the life unlived, the deed undone, the tear
unshed.
“i rather expect—lady cantourne,” said sir john to his servants when he returned home, “any time between now and ten o'clock.”
the butler, having a vivid recollection of an occasion when lady cantourne was shown into a drawing-room where there were no flowers, made his preparations accordingly. the flowers were set out with that masculine ignorance of such matters which brings a smile—not wholly of mirth—to a woman's face. the little-used drawing-room was brought under the notice of the housekeeper for that woman's touch which makes a drawing-room what it is. it was always ready—this room, though sir john never sat in it. but for lady cantourne it was always more than ready.
sir john went to the library and sat rather wearily down in the stiff-backed chair before the fire. he began by taking up the evening newspaper, but failed to find his eyeglasses, which had twisted up in some aggravating manner with his necktie. so he laid aside the journal and gave way to the weakness of looking into the fire.
once or twice his head dropped forward rather suddenly, so that his clean-shaven chin touched his tie-pin, and this without a feeling of sleepiness warranting the relaxation of the spinal column. he sat up suddenly on each occasion and threw back his shoulders.
“almost seems,” he muttered once, “as if i were getting to be an old man.”
after that he remembered nothing until the butler, coming in with the lamp, said that lady cantourne was in the drawing-room. the man busied himself with the curtains, carefully avoiding a glance in his master's direction. no one had ever found sir john asleep in a chair during the hours that other people watch, and this faithful old servant was not going to begin to do so now.
“ah,” said sir john, surreptitiously composing his collar and voluminous necktie, “thank you.”
he rose and glanced at the clock. it was nearly seven. he had slept through the most miserable hour of millicent chyne's life.
at the head of the spacious staircase he paused in front of the mirror, half hidden behind exotics, and pressed down his wig behind either ear. then he went into the drawing-room.
lady cantourne was standing impatiently on the hearthrug, and scarcely responded to his bow.
“has jack been here?” she asked.
“no.”
she stamped a foot, still neat despite its long journey over a road that had never been very smooth. her manner was that of a commander-in-chief, competent but unfortunate, in the midst of a great reverse.
“he has not been here this afternoon?”
“no,” answered sir john, closing the door behind him.
“and you have not heard anything from him?”
“not a word. as you know, i am not fortunate enough to be fully in his confidence.”
lady cantourne glanced round the room as if looking for some object upon which to fix her attention. it was a characteristic movement which he knew, although he had only seen it once or twice before. it indicated that if there was an end to lady cantourne's wit, she had almost reached that undesirable bourne.
“he has broken off his engagement,” she said, looking her companion very straight in the face, “now—at the eleventh hour. do you know anything about it?”
she came closer to him, looking up from her compact little five-feet-two with discerning eyes.
“john!” she exclaimed.
she came still nearer and laid her gloved hands upon his sleeve.
“john! you know something about this.”
“i should like to know more,” he said suavely. “i am afraid—millicent will be inconvenienced.”
lady cantourne looked keenly at him for a moment. physically she almost stood on tip-toe, mentally she did it without disguise. then she turned away and sat on a chair which had always been set apart for her.
“it is a question,” she said gravely, “whether any one has a right to punish a woman so severely.”
the corner of sir john's mouth twitched.
“i would rather punish her than have jack punished for the rest of his life.”
“et moi?” she snapped impatiently.
“ah!” with a gesture learnt in some foreign court, “i can only ask your forgiveness. i can only remind you that she is not your daughter—if she were she would be a different woman—while he is my son.”
lady cantourne nodded as if to indicate that he need explain no more.
“how did you do it?” she asked quietly.
“i did not do it. i merely suggested to guy oscard that he should call on you. millicent and her fiance—the other—were alone in the drawing-room when we arrived. thinking that i might be de trop i withdrew, and left the young people to settle it among themselves, which they have apparently done! i am, like yourself, a great advocate for allowing young people to settle things among themselves. they are also welcome to their enjoyment of the consequences so far as i am concerned.”
“but millicent was never engaged to guy oscard.”
“did she tell you so?” asked sir john, with a queer smile.
“yes.”
“and you believed her?”
“of course—and you?”
sir john smiled his courtliest smile.
“i always believe a lady,” he answered, “before her face. mr. guy oscard gave it out in africa that he was engaged to be married, and he even declared that he was returning home to be married. jack did the same in every respect. unfortunately there was only one fond heart waiting for the couple of them at home. that is why i thought it expedient to give the young people an opportunity of settling it between themselves.”
the smile left his worn old face. he moved uneasily and walked to the fireplace, where he stood with his unsteady hands moving idly, almost nervously, among the ornaments on the mantelpiece. he committed the rare discourtesy of almost turning his back upon a lady.
“i must ask you to believe,” he said, looking anywhere but at her, “that i did not forget you in the matter. i may seem to have acted with an utter disregard for your feelings—”
he broke off suddenly, and, turning, he stood on the hearthrug with his feet apart, his hands clasped behind his back, his head slightly bowed.
“i drew on the reserve of an old friendship,” he said. “you were kind enough to say the other day that you were indebted to me to some extent. you are indebted to me to a larger extent than you perhaps realise. you owe me fifty years of happiness—fifty years of a life that might have been happy had you decided differently when—when we were younger. i do not blame you now—i never have blamed you. but the debt is there—you know my life, you know almost every day of it—you cannot deny the debt. i drew upon that.”
and the white-haired woman raised her hand.
“don't,” she said gently, “please don't say any more. i know all that your life has been, and why. you did quite right. what is a little trouble to me, a little passing inconvenience, the tattle of a few idle tongues, compared with what jack's life is to you? i see now that i ought to have opposed it strongly instead of letting it take its course. you were right—you always have been right, john. there is a sort of consolation in the thought. i like it. i like to think that you were always right and that it was i who was wrong. it confirms my respect for you. we shall get over this somehow.”
“the young lady,” suggested sir john, “will get over it after the manner of her kind. she will marry some one else, let us hope, before her wedding-dress goes out of fashion.”
“millicent will have to get over it as she may. her feelings need scarcely be taken into consideration.”
lady cantourne made a little movement towards the door. there was much to see to—much of that women's work which makes weddings the wild, confused ceremonies that they are.
“i am afraid,” said sir john, “that i never thought of taking them into consideration. as you know, i hardly considered yours. i hope i have not overdrawn that reserve.”
he had crossed the room as he spoke to open the door for her. his fingers were on the handle, but he did not turn it, awaiting her answer. she did not look at him, but past him towards the shaded lamp with that desire to fix her attention upon some inanimate object which he knew of old.
“the reserve,” she answered, “will stand more than that. it has accumulated—with compound interest. but i deny the debt of which you spoke just now. there is no debt. i have paid it, year by year, day by day. for each one of those fifty years of unhappiness i have paid a year—of regret.”
he opened the door and she passed out into the brilliantly lighted passage and down the stairs, where the servants were waiting to open the door and help her to her carriage.
sir john did not go downstairs with her.
later on he dined in his usual solitary grandeur. he was as carefully dressed as ever. the discipline of his household—like the discipline under which he held himself—was unrelaxed.
“what wine is this?” he asked when he had tasted the port.
“yellow seal, sir,” replied the butler confidentially.
sir john sipped again.
“it is a new bin,” he said.
“yes, sir. first bottle of the lower bin, sir.”
sir john nodded with an air of self-satisfaction. he was pleased to have proved to himself and to the “damned butler,” who had caught him napping in the library, that he was still a young man in himself, with senses and taste unimpaired. but his hand was at the small of his back as he returned to the library.
he was not at all sure about jack—did not know whether to expect him or not. jack did not always do what one might have expected him to do under given circumstances. and sir john rather liked him for it. perhaps it was that small taint of heredity which is in blood, and makes it thicker than water.
“nothing like blood, sir,” he was in the habit of saying, “in horses, dogs, and men.” and thereafter he usually threw back his shoulders.
the good blood that ran in his veins was astir to-night. the incidents of the day had aroused him from the peacefulness that lies under a weight of years (we have to lift the years one by one and lay them aside before we find it), and sir john meredith would have sat very upright in his chair were it not for that carping pain in his back.
he waited for an hour with his eyes almost continually on the clock, but jack never came. then he rang the bell.
“coffee,” he said. “i like punctuality, if you please.”
“thought mr. meredith might be expected, sir,” murmured the butler humbly.
sir john was reading the evening paper, or appearing to read it, although he had not his glasses.
“oblige me by refraining from thought,” he said urbanely.
so the coffee was brought, and sir john consumed it in silent majesty. while he was pouring out his second cup—of a diminutive size—the bell rang. he set down the silver coffee-pot with a clatter, as if his nerves were not quite so good as they used to be. it was not jack, but a note from him.
“my dear father,—circumstances have necessitated the breaking off of my engagement at the last moment. to-morrow's ceremony will not take place. as the above-named circumstances were partly under your control, i need hardly offer an explanation. i leave town and probably england to-night.—i am, your affectionate son,
“john meredith.”
there were no signs of haste or discomposure. the letter was neatly written in the somewhat large calligraphy, firm, bold, ornate, which sir john had insisted on jack's learning. the stationery bore a club crest. it was an eminently gentlemanly communication. sir john read it and gravely tore it up, throwing it into the fire, where he watched it burn.
nothing was farther from his mind than sentiment. he was not much given to sentiment, this hard-hearted old sire of an ancient stock. he never thought of the apocryphal day when he, being laid in his grave, should at last win the gratitude of his son.
“when i am dead and gone you may be sorry for it” were not the words that any man should hear from his lips.
more than once during their lives lady cantourne had said:
“you never change your mind, john,” referring to one thing or another. and he had invariably answered:
“no, i am not the sort of man to change.”
he had always known his own mind. when he had been in a position to rule he had done so with a rod of iron. his purpose had ever been inflexible. jack had been the only person who had ever openly opposed his desire. in this, as in other matters, his indomitable will had carried the day, and in the moment of triumph it is only the weak who repine. success should have no disappointment for the man who has striven for it if his will be strong.
sir john rather liked the letter. it could only have been written by a son of his—admitting nothing, not even defeat. but he was disappointed. he had hoped that jack would come—that some sort of a reconciliation would be patched up. and somehow the disappointment affected him physically. it attacked him in the back, and intensified the pain there. it made him feel weak and unlike himself. he rang the bell.
“go round,” he said to the butler, “to dr. damer, and ask him to call in during the evening if he has time.”
the butler busied himself with the coffee tray, hesitating, desirous of gaining time.
“anything wrong, sir? i hope you are not feeling ill,” he said nervously.
“ill, sir,” cried sir john. “d—n it, no; do i look ill? just obey my orders if you please.”
