“Uncle Dan,” broke in his nephew, “I don’t think you can ever realize what you have done for me. You have restored me—to life—to hope. That was the reason why I gave up Miss Gordon.”
“And she is staunch to you still,” nodding his head emphatically.
“How on earth do you know?”
“Oh, I know a good deal, considering that I have only been a fortnight in the country! Mark, my dear boy, I see that all this sudden news is too much for you.”
“Go on—go on,” cried the other, white with excitement; “such news is never too much for any one.”
“Well, you know, I came up by that maddening, twisting cart road—I began to think it had no ending, like eternity. You recollect the fountains, every few miles? At one of them, my fellows stopped to drink and smoke, and there was a lady watering her horse—a remarkably handsome girl, riding a fine black Arab. She had a white puppy on her knee. She looked so pleasant, that though, as you know, I’m a shy man, I ventured to speak to her, and asked her if the road led to any place, short of China? or if she had ever heard of Shirani? Yes, she lived there; and it was just four miles further. We fell into talk, we were going the same way—her horse would not stand the puppy at any price, but reared, and flung about like a mad thing. She sat him splendidly, I will say, and held on to the dog like grim death; she said he was tired—and the long and the short of it was, that I took the pup in the dandy, and of all the nasty fidgeting little brutes!—but that girl has such beautiful eyes—I could do anything for her. And I’d like to see the man that could resist her! I told her my name, and said I had come out after my nephew, and asked her if she had ever heard of him—his name was Jervis. She immediately became bright scarlet, I do assure you, and said ‘Yes.’ I ventured to inquire her name. She said it was Gordon; and when I replied, ‘I have heard of you,’ she grew, if possible, still redder. We became as thick as thieves in no time. I got out and walked beside her, actually carrying the pup—for he would not sit in the dandy alone—and she told me a lot about the hill folk, and the mountain peaks, and taught me a few words of Hindostani. I inquired about an hotel, and she declared that there was none, and I must come to her uncle’s; he and her aunt would be very glad to see me, for Mr. Jervis was a particular friend of theirs. And is he not a particular friend of yours too? I asked as pointedly as I knew how. And she looked me straight in the face, and said ‘Yes.’ I stayed with the Brandes, to make a long story short, and I was delighted with my visit. I now know what people mean when they talk of Indian hospitality and Indian friends. I believe I am getting quite attached to the country!”
“Then you had better remain out here, Uncle Dan, and live with me.”
“A case of Mahomet and the mountain, eh? No, no, my boy; I mean to fetch you home. I cannot spare you. At my age it is impossible to throw out new roots.”
“And about Miss Gordon?” urged his listener impatiently.
“Honor, you mean. She was charming. She may have wished to turn my poor silly old head, and she succeeded. She played the violin—that settled me. Yesterday morning, before I left, she and I were walking in the garden quite early, and she picked me a button-hole; and I said, ‘I’m off now to see my boy. Will you give me a flower for him, and have you any message?’ She made no answer for a full minute; so, to put her at ease, I said, ‘I know all about it, my dear. I was angry to think that he could leave me; but what was that to leaving you!’ ‘He did what was right,’ she said, firing up like a sky-rocket. When we had made peace again, she chose a flower with most particular care, and said with a face as red as the rose, ‘You may give him that, with my love.’ ‘Certainly,’ I said; ‘but the carriage must be prepaid.’ At first she did not understand.”