Lady Cantourne had known for the last twelve months—almost as long as Sir John Meredith had known—that Millicent loved Jack. Upon this knowledge came the humiliation—the degradation—of one flirtation after another; and not even after, but interlaced. Guy Oscard in particular, and others in a minor degree, had passed that way. It was a shameless record of that which might have been good in a man prostituted and trampled under foot by the vanity of a woman. Lady Cantourne was of the world worldly; and because of that, because the finest material has a seamy side, and the highest walks in life have the hardiest weeds, she knew what love should be. Here was a love—it may be modern, advanced, chic, fin de siècle, up-to-date, or anything the coming generation may choose to call it—but it was eminently cheap and ephemeral because it could not make a little sacrifice of vanity. For the sake of the man she loved—mark that!—not only the man to whom she was engaged, but whom she loved—Millicent Chyne could not forbear pandering to her own vanity by the sacrifice of her own modesty and purity of thought. There was the sting for Lady Cantourne.
She was tolerant and eminently wise, this old lady who had made one huge mistake long ago; and she knew that the danger, the harm, the low vulgarity lay in the little fact that Millicent Chyne loved Jack Meredith, according to her lights.
While she still sat there the bell rang, and quite suddenly she chased away the troubled look from her eyes, leaving there the keen, kindly gaze to which the world of London society was well accustomed. When Jack Meredith came into the room, she rose to greet him with a smile of welcome.
“Before I shake hands,” she said, “tell me if you have been to see your father.”
“I went last night—almost straight from the station. The first person I spoke to in London, except a cabman.”
So she shook hands.
“You know,” she said, without looking at him—indeed, carefully avoiding doing so—“life is too short to quarrel with one’s father. At least it may prove too short to make it up again—that is the danger.”
She sat down, with a graceful swing of her silken skirt which was habitual with her—the remnant of a past day.
Jack Meredith winced. He had seen a difference in his father, and Lady Cantourne was corroborating it.
“The quarrel was not mine,” he said. “I admit that I ought to have known him better. I ought to have spoken to him before asking Millicent. It was a mistake.”
Lady Cantourne looked up suddenly.
“What was a mistake?”
“Not asking his—opinion first.”
She turned to the table where his letter lay, and fingered the paper pensively.
“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 basement, 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 space 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 embarrassment, “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
