“You need not temper it,” he said, “to me.”
“Millicent and I have decided to make our engagement known,” retorted Jack at once.
Sir John bowed again. To anyone but his son his suave acquiescence would have been maddening.
“I should have liked,” continued Jack, “to have done it with your consent.”
Sir John winced. He sat upright in his chair and threw back his shoulders. If Jack intended to continue in this way, there would be difficulties to face. Father and son were equally determined. Jack had proved too cunning a pupil. The old aristocrat’s own lessons were being turned against him, and the younger man has, as it were, the light of the future shining upon his game in such a case as this, while the elder plays in the gathering gloom.
“You know,” said Sir John gravely, “that I am not much given to altering my opinions. I do not say that they are of any value; but, such as they are, I usually hold to them. When you did me the honour of mentioning this matter to me last year, I gave you my opinion.”
“And it has in no way altered?”
“In no way. I have found no reason to alter it.”
“Can you modify it?” asked Jack gently.
“No.”
“Not in any degree?”
Jack drew a deep breath.
“No.”
He emitted the breath slowly, making an effort so that it did not take the form of a sigh.
“Will you, at all events, give me your reasons?” he asked. “I am not a child.”
Sir John fumbled at his lips—he glanced sharply at his son.
“I think,” he said, “that it would be advisable not to ask them.”
“I should like to know why you object to my marrying Millicent,” persisted Jack.
“Simply because I know a bad woman when I see her,” retorted Sir John deliberately.
Jack raised his eyebrows. He glanced towards the door, as if contemplating leaving the room without further ado. But he sat quite still. It was wonderful how little it hurt him. It was more—it was significant. Sir John, who was watching, saw the glance and guessed the meaning of it. An iron self-control had been the first thing he had taught Jack—years before, when he was in his first knickerbockers. The lesson had not been forgotten.
“I am sorry you have said that,” said the son.
“Just,” continued the father, “as I know a good one.”
He paused, and they were both thinking of the same woman—Jocelyn Gordon.
Sir John had said his say about Millicent Chyne; and his son knew that that was the last word. She was a bad woman. From that point he would never move.
“I think,” said Jack, “that it is useless discussing that point any longer.”
“Quite. When do you intend getting married?”
“As soon as possible.”
“A mere question for the dressmaker?” suggested Sir John suavely.
“Yes.”
Sir John nodded gravely.
“Well,” he said, “you are, as you say, no longer a child—perhaps I forget that sometimes. If I do, I must ask you to forgive me. I will not attempt to dissuade you. You probably know your own affairs best—”
He paused, drawing his two hands slowly back on his knees, looking into the fire as if his life was written there.
“At all events,” he continued, “it has the initial recommendation of a good motive. I imagine it is what is called a love-match. I don’t know much about such matters. Your mother, my lamented wife, was an excellent woman—too excellent, I take it, to be able to inspire the feeling in a mere human being—perhaps the angels … she never inspired it in me, at all events. My own life has not been quite a success within this room; outside it has been brilliant, active, full of excitement. Engineers know of machines which will stay upright so long as the pace is kept up; some of us are like that. I am not complaining. I have had no worse a time than my neighbours, except that it has lasted longer.”
He leant back suddenly in his chair with a strange little laugh. Jack was leaning forward, listening with that respect which he always accorded to his father.
“I imagine,” went on Sir John, “that the novelists and poets are not very far wrong. It seems that there is such a thing as a humdrum happiness in marriage. I have seen quite elderly people who seem still to take pleasure in each other’s society. With the example of my own life before me, I wanted yours to be different. My motive was not entirely bad. But perhaps you know your own affairs best. What money have you?”
Jack moved uneasily in his chair.
“I have completed the sale of the last consignment of Simiacine,” he began categorically. “The demand for it has increased. We have now sold two hundred thousand pounds worth in England and America. My share is about sixty thousand pounds. I have invested most of that sum, and my present income is a little over two thousand a year.”
Sir John nodded gravely.
“I congratulate you,” he said; “you have done wonderfully well. It is satisfactory in one way, in that it shows that, if a gentleman chooses to go into these commercial affairs, he can do as well as the bourgeoisie. It leads one to believe that English gentlemen are not degenerating so rapidly as I am told the evening Radical newspapers demonstrate for the trifling consideration of one halfpenny. But”—he paused with an expressive gesture of the hand—“I should have preferred that this interesting truth had been proved by the son of someone else.”
“I think,” replied Jack, “that our speculation hardly comes under the category of commerce. It was not money that was at risk, but our own lives.”
Sir John’s eyes hardened.
“Adventure,” he suggested rather indistinctly, “travel and adventure. There is a class of men one meets frequently who do a little exploring and a great deal of talking. Faute de mieux, they do not hesitate to interest one in the special pill to which they resort when indisposed, and they are not above advertising a soap. You are
