For a moment Lady Cantourne hesitated between two strokes of social diplomacy—but only for a moment. She had heard the bell ring, and trusted that at the other end of the wire there might be one of those fatuous young men who nibbled at that wire like foolish fish round a gilt spoon-bait. Her ladyship decided to carry on the social farce a few minutes longer, instead of offering the explanation which all were awaiting.
“We women,” she said, “were not so easily deterred from our social duties.”
At this moment the door opened, and there entered a complex odour of hairwash and perfumery—a collar which must have been nearly related to a cuff, and a pair of tight patent-leather boots, all attached to and somewhat overpowering a young man.
“Ah, my dear Mr. Grubb,” said Lady Cantourne, “how good of you to call so soon! You will have some tea. Millicent, give Mr. Grubb some tea.”
“Not too strong,” added Sir John, apparently to himself, under the cover of Mr. Grubb’s somewhat scrappy greeting.
Then Lady Cantourne went to the conservatory and left Sir John and Jocelyn at the end of the long room together. There is nothing like a woman’s instinct. Jocelyn spoke at once.
“Lady Cantourne,” she said, “kindly asked me to meet you today on purpose. I live at Loango; I know your son, Mr. Meredith, and we thought you might like to hear about him and about Loango.”
She knew that with a man like Sir John any indirect approach to the subject would be courting failure. His veiled old eyes suddenly lighted up, and he turned to glance over his shoulder.
“Yes,” he said, with a strange hesitation, “yes—you are kind. Of course I am interested. I wonder,” he went on, with a sudden change of manner, “I wonder how much you know?”
His unsteady hand was resting on her gloved fingers, and he blinked at it as if wondering how it got there.
Jocelyn did not seem to notice.
“I know,” she answered, “that you have had a difference of opinion—but no one else knows. You must not think that Mr. Meredith has spoken of his private affairs to anyone else. The circumstances were exceptional, and Mr. Meredith thought that it was due to me to give me an explanation.”
Sir John looked a little puzzled, and Jocelyn went on rather hastily to explain:
“My brother and Mr. Meredith were at Eton together. They met somewhere up the Coast, and my brother asked Mr. Meredith to come and stay. It happened that Maurice was away when Mr. Meredith arrived, and I did not know who he was, so he explained.”
“I see,” said Sir John. “And you and your brother have been kind to my boy.”
Somehow he seemed to have forgotten to be cynical. He had never known what it is to have a daughter, and she was ignorant of the pleasant everyday amenities of a father’s love. As there is undoubtedly such a thing as love at first sight, so must there be sympathy at first sight. For Jocelyn it was comprehensible—nay, it was most natural. This was Jack’s father. In his manner, in everything about him, there were suggestions of Jack. This seemed to be a creature hewn, as it were, from the same material, moulded on the same lines, with slightly divergent tools. And for him—who can tell? The love that was in her heart may have reached out to meet almost as great a love locked up in his proud soul. It may have shown itself to him, openly, fearlessly, recklessly, as love sometimes does when it is strong and pure.
He had carefully selected a seat within the shadow of the curtains; but Jocelyn saw quite suddenly that he was an older man than she had taken him to be the evening before. She saw through the deception of the piteous wig—the whole art that strove to conceal the sure decay of the body, despite the desperate effort of a mind still fresh and vigorous.
“And I dare say,” he said, with a somewhat lame attempt at cynicism, “that you have heard no good of me?”
But Jocelyn would have none of that. She was no child to be abashed by sarcasm, but a woman, completed and perfected by her love.
“Excuse me,” she said sharply; “but that is not the truth, and you know it. You know as well as I do that your son would never say a word against you.”
Sir John looked hastily round. Lady Cantourne had come into the room and was talking to the two young people. Millicent was glancing uneasily over Mr. Grubb’s brainless cranium towards them. Sir John’s stiff, unsteady fingers fumbled for a moment round his lips.
“Yes,” he said, “I was wrong.”
“He has always spoken of you with the greatest love and respect,” said Jocelyn; “more than that, with admiration. But he very rarely spoke of you at all, which I think means more.”
Sir John blinked, and suddenly pulled himself together with a backward jerk of the arms which was habitual with him. It almost seemed as if he said to himself, as he squared his shoulders, “Come, no giving way to old age!”
“Has his health been good?” he asked, rather formally.
“I believe so, until quite lately. My brother heard yesterday by telegram that he was at Loango in broken health,” replied Jocelyn.
Sir John was looking at her keenly—his hard blue eyes like steel between the lashless lids.
“You disquiet me,” he said. “I have a sort of feeling that you have bad news to tell me.”
“No,” she answered, “not exactly. But it seems to me that no one realises what he is doing out in Africa—what risks he is running.”
“Tell
