Mr. Jervis, Vol. 3 (of 3)

WHAT PEOPLE SAID--ESPECIALLY WHAT TWO PEOPLE SAID.

When Mark Jervis came all eagerness to claim his supper dance from Miss Gordon, he saw at once that something was wrong. The merry smile--her greatest charm--he sought in vain upon her face; her expression was grave, almost stern. She was actually looking at him as if he was an absolute stranger. She knew!

He glanced quickly at her partner, and the mystery was instantly solved. Yes, he recollected the man’s goggling blue eyes. Where had he seen him? Where? The cordial accost--

“Hallo, Jervis! Came out with you in the Victoria!” promptly dispelled his last hope.

“Yes, so you did,” nodding. “Glad to see you here to-night. I suppose you have been globe-trotting, like the rest of us!”

“_You_ have not done much trotting, by all accounts, of late.”

“No, not much,” rather shortly. Then, to Honor, “This is our waltz.”

She gazed at him for an instant in haughty silence, then she answered--

“Yes; but I don’t think I shall dance, thank you.”

“Oh do,” he urged, as the stranger moved off. “Let us have just one dance. After the dance--the deluge! I see you know. We can have that out later on--but don’t let us miss this.”

The young lady was passionately fond of dancing, the floor, the inspiriting waltz, a first-rate partner, proved too tempting--“Yes,” she said to herself, “just one last waltz, and then--the deluge.” Not one word did she utter when they halted for a few seconds. She kept her face purposely averted, and appeared to find an absorbing interest in other people. When they once more launched into the vortex, it appeared to him that she did not dance with her usual buoyancy and light-heartedness. She was as stiff and as rigid as a china doll--apparently she shrank from the support of a millionaire’s arm--his embrace was contamination. At last the waltz was over, every one was streaming out, and they naturally followed the crowd. They passed Mrs. Brande, concealing (she fondly believed) enormous yawns behind a black transparent fan; they passed Mrs. Langrishe, issuing bulletins of Sir Gloster’s condition to several interested matrons. They went through the verandah side by side, down the steps, and were brought up at last by the rustic railing overlooking the gardens and tennis-court. It was a warm moonlight night, bright as day, and breathlessly still. Dozens of other couples were strolling, standing, or sitting about in the open air, even the chaperons had come forth (a new and in some instances fatal departure) to taste the sweets of a June night in the Himalayas.

Before their eyes rose the long range of snows--India’s white crown; beneath them lay the gardens--a jungle of dew-steeped roses, tall lilies, and great shrubs of heliotrope. Balsac declares that perfume reminds more vividly than words; be that as it may, the slightest perfume of heliotrope invariably recalled that scene and hour to Honor Gordon’s memory.

“So I see that it has all come out!” began Jervis, intrepidly, on the principle that the first blow is half the battle, “and that you know.”

“Yes”--turning slowly to face him--“and no thanks to you, Mr. Jervis.”

“Of course you are awfully angry with me. Nearly” (oh, most unfortunate speech!) “as angry as you were with that imp the day you tore up her picture.”

“I am not exactly angry,” she replied with tremulous dignity. “Why should I be angry? I am merely enlightened. I know who is who now. I dare say you found the little game of deceiving every one most entertaining. You seem to have quite a genius for playing a double part.”

“You are awfully rough on me,” he interrupted. “But I suppose I deserve it.”

“Now I have but one character, such as it is, so I cannot reciprocate your surprise. I am merely what you have always seen--a country-bred girl, without fortune, or prospect of one, with a taste for playing the violin, and for speaking out my mind at any cost.”

(Yes, there never was any one less at pains to be on the safe side than this young woman.)

“You are disgusted to find that I am not a poor relation,” he ventured to remark.

“I am. You remember that on this very spot”--touching the railings with her fan--“two months ago, Colonel Sladen, with his usual delicate taste, joked pleasantly about the millionaire, your cousin. You laughed immoderately then. Yes, I remember, you actually shook the railings! And”--with increasing wrath--“you are smiling now. Of course it must be capital fun to take people in so successfully! to be able to laugh openly--as well as in your sleeve.”

“Will you permit me to remind you of one small fact? Do you remember that you turned to me and said, that if I were rich you would never speak to me again? You were offering a premium on poverty.”

“And I repeat that speech here,” she said, once more turning to face him. “Now that I find you are rich”--she caught her breath--“I will never speak to you again.”

“Oh, come, I say, Miss Gordon, you can’t mean that,” he expostulated. “At least you will give me a hearing. Be angry--but be just.”

She made no reply, but began to strip little bits of bark from the rustic railing, to the utter destruction of her gloves.

“Admitted that I am the millionaire, that is merely to accept the nickname; for it is not I, but my uncle, who is wealthy. He made a fortune in trade, you know--Pollitt’s pearl barley--and I am his adopted son. He has brought me up ever since I was ten years old, and has been awfully good to me.”

Here she made an impatient movement, as much as to say, What was Mr. Pollitt’s goodness to her?

He hurried on faster.

“I wanted to see something of the world. I was deadly sick of the routine of English life--hunting, balls, regattas, theatres; and I got my uncle’s consent, with great difficulty, to spend a year in India. I was despatched with a valet, a cargo of kit, and the reputation of millions, with Waring as my guide, companion, and adviser. He is not related to me.”

Honor looked at him with a half ironic smile, as much as to say, “Of course not! I should be surprised if he were.”

“He is Mrs. Pollitt’s brother; and she got him the berth, such as it was,” pursued the young man doggedly.

“Little dreaming how luxurious it would become,” added the young lady sarcastically.

“No, that was quite unpremeditated. When I first landed, I found that I had achieved a celebrity far beyond my wishes. I was supposed to be a Rothschild. I was bothered to death with touts and hawkers and all that sort of thing”--with a constrained laugh. “I saw that I’d have no peace till I got rid of all my extra luggage and the man. The combination branded me as ‘valuable.’ Waring had been in the country before, he knew the language and customs, so I made over my account at the bank into his name. He became paymaster, and we held our tongues--that was all. Waring looks rich, and has a genius for spending and making a splash. Now I have not. My tastes are inexpensive, and I have always told my uncle that nature intended me for a poor man.”

Miss Gordon picked off another piece of bark with elaborate care, and then threw it away with an air of profound disgust.

“Our arrangement worked splendidly, as long as we were merely shooting and moving about; but when we came up here and began to know people, I saw that things were getting rather mixed--that it would not do, that we were carrying the idea too far. I spoke to Waring, and suggested taking the public into our confidence. He treated the matter as a joke, and asked if he should announce it in the Pioneer? I said, I thought that if he told it to one or two people as a dead secret, that it would be amply sufficient. But he would not hear of this, either in jest or earnest. He had, he acknowledged, played first fiddle too long to wish to change parts. He was most urgent that I should leave what he considered ‘well’ alone, and worked himself up into such a frightful state of mind--he put the whole thing so--so--so strongly--that I was obliged to leave matters in statu quo.”

“Obliged!” echoed his fair listener, in a cool, incredulous tone.

“Yes, forced to do so.” (He could not tell her of the reason which had been Waring’s sole alternative.) “He said we had only a short time to put in, that it would make him look such an awful fool, that he had taken the reins to please me, and now I must sit tight to oblige him. In fact--to tell you a secret--that he would be in dreadful financial difficulties. All he wanted was time. If his creditors believed him to be a poor man, they would be down on him like a flock of kites. Two or three months would set him straight. So I yielded. But I made one stipulation; I said I must tell the truth to one person.”

“And that highly honoured person?” she asked, with arched brows.

“Was yourself.”

“Oh, monsieur, c’en est trop!” And she made him a deep inclination.