“And there is not a road in India wide enough for Aunt Ida. Well, Mark, I am sorry you are so headstrong. You were always a bit hard in the mouth, though you never kicked over the traces. You’ve been a brick, I must say. What time are you off to-morrow?”
“About seven o’clock.”
“Then I think I’ll say good night. You look pretty fagged, and you had better turn in. This”—nodding—“is not good-bye; I’ll make a point of seeing you in the morning.”
Nevertheless Mark stood erect, and held out his hand in silence.
How pale he looked; how worn and haggard he had become! Clarence intuitively felt that this was their last interview; something indefinable assured him that they would never again stand face to face.
He was conscious of an extraordinary mixture of regret and relief. Jervis had represented a sort of conscience. His example, his disagreeably rigorous standard of honour, his steady eyes, had shamed him from doing many things that he ought not to have done. Mark was a young saint, a hero; yes, Miss Valpy was right, he had the face of one. It was the act of a hero to renounce the world, wealth, and love—occasionally synonymous with the flesh and the devil—and devote his life to a crazy old man. He was a cool, reliable comrade, ready with tongue, arm, or rifle. It was true that he had been the means of pulling him out of several nasty scrapes, and this cheque for five hundred pounds, now in his waistcoat pocket, would pull him out of the worst scrape of all!
He waited until he saw Mark go into his room and close the door, and then he slipped back to the club to play “snookers” and black pool. He was not home until three o’clock in the morning; and when he awoke about noon, and shouted for his bearer and his tea, he was informed that the “chotah sahib,” as the servants called Jervis, “had been gone many hours.”
CHAPTER XXXVI.
“GOOD-BYE FOR EVER! GOOD-BYE, GOOD-BYE!”
It was about eight o’clock in the morning, and Mrs. Brande, as she put the last touches to her toilet, was certain that she heard a man’s (a gentleman’s) voice in the verandah. Pelham was from home; who could it be at such an hour? Some one come for “Chotah Hazree.” Well, Honor would look after him! Ten minutes later she came out, flourishing in her hand a freshly unfolded handkerchief, and gave quite a little gasp of pleasure as she recognized Mark Jervis. He was leaning against the stone pillar of the verandah talking earnestly to her niece, and his pony was waiting at the steps.
“Why, I do declare, this is a pleasure,” she cried; “a sight for sore eyes! Where have you been hiding yourself this ten days?”