Where he fixed his heart he set his hand
To do the thing he willed.
“MY DEAR SIR JOHN,--It is useless my pretending to ignore your views
respecting Jack's marriage to Millicent; and I therefore take up my pen
with regret to inform you that the two young people have now decided to
make public their engagement. Moreover, I imagine it is their intention
to get married very soon. You and I have been friends through a longer
spell of years than many lives and most friendships extend, and at
the risk of being considered inconsequent I must pause to thank
you--well--to thank you for having been so true a friend to me all
through my life. If that life were given to me to begin again, I should
like to retrace the years back to a point when--little more than a
child--I yielded to influence and made a great mistake. I should like
to begin my life over again from there. When you first signified your
disapproval of Millicent as a wife for Jack, I confess I was a little
nettled; but on the strength of the friendship to which I have referred
I must ask you to believe that never from the moment that I learnt your
opinion have I by thought or action gone counter to it. This marriage
is none of my doing. Jack is too good for her--I see that now. You are
wiser than I--you always have been. If any word of mine can alleviate
your distress at this unwelcome event, let it be that I am certain that
Millicent has the right feeling for your boy; and from this knowledge
I cannot but gather great hopes. All may yet come to your satisfaction.
Millicent is young, and perhaps a little volatile, but Jack inherits
your strength of character; he may mould her to better things than
either you or I dream of. I hope sincerely that it may be so. If I
have appeared passive in this matter it is not because I have been
indifferent; but I know that my yea or nay could carry no weight.--Your
old friend,
“CAROLINE CANTOURNE.”
This letter reached Sir John Meredith while he was waiting for the
announcement that dinner was ready. The announcement arrived immediately
afterwards, but he did not go down to dinner until he had read the
letter. He fumbled for his newly-purchased eyeglasses, because Lady
Cantourne's handwriting was thin and spidery, as became a lady of
standing; also the gas was so d----d bad. He used this expression
somewhat freely, and usually put a “Sir” after it as his father had done
before him.
His eyes grew rather fierce as he read; then they suddenly softened,
and he threw back his shoulders as he had done a thousand times on the
threshold of Lady Cantourne's drawing-room. He read the whole letter
very carefully and gravely, as if all that the writer had to say was
worthy of his most respectful attention. Then he folded the paper and
placed it in the breast-pocket of his coat. He looked a little bowed and
strangely old, as he stood for a moment on the hearthrug thinking. It
was his practice to stand thus on the hearthrug from the time that he
entered the drawing-room, dressed, until the announcement of dinner; and
the cook far below in the basement was conscious of the attitude of the
master as the pointer of the clock approached the hour.
Of late Sir John had felt a singular desire to sit down whenever
opportunity should offer; but he had always been found standing on the
hearthrug by the butler, and, hard old aristocrat that he was, he would
not yield to the somewhat angular blandishments of the stiff-backed
chair.
He stood for a few moments with his back to the smouldering fire, and,
being quite alone, he perhaps forgot to stiffen his neck; for his head
drooped, his lips were unsteady. He was a very old man.
A few minutes later, when he strode into the dining-room where butler
and footman awaited him, he was erect, imperturbable, impenetrable.
At dinner it was evident that his keen brain was hard at work. He forgot
one or two of the formalities which were religiously observed at that
solitary table. He hastened over his wine, and then he went to the
library. There he wrote a telegram, slowly, in his firm ornamental
handwriting.
It was addressed to “Gordon, Loango,” and the gist of it was--“Wire
whereabouts of Oscard--when he may be expected home.”
The footman was despatched in a hansom cab, with instructions to take
the telegram to the head office of the Submarine Telegraph Company, and
there to arrange prepayment of the reply.
“I rather expect Mr. Meredith,” said Sir John to the butler, who was
trimming the library lamp while the footman received his instructions.
“Do not bring coffee until he comes.”
And Sir John was right. At half-past eight Jack arrived. Sir John was
awaiting him in the library, grimly sitting in his high-backed chair, as
carefully dressed as for a great reception.
He rose when his son entered the room, and they shook hands. There was a
certain air of concentration about both, as if they each intended to say
more than they had ever said before. The coffee was duly brought. This
was a revival of an old custom. In bygone days Jack had frequently come
in thus, and they had taken coffee before going together in Sir John's
carriage to one of the great social functions at which their presence
was almost a necessity. Jack had always poured out the coffee--to-night
he did not offer to do so.
“I came,” he said suddenly, “to give you a piece of news which I am
afraid will not be very welcome.”
Sir John bowed his head gravely.
“You need not temper it,” he said, “to me.”
“Millicent and I have decided to make our engagement known,” retorted
Jack at once.
Sir John bowed again. To any one but his son his suave acquiescence
would have been maddening.
“I should have liked,” continued Jack, “to have done it with your
consent.”
Sir John winced. He sat upright in his chair and threw back his
shoulders. If Jack intended to continue in this way, there would be
difficulties to face. Father and son were equally determined. Jack had
proved too cunning a pupil. The old aristocrat's own lessons were being
turned against him, and the younger man has, as it were, the light of
the future shining upon his game in such a case as this, while the elder
plays in the gathering gloom.
“You know,” said Sir John gravely, “that I am not much given to altering
my opinions. I do not say that they are of any value; but, such as they
are, I usually hold to them. When you did me the honour of mentioning
this matter to me last year, I gave you my opinion.”
“And it has in no way altered?”
“In no way. I have found no reason to alter it.”
“Can you modify it?” asked Jack gently.
“No.”
“Not in any degree?”
Jack drew a deep breath.
“No.”
He emitted the breath slowly, making an effort so that it did not take
the form of a sigh.
“Will you, at all events, give me your reasons?” he asked. “I am not a
child.”
Sir John fumbled at his lips--he glanced sharply at his son.
“I think,” he said, “that it would be advisable not to ask them.”
“I should like to know why you object to my marrying Millicent,”
persisted Jack.
“Simply because I know a bad woman when I see her,” retorted Sir John
deliberately.
Jack raised his eyebrows. He glanced towards the door, as if
contemplating leaving the room without further ado. But he sat quite
still. It was wonderful how little it hurt him. It was more--it was
significant. Sir John, who was watching, saw the glance and guessed
the meaning of it. An iron self-control had been the first thing he had
taught Jack--years before, when he was in his first knickerbockers. The
lesson had not been forgotten.
“I am sorry you have said that,” said the son.
“Just,” continued the father, “as I know a good one.”
He paused, and they were both thinking of the same woman--Jocelyn
Gordon.
Sir John had said his say about Millicent Chyne; and his son knew that
that was the last word. She was a bad woman. From that point he would
never move.
“I think,” said Jack, “that it is useless discussing that point any
longer.”
“Quite. When do you intend getting married?”
“As soon as possible.”
“A mere question for the dressmaker?” suggested Sir John suavely.
“Yes.”
Sir John nodded gravely.
“Well,” he said, “you are, as you say, no longer a child--perhaps I
forget that sometimes. If I do, I must ask you to forgive me. I will not
attempt to dissuade you. You probably know your own affairs best--”
He paused, drawing his two hands slowly back on his knees, looking into
the fire as if his life was written there.
“At all events,” he continued, “it has the initial recommendation of a
good motive. I imagine it is what is called a love-match. I don't know
much about such matters. Your mother, my lamented wife, was an excellent
woman--too excellent, I take it, to be able to inspire the feeling in a
mere human being--perhaps the angels... she never inspired it in me, at
all events. My own life has not been quite a success within this room;
outside it has been brilliant, active, full of excitement. Engineers
know of machines which will stay upright so long as the pace is kept up;
some of us are like that. I am not complaining. I have had no worse a
time than my neighbours, except that it has lasted longer.”
He leant back suddenly in his chair with a strange little laugh.
Jack was leaning forward, listening with that respect which he always
accorded to his father.
“I imagine,” went on Sir John, “that the novelists and poets are
not very far wrong. It seems that there is such a thing as a humdrum
happiness in marriage. I have seen quite elderly people who seem still
to take pleasure in each other's society. With the example of my own
life before me, I wanted yours to be different. My motive was not
entirely bad. But perhaps you know your own affairs best. What money
have you?”
Jack moved uneasily in his chair.
“I have completed the sale of the last consignment of Simiacine,” he
began categorically. “The demand for it has increased. We have now sold
two hundred thousand pounds worth in England and America. My share is
about sixty thousand pounds. I have invested most of that sum, and my
present income is a little over two thousand a year.”
Sir John nodded gravely.
“I congratulate you,” he said; “you have done wonderfully well. It is
satisfactory in one way, in that it shows that, if a gentleman
chooses to go into these commercial affairs, he can do as well as the
bourgeoisie. It leads one to believe that English gentlemen are not
degenerating so rapidly as I am told the evening Radical newspapers
demonstrate for the trifling consideration of one halfpenny. But”--he
paused with an expressive gesture of the hand--“I should have preferred
that this interesting truth had been proved by the son of some one
else.”
“I think,” replied Jack, “that our speculation hardly comes under the
category of commerce. It was not money that was at risk, but our own
lives.”
Sir John's eyes hardened.
“Adventure,” he suggested rather indistinctly, “travel and adventure.
There is a class of men one meets frequently who do a little exploring
and a great deal of talking. Faute de mieux, they do not hesitate to
interest one in the special pill to which they resort when indisposed,
and they are not above advertising a soap. You are not going to write a
book, I trust?”
“No. It would hardly serve our purpose to write a book.”
“In what way?” inquired Sir John.
“Our purpose is to conceal the whereabouts of the Simiacine Plateau.”
“But you are not going back there?” exclaimed Sir John unguardedly.
“We certainly do not intend to abandon it.”
Sir John leant forward again with his two hands open on his knees,
thinking deeply.
“A married man,” he said, “could hardly reconcile it with his conscience
to undertake such a perilous expedition.”
“No,” replied Jack, with quiet significance.
Sir John gave a forced laugh.
“I see,” he said, “that you have outwitted me. If I do not give my
consent to your marriage without further delay, you will go back to
Africa.”
Jack bowed his head gravely.
There was a long silence, while the two men sat side by side, gazing
into the fire.
“I cannot afford to do that,” said the father at length; “I am getting
too old to indulge in the luxury of pride. I will attend your marriage.
I will smile and say pretty things to the bridesmaids. Before the world
I will consent under the condition that the ceremony does not take place
before two months from this date.”
“I agree to that,” put in Jack.
Sir John rose and stood on the hearthrug, looking down from his great
height upon his son.
“But,” he continued, “between us let it be understood that I move in no
degree from my original position. I object to Millicent Chyne as your
wife. But I bow to the force of circumstances. I admit that you have a
perfect right to marry whom you choose--in two months time.”
So Jack took his leave.
“In two months' time,” repeated Sir John, when he was alone, with one of
his twisted, cynic smiles, “in two months time--qui vivra verra.”