we shut our hearts up nowadays,
like some old music-box that plays
unfashionable airs.
sir john meredith was sitting stiffly in a straight-backed chair by his library fire. in his young days men did not loll in deep chairs, with their knees higher than their heads. there were no such chairs in this library, just as there was no afternoon tea except for ladies. sir john meredith was distressed to observe a great many signs of the degeneration of manhood, which he attributed to the indulgence in afternoon tea. sir john had lately noticed another degeneration, namely, in the quality of the london gas. so serious was this falling off that he had taken to a lamp in the evening, which lamp stood on the table at his elbow.
some months earlier—that is to say, about six months after jack's departure—sir john had called casually upon an optician. he stood upright by the counter, and frowned down on a mild-looking man who wore the strongest spectacles made, as if in advertisement of his own wares.
“they tell me,” he said, “that you opticians make glasses now which are calculated to save the sight in old age.”
“yes, sir,” replied the optician, with wriggling white fingers. “we make a special study of that. we endeavour to save the sight—to store it up, as it were, in—a middle life, for use in old age. you see, sir, the pupil of the eye—”
sir john held up a warning hand.
“the pupil of the eye is your business, as i understand from the sign above your shop—at all events, it is not mine,” he said. “just give me some glasses to suit my sight, and don't worry me with the pupil of the eye.”
he turned towards the door, threw back his shoulders, and waited.
“spectacles, sir?” inquired the man meekly.
“spectacles, sir!” cried sir john. “no, sir. spectacles be damned! i want a pair of eyeglasses.”
and these eyeglasses were affixed to the bridge of sir john meredith's nose, as he sat stiffly in the straight-backed chair.
he was reading a scientific book which society had been pleased to read, mark, and learn, without inwardly digesting, as is the way of society with books. sir john read a good deal—he had read more lately, perhaps, since entertainments and evening parties had fallen off so lamentably—and he made a point of keeping up with the mental progress of the age.
his eyebrows were drawn down, as if the process of storing up eyesight for his old age was somewhat laborious. at times he turned and glanced over his shoulder impatiently at the lamp.
the room was very still in its solid old-fashioned luxury. although it was june a small wood fire burned in the grate, and the hiss of a piece of damp bark was the only sound within the four walls. from without, through the thick curtains, came at intervals the rumble of distant wheels. but it was just between times, and the fashionable world was at its dinner. sir john had finished his, not because he dined earlier than the rest of the world—he could not have done that—but because a man dining by himself, with a butler and a footman to wait upon him, does not take very long over his meals.
he was in full evening dress, of course, built up by his tailor, bewigged, perfumed, and cunningly aided by toilet-table deceptions.
at times his weary old eyes wandered from the printed page to the smouldering fire, where a whole volume seemed to be written—it took so long to read. then he would pull himself together, glance at the lamp, readjust the eyeglasses, and plunge resolutely into the book. he did not always read scientific books. he had a taste for travel and adventure—the arctic regions, asia, siberia, and africa—but africa was all locked away in a lower drawer of the writing-table. he did not care for the servants to meddle with his books, he told himself. he did not tell anybody that he did not care to let the servants see him reading his books of travel in africa.
there was nothing dismal or lonely about this old man sitting in evening dress in a high-backed chair, stiffly reading a scientific book of the modern, cheap science tenor—not written for scientists, but to step in when the brain is weary of novels and afraid of communing with itself. oh, no! a gentleman need never be dull. he has his necessary occupations. if he is a man of intellect he need never be idle. it is an occupation to keep up with the times.
sometimes after dinner, while drinking his perfectly made black coffee, sir john would idly turn over the invitation cards on the mantelpiece—the carriage was always in readiness—but of late the invitations had not proved very tempting. there was no doubt that society was not what it used to be. the summer was not what it used to be, either. the evenings were so confoundedly cold. so he often stayed at home and read a book.
he paused in the midst of a scientific definition and looked up with listening eyes. he had got into the way of listening to the passing wheels. lady cantourne sometimes called for him on her way to a festivity, but it was not that.
the wheels he heard had stopped—perhaps it was lady cantourne. but he did not think so. she drove behind a pair, and this was not a pair. it was wonderful how well he could detect the difference, considering the age of his ears.
a few minutes later the butler silently threw open the door, and jack stood in the threshold. sir john meredith's son had been given back to him from the gates of death.
the son, like the father, was in immaculate evening dress. there was a very subtle cynicism in the thought of turning aside on such a return as this to dress—to tie a careful white tie and brush imperceptibly ruffled hair.
there was a little pause, and the two tall men stood, half-bowing with a marvellous similarity of attitude, gazing steadily into each other's eyes. and one cannot help wondering whether it was a mere accident that jack meredith stood motionless on the threshold until his father said:
“come in.”
“graves,” he continued to the butler, with that pride of keeping up before all the world which was his, “bring up coffee. you will take coffee?” to his son while they shook hands.
“thanks, yes.”
the butler closed the door behind him. sir john was holding on to the back of his high chair in rather a constrained way—almost as if he were suffering pain. they looked at each other again, and there was a resemblance in the very manner of raising the eyelid. there was a stronger resemblance in the grim waiting silence which neither of them would break.
at last jack spoke, approaching the fire and looking into it.
“you must excuse my taking you by surprise at this—unusual hour.” he turned; saw the lamp, the book, and the eyeglasses—more especially the eyeglasses, which seemed to break the train of his thoughts. “i only landed at liverpool this afternoon,” he went on, with hopeless politeness. “i did not trouble you with a telegram, knowing that you object to them.”
the old man bowed gravely.
“i am always glad to see you,” he said suavely. “will you not sit down?”
and they had begun wrong. it is probable that neither of them had intended this. both had probably dreamed of a very different meeting. but both alike had counted without that stubborn pride which will rise up at the wrong time and in the wrong place—the pride which jack meredith had inherited by blood and teaching from his father.
“i suppose you have dined,” said sir john, when they were seated, “or may i offer you something?”
“thanks, i dined on the way up—in a twilit refreshment-room, with one waiter and a number of attendant black-beetles.”
things were going worse and worse.
sir john smiled, and he was still smiling when the man brought in coffee.
“yes,” he said conversationally, “for speed combined with discomfort i suppose we can hold up heads against any country. seeing that you are dressed, i supposed that you had dined in town.”
“no. i drove straight to my rooms, and kept the cab while i dressed.”
what an important matter this dressing seemed to be! and there were fifteen months behind it—fifteen months which had aged one of them and sobered the other.
jack was sitting forward in his chair with his immaculate dress-shoes on the fender—his knees apart, his elbows resting on them, his eyes still fixed on the fire. sir john looked keenly at him beneath his frowning, lashless lids. he saw the few grey hairs over jack's ears, the suggested wrinkles, the drawn lines about his mouth.
“you have been ill?” he said.
joseph's letter was locked away in the top drawer of his writing-table.
“yes, i had rather a bad time—a serious illness. my man nursed me through it, however, with marked success; and—the gordons, with whom i was staying, were very kind.”
“i had the pleasure of meeting miss gordon.”
jack's face was steady—suavely impenetrable.
sir john moved a little, and set his empty cup upon the table.
“a charming girl,” he added.
“yes.”
there was a little pause.
“you are fortunate in that man of yours,” sir john said. “a first-class man.”
“yes—he saved my life.”
sir john blinked, and for the first time his fingers went to his mouth, as if his lips had suddenly got beyond his control.
“if i may suggest it,” he said rather indistinctly, “i think it would be well if we signified our appreciation of his devotion in some substantial way. we might well do something between us.”
he paused and threw back his shoulders.
“i should like to give him some substantial token of my—gratitude.”
sir john was nothing if not just.
“thank you,” answered jack quietly. he turned his head a little, and glanced, not at his father, but in his direction. “he will appreciate it, i know.”
“i should like to see him to-morrow.”
jack winced, as if he had made a mistake.
“he is not in england,” he explained. “i left him behind me in africa. he has gone back to the simiacine plateau.”
the old man's face dropped rather piteously.
“i am sorry,” he said, with one of the sudden relapses into old age that lady cantourne dreaded. “i may not have a chance of seeing him to thank him personally. a good servant is so rare nowadays. these modern democrats seem to think that it is a nobler thing to be a bad servant than a good one. as if we were not all servants!”
he was thirsting for details. there were a thousand questions in his heart, but not one on his lips.
“will you have the kindness to remember my desire,” he went on suavely, “when you are settling up with your man?”
“thank you,” replied jack; “i am much obliged to you.”
“and in the meantime as you are without a servant you may as well make use of mine. one of my men—henry—who is too stupid to get into mischief—a great recommendation by the way—understands his business. i will ring and have him sent over to your rooms at once.”
he did so, and they sat in silence until the butler had come and gone.
“we have been very successful with the simiacine—our scheme,” said jack suddenly.
“ah!”
“i have brought home a consignment valued at seventy thousand pounds.”
sir john's face never changed.
“and,” he asked, with veiled sarcasm, “do you carry out the—er—commercial part of the scheme?”
“i shall begin to arrange for the sale of the consignment to-morrow. i shall have no difficulty—at least, i anticipate none. yes, i do the commercial part—as well as the other. i held the plateau against two thousand natives for three months, with fifty-five men. but i do the commercial part as well.”
as he was looking into the fire still, sir john stole a long comprehensive glance at his son's face. his old eyes lighted up with pride and something else—possibly love. the clock on the mantelpiece struck eleven. jack looked at it thoughtfully, then he rose.
“i must not keep you any longer,” he said, somewhat stiffly.
sir john rose also.
“i dare say you are tired; you need rest. in some ways you look stronger, in others you look fagged and pulled down.”
“it is the result of my illness,” said jack. “i am really quite strong.”
he paused, standing on the hearthrug, then suddenly he held out his hand.
“good-night,” he said.
“good-night.”
sir john allowed him to go to the door, to touch the handle, before he spoke.
“then—” he said, and jack paused. “then we are no farther on?”
“in what way?”
“in respect to the matter over which we unfortunately disagreed before you went away?”
jack turned, with his hand on the door.
“i have not changed my mind in any respect,” he said gently. “perhaps you are inclined to take my altered circumstances into consideration—to modify your views.”
“i am getting rather old for modification,” answered sir john suavely.
“and you see no reason for altering your decision?”
“none.”
“then i am afraid we are no farther on.” he paused. “good-night,” he added gently, as he opened the door.
“good-night.”
