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THE LOST HEIR
BY G. A. HENTY
AUTHOR OF "STURDY AND STRONG," "RUJUB, THE JUGGLER," "BY ENGLAND'S AID,"
ETC., ETC.
THE MERSHON COMPANY
RAHWAY, N. J.
NEW YORK
CONTENTS.
I. A BRAVE ACTION 1
II. IN THE SOUTH SEAS 14
III. A DEAF GIRL 27
IV. THE GYPSY 40
V. A GAMBLING DEN 52
VI. JOHN SIMCOE 65
VII. JOHN SIMCOE'S FRIEND 77
VIII. GENERAL MATHIESON'S SEIZURE 90
IX. A STRANGE ILLNESS 102
X. TWO HEAVY BLOWS 112
XI. A STARTLING WILL 124
XII. DR. LEEDS SPEAKS 137
XIII. NETTA VISITS STOWMARKET 150
XIV. AN ADVERTISEMENT 164
XV. VERY BAD NEWS 176
XVI. A FRESH CLEW 193
XVII. NETTA ACTS INDEPENDENTLY 206
XVIII. DOWN IN THE MARSHES 220
XIX. A PARTIAL SUCCESS 233
XX. A DINNER PARTY 247
XXI. A BOX AT THE OPERA 262
XXII. NEARING THE GOAL 274
XXIII. WALTER 287
XXIV. A NEW BARGE 301
XXV. A CRUSHING EXPOSURE 316
XXVI. A LETTER FROM ABROAD 329
[Illustration: SIMCOE RAN IN WITH HIS KNIFE AND ATTACKED THE TIGER.
_--Page 4._]
THE LOST HEIR.
CHAPTER I.
A BRAVE ACTION.
A number of soldiers were standing in the road near the bungalow of
Brigadier-General Mathieson, the officer in command of the force in the
cantonments of Benares and the surrounding district.
"They are coming now, I think," one sergeant said to another. "It is a
bad business. They say the General is terribly hurt, and it was thought
better to bring him and the other fellow who was mixed up in it down in
doolies. I heard Captain Harvey say in the orderly-room that they have
arranged relays of bearers every five miles all the way down. He is a
good fellow is the General, and we should all miss him. He is not one of
the sort who has everything comfortable himself and don't care a rap how
the soldiers get on: he sees to the comfort of everyone and spends his
money freely, too. He don't seem to care what he lays out in making the
quarters of the married men comfortable, and in getting any amount of
ice for the hospital, and extra punkawallahs in the barrack rooms during
the hot season. He goes out and sees to everything himself. Why, on the
march I have known him, when all the doolies were full, give up his own
horse to a man who had fallen out. He has had bad luck too; lost his
wife years ago by cholera, and he has got no one to care for but his
girl. She was only a few months old when her mother died. Of course she
was sent off to England, and has been there ever since. He must be a
rich man, besides his pay and allowances; but it aint every rich man who
spends his money as he does. There won't be a dry eye in the cantonment
if he goes under."
"How was it the other man got hurt?"
"Well, I hear that the tiger sprang on to the General's elephant and
seized him by the leg. They both went off together, and the brute
shifted its hold to the shoulder, and carried him into the jungle; then
the other fellow slipped off his elephant and ran after the tiger. He
got badly mauled too; but he killed the brute and saved the General's
life."
"By Jove! that was a plucky thing. Who was he?"
"Why, he was the chap who was walking backwards and forwards with the
General when the band was playing yesterday evening. Several of the men
remarked how like he was to you, Sanderson. I noticed it, too. There
certainly was a strong likeness."
"Yes, some of the fellows were saying so," Sanderson replied. "He passed
close to me, and I saw that he was about my height and build, but of
course I did not notice the likeness; a man does not know his own face
much. Anyhow, he only sees his full face, and doesn't know how he looks
sideways. He is a civilian, isn't he?"
"Yes, I believe so; I know that the General is putting him up at his
quarters. He has been here about a week. I think he is some man from
England, traveling, I suppose, to see the world. I heard the Adjutant
speak of him as Mr. Simcoe when he was talking about the affair."
"Of course they will take him to the General's bungalow?"
"No; he is going to the next. Major Walker is away on leave, and the
doctor says that it is better that they should be in different
bungalows, because then if one gets delirious and noisy he won't disturb
the other. Dr. Hunter is going to take up his quarters there to look
after him, with his own servants and a couple of hospital orderlies."
By this time several officers were gathered at the entrance to the
General's bungalow, two mounted troopers having brought in the news a
few minutes before that the doolies were within a mile.
They came along now, each carried by four men, maintaining a swift but
smooth and steady pace, and abstaining from the monotonous chant usually
kept up. A doctor was riding by the side of the doolies, and two mounted
orderlies with baskets containing ice and surgical dressings rode fifty
paces in the rear. The curtains of the doolies had been removed to allow
of a free passage of air, and mosquito curtains hung round to prevent
insects annoying the sufferers.
There was a low murmur of sympathy from the soldiers as the doolies
passed them, and many a muttered "God bless you, sir, and bring you
through it all right." Then, as the injured men were carried into the
two bungalows, most of the soldiers strolled off, some, however,
remaining near in hopes of getting a favorable report from an orderly or
servant. A group of officers remained under the shade of a tree near
until the surgeon who had ridden in with the doolies came out.
"What is the report, McManus?" one of them asked, as he approached.
"There is no change since I sent off my report last night," he said.
"The General is very badly hurt; I certainly should not like to give an
opinion at present whether he will get over it or not. If he does it
will be a very narrow shave. He was insensible till we lifted him into
the doolie at eight o'clock yesterday evening, when the motion seemed to
rouse him a little, and he just opened his eyes; and each time we
changed bearers he has had a little ice between his lips, and a drink of
lime juice and water with a dash of brandy in it. He has known me each
time, and whispered a word or two, asking after the other."
"And how is he?"
"I have no doubt that he will do; that is, of course, if fever does not
set in badly. His wounds are not so severe as the General's, and he is a
much younger man, and, as I should say, with a good constitution. If
there is no complication he ought to be about again in a month's time.
He is perfectly sensible. Let him lie quiet for a day or two; after that
it would be as well if some of you who have met him at the General's
would drop in occasionally for a short chat with him; but of course we
must wait to see if there is going to be much fever."
"And did it happen as they say, doctor? The dispatch told us very little
beyond the fact that the General was thrown from his elephant, just as
the tiger sprang, and that it seized him and carried him into the
jungle; that Simcoe slipped off his pad and ran in and attacked the
tiger; that he saved the General's life and killed the animal, but is
sadly hurt himself."
"That is about it, except that he did not kill the tiger. Metcalf,
Colvin, and Smith all ran in, and firing together knocked it over stone
dead. It was an extraordinarily plucky action of Simcoe, for he had
emptied his rifle, and had nothing but it and a knife when he ran in."
"You don't say so! By Jove! that was an extraordinary act of pluck; one
would almost say of madness, if he hadn't succeeded in drawing the brute
off Mathieson, and so gaining time for the others to come up. It was a
miracle that he wasn't killed. Well, we shall not have quite so easy a
time of it for a bit. Of course Murdock, as senior officer, will take
command of the brigade, but he won't be half as considerate for our
comfort as Mathieson has been. He is rather a scoffer at what he calls
new-fangled ways, and he will be as likely to march the men out in the
heat of the day as at five in the morning."
The two sergeants who had been talking walked back together to their
quarters. Both of them were on the brigade staff. Sanderson was the
Paymaster's clerk, Nichol worked in the orderly-room. At the sergeants'
mess the conversation naturally turned on the tiger hunt and its
consequences.
"I have been in some tough fights," one of the older men said, "and I
don't know that I ever felt badly scared--one hasn't time to think of
that when one is at work--but to rush in against a wounded tiger with
nothing but an empty gun and a hunting-knife is not the sort of job
that I should like to tackle. It makes one's blood run cold to think of
it. I consider that everyone in the brigade ought to subscribe a day's
pay to get something to give that man, as a token of our admiration for
his pluck and of our gratitude for his having saved General Mathieson's
life."
There was a general expression of approval at the idea. Then Sanderson
said:
"I think it is a thing that ought to be done, but it is not for us to
begin it. If we hear of anything of that sort done by the officers, two
or three of us might go up and say that it was the general wish among
the non-coms. and men to take a share in it; but it would never do for
us to begin."
"That is right enough; the officers certainly would not like such a
thing to begin from below. We had better wait and see whether there is
any movement that way. I dare say that it will depend a great deal on
whether the General gets over it or not."
The opportunity did not come. At the end of five weeks Mr. Simcoe was
well enough to travel by easy stages down to the coast, acting upon the
advice that he should, for the present, give up all idea of making a
tour through India, and had better take a sea voyage to Australia or the
Cape, or, better still, take his passage home at once. Had the day and
hour of his leaving been known, there was not a white soldier in the
cantonments who would not have turned out to give him a hearty cheer,
but although going on well the doctor said that all excitement should be
avoided. It would be quite enough for him to have to say good-by to the
friends who had been in the habit of coming in to talk with him daily,
but anything like a public greeting by the men would be likely to upset
him. It was not, therefore, until Simcoe was some way down the river
that his departure became known to the troops.
Six weeks later there was a sensation in the cantonments. General
Mathieson had so far recovered that he was able to be carried up to the
hills, and the camp was still growling at the irritating orders and
regulations of his temporary successor in command, when the news spread
that Staff Pay-Sergeant Sanderson had deserted. He had obtained a
fortnight's furlough, saying that he wanted to pay a visit to some old
comrades at Allahabad; at the end of the fortnight he had not returned,
and the Staff Paymaster had gone strictly into his accounts and found
that there was a deficiency of over L300, which he himself would of
course be called upon to make good. He had, indeed, helped to bring
about the deficiency by placing entire confidence in the sergeant and by
neglecting to check his accounts regularly.
Letters were at once written to the heads of the police at Calcutta and
Bombay, and to all the principal places on the roads to those ports; but
it was felt that, with such a start as he had got, the chances were all
in his favor.
It was soon ascertained at Allahabad that he had not been there.
Inquiries at the various dak-bungalows satisfied the authorities that he
had not traveled by land. If he had gone down to Calcutta he had gone by
boat; but he might have started on the long land journey across to
Bombay, or have even made for Madras. No distinct clew, however, could
be obtained.
The Paymaster obtained leave and went down to Calcutta and inspected all
the lists of passengers and made inquiries as to them; but there were
then but few white men in the country, save those holding civil or
military positions and the merchants at the large ports, therefore there
was not much difficulty in ascertaining the identity of everyone who had
left Calcutta during the past month, unless, indeed, he had taken a
passage in some native craft to Rangoon or possibly Singapore.
On his arrival at Calcutta he heard of an event which caused deep and
general regret when known at Benares, and for a time threw even the
desertion of Sergeant Sanderson into the shade. The _Nepaul_, in which
John Simcoe had sailed, had been lost in a typhoon in the Bay of Bengal
when but six days out. There was no possible doubt as to his fate, for a
vessel half a mile distant had seen her founder, but could render no
assistance, being herself dismasted and unmanageable and the sea so
tremendous that no boat could have lived in it for a moment. As both
ships belonged to the East India Company, and were well known to each
other, the captain and officials of the _Ceylon_ had no doubt whatever
as to her identity, and, indeed, the remains of a boat bearing the
_Nepaul's_ name were picked up a few days later near the spot where she
had gone down.
"It's hard luck, that is what I call it," Sergeant Nichol said with
great emphasis when the matter was talked over in the sergeants' mess.
"Here is a man who faces a wounded tiger with nothing but a
hunting-knife, and recovers from his wounds; here is the General, whose
life he saved, going on first-rate, and yet he loses his life himself,
drowned at sea. I call that about as hard luck as anything I have heard
of."
"Hard luck indeed!" another said. "If he had died of his wounds it would
have been only what might have been expected; but to get over them and
then to get drowned almost as soon as he had started is, as you say,
Nichol, very hard luck. I am sure the General will be terribly cut up
about it. I heard Major Butler tell Captain Thompson that he had heard
from Dr. Hunter that when the General began to get round and heard that
Simcoe had gone, while he was lying there too ill to know anything about
it, he regularly broke down and cried like a child; and I am sure the
fact that he will never have the chance of thanking him now will hurt
him as bad as those tiger's claws."
"And so there is no news of Sanderson?"
"Not that I have heard. Maybe he has got clean away; but I should say
it's more likely that he is lying low in some sailors' haunt until the
matter blows over. Then, like enough, he will put on sea-togs and ship
under another name before the mast in some trader knocking about among
the islands, and by the time she comes back he could take a passage home
without questions being asked. He is a sharp fellow is Sanderson. I
never quite liked him myself, but I never thought he was a rogue. It
will teach Captain Smalley to be more careful in future. I heard that he
was going home on his long leave in the spring, but I suppose he will
not be able to do so now for a year or so; three hundred pounds is a big
sum to have to fork out."
The news of the loss of the _Nepaul_, with all hands, did indeed hit
General Mathieson very heavily, and for a time seriously delayed the
progress that he was making towards recovery.
"It's bad enough to think," he said, "that I shall never have an
opportunity of thanking that gallant fellow for my life; but it is even
worse to know that my rescue has brought about his death, for had it not
been for that he would have by this time been up at Delhi or in Oude
instead of lying at the bottom of the sea. I would give half my fortune
to grasp his hand again and tell him what I feel."
General Mathieson's ill luck stuck to him. He gained strength so slowly
that he was ordered home, and it was three years before he rejoined.
Four years later his daughter came out to him, and for a time his home
in Delhi, where he was now stationed, was a happy one. The girl showed
no desire to marry, and refused several very favorable offers; but after
she had been out four years she married a rising young civilian who was
also stationed at Delhi. The union was a happy one, except that the
first two children born to them died in infancy. They were girls. The
third was a boy, who at the age of eight months was sent home under the
charge of an officer's wife returning with her children to England. When
they arrived there he was placed in charge of Mrs. Covington, a niece of
the General's. But before he reached the shores of England he was an
orphan. An epidemic of cholera broke out at the station at which his
father, who was now a deputy collector, was living, and he and his wife
were among the first victims of the scourge.
General Mathieson was now a major-general, and in command of the troops
in the Calcutta district. This blow decided him to resign his command
and return to England. He was now sixty; the climate of India had suited
him, and he was still a hale, active man. Being generally popular he was
soon at home in London, where he took a house in Hyde Park Gardens and
became a regular frequenter of the Oriental and East Indian United
Service Clubs, of which he had been for years a member, went a good deal
into society, and when at home took a lively interest in his grandson,
often running down to his niece's place, near Warwick, to see how he was
getting on.
The ayah who had come with the child from India had been sent back a few
months after they arrived, for his mother had written to Mrs. Covington
requesting that he should have a white nurse. "The native servants," she
wrote, "spoil the children dreadfully, and let them have entirely their
own way, and the consequence is that they grow up domineering,
bad-tempered, and irritable. I have seen so many cases of it here that
Herbert and I have quite decided that our child shall not be spoilt in
this way, but shall be brought up in England as English children are, to
obey their nurses and to do as they are ordered."
As Mrs. Covington's was a large country house the child was no trouble;
an excellent nurse was obtained, and the boy throve under her care.
The General now much regretted having remained so many years in India,
and if an old comrade remarked, "I never could make out why you stuck to
it so long, Mathieson; it was ridiculous for a man with a large private
fortune, such as you have," he would reply, "I can only suppose it was
because I was an old fool. But, you see, I had no particular reason for
coming home. I lost my only sister three years after I went out, and had
never seen her only daughter, my niece Mary Covington. Of course I hoped
for another bout of active service, and when the chance came at last up
in the north, there was I stuck down in Calcutta. If it hadn't been for
Jane I should certainly have given it up in disgust when I found I was
practically shelved. But she always used to come down and stay with me
for a month or two in the cool season, and as she was the only person
in the world I cared for, I held on from year to year, grumbling of
course, as pretty well every Anglo-Indian does, but without having
sufficient resolution to throw it up. I ought to have stayed at home for
good after that mauling I got from the tiger; but, you see, I was never
really myself while I was at home. I did not feel up to going to clubs,
and could not enter into London life at all, but spent most of my time
at my own place, which was within a drive of Mary Covington's, who had
then just married.
"Well, you see, I got deucedly tired of life down there. I knew nothing
whatever of farming, and though I tried to get up an interest in it I
failed altogether. Of course there was a certain amount of society of a
sort, and everyone called, and one had to go out to dinner-parties. But
such dinner-parties! Why, a dinner in India was worth a score of them.
Most of them were very stiff and formal, and after the women had gone
upstairs, the men talked of nothing but hunting and shooting and crops
and cattle; so at last I could stand it no longer, but threw up six
months of my furlough and went out again. Yes, of course I had Jane, but
at that time she was but fourteen, and was a girl at school; and when I
talked of bringing her home and having a governess, everyone seemed to
think that it would be the worst thing possible for her, and no doubt
they were right, for the life would have been as dull for her as it was
for me.
"Of course now it is different. I feel as young and as well as I did
twenty years ago, and can thoroughly enjoy my life in London, though I
still fight very shy of the country. It is a satisfaction to me to know
that things are pretty quiet in India at present, so that I am losing
nothing that way, and if I were out there I should be only holding
inspections at Barrakpoor, Dumdum, or on the Maidan at Calcutta. Of
course it was pleasant enough in its way, for I never felt the heat; but
as a man gets on in life he doesn't have quite so much enjoyment out of
it as he used to do. The men around him are a good deal younger than
himself. He knows all the old messroom jokes, and one bit of scandal is
like scores of others he has heard in his time.
"I am heartily glad that I have come home. Many of you here are about my
own standing, and there is plenty to talk about of old friends and old
days. You were a young ensign when I was a captain, but Bulstrode and I
got our companies within a few days of each other. Of course he is only
a lieutenant-colonel, while I am a major-general, but that is because he
had the good sense to quit the service years ago. There are scores of
others in the club just about my own standing, and one gets one's rubber
of whist in the afternoon, and we dine together and run down the cooking
and wines, although every one of us knows at heart that they are both
infinitely better than we got in India, except at the clubs in the
Presidency towns.
"Then, of course, we all agree that the service is going to the dogs,
that the Sepoys are over-indulged and will some day give us a lot of
trouble. I keep my liver all right by taking a long ride every morning,
and altogether I think I can say that I thoroughly enjoy myself."
The General, on his first visit to England, had endeavored, but in vain,
to find out the family of John Simcoe. He had advertised largely, but
without effect.
"I want to find them out," he said to his niece; "I owe that man a debt
of gratitude I can never repay, but doubtless there are some of his
family who may be in circumstances where I could give them a helping
hand. There may be young brothers--of course I could get them cadetships
in the Indian army--maybe portionless sisters."
"But if he was traveling in India for pleasure he must have been a
well-to-do young fellow. Men cannot wander about in the East without
having a pretty full purse."
"Yes, no doubt; but I don't fancy it was so in his case, and he said
casually that he had come in for some money, and, as he had always had a
great desire to travel, he thought that he could do nothing better than
spend a year or two in the East, but that he hoped before it was gone
he should fall on his legs and obtain some sort of employment. He did
not care much what it was, so that it was not quill-driving. He thought
that he could turn his hands to most things. I laughed at the time, for
I was by no means sure that he was in earnest, but I have felt since
that he must have been. If it had not been so, my advertisements would
surely have caught the eye of someone who knew his family. A family
wealthy enough for one of the sons to start on two years' travel must be
in a fair position, whether in town or country. Had it been so I should
have heard of it, and therefore I think that what he said must have had
some foundation in fact. He was certainly a gentleman in manner, and my
idea now is that he belonged to a middle-class family, probably in some
provincial town, and that, having come into some money at the death of
his father or some other relative, he followed his natural bent and
started on a sort of roving expedition, thinking, as many people do
think, that India is a land where you have only to stretch out your
hands and shake the pagoda tree.
"He would have found out his mistake, poor fellow, if he had lived. The
days are long past when any dashing young adventurer can obtain a post
of honor in the pay of an Indian Rajah. Still, of course, after what he
did for me, had he remained in India, and I found that he really wanted
a berth, I might have done something for him. I know numbers of these
Indian princes, some of them intimately, and to some I have been of very
considerable service; and I fancy that I might have got him a berth of
some kind or other without much difficulty. Or had he made up his mind
to return to England I would have set him up in any business he had a
fancy for. He has gone now, and I wish I could pay someone he cared for
a little of the debt of gratitude I owe him. Well, I have done my best
and have failed, from no fault of my own; but remember that if ever you
hear of a family of the name of Simcoe, I want you to make inquiries
about them, and to give me full particulars concerning them."
But no news ever reached the General on this head, and it was a frequent
cause of lamentation to him, when he finally settled in town, that
although he had again advertised he had heard nothing whatever of the
family of which he was in search.