The pride that prompts the bitter jest.
A space had with some difficulty been cleared at the upper end of an aristocratic London drawing-room, and with considerable enthusiasm Miss Fitzmannering pranced into the middle of it. Miss Fitzmannering had kindly allowed herself to be persuaded to do “only a few steps” of her celebrated skirt-dance. Miss Eline Fitzmannering officiated at the piano, and later on, while they were brushing their hair, they quarrelled because she took the time too quickly.
The aristocratic assembly looked on with mixed feelings, and faces suitable to the same. The girls who could not skirt-dance yawned behind their fans—gauze preferred, because the Fitzmannerings could see through gauze if they could not see through anything else. The gifted products of fashionable Brighton schools, who could in their own way make exhibitions of themselves also, wondered who on earth had taught Miss Fitzmannering; and the servants at the door felt ashamed of themselves without knowing why.
Miss Fitzmannering had practised that skirt-dance—those few steps—religiously for the last month. She had been taught those same contortions by a young lady in THE profession, whom even Billy Fitzmannering raised his eyebrows at. And every one knows that Billy is not particular. The performance was not graceful, and the gentlemen present, who knew more about dancing—skirt or otherwise—than they cared to admit, pursed up the corners of their mouths and looked straight in front of them—afraid to meet the eye of some person or persons undefined.
But the best face there was that of Sir John Meredith. He was not bored, as were many of his juniors—at least, he did not look it. He was neither shocked nor disgusted, as apparently were some of his contemporaries—at least, his face betrayed neither of those emotions. He was keenly interested—suavely attentive. He followed each spasmodic movement with imperturbably pleasant eyes.
“My dear young lady,” he said, with one of his courtliest bows, when at last Miss Fitzmannering had had enough of it, “you have given us a great treat—you have, indeed.”
“A most unique performance,” he continued, turning gravely to Lady Cantourne, by whose side he had been standing; and, strange to say, her ladyship made a reproving little movement of the lips, and tapped his elbow surreptitiously, as if he were misbehaving himself.
He offered his arm with a murmur of refreshments, and she accepted.
“Well,” he said, when they were alone, or nearly so, “do you not admit that it was a most unique performance?”
“Hush!” replied the lady, either because she was a woman or because she was a woman of the world. “The poor girl cannot help it. She is forced into it by the exigencies of society, and her mother. It is not entirely her fault.”
“It will be entirely my fault,” replied Sir John, “if I see her do it again.”
“It does not matter about a man,” said Lady Cantourne, after a little pause; “but a woman cannot afford to make a fool of herself. She ought never to run the risk of being laughed at. And yet I am told that they teach that elegant accomplishment at fashionable schools.”
“Which proves that the schoolmistress is a knave as well as—the other thing.”
They passed down the long room together—a pattern, to the younger generation, of politeness and mutual respect. And that which one or other did not see was not worth comprehension.
“Who,” asked Sir John, when they had passed into the other room, “who is the tall fair girl who was sitting near the fireplace?”
He did not seem to think it necessary to ask Lady Cantourne whether she had noticed the object of his curiosity.
“I was just wondering,” replied Lady Cantourne, stirring her tea comfortably. “I will find out. She interests me. She is different from the rest.”
“And she does not let it be seen—that is what I like,” said Sir John. “The great secret of success in the world is to be different from other people and conceal the fact.” He stood his full height, and looked round with blinking, cynical eyes. “They are all very like each other, and they fail to conceal that.”
“I dislike a person,” said Lady Cantourne in her tolerant way, “who looks out of place anywhere. That girl would never look so.”
Sir John was still looking round, seeing all that there was to be seen, and much that was not intended for that purpose.
“Some of them,” he said, “will look self-conscious in heaven.”
“I hope so,” said Lady Cantourne quietly; “that is the least one may expect.”
“I trust that there will be no skirt—” Sir John broke off suddenly, with a quick smile. “I was about to be profane,” he said, taking her cup. “But I know you do not like it.”
She looked up at him with a wan little smile. She was wondering whether he remembered as well as she did that half an ordinary lifetime lay between that moment and the occasion when she reproved his profanity.
“Come,” she said, rising, “take me back to the drawing-room, and I will make somebody introduce me to the girl.”
Jocelyn Gordon, sitting near the fire, talking to a white-moustached explorer, and listening good-naturedly to a graphic account of travels which had been put in the background by more recent wanderers, was somewhat astounded when the hostess came up to her a few minutes later, and introduced a stout little lady, with twinkling, kindly eyes, by the name of Lady Cantourne. She had heard vaguely of Lady Cantourne as a society leader of the old school, but had no clue to this obviously intentional introduction.
“You are wondering,” said Lady Cantourne, when she had sent the explorer on his travels elsewhere in order that she might have his seat—“you are wondering why I asked to know you.”
She looked into the girl's face with bright, searching eyes.
“I am afraid I was,” admitted Jocelyn.
“I have two reasons: one vulgar—the other sentimental. The vulgar reason was curiosity. I like to know people whose appearance prepossesses me. I am an old woman—no, you need not shake your head, my dear! not with me—I am almost a very old woman, but not quite; and all my life I have trusted in appearances. And,” she paused, studying the lace of her fan, “I suppose I have not made more mistakes than other people. I have always made a point of trying to get to know people whose appearance I like. That is my vulgar reason. You do not mind my saying so—do you?”
Jocelyn laughed with slightly heightened colour, which Lady Cantourne noted with an appreciative little nod.
“My other reason is that, years ago at school, I knew a girl who was very like you. I loved her intensely—for a short time—as girls do at school, you know. Her name was Treseaton—the Honourable Julia Treseaton.”
“My mother!” said Jocelyn eagerly.
“I thought so. I did not think so at first, but when you spoke I was certain of it. She had a way with her lips. I am afraid she is dead.”
“Yes; she died nearly twenty-five years ago in Africa.”
“Africa—whereabouts in Africa?”
Then suddenly Jocelyn remembered where she had heard Lady Cantourne's name. It had only been mentioned to her once. And this was the aunt with whom Millicent Chyne lived. This cheery little lady knew Jack Meredith and Guy Oscard; and Millicent Chyne's daily life was part of her existence.
“The West Coast,” she answered vaguely. She wanted time to think—to arrange things in her mind. She was afraid of the mention of Jack's name in the presence of this woman of the world. She did not mind Maurice or Guy Oscard—but it was different with a woman. She could hardly have said a better thing, because it took Lady Cantourne some seconds to work out in her mind where the West Coast of Africa was.
“That is the unhealthy coast, is it not?” asked her ladyship.
“Yes.”
Jocelyn hardly heard the question. She was looking round with a sudden, breathless eagerness. It was probable that Millicent Chyne was in the rooms; and she never doubted that she would know her face.
“And I suppose you know that part of the world very well?” said Lady Cantourne, who had detected a change in her companion's manner.
“Oh yes.”
“Have you ever heard of a place called Loango?”
“Oh yes. I live there.”
“Indeed, how very interesting! I am very much interested in Loango just now, I must tell you. But I did not know that anybody lived there.”
“No one does by choice,” explained Jocelyn. “My father was a judge on the Coast, and since his death my brother Maurice has held an appointment at Loango. We are obliged to live there for eight months in the twelve.”
She knew it was coming. But, as chance would have it, it was easier than she could have hoped. For some reason Lady Cantourne looked straight in front of her when she asked the question.
“Then you have, no doubt, met a friend of mine—Mr. Meredith? Indeed, two friends; for I understand that Guy Oscard is associated with him in this wonderful discovery.”
“Oh yes,” replied Jocelyn, with a carefully modulated interest, “I have met them both. Mr. Oscard lunched with us shortly before we left Africa.”
“Ah, that was when he disappeared so suddenly. We never got quite to the base of that affair. He left at a moment's notice on receipt of a telegram or something, only leaving a short and somewhat vague note for my—for us. He wrote from Africa, I believe, but I never heard the details. I imagine Jack Meredith was in some difficulty. But it is a wonderful scheme this, is it not? They are certain to make a fortune, I understand.”
“So people say,” replied Jocelyn. It was a choice to tell all—to tell as much as she herself knew—or nothing. So she told nothing. She could not say that she had been forced by a sudden breakdown of her brother's health to leave Loango while Jack Meredith's fate was still wrapped in doubt. She could not tell Lady Cantourne that all her world was in Africa—that she was counting the days until she could go back thither. She could not lift for a second the veil that hid the aching, restless anxiety in her heart, the life-absorbing desire to know whether Guy Oscard had reached the Plateau in time. Her heart was so sore that she could not even speak of Jack Meredith's danger.
“How strange,” said Lady Cantourne, “to think that you are actually living in Loango, and that you are the last person who has spoken to Jack Meredith! There are two people in this house to-night who would like to ask you questions from now till morning, but neither of them will do it. Did you see me go through the room just now with a tall gentleman—rather old.”
“Yes,” answered Jocelyn.
“That was Sir John Meredith, Jack's father,” said Lady Cantourne in a lowered voice. “They have quarrelled, you know. People say that Sir John does not care—that he is heartless, and all that sort of thing. The world never says the other sort of thing, one finds. But—but I think I know to the contrary. He feels it very deeply. He would give worlds to hear some news of Jack; but he won't ask it, you know.”
“Yes,” said Jocelyn, “I understand.”
She saw what was coming, and she desired it intensely, while still feeling afraid—as if they were walking on some sacred ground and might at any moment make a false step.
“I should like Sir John to meet you,” said Lady Cantourne pleasantly. “Will you come to tea some afternoon? Strange to say, he asked who you were not half an hour ago. It almost seems like instinct, does it not? I do not believe in mystic things about spirits and souls going out to each other, and all that nonsense; but I believe in instinct. Will you come to-morrow? You are here to-night with Mrs. Sander, are you not? I know her. She will let you come alone. Five o'clock. You will see my niece Millicent. She is engaged to be married to Jack Meredith, you know. That is why they quarrelled—the father and son. You will find a little difficulty with her too. She is a difficult girl. But I dare say you will manage to tell her what she wants to know.”
“Yes,” said Jocelyn quietly—almost too quietly, “I shall manage.”
Lady Cantourne rose, and so did Jocelyn.
“You know,” she said, looking up into the girl's face, “it is a good action. That is why I ask you to do it. It is not often that one has the opportunity of doing a good action to which even one's dearest friend cannot attribute an ulterior motive. Who is that man over there?”
“That is my brother.”
“I should like to know him; but do not bring him to-morrow. We women are better alone—you understand?”
With a confidential little nod the good lady went away to attend to other affairs; possibly to carry through some more good actions of a safe nature.
It was plain to Jocelyn that Maurice was looking for some one. He had just come, and was making his way through the crowd. Presently she managed to touch his elbow.
“Oh, there you are!” he exclaimed; “I want you. Come out of this room.”
He offered her his arm, and together they made their way out of the crowded room into a smaller apartment where an amateur reciter was hovering disconsolately awaiting an audience.
“Here,” said Maurice, when they were alone, “I have just had this telegram.”
He handed her the thin, white submarine telegraph-form with its streaks of adhesive text.
“Relief entirely successful. Meredith Joseph returned Loango. Meredith bad health.”
Jocelyn drew a deep breath.
“So that's all right—eh?” said Maurice heartily.
“Yes,” answered Jocelyn, “that is all right.”
Angels call it heavenly joy;Infernal tortures the devils say;And men? They call it—Love.
“By the way, dear,” said Lady Cantourne to her niece the next afternoon, “I have asked a Miss Gordon to come to tea this afternoon. I met her last night at the Fitzmannerings. She lives in Loango and knows Jack. I thought you might like to know her. She is exceptionally ladylike and rather pretty.”
And straightway Miss Millicent Chyne went upstairs to put on her best dress.
We men cannot expect to understand these small matters—these exigencies, as it were, of female life. But we may be permitted to note feebly en passant through existence that there are occasions when women put on their best clothes without the desire to please. And, while Millicent Chyne was actually attiring herself, Jocelyn Gordon, in another house not so far away, was busy with that beautiful hair of hers, patting here, drawing out there, pinning, poking, pressing with all the cunning that her fingers possessed.
When they met a little later in Lady Cantourne's uncompromisingly solid and old-fashioned drawing-room, one may be certain that nothing was lost.
“My aunt tells me,” began Millicent at once, with that degage treatment of certain topics hitherto held sacred which obtains among young folks to-day, “that you know Loango.”
“Oh yes—I live there.”
“And you know Mr. Meredith?”
“Yes, and Mr. Oscard also.”
There was a little pause, while two politely smiling pairs of eyes probed each other.
“She knows something—how much?” was behind one pair of eyes.
“She cannot find out—I am not afraid of her,” behind the other.
And Lady Cantourne, the proverbial looker-on, slowly rubbed her white hands one over the other.
“Ah, yes,” said Millicent unblushingly—that was her strong point, blushing in the right place, but not in the wrong—“Mr. Oscard is associated with Mr. Meredith, is he not, in this hare-brained scheme?”
“I believe they are together in it—the Simiacine, you mean?” said Jocelyn.
“What else could she mean?” reflected the looker-on.
“Yes—the Simiacine. Such a singular name, is it not? I always say they will ruin themselves suddenly. People always do, don't they? But what do you think of it? I SHOULD like to know.”
“I think they certainly will make a fortune,” replied Jocelyn—and she noted the light in Millicent's eyes with a sudden feeling of dislike—“unless the risks prove too great and they are forced to abandon it.”
“What risks?” asked Millicent, quite forgetting to modulate her voice.
“Well, of course, the Ogowe river is most horribly unhealthy, and there are other risks. The natives in the plains surrounding the Simiacine Plateau are antagonistic. Indeed, the Plateau was surrounded and quite besieged when we left Africa.”
It may have hurt Millicent, but it hurt Jocelyn more—for the smile had left her hearer's face. She was off her guard, as she had been once before when Sir John was near, and Millicent's face betrayed something which Jocelyn saw at once with a sick heart—something that Sir John knew from the morning when he had seen Millicent open two letters—something that Lady Cantourne had known all along.
“And was Mr. Meredith on the Plateau when it was besieged?” asked Millicent, with a drawn, crooked smile.
“Yes,” answered Jocelyn. She could not help seizing the poor little satisfaction of this punishment; but she felt all the while that it was nothing to the punishment she was bearing, and would bear all her life. There are few more contradictory things than the heart of a woman who really loves. For one man it is very tender; for the rest of the world it is the hardest heart on earth if it is called upon to defend the object of its love or the love itself.
“But,” cried Millicent, “of course something was done. They could never leave Mr. Meredith unprotected.”
“Yes,” answered Jocelyn quietly, “Mr. Oscard went up and rescued him. My brother heard yesterday that the relief had been effected.”
Millicent smiled again in her light-hearted way.
“That is all right,” she said. “What a good thing we did not know! Just think, auntie dear, what a lot of anxiety we have been spared!”
“In the height of the season, too!” said Jocelyn.
“Ye—es,” replied Millicent, rather doubtfully.
Lady Cantourne was puzzled. There was something going on which she did not understand. Within the sound of the pleasant conversation there was the cliquetis of the foil; behind the polite smile there was the gleam of steel. She was rather relieved to turn at this moment and see Sir John Meredith entering the room with his usual courtly bow. He always entered her drawing-room like that. Ah! that little secret of a mutual respect. Some people who are young now will wish, before they have grown old, that they had known it.
He shook hands with Lady Cantourne and with Millicent. Then he stood with a deferential half-bow, waiting for the introduction to the girl who was young enough to be his daughter—almost to be his granddaughter. There was something pathetic and yet proud in this old man's uncompromising adherence to the lessons of his youth.
“Sir John Meredith—Miss Gordon.”
The beginning—the thin end of the wedge, as the homely saying has it—the end which we introduce almost every day of our lives, little suspecting to what it may broaden out.
“I had the pleasure of seeing you last night,” said Sir John at once, “at Lady Fitzmannering's evening party, or 'At Home,' I believe we call them nowadays. Some of the guests read the invitation too much au pied de la lettre for my taste. They were so much at home that I, fearing to intrude, left rather early.”
“I believe the skirt-dancing frightened you away, Sir John,” said Millicent merrily.
“Even old birds, my dear young lady, may sometimes be alarmed by a scarecrow.”
“I missed you quite early in the evening,” put in Lady Cantourne, sternly refusing to laugh. She had not had an opportunity of seeing him since her conversation with Jocelyn, and the dangers of the situation were fully appreciated by such an experienced woman of the world.
“They began to clear the upper end of the room,” he explained, “and I assisted them in the most practical manner in my power.”
He was beginning to wonder why he had been invited—nay, almost commanded—to come, by an imperious little note. And of late, whenever Sir John began to wonder he began also to feel old. His fingers strayed towards his unsteady lips as if he were about to make one of those little movements of senile helplessness to which he sometimes gave way.
For a moment Lady Cantourne hesitated between two strokes of social diplomacy—but only for a moment. She had heard the bell ring, and trusted that at the other end of the wire there might be one of those fatuous young men who nibbled at that wire like foolish fish round a gilt spoon-bait. Her ladyship decided to carry on the social farce a few minutes longer, instead of offering the explanation which all were awaiting.
“We women,” she said, “were not so easily deterred from our social duties.”
At this moment the door opened, and there entered a complex odour of hairwash and perfumery—a collar which must have been nearly related to a cuff, and a pair of tight patent-leather boots, all attached to and somewhat overpowering a young man.
“Ah, my dear Mr. Grubb,” said Lady Cantourne, “how good of you to call so soon! You will have some tea. Millicent, give Mr. Grubb some tea.”
“Not too strong,” added Sir John, apparently to himself, under the cover of Mr. Grubb's somewhat scrappy greeting.
Then Lady Cantourne went to the conservatory and left Sir John and Jocelyn at the end of the long room together. There is nothing like a woman's instinct. Jocelyn spoke at once.
“Lady Cantourne,” she said, “kindly asked me to meet you to-day on purpose. I live at Loango; I know your son, Mr. Meredith, and we thought you might like to hear about him and about Loango.”
She knew that with a man like Sir John any indirect approach to the subject would be courting failure. His veiled old eyes suddenly lighted up, and he turned to glance over his shoulder.
“Yes,” he said, with a strange hesitation, “yes—you are kind. Of course I am interested. I wonder,” he went on, with a sudden change of manner, “I wonder how much you know?”
His unsteady hand was resting on her gloved fingers, and he blinked at it as if wondering how it got there.
Jocelyn did not seem to notice.
“I know,” she answered, “that you have had a difference of opinion—but no one else knows. You must not think that Mr. Meredith has spoken of his private affairs to any one else. The circumstances were exceptional, and Mr. Meredith thought that it was due to me to give me an explanation.”
Sir John looked a little puzzled, and Jocelyn went on rather hastily to explain
“My brother and Mr. Meredith were at Eton together. They met somewhere up the Coast, and my brother asked Mr. Meredith to come and stay. It happened that Maurice was away when Mr. Meredith arrived, and I did not know who he was, so he explained.”
“I see,” said Sir John. “And you and your brother have been kind to my boy.”
Somehow he seemed to have forgotten to be cynical. He had never known what it is to have a daughter, and she was ignorant of the pleasant everyday amenities of a father's love. As there is undoubtedly such a thing as love at first sight, so must there be sympathy at first sight. For Jocelyn it was comprehensible—nay, it was most natural. This was Jack's father. In his manner, in everything about him, there were suggestions of Jack. This seemed to be a creature hewn, as it were, from the same material, moulded on the same lines, with slightly divergent tools. And for him—who can tell? The love that was in her heart may have reached out to meet almost as great a love locked up in his proud soul. It may have shown itself to him, openly, fearlessly, recklessly, as love sometimes does when it is strong and pure.
He had carefully selected a seat within the shadow of the curtains; but Jocelyn saw quite suddenly that he was an older man than she had taken him to be the evening before. She saw through the deception of the piteous wig—the whole art that strove to conceal the sure decay of the body, despite the desperate effort of a mind still fresh and vigorous.
“And I dare say,” he said, with a somewhat lame attempt at cynicism, “that you have heard no good of me?”
But Jocelyn would have none of that. She was no child to be abashed by sarcasm, but a woman, completed and perfected by her love.
“Excuse me,” she said sharply; “but that is not the truth, and you know it. You know as well as I do that your son would never say a word against you.”
Sir John looked hastily round. Lady Cantourne had come into the room and was talking to the two young people: Millicent was glancing uneasily over Mr. Grubb's brainless cranium towards them. Sir John's stiff, unsteady fingers fumbled for a moment round his lips.
“Yes,” he said, “I was wrong.”
“He has always spoken of you with the greatest love and respect,” said Jocelyn; “more than that, with admiration. But he very rarely spoke of you at all, which I think means more.”
Sir John blinked, and suddenly pulled himself together with a backward jerk of the arms which was habitual with him. It almost seemed as if he said to himself, as he squared his shoulders, “Come, no giving way to old age!”
“Has his health been good?” he asked, rather formally.
“I believe so, until quite lately. My brother heard yesterday by telegram that he was at Loango in broken health,” replied Jocelyn.
Sir John was looking at her keenly—his hard blue eyes like steel between the lashless lids.
“You disquiet me,” he said. “I have a sort of feeling that you have bad news to tell me.”
“No,” she answered, “not exactly. But it seems to me that no one realises what he is doing out in Africa—what risks he is running.”
“Tell me,” he said, drawing in his chair. “I will not interrupt you. Tell me all you know from beginning to end. I am naturally—somewhat interested.”
So Jocelyn told him. And what she said was only a recapitulation of facts known to such as have followed these pages to this point. But the story did not sound quite the same as that related to Millicent. It was fuller, and there were certain details touched upon lightly which had before been emphasised—details of dangers run and risks incurred. Also was it listened to in a different spirit, without shallow comment, with a deeper insight. Suddenly he broke into the narrative. He saw—keen old worldling that he was—a discrepancy.
“But,” he said, “there was no one in Loango connected with the scheme who”—he paused, touching her sleeve with a bony finger—“who sent the telegram home to young Oscard—the telegram calling him out to Jack's relief?”
“Oh,” she explained lightly, “I did. My brother was away, so there was no one else to do it, you see!”
“Yes—I see.”
And perhaps he did.
Lady Cantourne helped them skilfully. But there came a time when Millicent would stand it no longer, and the amiable Grubb wriggled out of the room, crushed by a too obvious dismissal.
Sir John rose at once, and when Millicent reached them they were talking of the previous evening's entertainment.
Sir John took his leave. He bowed over Jocelyn's hand, and Millicent, watching them keenly, could see nothing—no gleam of a mutual understanding in the politely smiling eyes.
“Perhaps,” he said, “I may have the pleasure of meeting you again?”
“I am afraid it is doubtful,” she answered, with something that sounded singularly like exultation in her voice. “We are going back to Africa almost at once.”
And she, also, took her leave of Lady Cantourne.
What Fate does, let Fate answer for.
One afternoon Joseph had his wish. Moreover he had it given to him even as he desired, which does not usually happen. We are given a part, or the whole, so distorted that we fail to recognise it.
Joseph looked up from his work and saw Jocelyn coming into the bungalow garden.
He went out to meet her, putting on his coat as he went.
“How is Mr. Meredith?” she asked at once. Her eyes were very bright, and there was a sort of breathlessness in her manner which Joseph did not understand.
“He is a bit better, miss, thank you kindly. But he don't make the progress I should like. It's the weakness that follows the malarial attack that the doctor has to fight against.”
“Where is he?” asked Jocelyn.
“Well, miss, at the moment he is in the drawing-room. We bring him down there for the change of air in the afternoon. Likely as not, he's asleep.”
And presently Jack Meredith, lying comfortably somnolent on the outskirts of life, heard light footsteps, but hardly heeded them. He knew that some one came into the room and stood silently by his couch for some seconds. He lazily unclosed his eyelids for a moment, not in order to see who was there, but with a view of intimating that he was not asleep. But he was not wholly conscious. To men accustomed to an active, energetic life, a long illness is nothing but a period of complete rest. In his more active moments Jack Meredith sometimes thought that this rest of his was extending into a dangerously long period, but he was too weak to feel anxiety about anything.
Jocelyn moved away and busied herself noiselessly with one or two of those small duties of the sick-room which women see and men ignore. But she could not keep away. She came back and stood over him with a silent sense of possession which made that moment one of the happiest of her life. She remembered it in after years, and the complex feelings of utter happiness and complete misery that filled it.
At last a fluttering moth gave the excuse her heart longed for, and her fingers rested for a moment, light as the moth itself, on his hair. There was something in the touch which made him open his eyes—uncomprehending at first, and then filled with a sudden life.
“Ah!” he said, “you—you at last!”
He took her hand in both of his. He was weakened by illness and a great fatigue. Perhaps he was off his guard, or only half awake.
“I never should have got better if you had not come,” he said. Then, suddenly, he seemed to recall himself, and rose with an effort from his recumbent position.
“I do not know,” he said, with a return of his old half-humorous manner, “whether to thank you first for your hospitality or to beg your pardon for making such unscrupulous use of it.”
She was looking at him closely as he stood before her, and all her knowledge of human ills as explored on the West Coast of Africa, all her experience, all her powers of observation, were on the alert. He did not look very ill. The brown of a year's sunburn such as he had gone through on the summit of an equatorial mountain where there was but little atmosphere between earth and sun, does not bleach off in a couple of months. Physically regarded, he was stronger, broader, heavier-limbed, more robust, than when she had last seen him—but her knowledge went deeper than complexion, or the passing effort of a strong will.
“Sit down,” she said quietly. “You are not strong enough to stand about.”
He obeyed her with a little laugh.
“You do not know,” he said, “how pleasant it is to see you—fresh and English-looking. It is like a tonic. Where is Maurice?”
“He will be here soon,” she replied; “he is attending to the landing of the stores. We shall soon make you strong and well; for we have come laden with cases of delicacies for your special delectation. Your father chose them himself at Fortnum and Mason's.”
He winced at the mention of his father's name, and drew in his legs in a peculiar, decisive way.
“Then you knew I was ill?” he said, almost suspiciously.
“Yes, Joseph telegraphed.”
“To whom?” sharply.
“To Maurice.”
Jack Meredith nodded his head. It was perhaps just as well that the communicative Joseph was not there at that moment.
“We did not expect you for another ten days,” said Meredith after a little pause, as if anxious to change the subject. “Marie said that your brother's leave was not up until the week after next.”
Jocelyn turned away, apparently to close the window. She hesitated. She could not tell him what had brought them back sooner—what had demanded of Maurice Gordon the sacrifice of ten days of his holiday.
“We do not always take our full term,” she said vaguely.
And he never saw it. The vanity of man is a strange thing. It makes him see intentions that were never conceived; and without vanity to guide his perception man is as blind a creature as walks upon this earth.
“However,” he said, as if to prove his own density, “I am selfishly very glad that you had to come back sooner. Not only on account of the delicacies—I must ask you to believe that. Did my eye brighten at the mention of Fortnum and Mason? I am afraid it did.”
She laughed softly. She did not pause to think that it was to be her daily task to tend him and help to make him stronger in order that he might go away without delay. She only knew that every moment of the next few weeks was going to be full of a greater happiness than she had ever tasted. As we get deeper into the slough of life most of us learn to be thankful that the future is hidden—some of us recognise the wisdom and the mercy which decree that even the present be only partly revealed.
“As a matter of fact,” she said lightly, “I suppose that you loathe all food?”
“Loathe it,” he replied. He was still looking at her, as if in enjoyment of the Englishness and freshness of which he had spoken. “Simply loathe it. All Joseph's tact and patience are required to make me eat even eleven meals in the day. He would like thirteen.”
At this moment Maurice came in—Maurice—hearty, eager, full of life. He blustered in almost as Joseph had prophesied, kicking the furniture, throwing his own vitality into the atmosphere. Jocelyn knew that he liked Jack Meredith—and she knew more. She knew, namely, that Maurice Gordon was a different man when Jack Meredith was in Loango. From Meredith's presence he seemed to gather a sense of security and comfort even as she did—a sense which in herself she understood (for women analyse love), but which in her brother puzzled her.
“Well, old chap,” said Maurice, “glad to see you. I AM glad to see you. Thank Heaven you were bowled over by that confounded malaria, for otherwise we should have missed you.”
“That is one way of looking at it,” answered Meredith. But he did not go so far as to say that it was a way which had not previously suggested itself to him.
“Of course it is. The best way, I take it. Well—how do you feel? Come, you don't look so bad.”
“Oh—much better, thanks. I have got on splendidly the last week, and better still the last five minutes! The worst of it is that I shall be getting well too soon and shall have to be off.”
“Home?” inquired Maurice significantly.
Jocelyn moved uneasily.
“Yes, home.”
“We don't often hear people say that they are sorry to leave Loango,” said Maurice.
“Iwill oblige you whenever you are taken with the desire,” answered Jack lightly; “Loango has been a very good friend to me. But I am afraid there is no choice. The doctor speaks very plain words about it. Besides, I am bound to go home.”
“To sell the Simiacine?” inquired Maurice.
“Yes.”
“Have you the second crop with you?”
“Yes.”
“And the trees have improved under cultivation?”
“Yes,” answered Jack rather wonderingly. “You seem to know a lot about it.”
“Of course I do,” replied Maurice boisterously.
“From Durnovo?”
“Yes; he even offered to take me into partnership.”
Jack turned on him in a flash.
“Did he indeed? On what conditions?”
And then, when it was too late, Maurice saw his mistake. It was not the first time that the exuberance of his nature had got him into a difficulty.
“Oh, I don't know,” he replied vaguely. “It's a long story. I'll tell you about it some day.”
Jack would have left it there for the moment. Maurice Gordon had made his meaning quite clear by glancing significantly towards his sister. Her presence, he intimated, debarred further explanation.
But Jocelyn would not have it thus. She shrewdly suspected the nature of the bargain proposed by Durnovo, and a sudden desire possessed her to have it all out—to drag this skeleton forth and flaunt it in Jack Meredith's face. The shame of it all would have a certain sweetness behind its bitterness; because, forsooth, Jack Meredith alone was to witness the shame. She did not pause to define the feeling that rose suddenly in her heart. She did not know that it was merely the pride of her love—the desire that Jack Meredith, though he would never love her, should know once for all that such a man as Victor Durnovo could be nothing but repugnant to her.
“If you mean,” she said, “that you cannot tell Mr. Meredith because I am here, you need not hesitate on that account.”
Maurice laughed awkwardly, and muttered something about matters of business. He was not good at this sort of thing. Besides, there was the initial handicapping knowledge that Jocelyn was so much cleverer than himself.
“Whether it is a matter of business or not,” she cried with glittering eyes, “I want you to tell Mr. Meredith now. He has a right to know. Tell him upon what condition Mr. Durnovo proposed to admit you into the Simiacine.”
Maurice still hesitated, bewildered, at a loss—as men are when a seemingly secure secret is suddenly discovered to the world. He would still have tried to fend it off; but Jack Meredith, with his keener perception, saw that Jocelyn was determined—that further delay would only make the matter worse.
“If your sister wants it,” he said, “you had better tell me. I am not the sort of man to act rashly—on the impulse of the moment.”
Still Maurice tried to find some means of evasion.
“Then,” cried Jocelyn, with flaming cheeks, “Iwill tell you. You were to be admitted into the Simiacine scheme by Mr. Durnovo if you could persuade or force me to marry him.”
None of them had foreseen this. It had come about so strangely, and yet so easily, in the midst of their first greeting.
“Yes,” admitted Maurice, “that was it.”
“And what answer did you give?” asked Jocelyn.
“Oh, I told him to go and hang himself—or words to that effect,” was the reply, delivered with a deprecating laugh.
“Was that your final answer?” pursued Jocelyn, inexorable. Her persistence surprised Jack. Perhaps it surprised herself.
“Yes, I think so.”
“Are you sure?”
“Well, he cut up rough and threatened to make things disagreeable; so I think I said that it was no good his asking me to do anything in the matter, as I didn't know your feelings.”
“Well, you can tell him,” cried Jocelyn hotly, “that never, under any circumstances whatever, would I dream even of the possibility of marrying him.”
And the two men were alone.
Maurice Gordon gazed blankly at the closed door.
“How was I to know she'd take it like that?” he asked helplessly.
And for once the polished gentleman of the world forgot himself—carried away by a sudden unreasoning anger which surprised him almost as much as it did Maurice Gordon.
“Why, you damned fool,” said Jack, “any idiot would have known that she would take it like that. How could she do otherwise? You, her brother, ought to know that to a girl like Miss Gordon the idea of marrying such a low brute as Durnovo could only be repugnant. Durnovo—why, he is not good enough to sweep the floor that she has stood upon! He's not fit to speak to her; and you go on letting him come to the house, sickening her with his beastly attentions! You're not capable of looking after a lady! I would have kicked Durnovo through that very window myself, only”—he paused, recalling himself with a little laugh—“only it was not my business.”
Maurice Gordon sat down forlornly. He tapped his boot with his cane.
“Oh, it's very well for you,” he answered; “but I'm not a free agent.Ican't afford to make an enemy of Durnovo.”
“You need not have made an enemy of him,” said Jack, and he saved Maurice Gordon by speaking quickly—saved him from making a confession which could hardly have failed to alter both their lives.
“It will not be very difficult,” he went on; “all she wants is your passive resistance. She does not want you to help HIM—do you see? She can do the rest. Girls can manage these things better than we think, if they want to. The difficulty usually arises from the fact that they are not always quite sure that they do want to. Go and beg her pardon. It will be all right.”
So Maurice Gordon went away also, leaving Jack Meredith alone in the drawing-room with his own thoughts.