With Edged Tools Part 53

"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 bas.e.m.e.nt, 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 s.p.a.ce 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 embarra.s.sment, "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 compet.i.tion 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 br.i.m.m.i.n.g 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 circ.u.mstances 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.

CHAPTER x.x.xVI. NO COMPROMISE

Where he fixed his heart he set his hand To do the thing he willed.