“Ah, there is something more than your uncle,” with a swift expressive glance; and he rose and put his hands heavily on his son’s shoulders. “I know,” gazing straight into his eyes with a mad keenness in his look, “there is, of course, a woman in the case?”
“There is,” admitted Mark, holding himself erect. “An hour before I got your letter, I had asked a girl to be my wife.”
“And you need not tell me her answer—yes, of course; young, rich, handsome! The world is full of women—over-run with them. A man can have fifty sweethearts, but he has only one father!”
“There is only one sweetheart in the world for me,” returned his son proudly.
Major Jervis drew himself up with an air of formidable dignity, and deliberately surveyed the speaker in sarcastic silence. Suddenly his expression changed, and became charged with fury; he made a frantic gesture, as if he would sweep both son and his sweetheart off the face of the earth. Then he tore back a purdah, beyond which he instantly disappeared—leaving it quivering behind him.
After waiting for a quarter of an hour, Mark went up to his own room, which he began to pace from end to end. Presently he turned down the lamp, flung open the window, looked out, and drew a long, long breath. His temples throbbed like engines in his burning head, every fibre of his being, every shred of his understanding, was now engaged in an inner soul-struggle.
On one side was arrayed Honor Gordon, his good-hearted, indulgent uncle, to whom he was sincerely attached—friends, wealth, the life to which he was accustomed—a life of ease and sunshine. On the other hand, there was this!—and he gravely surveyed the dim, weird landscape, the starlit sky, stretching to the mysterious horizon, and shuddered—his afflicted, forlorn father, who would not be removed, and who could not be abandoned.
His father, who had cared for him in his childhood. Yes! it was his turn now; and would he be behind Osman, the Mahomedan, who had done from love, what he should do from duty?
“But his father might live years! Was he a brute to wish him dead? Did he wish his father dead?” he asked himself fiercely, and shuddered again. What was he coming to? Had two days in the jungle turned him into a beast?
If he accepted what was plainly his duty, his uncle would cast him off, and he must renounce Honor Gordon! Was this a home to bring her to? common sense grimly demanded. And he would now be penniless indeed! He was tortured with heart-wearing doubts and temptations, as duty or inclination gained the upper hand. Two nights ago he could not sleep for happiness; now, he could not rest for misery! He resolved to walk down this raging fever, to quell this mental turmoil, by sheer bodily fatigue. He made his way through the silent house, where he found all the doors open, and nearly fell over a goat and two kids who were dozing in the hall, otherwise the lower regions were untenanted.