'tis better playing with a lion's whelp
than with an old one dying.
as through an opera runs the rhythm of one dominant air, so through men's lives there rings a dominant note, soft in youth, strong in manhood, and soft again in old age. but it is always there, and whether soft in the gentler periods, or strong amidst the noise and clang of the perihelion, it dominates always and gives its tone to the whole life.
the dominant tone of sir john meredith's existence had been the high clear note of battle. he had always found something or some one to fight from the very beginning, and now, in his old age, he was fighting still. his had never been the din and crash of warfare by sword and cannon, but the subtler, deeper combat of the pen. in his active days he had got through a vast amount of work—that unchronicled work of the foreign office which never comes, through the cheap newspapers, to the voracious maw of a chattering public. his name was better known on the banks of the neva, the seine, the bosphorus, or the swift-rolling iser than by the thames; and grim sir john was content to have it so.
his face had never been public property, the comic papers had never used his personality as a peg upon which to hang their ever-changing political principles. but he had always been “there,” as he himself vaguely put it. that is to say, he had always been at the back—one of those invisible powers of the stage by whose command the scene is shifted, the lights are lowered for the tragedy, or the gay music plays on the buffoon. sir john had no sympathy with a generation of men and women who would rather be laughed at and despised than unnoticed. he belonged to an age wherein it was held better to be a gentleman than the object of a cheap and evanescent notoriety—and he was at once the despair and the dread of newspaper interviewers, enterprising publishers, and tuft-hunters.
he was so little known out of his own select circle that the porters in euston station asked each other in vain who the old swell waiting for the four o'clock “up” from liverpool could be. the four o'clock was, moreover, not the first express which sir john had met that day. his stately carriage-and-pair had pushed its way into the crowd of smaller and humbler vehicular fry earlier in the afternoon, and on that occasion also the old gentleman had indulged in a grave promenade upon the platform.
he was walking up and down there now, with his hand in the small of his back, where of late he had been aware of a constant aching pain. he was very upright, however, and supremely unconscious of the curiosity aroused by his presence in the mind of the station canaille. his lips were rather more troublesome than usual, and his keen eyes twinkled with a suppressed excitement.
in former days there had been no one equal to him in certain diplomatic crises where it was a question of brow-beating suavely the uppish representative of some foreign state. no man could then rival him in the insolently aristocratic school of diplomacy which england has made her own. but in his most dangerous crisis he had never been restless, apprehensive, pessimistic, as he was at this moment. and after all it was a very simple matter that had brought him there. it was merely the question of meeting a man as if by accident, and then afterwards making that man do certain things required of him. moreover, the man was only guy oscard—learned if you will in forest craft, but a mere child in the hand of so old a diplomatist as sir john meredith.
that which made sir john so uneasy was the abiding knowledge that jack's wedding-day would dawn in twelve hours. the margin was much too small, through, however, no fault of sir john's. the west african steamer had been delayed—unaccountably—two days. a third day lost in the atlantic would have overthrown sir john meredith's plan. he had often cut things fine before, but somehow now—not that he was getting old, oh no!—but somehow the suspense was too much for his nerves. he soon became irritated and distrustful. besides the pain in his back wearied him and interfered with the clear sequence of his thoughts.
the owners of the west african steamer had telegraphed that the passengers had left for london in two separate trains. guy oscard was not in the first—there was no positive reason why he should be in the second. more depended upon his being in this second express than sir john cared to contemplate.
the course of his peregrinations brought him into the vicinity of an inspector whose attitude betokened respect while his presence raised hope.
“is there any reason to suppose that your train is coming?” he inquired of the official.
“signalled now, my lord,” replied the inspector, touching his cap.
“and what does that mean?” uncompromisingly ignorant of technical parlance.
“it will be in in one minute, my lord.”
sir john's hand was over his lips as he walked back to the carriage, casting as it were the commander's eye over the field.
“when the crowd is round the train you come and look for me,” he said to the footman, who touched his cockaded hat in silence.
at that moment the train lumbered in, the engine wearing that inanely self-important air affected by locomotives of the larger build. from all quarters an army of porters besieged the platform, and in a few seconds sir john was in the centre of an agitated crowd. there was one other calm man on that platform—another man with no parcels, whom no one sought to embrace. his brown face and close-cropped head towered above a sea of agitated bonnets. sir john, whose walk in life had been through crowds, elbowed his way forward and deliberately walked against guy oscard.
“d—n it!” he exclaimed, turning round. “ah—mr. oscard—how d'ye do?”
“how are you?” replied guy oscard, really glad to see him.
“you are a good man for a crowd; i think i will follow in your wake,” said sir john. “a number of people—of the baser sort. got my carriage here somewhere. fool of a man looking for me in the wrong place, no doubt. where are you going? may i offer you a lift? this way. here, john, take mr. oscard's parcels.”
he could not have done it better in his keenest day. guy oscard was seated in the huge, roomy carriage before he had realised what had happened to him.
“your man will look after your traps, i suppose?” said sir john, hospitably drawing the fur rug from the opposite seat.
“yes,” replied guy, “although he is not my man. he is jack's man, joseph.”
“ah, of course; excellent servant, too. jack told me he had left him with you.”
sir john leant out of the window and asked the footman whether he knew his colleague joseph, and upon receiving an answer in the affirmative he gave orders—acting as guy's mouthpiece—that the luggage was to be conveyed to russell square. while these orders were being executed the two men sat waiting in the carriage, and sir john lost no time.
“i am glad,” he said, “to have this opportunity of thanking you for all your kindness to my son in this wild expedition of yours.”
“yes,” replied oscard, with a transparent reserve which rather puzzled sir john.
“you must excuse me,” said the old gentleman, sitting rather stiffly, “if i appear to take a somewhat limited interest in this great simiacine discovery, of which there has been considerable talk in some circles. the limit to my interest is drawn by a lamentable ignorance. i am afraid the business details are rather unintelligible to me. my son has endeavoured, somewhat cursorily perhaps, to explain the matter to me, but i have never mastered the—er—commercial technicalities. however, i understand that you have made quite a mint of money, which is the chief consideration—nowadays.”
he drew the rug more closely round his knees and looked out of the window, deeply interested in a dispute between two cabmen.
“yes—we have been very successful,” said oscard. “how is your son now? when i last saw him he was in a very bad way. indeed, i hardly expected to see him again!”
sir john was still interested in the dispute, which was not yet settled.
“he is well, thank you. you know that he is going to be married.”
“he told me that he was engaged,” replied oscard; “but i did not know that anything definite was fixed.”
“the most definite thing of all is fixed—the date. it is to-morrow.”
“to-morrow?”
“yes. you have not much time to prepare your wedding garments.”
“oh,” replied oscard, with a laugh, “i have not been bidden.”
“i expect the invitation is awaiting you at your house. no doubt my son will want you to be present—they would both like you to be there, no doubt. but come with me now; we will call and see jack. i know where to find him. in fact, i have an appointment with him at a quarter to five.”
it may seem strange that guy oscard should not have asked the name of his friend's prospective bride, but sir john was ready for that. he gave his companion no time. whenever he opened his lips sir john turned oscard's thoughts aside.
what he had told him was strictly true. he had an appointment with jack—an appointment of his own making.
“yes,” he said, in pursuance of his policy of choking questions, “he is wonderfully well, as you will see for yourself.”
oscard submitted silently to this high-handed arrangement. he had not known sir john well. indeed, all his intercourse with him has been noted in these pages. he was rather surprised to find him so talkative and so very friendly. but guy oscard was not a very deep person. he was sublimely indifferent to the longdrawn motive. he presumed that sir john made friends of his son's friends; and in his straightforward acceptance of facts he was perfectly well aware that by his timely rescue he had saved jack meredith from the hands of the tribes. the presumption was that sir john knew of this, and it was only natural that he should be somewhat exceptionally gracious to the man who had saved his son's life.
it would seem that sir john divined these thoughts, for he presently spoke of them.
“owing to an unfortunate difference of opinion with my son we have not been very communicative lately,” he said, with that deliberation which he knew how to assume when he desired to be heard without interruption. “i am therefore almost entirely ignorant of your african affairs, but i imagine jack owes more to your pluck and promptness than has yet transpired. i gathered as much from one or two conversations i had with miss gordon when she was in england. i am one of miss gordon's many admirers.”
“and i am another,” said oscard frankly.
“ah! then you are happy enough to be the object of a reciprocal feeling which for myself i could scarcely expect. she spoke of you in no measured language. i gathered from her that if you had not acted with great promptitude the—er—happy event of to-morrow could not have taken place.”
the old man paused, and guy oscard, who looked somewhat distressed and distinctly uncomfortable, could find no graceful way of changing the conversation.
“in a word,” went on sir john in a very severe tone, “i owe you a great debt. you saved my boy's life.”
“yes, but you see,” argued oscard, finding his tongue at last, “out there things like that don't count for so much.”
“oh—don't they?” there was the suggestion of a smile beneath sir john's grim eyebrows.
“no,” returned oscard rather lamely, “it is a sort of thing that happens every day out there.”
sir john turned suddenly, and with the courtliness that was ever his he indulged in a rare exhibition of feeling. he laid his hand on guy oscard's stalwart knee.
“my dear oscard,” he said, and when he chose he could render his voice very soft and affectionate, “none of these arguments apply to me because i am not out there. i like you for trying to make little of your exploit. such conduct is worthy of you—worthy of a gentleman; but you cannot disguise the fact that jack owes his life to you and i owe you the same, which, between you and me i may mention, is more valuable to me than my own. i want you to remember always that i am your debtor, and if—if circumstances should ever seem to indicate that the feeling i have for you is anything but friendly and kind, do me the honour of disbelieving those indications—you understand?”
“yes,” replied oscard untruthfully.
“here we are at lady cantourne's,” continued sir john, “where, as it happens, i expect to meet jack. her ladyship is naturally interested in the affair of to-morrow, and has kindly undertaken to keep us up to date in our behaviour. you will come in with me?”
oscard remembered afterwards that he was rather puzzled—that there was perhaps in his simple mind the faintest tinge of a suspicion. at the moment, however, there was no time to do anything but follow. the man had already rung the bell, and lady cantourne's butler was holding the door open. there was something in his attitude vaguely suggestive of expectation. he never took his eyes from sir john meredith's face, as if on the alert for an unspoken order.
guy oscard followed his companion into the hall, and the very scent of the house—for each house speaks to more senses than one—made his heart leap in his broad breast. it seemed as if millicent's presence was in the very air. this was more than he could have hoped. he had not intended to call this afternoon, although the visit was only to have been postponed for twenty-four hours.
sir john meredith's face was a marvel to see. it was quite steady. he was upright and alert, with all the intrepidity of his mind up in arms. there was a light in his eyes—a gleam of light from other days, not yet burnt out.
he laid aside his gold-headed cane and threw back his shoulders.
“is mr. meredith upstairs?” he said to the butler.
“yes—sir.”
the man moved towards the stairs.
“you need not come!” said sir john, holding up his hand.
the butler stood aside and sir john led the way up to the drawing-room.
at the door he paused for a moment. guy oscard was at his heels. then he opened the door rather slowly, and motioned gracefully with his left hand to oscard to pass in before him.
oscard stepped forward. when he had crossed the threshold sir john closed the door sharply behind him and turned to go downstairs.
