Little Mark was about to have a stepmother, the lady was a Miss Cardozo, of Portuguese extraction, dark, handsome, not very young, but enormously wealthy, and quite infatuated about little Mark’s papa. Her grandfather had been a military adventurer, whose sword and swagger had gained him the heart and treasures of a Begum. Miss Cardozo’s father was an indigo planter, in those good old times when indigo crops brought in lacs of rupees, and she was his sole heiress and an orphan. Besides the Begum’s wealth and jewels, she owned property in the Doon, property in the hills, property in Tirhoot, shares in banks and railways, and large investments in the funds.
Mr. Pollitt’s shrewd little eyes glistened approvingly as he absorbed these particulars.
“Cut the service, bring her to England, and take a fine country place,” was his prompt suggestion.
“No, no, she hates England; she was at school over here. She dreads our winters, and rain and fog,” replied Major Jervis. “And she likes my being in the service. I can tell you that our men and horses are something to see! Mércèdes—that is her name—delights in pomp and show and glitter, and is much attached to India; and to tell you the honest truth, Pollitt, I’m partial to the country too. I have been out there twenty-two years, ever since I was eighteen, with only two short furloughs, and it’s a country that suits me down to the ground. My near relations in England are every one dead, I have no ties here, all my friends and interests are out there, and I don’t mind if I end my days in the East.”
“And what about Mark?” demanded his listener.
“Yes, that is the question,” said his father. “It’s hard lines on the boy, to have no home with me—but later on he shall go into the service, and come out to us. You have been wonderfully kind to him I know, having him here in his holidays, and he is very fond of you, as he ought to be. I feel rather guilty about him, poor chap; he is ten years old and I have seen nothing of him for half that time, and now, goodness knows how or where we may meet again. Of course no money shall be spared on his education, and all that—but——” he paused.
“But I’ll tell you what you will do,” continued Mr. Pollitt. “I’ll put the whole matter in a nutshell. You are making a fresh start, you and the boy are almost strangers, so you won’t feel the wrench. Give him to me, I am fond of him, I have no family—he is a handsome, plucky little fellow, with poor Lucy’s eyes—I will ensure him a first-class education, bring him up as my son, and make him my heir, and leave him all I am worth; come now?”
“It is a splendid offer, Pollitt, but I am fond of him too. I cannot provide for him as you would, I can only set him out in the world with a profession, and make him a small allowance, for of course Mércèdes’ money will be settled on herself. If I resigned him to you, in years to come I might repent, I might want him back.”
“In years to come you will probably have half a dozen other sons, and be thankful to have one of them off your hands.”
After considerable discussion—Jervis, the father, a little reluctant; Pollitt, the uncle, exceedingly eager and pressing—the matter was concluded. Mark was to correspond with his parent as regularly as he pleased, but he was to be, to all intents and purposes, his uncle Daniel’s son.