“No. It would hardly serve our purpose to write a book.”
“In what way?” inquired Sir John.
“Our purpose is to conceal the whereabouts of the Simiacine Plateau.”
“But you are not going back there?” exclaimed Sir John unguardedly.
“We certainly do not intend to abandon it.”
Sir John leant forward again with his two hands open on his knees, thinking deeply.
“A married man,” he said, “could hardly reconcile it with his conscience to undertake such a perilous expedition.”
“No,” replied Jack, with quiet significance.
Sir John gave a forced laugh.
“I see,” he said, “that you have outwitted me. If I do not give my consent to your marriage without further delay, you will go back to Africa.”
Jack bowed his head gravely.
There was a long silence, while the two men sat side by side, gazing into the fire.
“I cannot afford to do that,” said the father at length; “I am getting too old to indulge in the luxury of pride. I will attend your marriage. I will smile and say pretty things to the bridesmaids. Before the world I will consent under the condition that the ceremony does not take place before two months from this date.”
“I agree to that,” put in Jack.
Sir John rose and stood on the hearthrug, looking down from his great height upon his son.
“But,” he continued, “between us let it be understood that I move in no degree from my original position. I object to Millicent Chyne as your wife. But I bow to the force of circumstances. I admit that you have a perfect right to marry whom you choose—in two months time.”
So Jack took his leave.
“In two months’ time,” repeated Sir John, when he was alone, with one of his twisted, cynic smiles, “in two months’ time—qui vivra verra.”
XXXVII
Foul Play
Oh, fairest of creation, last and best
Of all God’s works!
For one or two days after the public announcement of her engagement, Millicent was not quite free from care. She rather dreaded the posts. It was not that she feared one letter in particular, but the postman’s disquietingly urgent rap caused her a vague uneasiness many times a day.
Sir John’s reply to her appealing little letter came short and sharp. She showed it to no one.
My Dear Miss Chyne—I hasten to reply to your kind letter of today announcing your approaching marriage with my son. There are a certain number of trinkets which have always been handed on from generation to generation. I will at once have these cleaned by the jeweller, in order that they may be presented to you immediately after the ceremony. Allow me to urge upon you the advisability of drawing up and signing a prenuptial marriage settlement.
Millicent bit her pretty lip when she perused this note. She made two comments, at a considerable interval of time.
“Stupid old thing!” was the first; and then, after a pause, “I hope they are all diamonds.”
Close upon the heels of this letter followed a host of others. There was the gushing, fervent letter of the friend whose joy was not marred by the knowledge that a wedding present must necessarily follow. Those among one’s friends who are not called upon to offer a more substantial token of joy than a letter are always the most keenly pleased to hear the news of an engagement. There was the sober sheet (crossed) from the elderly relative living in the country, who, never having been married herself, takes the opportunity of giving four pages of advice to one about to enter that parlous state. There was the fatherly letter from the country rector who christened Millicent, and thinks that he may be asked to marry her in a fashionable London church—and so to a bishopric. On heavily-crested stationery follow the missives of the ladies whose daughters would make sweet bridesmaids. Also the hearty congratulations of the slight acquaintance, who is going to Egypt for the winter, and being desirous of letting her house without having to pay one of those horrid agents, “sees no harm in mentioning it.” The house being most singularly suitable for a young married couple. Besides these, the thousand and one who wished to be invited to the wedding in order to taste cake and champagne at the time, and thereafter the sweeter glory of seeing their names in the fashionable news.
All these Millicent read with little interest, and answered in that conveniently large calligraphy which made three lines look like a note, and magnified a note into a four-page letter. The dressmakers’ circulars—the tradesmen’s illustrated catalogues of things she could not possibly want, and the jewellers’ delicate photographs interested her a thousand times more. But even these did not satisfy her. All these people were glad—most of them were delighted. Millicent wanted to hear from those who were not delighted, not even pleased, but in despair. She wanted to hear more of the broken hearts. But somehow the broken hearts were silent. Could it be that they did not care? Could it be that they were only flirting? She dismissed these silly questions with the promptness which they deserved. It was useless to think of it in that way—more useless, perhaps, than she suspected; for she was not deep enough, nor observant enough, to know that the broken hearts in question had been much more influenced by the suspicion that she cared for them than by the thought that they cared for her. She did not know the lamentable, vulgar fact that any woman can be a flirt if she only degrade her womanhood to flattery. Men do not want to love so much as to be loved. Such is, moreover, their sublime vanity that they are ready to believe anyone who tells them, however subtly—mesdames, you cannot be too subtle for a man’s vanity to find your meaning—that they are not as other men.
To the commonplace observer it would, therefore,
