THE SON AND THE HEIR.
“I never expected to see you again,” cried Fernandez, as with a napkin
over his arm, and a lamp held above his round black head, he surveyed
Jervis, who was stiffly dismounting from his pony.
“Why not?” inquired the traveller, as he came up the steps.
“_Every_ why not, my dear fellow. If I had been in your shoes, you’d
never have seen _me_ again. I’d have taken my _jawab_. You are a young
man in a thousand.” And he patted him affectionately on the shoulder.
“Not at all”--following him into the dining-room, where the remains of
an excellent repast was on the table--“I’m simply a young man of my
word.”
Fernandez may have belied himself, but the chances were that his own
estimate of his character was correct. There is much in heredity! He
came of an easy-going, voluptuous, volatile stock, as his soft fat
face, loose mouth, and merry but unsteady eye indicated. His companion
was descended from another and stronger nation; his character was cast
in a sterner mould; he was the scion of a race of soldiers, who had
fought, suffered, and died for a cause. Jervis’s square jaw, resolute
glance, and firmly-cut thin lips, told a tale of where the flesh had
warred against the spirit, and had _not_ prevailed.
“How is my father?” he asked, ere he seated himself.
“Perfectly well--that is, his mind. He has been looking for you all day
with the spy-glass. He was tired and went to bed early. He said he knew
you would be here by morning. If you _had_ deserted him, I don’t know
how it would have been”--touching his forehead significantly.
Fernandez gesticulated incessantly with a pair of small, plump,
delicately shaped hands, on which flashed rings of great value, and of
which he was equally proud.
He played the part of host to the son of the house, anxiously pressed
him to eat dainties, and drink champagne, and was exceedingly
loquacious and confidential. The pale and worn-looking traveller ate
but little, and supported his share of conversation by monosyllables,
whilst Mr. Cardozo discoursed volubly of his late cousin, and threw a
somewhat lurid light upon her married life.
“Oh yes, Mércèdes was very generous and hospitable, and not bad
looking--no, when she did not disfigure herself with a mask of pearl
powder; but she was frightfully extravagant, as intriguing as her
grandmother, and as jealous as”--immediate words failed him for a
simile, and after a considerable pause, he added--“the devil. No, the
poor major had his own troubles. He might not speak to another woman;
he was handsome and popular, and had a taking manner; he could not help
that. But she made some awful scenes.”
“Did she?” returned Jervis, with the provoking indifference of a young
man to whom domestic “scenes” are merely a figure of speech.
“Yes, there is a great deal to be said in favour of the zenana system,”
continued Fernandez, solemnly. “There are no open scandals, no
hysterics at balls, no slapping of other ladies at dinner-parties, no
making a man look small before his comrades. Mércèdes took good care
never to look small herself. She always rented the biggest bungalow
in a station, and had it coloured outside to suit her taste--it was
generally pink-and-white, like a Christmas cake! She kept open house
and about fifty servants. She liked to sit behind four spanking
horses--the major was a capital whip. And as to her diamonds--why, she
blazed like a catherine-wheel. She left all the jewels to the major for
life, as a mockery, for they are no use to him, he cannot sell a stone;
but I can, and will, by-and-by. The native jewels are worth lakhs. Most
of them are in the bank at Calcutta; but there are a few here in a
safe--jewelled daggers, horse pistols, gold battle-axes, betel-boxes.
There is one emerald and ruby necklace, with pearl tassels, that is
worth fifty thousand rupees, and a sirpesh or forehead ornament, set
with huge rubies, said to have belonged to Ahmed, the last native
conqueror of India----”
These descriptions were rolling off Fernandez’ fluent tongue, when it
occurred to him that he was speaking to deaf ears. What would rouse
this odd, abstracted young man--the mention of money?
“The jewels, I see, do not interest you,” he exclaimed; “but I must
tell you something about your father’s income.”
The abstracted young man turned a pair of steady eyes on the
descendant of a Portuguese free lance and nodded assent.
“Mércèdes made her will in a tantrum; she had made and revoked dozens.
However, as she was suddenly cut off, this one had to stand. She left
me, her sole heir, a fine present income--_everything_ at your father’s
death. He has a thousand pounds a year as long as he lives, or until
he marries, and up till now the money is thrown away and wasted; it
goes to blood-suckers and hangers-on in hundreds--to every one but
the owner. When he has one of his bad attacks, he will draw a cheque
for the asking. Unprincipled tradespeople have sent in accounts for
articles that have never come here. There are, however, four hundred
military saddles in one of the lumber-rooms, and about nine hundred
pairs of long jack-boots. He raises a regiment, you see, when he is not
in one of his melancholy fits. A great deal of money sticks to Fuzzil’s
greasy palms.”
“So I should suppose; but that is over.”
“There is a leper village chiefly supported by the major in his lucid
intervals. The beggars and lepers assemble on Sunday for their alms. It
is a great charity.”
“Yes; which is more than we can say for Fuzzil”--with a mechanical
smile.
“Well, I am off to-morrow; my wife is expecting me,” continued Cardozo,
briskly.
“Then you are married!” exclaimed the other, with unqualified surprise.
“No, I don’t look it, do I? But I married when I was eighteen--the more
fool I!--to a pretty little girl you could almost blow away. Yes; and
now she weighs sixteen stone. She has very bad health, and seldom goes
out, though I keep a fine carriage and horses for her. She does not
care for anything much, as long as she has her priest, her doctor, her
woman cronies, who tell her all the gossip, and her coffee. Oh, she
is very particular about her coffee. She is not fond of clothes, or
jewellery, or show; indeed, poor woman, she is too unwieldy to dress
and go about. Now, _I_ am a society man;” and he threw himself back
with a smile of extravagant superiority. “I go round looking after the
property, I run up to Mussouri often, I have plenty of friends. I do a
little betting, I play billiards, I am passionately fond of dancing.
I appreciate a good dinner and a pretty woman--and pretty women
appreciate _me_. Oh yes!”
He half closed his eyes, and puffed and blinked alternately, with an
air of ineffable content. It was all that his _vis-à-vis_ could do to
keep his countenance; indeed, he was not entirely successful.
“Oh, you may laugh!” exclaimed Mr. Cardozo, with perfect good humour.
“Other men laugh, too; but _I_ win--I walk in,” he concluded, with an
air of superb complacency.
Mark gazed dispassionately at his little stout, sleek companion. He
was fat and forty, effeminate and vain; but then he was wealthy and
good-natured. Were these the traits that appeal most strongly to
women-kind?
“I am a great ladies’ man, I do assure you. I could show you
letters----”
Jervis made a gesture of frantic dissent.
“Bah, bah, bah! Why, you know very well you’ve had fifty love affairs
_yourself_.”
“If I had I should keep them to myself.”
“That’s a snub”--with a roar of laughter. “And you _would_; you are a
close sort of fellow, I should say. Now, I am not; I like talking about
my experiences.”
“With Mrs. Cardozo, of course.”
“Mrs. Cardozo knows there is no harm in _me_; but I must have my own
friends, just as she has hers.” And he stretched out his arm and
amorously contemplated a slender gold bangle. “I suppose”--with a
self-conscious smile--“you don’t possess one?”
“Great aunt! I should think not. Do you wear a necklace, too?”
Mr. Cardozo, who was certainly the soul of good humour, burst into
another roar of laughter; and Fuzzil, who was listening at the door,
reported that “the Kala Sahib and the other were talking like brothers.”
“Well, well; enjoy life while you may--that’s _my_ motto.” And he drank
off a bumper of Madeira and smacked his lips audibly. “You need not be
shocked; I shall take the best care of Maria as long as she lives, and
when she dies I shall marry again--probably a young girl.”
Mark offered no comment, none being required.
“Yes, I enjoy life. And you; what will you do here? Wait”--with a
dramatic gesture--“I will answer my own question. Either this”--holding
a glass to his lips--“or this”--drawing his hand significantly across
his throat.
“Satan finds some mischief still
For idle hands to do.”
“My hands will be full,” rejoined the other resolutely. “I intend to
work great reforms. I shall manage the domestic budget; I shall get
rid of Fuzzil and his clan.”
“Ho, ho, ho! you will just as easily get rid of the sun, moon, and
stars. He is a fixture; he has been here for years. His brother is
khitmatgar; his father is cook; his uncle is dhobie. Oh, Fuzzil has
struck in his roots; he knows when he is well off.”
“And I know when we are _not_ well off. He is a gambling, drunken,
insolent ruffian. Rooted, you say! I shall turn him out, root _and_
branch.”
“You will be very strong if you do that,” rejoined Fernandez, looking
between his eyelashes at the spare, stern-faced young man across the
table, who continued--
“I will depend on you to send me up a decent cook. I shall put my
bearer at the head of the staff; his son will attend my father.”
“They will rob you, of course,” remarked Cardozo, with a shrug.
“I doubt it. But if they do, it will be in a quiet and respectable
manner--not indecently and extravagantly--and to no great extent. The
money will pass through my hands. The mallees must learn that they
will no longer receive a garden rent free, and wages for working for
themselves. We will have some new furniture, the house cleaned and
routed out, a daily dâk, papers, books, a pony for my father.”
“You will never do all this--never. I wish you every success, you
know”--nodding towards him--“but the labours of Hercules, the cleaning
of the Augean stables, were a mere joke to your task. Come, now, I’m
a sporting fellow; I bet you fifty rupees to twenty, that when I come
back in a couple of months’ time, just to see if you are alive, I shall
find our friend Fuzzil and the goats, old hags, children, and chickens,
_in statu quo_.”
Jervis shook his head; he was not in the mood to bet or joke. Life was
real, life was earnest--grim earnest, with him now.
“Well, ta-ta! it is nearly twelve o’clock, and I have to make an early
start,” said Mr. Cardozo, rising, and with a yawn that seemed to
divide his head in two parts, he waved a valediction with his pet hand
and ring, and swaggered off to bed.
But Mark Jervis was of stronger stuff than flabby, emotional,
self-indulgent Fernandez; and after a desperate struggle he carried out
his plans. The desperate struggle being on the part of his father’s
good-for-nothing retinue. When in one brief sentence he informed Fuzzil
that he no longer required his services, Fuzzil looked as if he could
not credit his ears. He blew out his fat cheeks, and struck an attitude
of defiance, as with folded arms and head on one side he said--
“You not my master. I take no orders.”
“I am your master now,” said Jervis.
“I never going. This Mr. Cardozo’s house.”
“Indeed! I think he would be surprised to hear that; and you will find
that you are mistaken. You have made a very good business out of this
situation. Your time is up, and you clear out to-morrow.”
Mahomed, the bearer, and his following arrived, and a grand
transformation scene ensued. Some old women in the compound and
stabling had to be carried out bodily, shrieking vociferously, with
their beds and cooking things and other luggage--the collection of
years of thieving--like so many magpies’ nests. Fuzzil himself had also
to be assisted off the premises, being extremely drunk, his turban
askew, and uttering wild cries of vengeance, with spluttering, foaming
mouth. And then the new _régime_ came into working order. The house
underwent a consolidated spring cleaning; sun and air were admitted
to dusty old locked-up rooms--rooms that offered many surprises in
the shape of their contents; a mixture of the properties of East
and West--old howdahs and silver horse-trappings, rusty swords and
spears, images of saints, holy water stands, crucifixes, pictures,
tulwars, bonnets, betel-nut boxes, hookahs, armour. It was, in fact, a
combination of a native “tosha-khana,” or wardrobe room--an oratory and
a pawnbroker’s shop.
Dust, and dirt, and cobwebs were swept out, as well as goats, and
kids, and poultry. House linen, glass, and crockery, and carpets were
replaced--money and the telegraph wires can do great things--walls
were white-washed, windows cleaned, jungle cut down. Thus was order
and energy infused into every department. The “Pela Kothi,” though
shabby, was neat and cheerful. The meals were good, and served by
snowy-clad servants; flowers and fruit were actually to be seen on the
table. There was a daily post, books, magazines, and a steady hill
pony to carry Major Jervis. But he preferred to hobble on his son’s
arm a hundred times up and down the terrace, talking of old times, and
noting each turn with a bean. He was a different man already, roused at
any rate for the moment from his stupor; he took an interest in the
news of the day, in the garden, and, above all, in his pensioners, the
lepers.
The young reformer, who had been the means of all these changes, had
worked hard, worked ceaselessly from morning till night. He felt that
incessant occupation was his only refuge; he dared not give himself
time to think. He walked over the hills of an afternoon, when his day’s
work was done, walked until he was so completely worn out that he
was safe to sleep like a log, and, above all, safe from what he most
dreaded--dreams.