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.”
