CAPTAIN WARING’S ALTERNATIVE.
Mark Jervis had resisted all Mrs. Brande’s invitations to “take
him home and nurse him.” He would be far better, quoth she, in her
comfortable spare room, with the best of fresh eggs and new milk,
than in that smoky Haddon Hall, at the mercy of his bearer, his
meals irregular, and no comforts. She was well accustomed to nursing
young men. How many junior civilians, brought to the verge of the
grave by India’s new scourge, typhoid, had owed their lives to Sara
Brande--young men in her husband’s district, who, just out from home,
had scorned such precautions as the purchase of a filter and a cow!
What tales, if she had chosen, could Mrs. Brande have related of these
same reckless invalids! How, at their first weak, but convalescent and
ravenous stage, they had been so happy, so amazed, to find themselves
yet in the land of the living, that they had babbled freely to
their kind sympathetic nurse, forgetting how often they had laughed
at “old Sally Brande.” She seemed an angel, a more than mother to
them now. Reclining on sofas and long chairs, in clothes much too
large, twilight, or especially moonlight, often found them murmuring
experiences and confidences into their nurse’s attentive ear--“of girls
at home,” of debts, of scrapes, of good resolutions, of “new leaves”
that were about to be turned over;--were not all these things written
in the chronicles of Mrs. Brande’s memory? Afterwards, when restored to
life and vigour, with a sharpened appetite for life’s enjoyments, these
patients marvelled at themselves, their poor weak wagging tongues,
their indiscretions! They felt _hot_ as they thought of the secrets
which were buried in Mrs. Brande’s bosom; but they were always polite
to her, never would suffer a word in her disfavour, and many of them
loved her. The cards, letters, and mementoes she received at Christmas
were astonishing in variety, and in the difference of post-marks; from
Tongoo to Suakim, from Kohat to Galle, these tokens of affectionate
remembrance poured in from what Mrs. Brande was wont to term “her
boys.” She (_very_ low be it whispered) was fond of young men! She
liked Mark Jervis particularly, and would gladly have enrolled him in
her brigade; for her boys were not merely Indian civilians--she had her
recruits in the police, the opium department, the army, and the law.
This friendless young Englishman actually held out against notes (or
chits), messages, even visits, and steadily refused to “come and be
nursed.”
His cousin was more at home these latter days; he was packing and
preparing for a move.
“I say, Mark,” he said, “your wrist will be all right in about ten
days, so Kane says. I advise you to think better of it, and follow
on to Simla. It’s a ripping place--very different to dead-and-alive
Shirani--I must go to-morrow, you know. I’ve promised to escort Mrs.
Atherton and Miss Potter; the roads between this and the station are
broken, and they are in a deadly fright. We shall do the whole journey
together, and I have now only to ask and have.”
“That is satisfactory, but as far as I’m concerned I’m a fixture here,”
replied Mark, “and you know why. I wrote to my father again urgently,
and told him that time was flying, that I was going back in October,
but I would wait here till then.”
“So you may! I know the style your father is, Mark. He is a man who
has lived so long out here, he has become fossilized--nothing outside
India appeals to him, not even his son. There are dozens like him;
the easy-going life has penetrated to their very bones. He has his
well-trained servants, his excellent food and liquor, his cheroots or
his huka, his _Pioneer_, his long armchair, his pet grievance; he wants
no more, least of all a smart young chap, with all sorts of advanced
_fin-de-siècle_ ideas, to come and rout him out.”
“This is a fancy sketch, Clarence.”
“Well, grant it! I will draw you a true portrait from life, and I could
draw you half a dozen.”
“We will have one to begin with--don’t be too long about it, for I
have promised to meet Scrope at four o’clock sharp; and I see Dum Sing
waiting with the grey pony.”
“Once upon a time I knew an old colonel (retired) who lived in the
Nielgherries,” began Waring. “All his family were out in the world,
sons in the service, daughters married, and he was left stranded. He
had his garden, his ponies, some ancient chums and old retainers, and
though all his relations were at the other end of the world, he would
not budge. No less than three times he took his passage home; twice he
went down to Madras, bag and baggage, accompanied by his servants. Once
he was actually on board ship and in his cabin, but when they said,
‘Any one for the shore,’ he bundled his kit together and went back in
a Massulah boat. He is out here still. I recollect another instance,
an old general, a regular old derelict, clinging, as to a spar, to the
last station he commanded. I saw him--and this was in the plains, mind
you--going for his evening drive in his old carriage, with a pair of
antediluvian horses--all alone, too. He had a venerable, long white
beard, and was eighty-six years of age, and fond of saying, ‘Thirty
years ago, when I commanded this station!’ The authorities and folks
in general humoured him--people are not so much hustled out here, and
have time to indulge old folk’s fancies. He came to all the field days,
and drew up behind the saluting post in his old barouche. He thought
the army was going to the dogs, I can tell you, and white helmets,
white clothes, and canes, so many scandalous innovations. He had a heap
of relations in England, never wrote to one of them, and left all his
money to the grandson of his first love and the Friend in Need Society!
Your father is just another of these people, as you will see.”
“Time will tell; and, talking of time, Clarence, I think it is time
that we should put an end to our little farce.”
Clarence, who was sitting opposite to his companion, and leaning his
arms on a rickety writing-table, raised his head and gazed at him
rather blankly.
“Old boy, you must surely see that it has gone far enough--in fact,
just a bit _too_ far. When Miss Paske fired a wild shot in the dark,
and said that I did not consider it always necessary to tell the whole
truth about myself, I felt downright guilty; when she said I was a bit
of an impostor, I know I blushed like a peony! The deception, small
at first, has grown to a big thing. I go by the name of ‘the poor
relation,’ and all the mothers fight shy of me!”
“And is not that just what you particularly aimed at?” demanded
Clarence, sharply. “I think the whole scheme has worked capitally. I’m
sure I have played _my_ part well, and so have you”--with a loud laugh
of unnatural hilarity.
“Yes, but I feel as if I was acting a lie, though I have never actually
uttered one in so many words. I have never said that I was poor----”
“Just as I pay the bills,” interrupted his companion, “and have a
prosperous air, but I never _said_ I was rich.” (Nevertheless, he acted
and spoke precisely as a man to whom money was no object. Nor was it,
being not his own, but Mr. Pollitt’s.)
“When I started to play polo, men were politely amazed,” continued
Jervis; “when I gave fifty rupees for the new harmonium, people looked
astonished; the peon with the church-books, who gathers up our Sunday
offerings, gazes at my chit for four rupees doubtfully; as he hands it
to me, I know that he wonders at my extravagance, and whether I can
afford it? We are going to give a bachelors’ ball as a set off against
the married ladies’ picnic.”
“I hope the supper will be within ten miles of the ball-room,”
interposed Waring, briskly.
“And Hawks the secretary, a very good sort, said to me, quite
confidentially, ‘You are not a rich Johnnie. I’ll let you down easy;
I’ll take fifteen rupees.’”
“Yes; and what do you think of that young brute Skeggs, who has been
going steadily to everything ever since he came up, breakfasts, teas,
tiffins, dinners, balls--an ugly, pudding-faced chap?”
“Yes, fearfully handicapped by his hands and feet.”
“He was asked to join, and make some return for the great hospitality
that had been shown to bachelors. He said no, promptly, he would not
give an anna; and why, do you suppose?” pausing dramatically. “Because,
in his opinion, a young man was a sufficient reward in himself for any
amount of civilities.”
“Mean beast! He was lunching at the Brandes’ yesterday. But to return
to our subject”--feeling conscious that his clever companion was
slipping away from it. “You are off to-morrow, and before we go I
really think we ought to take the opportunity of each appearing in our
true and real character. Are you, like Barkis, willing?”
Clarence coloured a deep red, and looked annoyed.
“No--I am not--willing,” he said with an effort. “We have only a few
months more to play our parts, and I vote we see them out. I adopted
the _rôle_ of purse-bearer and leader to satisfy a caprice of yours, as
you know, and I mean to stick to it till we are in Bombay Harbour.”
“Well, I am very sorry now I was such a sensitive, vain idiot, as to
get into a regular funk, simply because a few third-rate globe-trotters
threw themselves at my money-bags. Why on earth did you not tell
me that they were not a true specimen of Indian society? There are
heaps of wealthy men out here--we have met them--heirs to titles, or
really distinguished fellows, and no one bothers about them. I was too
conceited and too great a fool.”
“It’s too late to think of that now!”--with easy scorn.
“No, better late than never! I intend to tell the Brandes and
Mrs. Sladen, and Clifford, Scrope, Villiers, and one or two other
fellows--that I am not what I seem.”
“You must reckon with _me_ first!” cried Clarence, hoarsely. “Your
confidences, which mean blazoning the truth from one end of Shirani to
the other, will play the very devil with me!”
“Why? What do you mean?” asked Jervis, with an air of cool surprise.
“Cannot you see? I’ve dropped into my old set and my old temptations;
I cannot resist a bit of a gamble. The name of ‘millionaire,’ given
for fun, has gained me credit. I owe money all over the place--rent,
club, bills, Manockjee; three thousand rupees would not clear me, and
if it comes out, say, to-morrow, that I am their dear customer of
former days, without a penny to bless myself with, they will all be
on me like a pack of hounds. Give me time, and I will sell the ponies
well up at Simla, pick up a race or two, and marry”--with a laugh--“the
heiress.” (Never, to quote Lord Lytton, was there a man, who was an
habitual gambler, otherwise than notably inaccurate in his calculations
of probabilities in the ordinary affairs of life. Is it that such a
man has become such a chronic drunkard of hope, that he sees double
every chance in his favour?) “I am owed some money myself, but I must
not press my debtor. However, I am safe to get it some day, and it’s a
tidy sum. I have a first-rate book on Goodwood; I _can’t_ lose, and
I must win. All I want is time, a long day, your honour”--grinning at
his companion; nevertheless, although he grinned, his mouth was working
nervously at the corners.
“But surely there are a good many thousand rupees still at the
agent’s?” asked Mark, rather blankly.
“Not a pice,” was the astounding reply. “No, I was badly hit over
the Liverpool, and of course I had no right to appropriate the funds
in such a way. You need not tell me _that_. Gambling is a disease
with me, and I cannot help it; it’s worse than drink--comes far more
expensive. There ought to be a retreat for confirmed gamblers such as
I am, same as for dipsomaniacs. I may as well make a clean breast of
it. I hoped to land a large stake, and make all square, but that brute
‘Queer Customer’ curled up and ran a cur in the finish, and put us all
in a hole. I would give ten pounds to get a shot at him! I’ve had
confounded bad luck, and I must say in my own defence, that it was all
_your_ fault, from first to last. You put temptation in my way, you
handed over the accounts and cheque-book, and asked no questions; and,
by Jove!” he concluded with an air of virtuous resignation, “I’ve told
you no lies. I am cleaned out.”
“And supposing your Simla schemes fall through, and you are _not_ paid,
and your book on Goodwood is on the wrong side--what will you do?”
Clarence simply shrugged his broad shoulders.
“How are we to pay our bills here?” inquired the other, gravely.
“I don’t know.”
“And our passage money?”
“I don’t know,” he repeated doggedly.
“Surely you must have some idea?” urged Jervis, with a touch of
asperity.
“Yes, you can write to the uncle for fresh supplies.”
“No, I will not do that,” returned the uncle’s heir, who was rapidly
losing his patience.
“There is your own allowance, a most liberal one.”
“I have not drawn it because I thought Uncle Dan’s cheque covered
everything.”
“And it seems that you were too sanguine.”
“What have you got in your cash-box, Waring?” he demanded sternly. “Do
you mean to tell me seriously that you are quite penniless?”
“No, I’ve got a thousand rupees; that will pay the servants here, take
me to Simla, and keep me there quietly, till events arrange themselves.
I cannot pay my mess bill in Shirani--a whopping one! You see, I
punished their champagne, and I was always asking guests.”
A dead silence, broken only by the jingling bit of Jervis’s impatient
pony.
“Well, what do you propose to do to get me out of this hat? How are we
both to get out of the country?” inquired Clarence, whose effrontery
was of a rare and peculiar character.
Jervis sat for some time with his hands in his pockets and a frown on
his brow. At last he said--
“I suppose, if the worst comes to the worst, I must draw out six
hundred pounds, though I think it’s a mean encroachment on the old
man’s generosity. One hundred will keep me here till we start, and the
remaining five will pay mess bill, rent, passage money, and so on. I
shall tell the Brandes the truth the first time I see them, and that
will be to-morrow morning.”
“Then, by George! if you do,” cried Clarence in a harsh, discordant
voice, “you need not trouble about _my_ passage home, for as sure
as you open your lips”--tugging furiously at the table-drawer as he
spoke--“and expose me as a wretched impostor, a paid companion, and
a beggar--do you see this revolver?” suddenly producing one as he
spoke--“I swear I’ll put it to my head and blow my brains out! Here!”
he continued, snatching up Mark’s little Prayer-book and kissing it
vehemently, “I swear it on the book!”
Then he pushed away both book and weapon, and, resting his elbows on
the table, contemplated his _vis-à-vis_ with a grey, drawn, haggard
face--a face expressing such anxiety and desperation, that it was
difficult to believe that it was the countenance of good-looking,
popular, _débonnaire_ Captain Waring.
“I don’t want to drive you to anything,” said Mark, who was also deadly
pale; “but if I keep my lips sealed and continue to feel a mean,
double-faced hound, I must have _my_ stipulation also. It is not for
the sake of any extra consideration or popularity I might gain that
I wish to speak--you believe _that_? But you know I am deliberately
playing a double part, and sailing under false colours. It all seemed
so easy and harmless at first, from sending off the valet and baggage
and----”
“All that sort of thing, as Sir Gloster would say,” interrupted
Clarence, with a ribald laugh.
“But now it has grown from small beginnings, it leads on from one
deception to another. I am almost afraid to open my mouth; I never dare
to allude to hunting or yachting, or anything that sounds like money,
or even to speak of my uncle or my home, for fear people may think that
I am lying.”
“You never wanted to make these _confidences_ when you were in Columbo
or Calcutta,” sneered Clarence. “You have been exciting some one’s
interest, eh? And pray, what is your stipulation?”
“That I may tell the whole truth to one person.”
“As a dead, dead secret. I don’t mind if you do--as long as it is not a
woman.”
“But it is a woman,” said Jervis, quickly.
“Ah, I need not ask her name--Miss Gordon,” exclaimed Waring, with a
peculiar grating emphasis. “Now, there’s a girl I don’t like--nasty,
snubby way with her, and the most haughty smile I ever beheld.”
“Her ways and her smiles are not likely to concern you much, I fancy;
but she is the girl I wish to marry, if I can prevail upon her to
accept me.”
“_Prevail!_ And you doubt if you would prevail without telling her of
the _coin_?” cried Clarence derisively.
“She is the last person in the world to care for money; in fact, it is
a disadvantage in her eyes, as I happen to know.”
“The young woman must be indeed a _rara avis_!” observed Clarence, with
an insolent laugh.
“But,” pursued the other, “if I ask her to accept me, I should like her
to know all about me.”
“Pollitt’s pearl barley, and all! You don’t think that will go against
the _grain_--see? Eh? Not bad!”
“I wish you could be serious for five moments,” exclaimed Jervis,
angrily, “and let me finish what I am saying. I am not the least
ashamed of Pollitt’s pearl barley--nor would I begin by having a secret
from her.”
“Whatever you might come to later, eh? And Uncle Dan--have you thought
of him? Is he to be let into the news about the young lady, or will you
_begin_ by having a secret from him?”
“Of course I shall tell him at once.”
“Oh! very proper indeed! Well now, I suppose we have talked over
everything, and at any rate I have talked myself into first-class
thirst! You are to keep five hundred pounds to settle up with in case
of accidents, and you are to continue to hold your tongue, and keep up
your present _rôle_ with every one but a certain young lady--that’s
about it?”
“Yes, I suppose that’s about it,” acquiesced Mark, rising and taking
his cap.
As Captain Waring watched him hurrying towards his waiting pony,
mounting and galloping away up the compound, he said to himself as he
deliberately struck a fusee--
“Well, Clarence Waring, I think you got considerably the best of _that_
bargain! You have the brains; and if you had money and opportunity,
you could do great things!” Nevertheless, he took up the revolver, and
looked at it with a sober face ere he returned it to the table-drawer.