Is this reason? Is this humanity? Alas! it is man.
The next morning Jack Meredith was awakened by his servant Joseph before it was fully light. It would appear as if Joseph had taken no means of awakening him, for Meredith awoke quite quietly to find Joseph standing by his bed.
“Holloa!” exclaimed the master, fully awake at once, as townsmen are.
Joseph stood at attention by the bedside.
“Woke you before yer time, sir,” he said. “There's something wrong among these 'ere darkie fellers, sir.”
“Wrong! what do you mean?”
Meredith was already lacing his shoes.
“Not rebellion?” he said curtly, looking towards his firearms.
“No, sir, not that. It's some mortual sickness. I don't know what it is. I've been up half the night with them. It's spreading, too.”
“Sickness! what does it seem like? Just give me that jacket. Not that sleeping sickness?”
“No, sir. It's not that. Missis Marie was telling me about that—awful scourge that, sir. No, the poor chaps are wide-awake enough. Groanin', and off their heads too, mostly.”
“Have you called Mr. Oscard?”
“No, sir.”
“Call him and Mr. Durnovo.”
“Met Mr. Durnovo, sir, goin' out as I came in.”
In a few moments Jack joined Durnovo and Oscard, who were talking together on the terrace in front of the house. Guy Oscard was still in his pyjamas, which he had tucked into top-boots. He also wore a sun-helmet, which added a finish to his costume. They got quite accustomed to this get-up during the next three days, for he never had time to change it; and, somehow, it ceased to be humorous long before the end of that time.
“Oh, it's nothing,” Durnovo was saying, with a singular eagerness. “I know these chaps. They have been paid in advance. They are probably shamming, and if they are not they are only suffering from the effects of a farewell glorification. They want to delay our start. That is their little game. It will give them a better chance of deserting.”
“At any rate, we had better go and see them,” suggested Jack.
“No, don't!” cried Durnovo eagerly, detaining him with both hands. “Take my advice, and don't. Just have breakfast in the ordinary way and pretend there is nothing wrong. Then afterwards you can lounge casually into the camp.”
“All right,” said Jack, rather unwillingly.
“It has been of some use—this scare,” said Durnovo, turning and looking towards the river. “It has reminded me of something. We have not nearly enough quinine. I will just take a quick canoe, and run down to Loango to fetch some.”
He turned quite away from them, and stooped to attach the lace of his boot.
“I can travel night and day, and be back here in three days,” he added. “In the meantime you can be getting on with the loading of the canoes, and we will start as soon as I get back.”
He stood upright and looked around with weatherwise, furtive eyes.
“Seems to me,” he said, “there's thunder coming. I think I had better be off at once.”
In the course of his inspection of the lowering clouds which hung, black as ink, just above the trees, his eyes lighted on Joseph, standing within the door of the cottage, watching him with a singular half-suppressed smile.
“Yes,” he said hurriedly, “I will start at once. I can eat some sort of a breakfast when we are under way.”
He looked beneath his lashes quickly from Jack to Guy and back again. Their silent acquiescence was not quite satisfactory. Then he called his own men, and spoke to them in a tongue unknown to the Englishmen. He hurried forward their preparations with a feverish irritability which made Jack Meredith think of the first time he had ever seen Durnovo—a few miles farther down the river—all palpitating and trembling with climatic nervousness. His face was quite yellow, and there was a line drawn diagonally from the nostrils down each cheek, to lose itself ultimately in the heavy black moustache.
Before he stepped into his canoe the thunder was rumbling in the distance, and the air was still as death. Breathing was an effort; the inhaled air did not satisfy the lungs, and seemed powerless to expand them.
Overhead the clouds, of a blue-black intensity, seemed almost to touch the trees; the river was of ink. The rowers said nothing, but they lingered on the bank and watched Durnovo's face anxiously. When he took his seat in the canoe they looked protestingly up to the sky. Durnovo said something to them rapidly, and they laid their paddles to the water.
Scarcely had the boat disappeared in the bend of the river before the rain broke. It came with the rush of an express train—the trees bending before the squall like reeds. The face of the river was tormented into a white fury by the drops which splashed up again a foot in height. The lashing of the water on the bare backs of the negroes was distinctly audible to Victor Durnovo.
Then the black clouds split up like a rent cloth, and showed behind them, not Heaven, but the living fire of Hell. The thunder crashed out in sharp reports like file-firing at a review. With one accord the men ceased rowing and crouched down in the canoe.
Durnovo shouted to them, his face livid with fury. But for some moments his voice was quite lost. The lightning ran over the face of the river like will-o'-the-wisps; the whole heaven was streaked continuously with it.
Suddenly the negroes leaped to their paddles and rowed with bent back, and wild staring eyes, as if possessed. They were covered by the muzzle of Durnovo's revolver.
Behind the evil-looking barrel of blue steel, the half-caste's dripping face looked forth, peering into the terrific storm. There was no question of fending off such torrents of rain, nor did he attempt it. Indeed, he seemed to court its downfall. He held out his arms and stretched forth his legs, giving free play to the water which ran off him in a continual stream, washing his thin khaki clothing on his limbs. He raised his face to the sky, and let the water beat upon his brow and hair.
The roar of the thunder, which could be FELT, so great was the vibration of the laden air, seemed to have no fear for him. The lightning, ever shooting athwart the sky, made him blink as if dazzled, but he looked upon it without emotion.
He knew that behind him he had left a greater danger than this, and he stretched out his limbs to the cleansing torrent with an exulting relief to be washed from the dread infection. Small-pox had laid its hand on the camp at Msala: and from the curse of it Victor Durnovo was flying in a mad chattering panic through all the anger of the tropic elements, holding death over his half-stunned crew, not daring to look behind him or pause in his coward's flight.
It is still said on the Ogowe river that no man travels like Victor Durnovo. Certain it is that, in twenty-seven hours from the time that he left Msala on the morning of the great storm, he presented himself before Maurice Gordon in his office at the factory at Loango.
“Ah!” cried Gordon, hardly noticing the washed-out, harassed appearance of the visitor; “here you are again. I heard that the great expedition had started.”
“So it has, but I have come back to get one or two things we have forgotten. Got any sherry handy?”
“Of course,” replied Gordon, with perfect adhesion to the truth.
He laid aside his pen and, turning in his chair, drew a decanter from a small cupboard which stood on the ground at his side.
“Here you are,” he continued, pouring out a full glass with practised, but slightly unsteady, hand.
Durnovo drank the wine at one gulp and set the glass down.
“Ah!” he said, “that does a chap good.”
“Does it now?” exclaimed Maurice Gordon with mock surprise. “Well, I'll just try.”
The manner in which he emptied his glass was quite different, with a long, slow drawing-out of the enjoyment, full of significance for the initiated.
“Will you be at home to-night?” asked Durnovo, gently pushing aside the hospitable decanter. “I have got a lot of work to do to-day, but I should like to run in and see you this evening.”
“Yes, come and dine.”
Durnovo shook his head and looked down at his wrinkled and draggled clothing.
“No, I can't do that, old man. Not in this trim.”
“Bosh? What matter? Jocelyn doesn't mind.”
“No, but I do.”
It was obvious that he wanted to accept the invitation, although the objection he raised was probably honest. For that taint in the blood that cometh from the subtle tar-brush brings with it a vanity that has its equal in no white man's heart.
“Well, I'll lend you a black coat! Seven o'clock sharp!”
Durnovo hurried away with a gleam of excitement in his dark eyes.
Maurice Gordon did not resume his work at once. He sat for some time idly drumming with his fingers on the desk.
“If I can only get her to be civil to him,” he reflected aloud, “I'll get into this business yet.”
At seven o'clock Durnovo appeared at the Gordons' house. He had managed to borrow a dress-suit, and wore an orchid in his buttonhole. It was probably the first time that Jocelyn had seen him in this garb of civilisation, which is at the same time the most becoming and the most trying variety of costume left to sensible men in these days. A dress-suit finds a man out sooner than anything except speech.
Jocelyn was civil in her reception—more so, indeed, than Maurice Gordon had hoped for. She seemed almost glad to see Durnovo, and evinced quite a kindly interest in his movements. Durnovo attributed this to the dress-suit, while Maurice concluded that his obvious hints, thrown out before dinner, had fallen on fruitful ground.
At dinner Victor Durnovo was quite charmed with the interest that Jocelyn took in the expedition, of which, he gave it to be understood, he was the chief. So also was Maurice, because Durnovo's evident admiration of Jocelyn somewhat overcame his natural secrecy of character.
“You'll hear of me, Miss Gordon, never fear, before three months are past,” said Durnovo, in reply to a vague suggestion that his absence might extend to several months. “I am not the sort of man to come to grief by a foolish mistake or any unnecessary risk.”
To which sentiment two men at Msala bore generous testimony later on.
The simple dinner was almost at an end, and it was at this time that Jocelyn Gordon began once more to dislike Durnovo. At first she had felt drawn towards him. Although he wore the dress-clothes rather awkwardly, there was something in his manner which reminded her vaguely of a gentleman. It was not that he was exactly gentlemanly, but there was the reflection of good breeding in his bearing. Dark-skinned people, be it noted, have usually the imitative faculty. As the dinner and the wine warmed his heart, so by degrees he drew on his old self like a glove. He grew bolder and less guarded. His opinion of himself rose momentarily, and with it a certain gleam in his eyes increased as they rested on Jocelyn.
It was not long before she noted this, and quite suddenly her ancient dislike of the man was up in arms with a new intensity gathered she knew not whence.
“And,” said Maurice, when Jocelyn had left them, “I suppose you'll be a millionaire in about six months?”
He gently pushed the wine towards him at the same time. Durnovo had not slept for forty hours. The excitement of his escape from the plague-ridden camp had scarcely subsided. The glitter of the silver on the table, the shaded candles, the subtle sensuality of refinement and daintiness appealed to his hot-blooded nature. He was a little off his feet perhaps. He took the decanter and put it to the worst use he could have selected.
“Not so soon as that,” he said; “but in time—in time.”
“Lucky beggar!” muttered Maurice Gordon, with a little sigh.
“I don't mind telling you,” said Durnovo, with a sudden confidence begotten of Madeira, “that it's Simiacine—that's what it is. I can't tell you more.”
“Simiacine,” repeated Gordon, fingering the stem of his wine-glass and looking at him keenly between the candle-shades. “Yes. You've always been on its track, haven't you?”
“In six months your go-downs will be full of it—my Simiacine, my Simiacine.”
“By God, I wish I had a hand in it.”
Maurice Gordon pushed the decanter again—gently, almost surreptitiously.
“And so you may, some day. You help me and I'll help you—that is my ticket. Reciprocity—reciprocity, my dear Maurice.”
“Yes, but how?”
“Can't tell you now, but I will in good time—in my own time. Come, let's join the ladies—eh? haha!”
But at this moment the servant brought in coffee, saying in his master's ear that Miss Jocelyn had gone to bed with a slight headache.
The spiritsOf coming things stride on before their issues.
There is nothing that brings men so close to each other as a common grievance or a common danger. Men who find pleasure in the same game or the same pursuit are drawn together by a common taste; but in the indulgence of it there is sure to arise, sooner or later, a spirit of competition. Now, this spirit, which is in most human affairs, is a new bond of union when men are fighting side by side against a common foe.
During the three days that followed Durnovo's departure from Msala, Jack Meredith and Oscard learnt to know each other. These three days were as severe a test as could well be found; for courage, humanity, tenderness, loyalty, were by turns called forth by circumstance. Smallpox rages in Africa as it rages nowhere else in these days. The natives fight it or bow before it as before an ancient and deeply dreaded foe. It was nothing new to them, and it would have been easy enough for Jack and Oscard to prove to their own satisfaction that the presence of three white men at Msala was a danger to themselves and no advantage to the natives. It would have been very simple to abandon the river station, leaving there such men as were stricken down to care for each other. But such a thought never seemed to suggest itself.
The camp was moved across the river, where all who seemed strong and healthy were placed under canvas, awaiting further developments.
The infected were carried to a special camp set apart and guarded, and this work was executed almost entirely by the three Englishmen, aided by a few natives who had had the disease.
For three days these men went about with their lives literally in their hands, tending the sick, cheering the despondent, frightening the cowards into some semblance of self-respect and dignity. And during these three days, wherein they never took an organised meal or three consecutive hours of rest, Joseph, Meredith, and Oscard rose together to that height of manhood where master and servant, educated man and common soldier, stand equal before their Maker.
Owing to the promptness with which measures had been taken for isolating the affected, the terrible sickness did not spread. In all eleven men were stricken, and of these ten died within three days. The eleventh recovered, but eventually remained at Msala.
It was only on the evening of the third day that Jack and Guy found time to talk of the future. They had never left Durnovo's house, and on this third day they found time to dine together.
“Do you think,” Oscard asked bluntly, when they were left alone to smoke, “that Durnovo knew what was the matter?”
“I am afraid that I have not the slightest doubt of it,” replied Jack lightly.
“And bolted?” suggested Oscard.
“And bolted.”
Guy Oscard gave a contemptuous little laugh, which had a deeper insult in it than he could have put into words.
“And what is to be done?” he inquired.
“Nothing. People in books would mount on a very high pinnacle of virtue and cast off Mr. Durnovo and all his works; but it is much more practical to make what use we can of him. That is a worldly-wise, nineteenth-century way of looking at it; we cannot do without him.”
The contemplativeness of nicotine was upon Guy Oscard.
“Umph!” he grunted. “It is rather disgusting,” he said, after a pause; “I hate dealing with cowards.”
“And I with fools. For everyday use, give me a coward by preference.”
“Yes, there is something in that. Still, I'd throw up the whole thing if—”
“So would I,” said Jack, turning sharply in his chair, “if—”
Oscard laughed curtly and waited.
“If,” continued Jack, “I could. But I am more or less bound to go on now. Such chances as this do not turn up every day; I cannot afford to let it go by. Truth is, I told—some one who shall be nameless—that I would make money to keep her in that state of life wherein her godfathers, etc., have placed her; and make that money I must.”
“That is about my position too,” said Guy Oscard, somewhat indistinctly, owing to the fact that he habitually smoked a thick-stemmed pipe.
“Is it? I'm glad of that. It gives us something in common to work for.”
“Yes.” Guy paused, and made a huge effort, finally conquering that taciturnity which was almost an affliction to him. “The reason I gave the other night to you and that chap Durnovo was honest enough, but I have another. I want to lie low for a few months, but I also want to make money. I'm as good as engaged to be married, and I find that I am not so well off as I thought I was. People told me that I should have three thousand a year when the governor died, but I find that people know less of my affairs than I thought.”
“They invariably do,” put in Jack encouragingly.
“It is barely two thousand, and—and she has been brought up to something better than that.”
“Um! they mostly are. Mine has been brought up to something better than that too. That is the worst of it.”
Jack Meredith leant back in his folding chair, and gazed practically up into the heavens.
“Of course,” Guy went on, doggedly expansive now that he had once plunged, “two thousand a year sounds pretty good, and it is not bad to start upon. But there is no chance of its increasing; in fact, the lawyer fellows say it may diminish. I know of no other way to make money—had no sort of training for it. I'm not of a commercial turn of mind. Fellows go into the City and brew beer or float companies, whatever that may be.”
“It means they sink other people's funds,” explained Jack.
“Yes, I suppose it does. The guv'nor, y' know, never taught me how to make a livelihood; wouldn't let me be a soldier; sent me to college, and all that; wanted me to be a litterateur. Now I'm not literary.”
“No, I shouldn't think you were.”
“Remains Africa. I am not a clever chap, like you, Meredith.”
“For which you may thank a gracious Providence,” interposed Jack. “Chaps like me are what some people call 'fools' in their uncouth way.”
“But I know a little about Africa, and I know something about Durnovo. That man has got a mania, and it is called Simiacine. He is quite straight upon that point, whatever he may be upon others. He knows this country, and he is not making any mistake about the Simiacine, whatever—”
“His powers of sick-nursing may be,” suggested Jack.
“Yes, that's it. We'll put it that way if you like.”
“Thanks, I do prefer it. Any fool could call a spade a spade. The natural ambition would be to find something more flowery and yet equally descriptive.”
Guy Oscard subsided into a monosyllabic sound.
“I believe implicitly in this scheme,” he went on, after a pause. “It is a certain fact that the men who can supply pure Simiacine have only to name their price for it. They will make a fortune, and I believe that Durnovo knows where it is growing in quantities.”
“I cannot see how it would pay him to deceive us in the matter. That is the best way of looking at it,” murmured Jack reflectively. “When I first met him, the man thought he was dying, and for the time I really believe that he was honest. Some men are honest when they feel unwell. There was so little doubt in my mind that I went into the thing at once.”
“If you will go on with it I will stand by you,” said Oscard shortly.
“All right; I think we two together are as good as any half-bred sharper on this coast, to put it gracefully.”
Jack Meredith lighted a fresh cigarette, and leant back with the somewhat exaggerated grace of movement which was in reality partly attributable to natural litheness. For some time they smoked in silence, subject to the influence of the dreamy tropic night. Across the river some belated bird was calling continuously and cautiously for its mate. At times the splashing movements of a crocodile broke the smooth silence of the water. Overhead the air was luminous with that night-glow which never speaks to the senses in latitudes above the teens.
There is something in man's nature that inclines him sympathetically—almost respectfully—towards a mental inferior. Moreover, the feeling, whatever it may be, is rarely, if ever, found in women. A man does not openly triumph in victory, as do women. One sees an easy victor—at lawn tennis, for instance—go to his vanquished foe, wiping vigorously a brow that is scarcely damp, and explaining more or less lamely how it came about. But the same rarely happens in the “ladies' singles.” What, to quote another instance, is more profound than the contempt bestowed by the girl with the good figure upon her who has no figure at all? Without claiming the virtue of a greater generosity for the sex, one may, perhaps, assume that men learn by experience the danger of despising any man. The girl with the good figure is sometimes—nay, often—found blooming alone in her superiority, while the despised competitor is a happy mother of children. And all this to explain that Jack Meredith felt drawn towards his great hulking companion by something that was not a mere respect of mind for matter.
As love is inexplicable, so is friendship. No man can explain why David held Jonathan in such high esteem. Between men it would appear that admiration is no part of friendship. And such as have the patience to follow the lives of the two Englishmen thus brought together by a series of chances will perhaps be able to discover in this record of a great scheme the reason why Jack Meredith, the brilliant, the gifted, should bestow upon Guy Oscard such a wealth of love and esteem as he never received in return.
During the silence Jack was apparently meditating over the debt of confidence which he still owed to his companion; for he spoke first, and spoke seriously, about himself, which was somewhat against his habit.
“I daresay you have heard,” he said, “that I had a—a disagreement with my father.”
“Yes. Heard something about it,” replied Oscard, in a tone which seemed to imply that the “something” was quite sufficient for his requirements.
“It was about my engagement,” Jack went on deliberately. “I do not know how it was, but they did not hit it off together. She was too honest to throw herself at his head, I suppose; for I imagine a pretty girl can usually do what she likes with an old man if she takes the trouble.”
“Not with him, I think. Seemed to be rather down on girls in general,” said Oscard coolly.
“Then you know him?”
“Yes, a little. I have met him once or twice, out, you know. I don't suppose he would know me again if he saw me.”
Which last remark does not redound to the credit of Guy's powers of observation.
They paused. It is wonderful how near we may stand to the brink and look far away beyond the chasm. Years afterwards they remembered this conversation, and it is possible that Jack Meredith wondered then what instinct it was that made him change the direction of their thoughts.
“If it is agreeable to you,” he said, “I think it would be wise for me to go down to Loango, and gently intimate to Durnovo that we should be glad of his services.”
“Certainly.”
“He cannot be buying quinine all this time, you know. He said he would travel night and day.”
Oscard nodded gravely.
“How will you put it?” he asked.
“I thought I would simply say that his non-arrival caused us some anxiety, and that I had come down to see if anything was wrong.”
Jack rose and threw away the end of his cigarette. It was quite late, and across the river the gleam of the moonlight on fixed bayonets told that only the sentries were astir.
“And what about the small-pox?” pursued Oscard, more with the desire to learn than to amend.
“Don't think I shall say anything about that. The man wants careful handling.”
“You will have to tell him that we have got it under.”
“Yes, I'll do that. Good-night, old fellow; I shall be off by daylight.”
By seven o'clock the next morning the canoe was ready, with its swarthy rowers in their places. The two Englishmen breakfasted together, and then walked down to the landing-stage side by side.
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.
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.