Who, when they slash and cut to pieces,
Do so with civilest addresses.
There is no power so subtle and so strong as that of association. We
have learnt to associate mustard with beef, and therefore mustard shall
be eaten with beef until the day when the lion shall lie down with the
lamb.
Miss Millicent Chyne became aware, as the year advanced towards the
sere and yellow leaf, that in opposing her wayward will in single
combat against a simple little association in the public mind she was
undertaking a somewhat herculean task.
Society--itself an association--is the slave of a word, and society had
acquired the habit of coupling the names of Sir John Meredith and
Lady Cantourne. They belonged to the same generation; they had similar
tastes; they were both of some considerable power in the world of
leisured pleasure; and, lastly, they amused each other. The result is
not far to seek. Wherever the one was invited, the other was considered
to be in demand; and Millicent found herself face to face with a huge
difficulty.
Sir John was distinctly in the way. He had a keener eye than the
majority of young men, and occasionally exercised the old man's
privilege of saying outright things which, despite theory, are better
left unsaid. Moreover, the situation was ill-defined, and an ill-defined
situation does not improve in the keeping. Sir John said sharp
things--too sharp even for Millicent--and, in addition to the original
grudge begotten of his quarrel with Jack and its result, the girl
nourished an ever-present feeling of resentment at a persistency in
misunderstanding her of which she shrewdly suspected the existence.
Perhaps the worst of it was that Sir John never said anything which
could be construed into direct disapproval. He merely indicated, in
passing, the possession of a keen eyesight coupled with the embarrassing
faculty of adding together correctly two small numerals.
When, therefore, Millicent allowed herself to be assisted from the
carriage at the door of a large midland country house by an eager and
lively little French baron of her acquaintance, she was disgusted
but not surprised to see a well-known figure leaning gracefully on a
billiard-cue in the hall.
“I wish I could think that this pleasure was mutual,” said Sir John with
his courtliest smile, as he bowed over Millicent's hand.
“It might be,” with a coquettish glance.
“If--?”
“If I were not afraid of you.”
Sir John turned, smiling, to greet Lady Cantourne. He did not appear to
have heard, but in reality the remark had made a distinct impression
on him. It signalised a new departure--the attack at a fresh quarter.
Millicent had tried most methods--and she possessed many--hitherto
in vain. She had attempted to coax him with a filial playfulness of
demeanour, to dazzle him by a brilliancy which had that effect upon the
majority of men in her train, to win him by respectful affection; but
the result had been failure. She was now bringing her last reserve up
to the front; and there are few things more dangerous, even to an old
campaigner, than a confession of fear from the lips of a pretty girl.
Sir John Meredith gave himself a little jerk--a throw back of the
shoulders which was habitual--which might have been a tribute either to
Millicent behind, or to Lady Cantourne in front.
The pleasantest part of existence in a large country house full of
visitors is the facility with which one may avoid those among the guests
for whom one has no sympathy. Millicent managed very well to avoid Sir
John Meredith. The baron was her slave--at least he said so--and she
easily kept him at her beck and call during the first evening.
It would seem that that strange hollow energy of old age had laid its
hand upon Sir John Meredith, for he was the first to appear in the
breakfast-room the next morning. He went straight to the sideboard where
the letters and newspapers lay in an orderly heap. It is a question
whether he had not come down early on purpose to look for a letter.
Perhaps he could not stay in his bed with the knowledge that the postman
had called. He was possibly afraid to ask his old servant to go down and
fetch his letters.
His bent and knotted hands fumbled among the correspondence, and
suddenly his twitching lips were still. A strange stillness indeed
overcame his whole face, turning it to stone. The letter was there; it
had come, but it was not addressed to him.
Sir John Meredith took up the missive; he looked at the back, turned
it, and examined the handwriting of his own son. There was a whole
volume--filled with pride, and love, and unquenchable resolve--written
on his face. He threw the letter down among its fellows, and his hand
went fumbling weakly at his lips. He gazed, blinking his lashless lids,
at the heap of letters, and the corner of another envelope presently
arrested his attention. It was of the same paper, of the same shape and
hue, as that addressed to Miss Chyne. Sir John drew a deep breath, and
reached out his hand. The letter had come at last. At last, thank God!
And how weakly ready he was to grasp at the olive branch held out to him
across a continent!
He took the letter; he made a step with it towards the door, seeking
solitude; then, as an afterthought, he looked at the superscription.
It was addressed to the same person, Miss Chyne, but in a different
handwriting--the handwriting of a man well educated but little used to
wielding the pen.
“The other,” mumbled Sir John. “The other man, by God!”
And, with a smile that sat singularly on his withered face, he took up
a newspaper and went towards the fireplace, where he sat stiffly in an
armchair, taking an enormous interest in the morning's news. He read a
single piece of news three times over, and a fourth time in a whisper,
so as to rivet his attention upon it. He would not admit that he was
worsted--would not humble his pride even before the ornaments on the
mantelpiece.
Before Millicent came down, looking very fresh and pretty in her tweed
dress, the butler had sorted the letters. There were only two upon her
plate--the twin envelopes addressed by different hands. Sir John was
talking with a certain laboured lightness to Lady Cantourne, when that
lady's niece came into the room. He was watching keenly. There was a
certain amount of interest in the question of those two envelopes, as
to which she would open first. She looked at each in turn, glanced
furtively towards Sir John, made a suitable reply to some remark
addressed to her by the baron, and tore open Jack's envelope. There was
a gravity--a concentrated gravity--about her lips as she unfolded
the thin paper; and Sir John, who knew the world and the little
all-important trifles thereof, gave an impatient sigh. It is the little
trifle that betrays the man, and not the larger issues of life in which
we usually follow precedent. It was that passing gravity (of the lips
only) that told Sir John more about Millicent Chyne than she herself
knew, and what he had learnt did not seem to be to his liking.
There is nothing so disquieting as the unknown motive, which disquietude
was Sir John's soon after breakfast. The other men dispersed to put on
gaiters and cartridge-bags, and the old aristocrat took his newspaper on
to the terrace.
Millicent followed him almost at once.
“Sir John,” she said, “I have had a letter from Africa.”
Did she take it for granted that he knew this already? Was this
spontaneous? Had Jack told her to do it?
These questions flashed through the old man's mind as his eyes rested on
her pretty face.
He was beginning to be afraid of this girl: which showed his wisdom. For
the maiden beautiful is a stronger power in the world than the strong
man. The proof of which is that she gets her own way more often than the
strong man gets his.
“From Africa?” repeated Sir John Meredith, with a twitching lip. “And
from whom is your letter, my dear young lady?”
His face was quite still, his old eyes steady, as he waited for the
answer.
“From Jack.”
Sir John winced inwardly. Outwardly he smiled and folded his newspaper
upon his knees.
“Ah, from my brilliant son. That is interesting.”
“Have you had one?” she asked, in prompt payment of his sarcasm.
Sir John Meredith looked up with a queer little smile. He admired the
girl's spirit. It was the smile of the fencer on touching worthy steel.
“No, my dear young lady, I have not. Mr. John Meredith does not find
time to write to me--but he draws his allowance from the bank with a
filial regularity.”
Millicent had the letter in her hand. She made it crinkle in her fingers
within a foot of the old gentleman's face. A faint odour of the scent
she used reached his nostrils. He drew back a little, as if he disliked
it. His feeling for her almost amounted to a repugnance.
“I thought you might like to hear that he is well,” she said gently. She
was reading the address on the envelope, and again he saw that look of
concentrated gravity which made him feel uneasy for reasons of his own.
“It is very kind of you to throw me even that crumb from your
richly-stored intellectual table. I am very glad to hear that he is
well. A whole long letter from him must be a treat indeed.”
She thought of a proverb relating to the grapes that are out of reach,
but said nothing.
It was the fashion that year to wear little flyaway jackets with a
coquettish pocket on each side. Millicent was wearing one of them, and
she now became aware that Sir John had glanced more than once with a
certain significance towards her left hand, which happened to be in that
pocket. It, moreover, happened that Guy Oscard's letter was in the same
receptacle.
She withdrew the hand and changed colour slightly as she became
conscious that the corner of the envelope was protruding.
“I suppose that by this time,” said Sir John pleasantly, “you are quite
an authority upon African matters?”
His manner was so extremely conversational and innocent that she did
not think it necessary to look for an inner meaning. She was relieved to
find that the two men, having actually met, spoke of each other frankly.
It was evident that Guy Oscard could be trusted to keep his promise, and
Jack Meredith was not the man to force or repose a confidence.
“He does not tell me much about Africa,” she replied, determined to hold
her ground. She was engaged to be married to Jack Meredith, and whether
Sir John chose to ignore the fact or not she did not mean to admit that
the subject should be tabooed.
“No--I suppose he has plenty to tell you about himself and his
prospects?”
“Yes, he has. His prospects are not so hopeless as you think.”
“My dear Miss Chyne,” protested Sir John, “I know nothing about his
prospects beyond the fact that, when I am removed from this sphere of
activity, he will come into possession of my title, such as it is, and
my means, such as they are.”
“Then you attach no importance to the work he is inaugurating in
Africa?”
“Not the least. I did not even know that he was endeavouring to work.
I only trust it is not manual labour--it is so injurious to the
finger-nails. I have no sympathy with a gentleman who imagines that
manual labour is compatible with his position, provided that he does
not put his hand to the plough in England. Is not there something in the
Scriptures about a man putting his hand to the plough and looking back?
If Jack undertakes any work of that description, I trust that he will
recognise the fact that he forfeits his position by doing so.”
“It is not manual labour--I can assure you of that.”
“I am glad to hear it. He probably sells printed cottons to the natives,
or exchanges wrought metal for ivory--an intellectual craft. But he
is gaining experience, and I suppose he thinks he is going to make a
fortune.”
It happened that this was precisely the thought expressed by Jack
Meredith in the letter in Millicent's hand.
“He is sanguine,” she admitted.
“Of course. Quite right. Pray do not discourage him--if you find time to
write. But between you and me, my dear Miss Chyne, fortunes are not made
in Africa. I am an old man, and I have some experience of the world.
That part of it which is called Africa is not the place where fortunes
are made. It is as different from India as chalk is from cheese, if you
will permit so vulgar a simile.”
Millicent's face dropped.
“But SOME people have made fortunes there.”
“Yes--in slaves! But that interesting commerce is at an end. However, so
long as my son does not suffer in health, I suppose we must be thankful
that he is creditably employed.”
He rose as he spoke.
“I see,” he went on, “your amiable friend the baron approaching with
lawn-tennis necessaries. It is wonderful that our neighbours never learn
to keep their enthusiasm for lawn-tennis in bounds until the afternoon.”
With that he left her, and the baron came to the conclusion, before very
long, that something had “contraried” the charming Miss Chyne. The truth
was that Millicent was bitterly disappointed. The idea of failure had
never entered her head since Jack's letters, full of life and energy,
had begun to arrive. Sir John Meredith was a man whose words commanded
respect--partly because he was an old man whose powers of perception had
as yet apparently retained their full force, and the vast experience of
life which was his could hardly be overrated. Man's prime is that period
when the widest experience and the keenest perception meet.
Millicent Chyne had lulled herself into a false security. She had
taken it for granted that Jack would succeed, and would return rich and
prosperous within a few months. Upon this pleasant certainty Sir John
had cast a doubt, and she could hardly treat his words with contempt.
She had almost forgotten Guy Oscard's letter. Across a hemisphere Jack
Meredith was a stronger influence in her life than Oscard.
While she sat on the terrace and flirted with the baron she reflected
hurriedly over the situation. She was, she argued to herself, not in any
way engaged to Guy Oscard. If he in an unguarded moment should dare to
mention such a possibility to Jack, it would be quite easy to contradict
the statement with convincing heat. But in her heart she was sure of Guy
Oscard. One of the worst traits in the character of an unfaithful woman
is the readiness with which she trades upon the faithfulness of men.