“There is not the smallest probability of that. Besides, my father does not want me.”
“And supposing that he did!” exclaimed Mr. Pollitt, suddenly jumping up and beginning to walk about the room. “Bear this in view, that you must make up your mind between us! You cannot be son and heir to two men! You can pay him a visit of a week, or at most a month; but if you postpone coming home at his request—I warn you, that you may stay in India till I fetch you! To put the matter in a nutshell, I wash my hands of you for ever! Not one farthing of my money will you see,” he continued, speaking in great excitement. “I shall leave every shilling to hospitals, you understand that, eh?” he gasped, breathless.
“Yes, and it would be but just. I cannot live with my father in India and be your adopted son at home, but you are needlessly alarmed. I shall turn up again within a year without fail. I’ll take a return ticket if you like.”
“Well, that’s a bargain, my boy. I’m a bit jealous of your father, and it’s a nasty, low, ungentlemanly feeling. I must confess that I have been glad that he, so to speak, dropped you. But he handed you over to me when he married the Begum, and you are my son—not his.”
The day of departure arrived; the valet (a somewhat garrulous person, with superb references), in charge of three cabs loaded with baggage, preceded the travellers to Victoria, whilst Mr. and Mrs. Pollitt drove the young men in the family landau, in order to see the last of them.
As Mark and his uncle slowly paced the platform, the latter, who had been incessantly fussy all the morning, said—
“Now, I hope nothing has been forgotten, and that you have everything you want?”
“I’m sure we have—and ten times over.”
“You will write often—once a week—if only a line, eh? Mind you don’t forget us.”
“No fear of that, Uncle Dan.”