With Edged Tools Part 66

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."

CHAPTER XLIV. MADE UP

My faith is large in Time, And that which shapes it to some perfect end.

"MY DEAR JACK,--At the risk of being considered an interfering old woman, I write to ask you whether you are not soon coming to England again. As you are aware, your father and I knew each other as children.

We have known each other ever since--we are now almost the only survivors of our generation. My reason for troubling you with this communication is that during the last six months I have noticed a very painful change in your father. He is getting very old--he has no one but servants about him. You know his manner--it is difficult for any one to approach him, even for me. If you could come home--by accident--I think that you will never regret it in after life. I need not suggest discretion as to this letter. Your affectionate friend,

"CAROLINE CANTOURNE."

Jack Meredith read this letter in the coffee-room of the Hotel of the Four Seasons at Wiesbaden. It was a lovely morning--the sun shone down through the trees of the Friedrichstra.s.se upon that spotless pavement, of which the stricken wot; the fresh breeze came bowling down from the Taunus mountains all balsamic and invigorating--it picked up the odours of the Seringa and flowering currant in the Kurgarten, and threw itself in at the open window of the coffee-room of the Hotel of the Four Seasons.

Jack Meredith was restless. Such odours as are borne on the morning breeze are apt to make those men restless who have not all that they want. And is not their name legion? The morning breeze is to the strong the moonlight of the sentimental. That which makes one vaguely yearn incites the other to get up and take.

By the train leaving Wiesbaden for Cologne, "over Mainz," as the guide-book hath it, Jack Meredith left for England, in which country he had not set foot for fifteen months. Guy Oscard was in Cashmere; the Simiacine was almost forgotten as a nine days' wonder except by those who live by the ills of mankind. Millicent Chyne had degenerated into a restless society "hack." With great skill she had posed as a martyr. She had allowed it to be understood that she, having remained faithful to Jack Meredith through his time of adversity, had been heartlessly thrown over when fortune smiled upon him and there was a chance of his making a more brilliant match. With a chivalry which was not without a keen shaft of irony, father and son allowed this story to pa.s.s uncontradicted.

Perhaps a few believed it; perhaps they had foreseen the future. It may have been that they knew that Millicent Chyne, surrounded by the halo of whatever story she might invent, would be treated with a certain careless nonchalance by the older men, with a respectful avoidance by the younger. Truly women have the deepest punishment for their sins here on earth; for sooner or later the time will come--after the brilliancy of the first triumph, after the less pure satisfaction of the skilled siren--the time will come when all that they want is an enduring, honest love. And it is written that an enduring love cannot, with the best will in the world, be bestowed on an unworthy object. If a woman wishes to be loved purely she must have a pure heart, and NO PAST, ready for the reception of that love. This is a sine qua non. The woman with a past has no future.

The short March day was closing in over London with that murky suggestion of hopelessness affected by metropolitan eventide when Jack Meredith presented himself at the door of his father's house.

In his reception by the servants there was a subtle suggestion of expectation which was not lost on his keen mind. There is no patience like that of expectation in an old heart. Jack Meredith felt vaguely that he had been expected thus, daily for many months past.

He was shown into the library, and the tall form standing there on the hearthrug had not the outline for which he had looked. The battle between old age and a stubborn will is long. But old age wins. It never raises the siege. It starves the garrison out. Sir John Meredith's head seemed to have shrunk. The wig did not fit at the back. His clothes, always bearing the suggestion of emptiness, seemed to hang on ancient-given lines as if the creases were well established. The clothes were old. The fateful doctrine of not-worth-while had set in.

Father and son shook hands, and Sir John walked feebly to the stiff-backed chair, where he sat down in shamefaced silence. He was ashamed of his infirmities. His was the instinct of the dog that goes away into some hidden corner to die.

"I am glad to see you," he said, using his two hands to push himself further back in his chair.

There was a little pause. The fire was getting low. It fell together with a feeble, crumbling sound.

"Shall I put some coals on?" asked Jack.

A simple question--if you will. But it was asked by the son in such a tone of quiet, filial submission, that a whole volume could not contain all that it said to the old man's proud, unbending heart.

"Yes, my boy, do."

And the last six years were wiped away like evil writing from a slate.

There was no explanation. These two men were not of those who explain themselves, and in the warmth of explanation say things which they do not fully mean. The opinions that each had held during the years they had left behind had perhaps been modified on both sides, but neither sought details of the modification. They knew each other now, and each respected the indomitable will of the other.

They inquired after each other's health. They spoke of events of a common interest. Trifles of everyday occurrence seemed to contain absorbing details. But it is the everyday occurrence that makes the life. It was the putting on of the coals that reconciled these two men.

"Let me see," said John, "you gave up your rooms before you left England, did you not?"

"Yes."

Jack drew forward his chair and put his feet out towards the fire. It was marvellous how thoroughly at home he seemed to be.

"Then," continued Sir John, "where is your luggage?"

"I left it at the club."

"Send along for it. Your room is--er, quite ready for you. I shall be glad if you will make use of it as long as you like. You will be free to come and go as if you were in your own house."

Jack nodded with a strange, twisted little smile, as if he were suffering from cramp in the legs. It was cramp--at the heart.

"Thanks," he said, "I should like nothing better. Shall I ring?"

"If you please."

Jack rang, and they waited in the fading daylight without speaking. At times Sir John moved his limbs, his hand on the arm of the chair and his feet on the hearth-rug, with the jerky, half-restless energy of the aged which is not pleasant to see.

When the servant came, it was Jack who gave the orders, and the butler listened to them with a sort of enthusiasm. When he had closed the door behind him he pulled down his waistcoat with a jerk, and as he walked downstairs he muttered "Thank 'eaven!" twice, and wiped away a tear from his bibulous eye.

"What have you been doing with yourself since I saw you?" inquired Sir John conversationally when the door was closed.

"I have been out to India--merely for the voyage. I went with Oscard, who is out there still, after big-game."

Sir John Meredith nodded.

"I like that man," he said, "he is tough. I like tough men. He wrote me a letter before he went away. It was the letter of--one gentleman to another. Is he going to spend the rest of his life 'after big-game'?"

Jack laughed.

"It seems rather like it. He is cut out for that sort of life. He is too big for narrow streets and cramped houses."

"And matrimony?"

"Yes--and matrimony."

Sir John was leaning forward in his chair, his two withered hands clasped on his knees.

"You know," he said slowly, blinking at the fire, "he cared for that girl--more than you did, my boy."