"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 pa.s.sive 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 eyegla.s.ses, 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 bas.e.m.e.nt was conscious of the att.i.tude 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 tr.i.m.m.i.n.g 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."