It was raining steadily, and the atmosphere had that singular feeling of total relaxation and limpness which is only to be felt in the rain-ridden districts of Central Africa.
"Take care of yourself," said Oscard gruffly as Jack stepped into the canoe.
"All right."
"And bring back Durnovo with you."
Jack Meredith looked up with a vague smile.
"That man," he said lightly, "is going to the Plateau if I have to drag him there by the scruff of the neck."
And he believed that he was thinking of the expedition only.
CHAPTER XVI. WAR
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 a.s.sociation. We have learnt to a.s.sociate 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 a.s.sociation in the public mind she was undertaking a somewhat herculean task.
Society--itself an a.s.sociation--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 pa.s.sing, the possession of a keen eyesight coupled with the embarra.s.sing faculty of adding together correctly two small numerals.
When, therefore, Millicent allowed herself to be a.s.sisted 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 G.o.d!
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 G.o.d!"
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 pa.s.sing 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."