“OSMAN’S SUBSTITUTE.”
“Hullo, Mark!” cried his travelling companion, with cordial,
outstretched hands. “So you are back? I only arrived this morning--came
straight through from Simla. What’s the matter, eh? You seem rather
choop.”
“Oh, I’ll tell you presently. Let us have your news first.”
“On the principle of keeping the best for the last, eh? for mine is
_bad_. Well, as for news”--removing his cap and sitting down--“I
suppose you have heard that our secret is now public property. That
blatant ass, little Binks, had it all over Simla. What business had
_he_ to thrust himself into our private affairs?”
“It was never what you would call private,” rejoined Mark, who was
leaning against the end of a real old-fashioned hill sofa, with his
hands in his pockets. “I am only surprised that it never came out
before.”
“Yes, now that you mention it, so am I. We had a good many
fellow-passengers, but they none of them came up this way; they were
mostly for Burmah, or Madras, or globe-trotters. I could not give the
name of one of them if I got a thousand pounds. There is nothing one
forgets so soon as a fellow-passenger. Of course you have been to see
your governor?”
“Yes. I’ve been away nearly a fortnight.”
“And how did you find him?”
“I am sorry to say very broken down--ill and desolate.”
“But with sacks of gold mohurs all round the rooms, and chandeliers
of real diamonds. I hope you have some in your pockets?” said Waring,
gaily.
“No. He is a comparatively poor man; at least he has just enough to
live upon--an annuity. The bulk of his fortune goes, as it ought to go,
to the Cardozo family.”
“Well, one fortune is enough for you,” rejoined Clarence. “I came up
post haste. I rode your bay pony in the last ten miles, and, by Jove!
I thought I had killed him. It was frightfully hot, and I put on the
pace. I gave him a whole bottle of whisky when I got in.”
“A whole bottle! Well, I hope you will give him some soda-water
to-morrow morning. What a head the poor brute will have!” he added,
with a wintry smile. “But what was the reason for such desperate
riding? Has Miss Potter come back?”
“Miss Potter be hanged!” was the unchivalrous reply. “I came up as hard
as I could lay leg to the ground to get you to help me out of an awful
hole--an infernal money muddle.”
“To help you again! I thought that five hundred pounds would put you
straight.”
“Good heavens, man! it’s not hundreds, but thousands that would do
that!” cried the prodigal.
Jervis ceased to lounge, and now assumed a more uncompromising attitude.
“Explain,” he said laconically.
“Yes; I’ve been going it, my boy,” admitted Waring, with a reckless
laugh. “Old faces, old places, were too much for me, and I dropped a
pot of money. There was a fellow from New Orleans, a long-headed chap,
a born gambler, and a wild-looking Hungarian count; they carried too
many guns for me. One night we had three thousand pounds on the turn of
a card. Ah, that is living! There is excitement, if you like! Better
twenty hours of Simla than a cycle of Shirani.”
“Nevertheless you have returned to Shirani?”
“Yes, only because I am cleared out,” was the absolutely unabashed
reply.
“I’m sorry to hear it, Clarence; but it is not in my power to help you
beyond the five hundred pounds that will pay our expenses here. The
table was papered with bills when I came back.”
“Oh, those!” with a gesture of scorn, “rubbishy little shoeing
accounts, stable accounts, and rent. I don’t mind _them_, it’s others.
I’m really in an awful hat this time and no mistake, and you must
assist me.”
“I cannot.”
“I tell you again that you must!” cried Waring, throwing himself
back in his chair, with an energy that made that venerable piece of
furniture creak most piteously.
“There is no ‘must’ in the matter,” retorted the other steadily, “and
if I were in the humour for joking--which I am not--the comic side of
the situation would make me laugh. You were sent out by Uncle Dan as my
mentor, to keep me straight, to give me the benefit of your experience
and to show me round. Wasn’t that the arrangement? But, by Jove,”
suddenly springing up and beginning to pace the room, “I have been
lugging you out of scrapes ever since we landed in the country!”
“It is a true bill, oh wise, cool-headed, and most virtuous Saint Mark!
This, I most solemnly swear to you, is my last and worst scrape. Get
me a cheque for a certain sum, wire to the uncle to lodge it at the
agents, and I’ll be a truly reformed character, and never touch another
card, for ever and ever, amen.”
“And afterwards?”
“Afterwards we will reward the old man, and rejoice his heart, by
packing up and going home by the next steamer. He would give many
thousand pounds to get you back again--you are the apple of his
little pig’s eye. This country does not agree with me--I don’t mean
physically, but morally. It’s an enervating, corrupting, beguiling
land. We will sell off your guns and ponies, dear boy. I’ve put them
up at the club--I hope I have not broken the wind of that dark bay--we
will go down in the mail tonga this day week, _en route_ for Bombay.
There are temptations for _you_ in this Indian Empire too. The sooner
you say good-bye to H. G. the better. Now, there is my programme for
you--my new leaf. What have you to say to it?”
Brisk and confident as his speech had been, there was a certain
unmistakable lameness in its conclusion. Waring had secretly winced
under his listener’s eyes--his listener, who sat motionless,
contemplating him with an expression of cool contempt.
“The first thing I have to say is, that my guns and the ponies are not
for sale, or only the chestnut with the white legs.”
“Great Scot! You don’t mean to tell me that you intend to take three
ponies home! And what do you want with an express rifle and an elephant
gun in England?”
“I may require them out here. I am not going back to England.”
Captain Waring sat suddenly erect.
“Of course this is all humbug and rot!” he exclaimed vehemently.
“No. I am quite in earnest. I intend to remain with my father; it is
the right thing for me to do. He is alone in the world; his mind is
weak.”
“So is his son’s, I should say,” burst out Waring, throwing his
cigarette into the verandah. “Get him a keeper--two keepers, by all
means; a baby house, a barrel organ, every comfort, but don’t _you_ be
a lunatic. Come home with me. Think of Uncle Dan!”
“Yes, I know very well that Uncle Dan will cast me off; he told me he
would, if I remained out here with my father.”
“Cast you off!” almost screamed the other. “Do you mean to tell me that
you will never see the colour of his money again?”
“Never.”
“I believe that Miss Gordon has something to say to this scheme, as
well as this mad Quixotic idea about your father,” cried Clarence,
crimson with excitement. “As for the girl, you must let her slide,
we have all been through _that_; but, for God’s sake, hang on to the
uncle, and the coin. You are the only mortal for whom he will open his
purse-strings.”
“I have written to him, and told him that I am not going home.”
“Is the letter posted?”
Mark nodded.
“Then,” turning on him fiercely, “you have burnt your boats.”
“I have.”
“You are mad to chuck everything at twenty-six years of age. You give
up your life at home----”
“I know best what I am giving up,” interrupted his companion
impatiently. “I know that I am going back to Hawal Ghât to-morrow.
There is nothing to be gained by remaining on here, and Cardozo is
staying with my father till I relieve him. I am winding up my affairs,
and paying off my servants, except Jan Mahomed, and his son, who are
coming with me, and to-morrow I turn my back upon Shirani.”
“Short--sharp--and decisive is the word,” sneered Waring, with bitter
emphasis. “Have you got over your good-byes yet?” he added, with
pitiless significance.
“No,” becoming rather white, “not yet.”
“I was told at the club that you were engaged to her. Is _she_ to form
part of the new scheme? Will marrying her also come under the head of
the ‘right thing to do?’ Eh?”
“You may spare your gibes,” said Jervis, sternly. “Miss Gordon is
absolutely free. As for myself--I shall never marry.”
“Oh, ho!” with a derisive laugh, “never is a long word. Well, to
descend to more prosaic matters, what about these Shirani bills and
that five hundred?”
“You shall have it, of course.”
“Yes, you are a man of your word, even if it is a question of a
thrashing. I’ll never forget the day that the cad who was ill-using a
horse on the towing-path riled you and taunted you; he got hold of the
wrong man that time, and no mistake, poor beggar. He never guessed how
you could use your fists. You looked so slim and genteel, but you left
him with two lovely black eyes.”
Mark made a gesture of protest. Time was precious. What was the use of
raking up irrelevant old stories?
“Can’t you draw upon the uncle for a couple of thousand, at least?”
urged Waring, after a considerable silence; “it will be no more to him
than a couple of pence--and will save me from--from----”
“What?” asked his companion quietly.
“From,” avoiding his penetrating eye, “a lot of bother and worry.”
“I cannot draw on him now for a penny, beyond the five hundred; but
I am sure he will help you when you see him. How soon are you going
home?”
“In a week. Hullo!” starting up, “there is the mess bugle. Are you
coming over to dinner?”
“No; tell the mess sergeant to send me something.”
“Any champagne? I’d recommend a bottle of the pink wine of France. You
are bound to see things more _couleur de rose_.”
Jervis shook his head with an air of impatient negation.
“Well, I must go and change; but I’ll look you up again, of course,
before you turn in.”
Clarence proved as good as his word; besides, he had as yet to receive
a certain sum of money. He duly appeared about eleven o’clock,
unusually flushed, and in a state of boisterous good humour. He
found his former comrade still sitting at their joint writing-table,
scribbling notes and servants’ chits.
“You look as if you were making out your last will and testament.
Writing your own obituary notice, eh, old chappie?”--slapping him
familiarly on the back. “In one sense you _are_ committing suicide,
and burying yourself alive. I’ve sold your chestnut pony, and got the
cheque--two fifty rupees--dirt cheap.”
“It will go towards paying off some of these,” said Mark, nodding at
the bills.
“Oh, a mere drop in the ocean,” rejoined Clarence, with easy scorn.
“However, we can’t have our cake and eat it,” ignoring the fact that it
was he who had devoured not only his own cake, but the other man’s as
well.
“Here is the cheque for five hundred pounds,” said Mark, producing his
cheque-book. “I told Uncle Dan I was going to draw it some time ago, so
it will be all right”--writing rapidly and handing it over. “It will
clear all bills here--mess, rent, and shops; or”--still retaining it--
“shall _I_ keep it and pay them? I can send the money by post.”
Waring glanced at the slip of paper held towards him. His eyes blazed
with a curious light; his voice was husky as he eagerly answered,
“No, no; you may rely on me. I’ll be paymaster to the very end of the
chapter,” and he seized upon the cheque somewhat precipitately.
“And you will not make any other use of it than paying off our joint
debts? You will promise me that, Clarence?” speaking with an air of
cool authority. “On your honour, Waring?”
“On my word and honour. What do you take me for, old man? I’ll get it
cashed at the treasury here, pay all the bills like a gentleman, and
send you the receipts. I hope that will please you?”
“Yes, that will do, of course; and mind you settle them at once.”
“I hear old Double Gloster and Miss Paske are engaged,” said Clarence,
hastily changing the subject.
“Are they?” indifferently. What was Shirani news to him now?
“And there is not a road in India wide enough for Aunt Ida. Well, Mark,
I am sorry you are so headstrong. You were always a bit hard in the
mouth, though you never kicked over the traces. You’ve been a brick, I
must say. What time are you off to-morrow?”
“About seven o’clock.”
“Then I think I’ll say good night. You look pretty fagged, and you had
better turn in. This”--nodding--“is not good-bye; I’ll make a point of
seeing you in the morning.”
Nevertheless Mark stood erect, and held out his hand in silence.
How pale he looked; how worn and haggard he had become! Clarence
intuitively felt that this was their last interview; something
indefinable assured him that they would never again stand face to face.
He was conscious of an extraordinary mixture of regret and relief.
Jervis had represented a sort of conscience. His example, his
disagreeably rigorous standard of honour, his steady eyes, had shamed
him from doing many things that he ought not to have done. Mark was
a young saint, a hero; yes, Miss Valpy was right, he had the face
of one. It was the act of a hero to renounce the world, wealth, and
love--occasionally synonymous with the flesh and the devil--and devote
his life to a crazy old man. He was a cool, reliable comrade, ready
with tongue, arm, or rifle. It was true that he had been the means of
pulling him out of several nasty scrapes, and this cheque for five
hundred pounds, now in his waistcoat pocket, would pull him out of the
worst scrape of all!
He waited until he saw Mark go into his room and close the door, and
then he slipped back to the club to play “snookers” and black pool.
He was not home until three o’clock in the morning; and when he awoke
about noon, and shouted for his bearer and his tea, he was informed
that the “chotah sahib,” as the servants called Jervis, “had been gone
many hours.”