THE INITIALS “H. G.”
When it became known at the club, and subsequently all over Shirani,
that young Jervis had suddenly disappeared the night of the bachelors’
ball, great was the sensation.
No, no, there was no suspicion of foul play; there were his servants to
be questioned. Jan Mahomed, his respectable, grey-bearded attendant,
had declared that the night his master had come home, he had got
straight from his evening clothes into his riding things, and had taken
the grey pony and galloped away into the darkness. Whither? How could
he say? holding out a pair of lean, empty hands, with a gesture of
pitiable ignorance. He made no mention of the letter; for this prudent
retainer had lived with bachelor sahibs before.
Mrs. Langrishe and Lalla were for once agreed. They were convinced that
Mr. Jervis had gone further than he had intended with Miss Gordon,
and to repair the error, had subsequently put miles between them--was
probably by this time on blue water. But they did not venture to air
this opinion openly; it was reserved for “ladies only.” Major Langrishe
had laughed it to scorn; and as for Toby Joy, he and Lalla almost had a
quarrel on the subject--their very first quarrel.
“Jervis to propose to a girl, and then run away!” he cried indignantly.
“About the last fellow in Shirani to do such a mean trick. Jervis is a
gentleman to the soles of his boots, and a real good chap, worth fifty
of Waring.”
“Yes, so we all learn _now_, when it’s rather late in the day,”
retorted Lalla, sarcastically.
“You mean about the money! But I mean in other ways. He took it
awfully well the day I nearly smashed up him and Mrs. Sladen; you saw
that yourself! He certainly lay low with regard to the fact of his
being wealthy. He is the least ostentatious fellow I ever met, and as
straight as a die, a complete contrast to the great Clarence, who has
been playing the deuce up at Simla, by all accounts, and making ducks
and drakes of any quantity of coin.”
“Well, at least, we know _where_ he is, and _what_ he is doing!”
retorted Lalla. “But no one can say the same of the cousin. Where is
he, and what is _he_ doing? He was always very close about himself, and
I consider the whole thing most suspicious. Supposing a man proposed
for me.”
“Yes, supposing a man proposed for you,” repeated Toby, edging nearer
to the lady.
“And I accepted him. Now, don’t look so utterly idiotic, for mercy’s
sake! And he simply took to his heels and ran away, would I not think
that peculiar conduct? I must say Honor Gordon takes it better than I
should, under the circumstances.”
“How soon are you going to get rid of that fellow Gloster?” inquired
Toby irrelevantly.
Sir Gloster was bringing a tedious convalescence to an end, and taking
daily airings in Mrs. Langrishe’s rickshaw; and people, who were
disappointed of a wedding in one quarter, were eagerly expecting to
hear of one in another.
“I don’t know,” coquettishly. “Perhaps I may _never_ get rid of him!”
“You know you only say that to make me wretched. You don’t really mean
it, do you?” pleaded Toby, with such a look of misery on his usually
merry face, that Miss Paske burst into an uncontrollable scream of
laughter, and said--
“Toby, how can you be so exquisitely silly?”
The few days Mark Jervis had written of had grown into ten, and he
had almost slipped out of people’s minds, save when a string of ponies
being led along by their syces, and wearing smart jhools, with the
initials M. J., brought him momentarily to remembrance.
And now Captain Waring suddenly reappeared. He came direct from Simla,
back to despised Shirani, and in anything but his usual cheery spirits.
How he had cursed his coolies and ponies on the way up! What a life the
_débonnaire_ Clarence had led his miserable servants, as if the poor
wretches were responsible for his discomfiture, his bad luck, his ruin,
for it had come to that--and it was a desperate man, who spurred his
distressed country-bred pony up the last two miles of the dusty cart
road.
He was surprised to find Haddon Hall tenantless; but when the bearer
explained how “a Pahari had brought a note, and his master had gone
‘ek dum,’” _i.e._ on the spot, he nodded his head sagaciously, and
appeared to understand all about it. What he could not comprehend was
Mark’s prolonged absence. “Ten days gone,” Mahomed said; two days,
were he in Mark’s shoes, would be amply sufficient time to devote to
his eccentric parent.
Clarence was in a bad plight, and almost at the end of his resources,
which had hitherto been as unfailing as the widow’s cruse. He had
gambled recklessly, with stronger men than himself; he had thrown
good money after bad, in the usual wild attempt to recover both. His
I.O.U.’s and debts of honour and lottery accounts came to a large
total; he would be posted in a few days if he did not pay up. As to
other debts, they were legion--shop bills, club and mess accounts,
wages--they poured down on him in all directions, ever since that
little brute Binks had peached at Simla and spoiled everything. Miss
Potter had bitterly upbraided him, and subsequently snubbed him
unmistakably; the men at the club looked coldly on him; the high
players in the card-room had seemed stiff and curiously averse to his
“cutting in.” People suddenly stopped talking when he joined them; yes,
he was at a crisis in his life, a crisis brought on by his own insane
recklessness, and raging passion for play. He had come expressly to
Shirani to get Mark to assist him; if he failed him, if he refused to
stretch out a hand, and drag him back from the gulf of insolvency and
disgrace, on the brink of which he tottered, down he must go, and be
swept away and swallowed up, among the thousands and thousands who have
similarly gone under!
After a bath, a meal, and a smoke, Captain Waring felt better, and set
to work to think things out steadily, and to pull himself together. He
had sold his own ponies and guns, their price was a sop to his most
urgent creditors. He would now proceed to dispose of Mark’s battery.
Yes, they were fine weapons--he would put them and the ponies on the
notice board at the club at once--the price of them would pay their
passages and immediate expenses; Mark’s £500 would cover all debts; he
had not a rupee left at the agent’s, and he would make Mark come home
at once. It was true that their year’s leave had yet four months to
run, this was the middle of June, but he had made India too hot to hold
him for the second time. The sooner he set about winding up affairs the
better, and he rose on the spur of the moment, resolved to cast an eye
over his cousin’s saleable effects.
He went into Jervis’s room, the smaller and worst of the bedrooms, and
very plainly furnished. There was a bare camp bed, a rickety chest of
drawers, a washed-out dhurrie on the floor, also a long row of boots;
a couple of saddles on a stand, and a first-rate battery of guns--“a
double-barrel central-fire breach-loader, by Purdy, that will fetch
250 rupees; a 500 express, by Lancaster, 400 rupees; 8-bore rifle, 600
rupees; rook rifle, 100--say, 1300 rupees,” was his mental calculation.
When he had examined these, a parcel on the chest of drawers arrested
his attention; there was also a programme. He took it up and looked it
over; he was extremely inquisitive in such small matters. The card was
full, and opposite three dances were scribbled the initials “H. G.”
“Humph!” he muttered aloud. “So _that_ is going on!” And as his gaze
travelled to a ladylike parcel in silver paper--“What the dickens is
_this_?”
He promptly unrolled it, and beheld a most superior white ostrich
feather-fan, with the monogram H. G. on the handle. Captain Waring
unfurled it, fanned himself slowly, folded it up once more, and said--
“A feather shows how the wind blows, Mark my boy! Well, I’ll go over
to the club and hear what is going on, look up the mail steamers, and
offer your ponies and rifles, my fine fellow. You will have to come
home with me sooner than you think, and I’ll get great kudos from the
uncle for carrying you off from a dangerous entanglement--in other
words, from H. G.”
And Captain Waring sauntered out to the stables in a surprisingly good
humour.
“I’m sorry he has got the grey with him!” he muttered to himself;
“the grey is a long way the best of the three! The grey is worth five
hundred rupees.”
Strange to say, the grey, carrying his owner, arrived home that same
day about four o’clock, much to the bearer’s joy. His master spent the
afternoon packing, making arrangements, giving orders, writing letters.
He announced that he was going away again the next morning, and Jan
Mahomed and his son were to follow with all his baggage. In future he
would live with his father near Ramghur.
Jan Mahomed received this astounding piece of information in the usual
native fashion, merely with a stolid face and a long salaam.
Yes, his choice was made, the die cast, to Major Jervis’s intense
satisfaction, and to Fernandez Cardozo’s intense amazement. The former
had been ill, and had detained his son from an earlier return to Haddon
Hall to wind up his affairs, and open his letters, the latter including
one from his uncle, which had been lying on the writing-table for a
whole week. It said--
“DEAR MARK,
“Yours received, and I answer it within the _hour_. I note all you
say about the young lady, and I don’t like the idea _at all_. My boy,
you know I have never refused you anything, but I must say _no_ to
this. I have only your welfare at heart. I cannot allow you to throw
yourself away on an ordinary Indian spin. You are right to tell me all
about it; and, as you have not yet proposed for her, _don’t_. You must
marry some pretty, well-born girl, who has never been through the Suez
Canal. Come home immediately; these idle days in a hill station have
had a bad effect on your steady brain. Come home as soon as ever you
can. Your father has evidently become naturalized; he does not want
you--_I do_. As for the girl, you might give her a pony, or a diamond
brooch--anything--everything, but yourself.
“Your affectionate uncle,
“D. POLLITT.”
As Mark looked up from this letter he met the scrutinizing black eyes
of Jan Mahomed which were fixed upon his face.
“This sahib has been ill,” he said, severely. “Jungle fever getting?”
“No, Jan, I am all right. This is the day the English dâk goes out, and
I want you to take a letter to the post for me, it will be ready in
twenty minutes, and send word to the Captain Sahib, that I have come
back.”
Then he drew his writing-case towards him and began a letter to his
uncle. Evidently this letter was not an easy composition, in fact, he
had already written it several times at Ramghur, and then instantly
destroyed it, but it must be written somehow, and _now_. The post left
within the hour. At length he wrote--
“DEAR UNCLE DAN,
“Since I last wrote to you I have been with my father; he sent for
me suddenly, and I went off the same hour, as his note said that
he was very ill. I found him living forty miles from this, in an
isolated house, part of the Cardozo property, and under the name of
Mr. Jones--a name he has adopted for the last seven years. I never
would have recognized him, he is so broken down, and quite an infirm
old man. This is the effect of the accident that killed his wife.
But this is not the worst. His mind is deranged, which accounts for
his strange silence and many other things. At times, such as at the
present moment, he is perfectly clear and collected, but at others
he suffers from depression and melancholia, and sits silent for days
and weeks. He is alive to his own infirmity, and that is why he has
chosen this life of seclusion. Until recently he had one of his former
sowars living with him, an invaluable companion; and now that he is
dead--an irreparable loss--Uncle Dan, I am going to tell you something
that will be a shock, as well as displeasing, to you--I am about to
take the place of this faithful servant, and endeavour to be his
substitute. My father is a forlorn and stricken man; he has no one but
me to look to--he does look to me, and I will not fail him. He is not
wealthy--the begum’s riches, Mrs. Jervis’s fortune (minus a certain
annuity), is strictly reserved for her next of kin, Fernandez Cardozo.
He is not a bad sort, and has been looking after my father and his
affairs--in short, fulfilling _my_ duty; but I shall relieve him of
all this, and remain out here as long as my father lives. I am afraid
that at first you will think I am treating you badly and ungratefully;
but this I know, that, were _you_ in my place, you would do the same
yourself. Of course I forfeit all claim on you by such a step as I
am about to take, and it is a step which has cost a struggle. I am
going to lead a different life to that to which I have been brought
up. I shall be isolated and out of the world, for I can never leave my
father even for a day. Once I take up my post, I shall stick to it.
“I have found your letter here awaiting me--your letter about Miss
Gordon. Of course that is all at an end now. As for her not being good
enough for me, it is the other way about. She is the only girl I ever
cared for. I shall never marry now, but will adopt the profession I
chose as a child, and live and die a bachelor. I wonder that I can
joke, for I need hardly tell you that I am not in a merry mood. I feel
as if everything had gone from me at one blow, and I am left face to
face with a new life and an inflexible duty. Whatever you may think
of me, Uncle Dan, my feelings towards you will never change; I shall
always think of you with affection and gratitude.
“Clarence came back to-day from Simla. I have not seen him as yet.
I only arrived a couple of hours ago, to collect my kit, dismiss my
servants, and say good-bye to Miss Gordon. If you had ever seen her,
and spoken to her, you would not have written that suggestion about a
pony or a brooch. I go back to Ramghur to-morrow. My lot is not likely
to be a very bright one; do not make it harder, Uncle Dan, by being
implacable. I know that at first you will feel certain that you never
_can_ forgive me, but you will by-and-by. Write to me and send me
papers to care of Mr. Jones, Ramghur, _viâ_ Shirani. You may as well
take my name off the clubs, sell the horses down at the farm, and tell
Windover not to put the drag in hand.
“Your affectionate nephew,
“M. JERVIS.”
This letter, hastily written, with numerous erasures, the writer did
not trust himself to read over, but thrust it into an envelope,
addressed and despatched it on the spot, as if he almost feared that he
might be tempted to recall it, and change his mind.