“There’s nothing like beginning with a little aversion, so people say,” remarked Mr. Brande.
“Diversion! There won’t be much for him here, poor boy, with his lame arm. Do you remember, long, long ago, a Major Jervis of the Bengal Cavalry—a splendid-looking man, especially in full dress and his turban; a widower—he married again? This boy has a great resemblance to him. I wonder if he is any relation.”
“Merely his father—I asked him the first time I saw him! Jervis was A1 at rackets. I knew him rather well. He married a second time, a woman with tons of money in indigo and house property. The grand-daughter of a Begum, she had a pair of eyes like hot coals, and led him a life to correspond.”
“And what has become of him?”
“The boy is rather reserved, as you know, so I did not like to ask him, but as I have not heard of him for a good many years, I conclude that he is dead; indeed, I am nearly certain of it.”
“And the Begum’s lacs have not done much for the son? I hope you will get him to come here; take no refusal—it must be miserable work moping alone. All the same, I shall be huffed with him if he comes for you, after saying no to me.”
“Sara, you are a truly consistent woman!”
“And you are a truly fearful object to behold, with your face all over white; no wonder Ben is staring at you. There is the post peon—it must be late.”
Mr. Brande’s invitation proved irresistible, and the very next day saw Mark Jervis duly installed at Rookwood. The move occasioned no comment—his wrist was broken and he wanted looking after: the Brandes’ bungalow had ever been a sort of auxiliary station hospital. The young invalid soon made himself at home, and was certainly no trouble to any one, as his hostess frankly informed him. He was interested in the fowls and pigeons; he seemed knowing about ponies; he looked on admiringly whilst Honor filled the flower-glasses, and gave his candid opinion and advice; he played Halma with Mrs. Brande, and Patience with Honor—and acted as umpire at tennis.
“Here is quite a pack of letters,” said Mrs. Brande, coming into the verandah one morning, and critically examining them as she spoke. “One for you, Honor, one for me, and two for Mr. Jervis—‘300, Prince’s Gate,’ on the envelope”—handing it to him. “Is that the new style?”