well, there's the game. i throw the stakes.
lady cantourne was sitting alone in her drawing-room, and the expression of her usually bright and smiling face betokened considerable perturbation.
truth to tell, there were not many things in life that had power to frighten her ladyship very much. hers had been a prosperous life as prosperity is reckoned. she had married a rich man who had retained his riches while he lived and had left them to her when he died. and that was all the world knew of lady cantourne. like the majority of us, she presented her character and not herself to her neighbours; and these held, as neighbours do, that the cheery, capable little woman of the world whom they met everywhere was lady cantourne. circumstances alter us less than we think. if we are of a gay temperament—gay we shall be through all. if sombre, no happiness can drive that sombreness away. lady cantourne was meant for happiness and a joyous motherhood. she had had neither; but she went on being “meant” until the end—that is to say, she was still cheery and capable. she had thrown an open letter on the little table at her side—a letter from jack meredith announcing his return to england, and his natural desire to call and pay his respects in the course of the afternoon.
“so,” she had said before she laid the letter aside, “he is home again—and he means to carry it through?”
then she had settled down to think, in her own comfortable chair (for if one may not be happy, comfort is at all events within the reach of some of us), and the troubled look had supervened.
each of our lives is like a book with one strong character moving through its pages. the strong character in lady cantourne's book had been sir john meredith. her whole life seemed to have been spent on the outskirts of his—watching it. and what she had seen had not been conducive to her own happiness.
she knew that the note she had just received meant a great deal to sir john meredith. it meant that jack had come home with the full intention of fulfilling his engagement to millicent chyne. at first she had rather resented sir john's outspoken objection to her niece as his son's wife. but during the last months she had gradually come round to his way of thinking; not, perhaps, for the first time in her life. she had watched millicent. she had studied her own niece dispassionately, as much from sir john meredith's point of view as was possible under the circumstances. and she had made several discoveries. the first of these had been precisely that discovery which one would expect from a woman—namely, the state of millicent's own feelings.
lady cantourne had known for the last twelve months—almost as long as sir john meredith had known—that millicent loved jack. upon this knowledge came the humiliation—the degradation—of one flirtation after another; and not even after, but interlaced. guy oscard in particular, and others in a minor degree, had passed that way. it was a shameless record of that which might have been good in a man prostituted and trampled under foot by the vanity of a woman. lady cantourne was of the world worldly; and because of that, because the finest material has a seamy side, and the highest walks in life have the hardiest weeds, she knew what love should be. here was a love—it may be modern, advanced, chic, fin-de-siecle, up-to-date, or anything the coming generation may choose to call it—but it was eminently cheap and ephemeral because it could not make a little sacrifice of vanity. for the sake of the man she loved—mark that!—not only the man to whom she was engaged, but whom she loved—millicent chyne could not forbear pandering to her own vanity by the sacrifice of her own modesty and purity of thought. there was the sting for lady cantourne.
she was tolerant and eminently wise, this old lady who had made one huge mistake long ago; and she knew that the danger, the harm, the low vulgarity lay in the little fact that millicent chyne loved jack meredith, according to her lights.
while she still sat there the bell rang, and quite suddenly she chased away the troubled look from her eyes, leaving there the keen, kindly gaze to which the world of london society was well accustomed. when jack meredith came into the room, she rose to greet him with a smile of welcome.
“before i shake hands,” she said, “tell me if you have been to see your father.”
“i went last night—almost straight from the station. the first person i spoke to in london, except a cabman.”
so she shook hands.
“you know,” she said, without looking at him—indeed, carefully avoiding doing so—“life is too short to quarrel with one's father. at least it may prove too short to make it up again—that is the danger.”
she sat down, with a graceful swing of her silken skirt which was habitual with her—the remnant of a past day.
jack meredith winced. he had seen a difference in his father, and lady cantourne was corroborating it.
“the quarrel was not mine,” he said. “i admit that i ought to have known him better. i ought to have spoken to him before asking millicent. it was a mistake.”
lady cantourne looked up suddenly.
“what was a mistake?”
“not asking his—opinion first.”
she turned to the table where his letter lay, and fingered the paper pensively.
“i thought, perhaps, that you had found that the other was a mistake—the engagement.”
“no,” he answered.
lady cantourne's face betrayed nothing. there was no sigh, of relief or disappointment. she merely looked at the clock.
“millicent will be in presently,” she said; “she is out riding.”
she did not think it necessary to add that her niece was riding with a very youthful officer in the guards. lady cantourne never made mischief from a sense of duty, or any mistaken motive of that sort. some people argue that there is very little that is worth keeping secret; to which one may reply that there is still less worth disclosing.
they talked of other things—of his life in africa, of his success with the simiacine, of which discovery the newspapers were not yet weary—until the bell was heard in the basement, and thereafter millicent's voice in the hall.
lady cantourne rose deliberately and went downstairs to tell her niece that he was in the drawing-room, leaving him there, waiting, alone.
presently the door opened and millicent hurried in. she threw her gloves and whip—anywhere—on the floor, and ran to him.
“oh, jack!” she cried.
it was very prettily done. in its way it was a poem. but while his arms were still round her she looked towards the window, wondering whether he had seen her ride up to the door accompanied by the very youthful officer in the guards.
“and, jack—do you know,” she went on, “all the newspapers have been full of you. you are quite a celebrity. and are you really as rich as they say?”
jack meredith was conscious of a very slight check—it was not exactly a jar. his feeling was that rather of a man who thinks that he is swimming in deep water, and finds suddenly that he can touch the bottom.
“i think i can safely say that i am not,” he answered.
and it was from that eminently practical point that they departed into the future—arranging that same, and filling up its blanks with all the wisdom of lovers and the rest of us.
lady cantourne left them there for nearly an hour, in which space of time she probably reflected they could build up as rosy a future as was good for them to contemplate. then she returned to the drawing-room, followed by a full-sized footman bearing tea.
she was too discreet a woman—too deeply versed in the sudden changes of the human mind and heart—to say anything until one of them should give her a distinct lead. they were not shy and awkward children. perhaps she reflected that the generation to which they belonged is not one heavily handicapped by too subtle a delicacy of feeling.
jack meredith gave her the lead before long.
“millicent,” he said, without a vestige of embarrassment, “has consented to be openly engaged now.”
lady cantourne nodded comprehensively.
“i think she is very wise,” she said.
there was a little pause.
“i know she is very wise,” she added, turning and laying her hand on jack's arm. the two phrases had quite a different meaning. “she will have a good husband.”
“so you can tell everybody now,” chimed in millicent in her silvery way. she was blushing and looking very pretty with her hair blown about her ears by her last canter with the youthful officer, who was at that moment riding pensively home with a bunch of violets in his coat which had not been there when he started from the stable.
she had found out casually from jack that guy oscard was exiled vaguely to the middle of africa for an indefinite period. the rest—the youthful officer and the others—did not give her much anxiety. they, she argued to herself, had nothing to bring against her. they may have thought things—but who can prevent people from thinking things? besides, “i thought” is always a poor position.
there were, it was true, a good many men whom she would rather not tell herself. but this difficulty was obviated by requesting lady cantourne to tell everybody. everybody would tell everybody else, and would, of course, ask if these particular persons in question had been told; if not, they would have to be told at once. indeed there would be quite a competition to relieve millicent of her little difficulty. besides, she could not marry more than one person. besides—besides—besides—the last word of millicent and her kind.
lady cantourne was not very communicative during that dainty little tea a trois, but she listened smilingly to jack's optimistic views and millicent's somewhat valueless comments.
“i am certain,” said millicent, at length boldly attacking the question that was in all their minds, “that sir john will be all right now. of course, it is only natural that he should not like jack to—to get engaged yet. especially before, when it would have made a difference to him—in money, i mean. but now that jack is independent—you know, auntie, that jack is richer than sir john—is it not nice?”
“very,” answered lady cantourne, in a voice rather suggestive of humouring a child's admiration of a new toy; “very nice indeed.”
“and all so quickly!” pursued millicent. “only a few months—not two years, you know. of course, at first, the time went horribly slow; but afterwards, when one got accustomed to it, life became tolerable. you did not expect me to sit and mope all day, did you, jack?”
“no, of course not,” replied jack; and quite suddenly, as in a flash, he saw his former self, and wondered vaguely whether he would get back to that self.
lady cantourne was rather thoughtful at that moment. she could not help coming back and back to sir john.
“of course,” she said to jack, “we must let your father know at once. the news must not reach him from an outside source.”
jack nodded.
“if it did,” he said, “i do not think the 'outside source' would get much satisfaction out of him.”
“probably not; but i was not thinking of the 'outside source' or the outside effect. i was thinking of his feelings,” replied lady cantourne rather sharply. she had lately fallen into the habit of not sparing millicent very much; and that young lady, bright and sweet and good-natured, had not failed to notice it. indeed, she had spoken of it to several people—to partners at dances and others. she attributed it to approaching old age.
“i will write and tell him,” said jack quietly.
lady cantourne raised her eyebrows slightly, but made no spoken comment.
“i think,” she said, after a little pause, “that millicent ought to write too.”
millicent shuddered prettily. she was dimly conscious that her handwriting—of an exaggerated size, executed with a special broad-pointed pen purchasable in only one shop in regent street—was not likely to meet with his approval. a letter written thus—two words to a line—on note-paper that would have been vulgar had it not been so very novel, was sure to incur prejudice before it was fully unfolded by a stuffy, old-fashioned person.
“i will try,” she said; “but you know, auntie dear, i cannot write a long explanatory letter. there never seems to be time, does there? besides, i am afraid sir john disapproves of me. i don't know why; i'm sure i have tried”—which was perfectly true.
even funerals and lovers must bow to meal-times, and jack meredith was not the man to outstay his welcome. he saw lady cantourne glance at the clock. clever as she was, she could not do it without being seen by him.
so he took his leave, and millicent went to the head of the stairs with him.
he refused the pressing invitation of a hansom-cabman, and proceeded to walk leisurely home to his rooms. perhaps he was wondering why his heart was not brimming over with joy. the human heart has a singular way of seeing farther than its astute friend and coadjutor, the brain. it sometimes refuses to be filled with glee, when outward circumstances most distinctly demand that state. and at other times, when outward things are strong, not to say opaque, the heart is joyful, and we know not why.
jack meredith knew that he was the luckiest man in london. he was rich, in good health, and he was engaged to be married to millicent chyne, the acknowledged belle of his circle. she had in no way changed. she was just as pretty, as fascinating, as gay as ever; and something told him that she loved him—something which had not been there before he went away, something that had come when the overweening vanity of youth went. and it was just this knowledge to which he clung with a nervous mental grip. he did not feel elated as he should; he was aware of that, and he could not account for it. but millicent loved him, so it must be all right. he had always cared for millicent. everything had been done in order that he might marry her—the quarrel with his father, the finding of the simiacine, the determination to get well which had saved his life—all this so that he might marry millicent. and now he was going to marry her, and it must be all right. perhaps, as men get older, the effervescent elation of youth leaves them; but they are none the less happy. that must be it.
