“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.”