THE SON AND THE HEIR. “I never expected to see you again,” cried Fernandez, as with a napkin over his arm, and a lamp held above his round black head, he surveyed Jervis, who was stiffly dismounting from his pony. “Why not?” inquired the traveller, as he came up the steps. “_Every_ why not, my dear fellow. If I had been in your shoes, you’d never have seen _me_ again. I’d have taken my _jawab_. You are a young man in a thousand.” And he patted him affectionately on the shoulder. “Not at all”--following him into the dining-room, where the remains of an excellent repast was on the table--“I’m simply a young man of my word.” Fernandez may have belied himself, but the chances were that his own estimate of his character was correct. There is much in heredity! He came of an easy-going, voluptuous, volatile stock, as his soft fat face, loose mouth, and merry but unsteady eye indicated. His companion was descended from another and stronger nation; his character was cast in a sterner mould; he was the scion of a race of soldiers, who had fought, suffered, and died for a cause. Jervis’s square jaw, resolute glance, and firmly-cut thin lips, told a tale of where the flesh had warred against the spirit, and had _not_ prevailed. “How is my father?” he asked, ere he seated himself. “Perfectly well--that is, his mind. He has been looking for you all day with the spy-glass. He was tired and went to bed early. He said he knew you would be here by morning. If you _had_ deserted him, I don’t know how it would have been”--touching his forehead significantly. Fernandez gesticulated incessantly with a pair of small, plump, delicately shaped hands, on which flashed rings of great value, and of which he was equally proud. He played the part of host to the son of the house, anxiously pressed him to eat dainties, and drink champagne, and was exceedingly loquacious and confidential. The pale and worn-looking traveller ate but little, and supported his share of conversation by monosyllables, whilst Mr. Cardozo discoursed volubly of his late cousin, and threw a somewhat lurid light upon her married life. “Oh yes, Mércèdes was very generous and hospitable, and not bad looking--no, when she did not disfigure herself with a mask of pearl powder; but she was frightfully extravagant, as intriguing as her grandmother, and as jealous as”--immediate words failed him for a simile, and after a considerable pause, he added--“the devil. No, the poor major had his own troubles. He might not speak to another woman; he was handsome and popular, and had a taking manner; he could not help that. But she made some awful scenes.” “Did she?” returned Jervis, with the provoking indifference of a young man to whom domestic “scenes” are merely a figure of speech.