With Edged Tools Part 65

"But Millicent was never engaged to Guy Oscard."

"Did she tell you so?" asked Sir John, with a queer smile.

"Yes."

"And you believed her?"

"Of course--and you?"

Sir John smiled his courtliest smile.

"I always believe a lady," he answered, "before her face. Mr. Guy Oscard gave it out in Africa that he was engaged to be married, and he even declared that he was returning home to be married. Jack did the same in every respect. Unfortunately there was only one fond heart waiting for the couple of them at home. That is why I thought it expedient to give the young people an opportunity of settling it between themselves."

The smile left his worn old face. He moved uneasily and walked to the fireplace, where he stood with his unsteady hands moving idly, almost nervously, among the ornaments on the mantelpiece. He committed the rare discourtesy of almost turning his back upon a lady.

"I must ask you to believe," he said, looking anywhere but at her, "that I did not forget you in the matter. I may seem to have acted with an utter disregard for your feelings--"

He broke off suddenly, and, turning, he stood on the hearthrug with his feet apart, his hands clasped behind his back, his head slightly bowed.

"I drew on the reserve of an old friends.h.i.+p," he said. "You were kind enough to say the other day that you were indebted to me to some extent.

You are indebted to me to a larger extent than you perhaps realise. You owe me fifty years of happiness--fifty years of a life that might have been happy had you decided differently when--when we were younger. I do not blame you now--I never have blamed you. But the debt is there--you know my life, you know almost every day of it--you cannot deny the debt.

I drew upon that."

And the white-haired woman raised her hand.

"Don't," she said gently, "please don't say any more. I know all that your life has been, and why. You did quite right. What is a little trouble to me, a little pa.s.sing inconvenience, the tattle of a few idle tongues, compared with what Jack's life is to you? I see now that I ought to have opposed it strongly instead of letting it take its course.

You were right--you always have been right, John. There is a sort of consolation in the thought. I like it. I like to think that you were always right and that it was I who was wrong. It confirms my respect for you. We shall get over this somehow."

"The young lady," suggested Sir John, "will get over it after the manner of her kind. She will marry some one else, let us hope, before her wedding-dress goes out of fas.h.i.+on."

"Millicent will have to get over it as she may. Her feelings need scarcely be taken into consideration."

Lady Cantourne made a little movement towards the door. There was much to see to--much of that women's work which makes weddings the wild, confused ceremonies that they are.

"I am afraid," said Sir John, "that I never thought of taking them into consideration. As you know, I hardly considered yours. I hope I have not overdrawn that reserve."

He had crossed the room as he spoke to open the door for her. His fingers were on the handle, but he did not turn it, awaiting her answer.

She did not look at him, but past him towards the shaded lamp with that desire to fix her attention upon some inanimate object which he knew of old.

"The reserve," she answered, "will stand more than that. It has acc.u.mulated--with compound interest. But I deny the debt of which you spoke just now. There is no debt. I have paid it, year by year, day by day. For each one of those fifty years of unhappiness I have paid a year--of regret."

He opened the door and she pa.s.sed out into the brilliantly lighted pa.s.sage and down the stairs, where the servants were waiting to open the door and help her to her carriage.

Sir John did not go downstairs with her.

Later on he dined in his usual solitary grandeur. He was as carefully dressed as ever. The discipline of his household--like the discipline under which he held himself--was unrelaxed.

"What wine is this?" he asked when he had tasted the port.

"Yellow seal, sir," replied the butler confidentially.

Sir John sipped again.

"It is a new bin," he said.

"Yes, sir. First bottle of the lower bin, sir."

Sir John nodded with an air of self-satisfaction. He was pleased to have proved to himself and to the "d.a.m.ned butler," who had caught him napping in the library, that he was still a young man in himself, with senses and taste unimpaired. But his hand was at the small of his back as he returned to the library.

He was not at all sure about Jack--did not know whether to expect him or not. Jack did not always do what one might have expected him to do under given circ.u.mstances. And Sir John rather liked him for it. Perhaps it was that small taint of heredity which is in blood, and makes it thicker than water.

"Nothing like blood, sir," he was in the habit of saying, "in horses, dogs, and men." And thereafter he usually threw back his shoulders.

The good blood that ran in his veins was astir to-night. The incidents of the day had aroused him from the peacefulness that lies under a weight of years (we have to lift the years one by one and lay them aside before we find it), and Sir John Meredith would have sat very upright in his chair were it not for that carping pain in his back.

He waited for an hour with his eyes almost continually on the clock, but Jack never came. Then he rang the bell.

"Coffee," he said. "I like punctuality, if you please."

"Thought Mr. Meredith might be expected, sir," murmured the butler humbly.

Sir John was reading the evening paper, or appearing to read it, although he had not his gla.s.ses.

"Oblige me by refraining from thought," he said urbanely.

So the coffee was brought, and Sir John consumed it in silent majesty.

While he was pouring out his second cup--of a diminutive size--the bell rang. He set down the silver coffee-pot with a clatter, as if his nerves were not quite so good as they used to be. It was not Jack, but a note from him.

"MY DEAR FATHER,--Circ.u.mstances have necessitated the breaking off of my engagement at the last moment. To-morrow's ceremony will not take place.

As the above-named circ.u.mstances were partly under your control, I need hardly offer an explanation. I leave town and probably England to-night.--I am, your affectionate son,

"JOHN MEREDITH."

There were no signs of haste or discomposure. The letter was neatly written in the somewhat large calligraphy, firm, bold, ornate, which Sir John had insisted on Jack's learning. The stationery bore a club crest.

It was an eminently gentlemanly communication. Sir John read it and gravely tore it up, throwing it into the fire, where he watched it burn.

Nothing was farther from his mind than sentiment. He was not much given to sentiment, this hard-hearted old sire of an ancient stock. He never thought of the apocryphal day when he, being laid in his grave, should at last win the grat.i.tude of his son.

"When I am dead and gone you may be sorry for it" were not the words that any man should hear from his lips.

More than once during their lives Lady Cantourne had said:

"You never change your mind, John," referring to one thing or another.

And he had invariably answered:

"No, I am not the sort of man to change."

He had always known his own mind. When he had been in a position to rule he had done so with a rod of iron. His purpose had ever been inflexible.