonds, the jewels dull and badly cut, but of extraordinarily great size. There were vases and boxes of gold, and white and green jade inlaid with rubies. Khas-dans, or betel boxes; jars for otto of roses; crescent ornaments for the turban, set with emeralds and diamonds; gold anklets, with the ends formed of elephant heads; forehead ornaments, set with great pearls with pendant drops; plumes or turahs for turbans, with strings of diamonds; armlets, bangles, rings for nose or ear, back-scratchers of gold and ivory, glorious ropes of pearls, and many huge unset emeralds and rubies. It was the collection and stores of generations, now about to be scattered to the four winds by the plump and restless hand of Fernandez Cardozo.
“I would like to give you something, Mark,” he said, carelessly turning over piles of gold and precious stones as he spoke. “Will you accept a present from me, my good fellow?”
“Of course he will,” said the little Londoner, with business-like promptitude.
“You joked with me about wearing a—a—necklace, eh, you remember, when I showed you a certain little bit of jewellery?” Fernandez looked conscious, and actually believed that he was blushing. “Well now, I am going to presentyouwith one! Look at this!” holding towards him a string of large emeralds, pierced and run on a silken cord, and fastened off by a gold tassel. “These are for your future bride, Mark my boy.”
“How did you know about her?” eyeing him gravely.
“Ho, ho, ho! Not a bad shot, I see! A bow drawn at a venture! Then there is such a young lady?”
“Yes,” assented Mr. Pollitt, “and a veryhandsome young lady; you may take my word forthat!”
“What is she like?” turning to Mark with sparkling eyes. “Fair or dark?”
“You shall see her some day, Fernandez. You must come to our wedding.”
“I shall be most happy; but, my dear fellow,dodescribe her appearance. I am such a ladies’ man, you know, such an admirer of beauty.”
“Oh, she is tall, a head over you, Cardozo,” said Mr. Pollitt, “and has dark hair, dark-grey eyes, and a very delicate colour, the air of a princess.”
“Ah! then she shall have these pearls, instead of emeralds!” cried Fernandez with enthusiasm, plunging his fat fingers into ropes of the former, and holding them aloft for inspection. Four rows of large pearls fastened off by a quaint old clasp, and a little tassel of rubies.
“They are far too valuable—it is much too handsome a gift,” objected Mark, holding back instinctively.
“Nothing is too handsome for a handsome girl! and, for the matter of value, the emeralds, though they look like so many balls of green glass, beat them! If you refuse them in her name, I assure you I shall be quite affronted; and, surely, it is only right that the major’s daughter should have one small gift from amid all the begum’s jewels.”
“I do not call that a small gift, Fernandez, and I am very much obliged to you; but I will take it to Miss Gordon, and, later on, she will thank you personally.”
“They are superb!” exclaimed Mr. Pollitt, rapturously. “I shall give her diamonds—to correspond.”
Incongruous pair though they were, Mr. Pollitt and Mr. Cardozo hit it off surprisingly well. Fernandez’s florid manner, Oriental ideas, and ornamental language interested the hard-headed matter-of-fact little Englishman. They walked and smoked and argued noisily together, whilst Markrode away to visit a certain newly-made grave, and to take leave of the Persian lady.
“Ah, my friend, I have been waiting for you,” she said, rising from the chabootra, or band-stand. “I thought you would surely come to say farewell. Of course you are going away?”
“Yes. I am going away immediately.”
“And you will marry her—now—and gain your heart’s desire?”
“I hope so. And I am come to offer you what may fulfil yours!”
She stared at him with an air of almost fierce inquiry.
“It is the Yellow House. Will you accept it, for your lifetime? You said you wished for a large bungalow in a central position—and there you are!”
“The Yellow House! Oh, it is too much. No, I could not take it, not even for my poor. No, no, no!” and she shook her head with an air of decision.
“Why not?” he argued; “it is mine todo with as I will; and there is nothing that will give me greater pleasure than to feel that it is in your hands—and the means of doing good—instead of standing closed, empty, and falling into ruins. There is the garden for the patients to walk in, the grazing for cows, the big rooms for wards. I will thankfully pay an apothecary and assistant, and whatever is necessary.”
“You wish to establish a sort of hill hospital for the poor in these parts?” inquired the Persian, incredulously.
“Nay; you have already done that. I only ask leave to help you. If you will not accept the Pela Kothi from me, take it from—us both—or from Honor. You will not refuse her!”
“And shall I never see you again—or her?” she faltered.
“Who can say? Perhaps one day we may come and visit you. At any rate, she will write to you.”
“But how can she write to me—a—a—Persianwoman?” looking at him with an intensity that was not pleasant to contemplate.
“At least,Ishall write to you,” he rejoined, slightly disconcerted. “I will send you a certain yearly sum to spend on the wretched lepers, and in any charitable form that you may think best. Mr. Burgess will translate my letters for you, and also any answers that you may be good enough to send me. We do not wish to lose sight of you, if we can help it.”
“We!how soon you have learnt to say it! You are so happy, where you have hitherto known great misery, and the poor native woman will soon have passed from your mind. You are released. I shall never be released—but by death. You will be in another world—you, and the Miss Sahib! Will you give her this from me? It is a little charm. Nay, do not laugh. What am I but an ignorant, superstitious native? Nevertheless, I mean well. This is an amulet against sickness, poverty, or theloss of friends; an old hill woman gave it to me. She said it never failed. I have no friends to lose, but I am a stranger to poverty and sickness.”
“I will give it to her to-morrow,” taking from her hand a smooth dark-green stone, about the size of a filbert. “As to having no friends, may Miss Gordon and I not call ourselves your friends?”
“How can an English lady, and an English sahib, be the friends of—a woman of my people?” she inquired, with a face as expressionless as a mask.
“It shall be as you will,” he answered gravely. “But I see nothing to stand between us. Remember that we wish to be your friends, if you will have us. And now I’m afraid I must go.”
He saw her lips quiver, as she suddenly turned away her face, and dismissed him with a quick imperious gesture.
Ere he left the valley he looked back once. The Persian was standing precisely where he had left her. In answer to hisfarewell signal, she waved a handkerchief—and thus involuntarily betrayed herself. It was the action of an Englishwoman!
Mr. Pollitt was actually reluctant to abandon this life of pastoral simplicity. The fragrant garden, the clear exhilarating air, the sturdy simple hill folk, the view of hill and plains, steeped in a blue or violet haze, appeared to hold him fast. He and Fernandez agreed to travel together in a leisurely comfortable fashion; but Mark would not and could not wait. He was in love. Where love exists, it is the only thing in life—all else is nothing. He laid a dâk of his three ponies on the road, and, early one afternoon, galloped off to Shirani, with two wedding presents in his pocket.
Perhaps the grey and bay ponies were as anxious as their rider to return to their former haunts; at any rate, the forty miles which lay between the Pela Kothiand Rookwood were accomplished at a pace that has never yet been approached, and as the result of this rapid travelling, Mark Jervis arrived a considerable time before he was expected. That evening Lady Brande had been entertaining a dinner-party, one of her most superior “burra-khanas.” People had left the table and were assembled in the drawing-room, where it was generally noted that Miss Gordon was looking brilliantly handsome. Yes, she had entirely recovered her looks. A few months ago she had gone off most terribly; but that queer hushed-up love affair of hers had been quite enough to blanch her face and waste away her flesh. Some one was at the piano singing a penetrating Italian love song, when it became evident that an exceedingly late guest was on the point of arrival. There was the flash of a lantern outside, the stamping of ponies’ hoofs, and the sound of a manly voice that set Honor’s heart beating.
Sir Pelham slipped away for a moment, and then returned and glanced significantly at his wife.
She rose at once, and hurried out of the room, and was seen through the open verandah in animated conversation with a young fellow in riding dress. Etiquette forbade Honor—the most concerned—to move. Propriety chained her hand and foot.
“I hope you will excuse me,” panted Lady Brande, returning somewhat breathless, and addressing her guests, in a voice between laughing and crying. “He declares that he is not fit to appear. He has just come back.—It is only Mr. Jervis!”