“And I am another,” said Oscard frankly.
“Ah! Then you are happy enough to be the object of a reciprocal feeling which for myself I could scarcely expect. She spoke of you in no measured language. I gathered from her that if you had not acted with great promptitude the—er—happy event of tomorrow could not have taken place.”
The old man paused, and Guy Oscard, who looked somewhat distressed and distinctly uncomfortable, could find no graceful way of changing the conversation.
“In a word,” went on Sir John in a very severe tone, “I owe you a great debt. You saved my boy’s life.”
“Yes, but you see,” argued Oscard, finding his tongue at last, “out there things like that don’t count for so much.”
“Oh—don’t they?” There was the suggestion of a smile beneath Sir John’s grim eyebrows.
“No,” returned Oscard rather lamely, “it is a sort of thing that happens every day out there.”
Sir John turned suddenly, and with the courtliness that was ever his he indulged in a rare exhibition of feeling. He laid his hand on Guy Oscard’s stalwart knee.
“My dear Oscard,” he said, and when he chose he could render his voice very soft and affectionate, “none of these arguments apply to me because I am not out there. I like you for trying to make little of your exploit. Such conduct is worthy of you—worthy of a gentleman; but you cannot disguise the fact that Jack owes his life to you and I owe you the same, which, between you and me I may mention, is more valuable to me than my own. I want you to remember always that I am your debtor, and if—if circumstances should ever seem to indicate that the feeling I have for you is anything but friendly and kind, do me the honour of disbelieving those indications—you understand?”
“Yes,” replied Oscard untruthfully.
“Here we are at Lady Cantourne’s,” continued Sir John, “where, as it happens, I expect to meet Jack. Her ladyship is naturally interested in the affair of tomorrow, and has kindly undertaken to keep us up to date in our behaviour. You will come in with me?”
Oscard remembered afterwards that he was rather puzzled—that there was perhaps in his simple mind the faintest tinge of a suspicion. At the moment, however, there was no time to do anything but follow. The man had already rung the bell, and Lady Cantourne’s butler was holding the door open. There was something in his attitude vaguely suggestive of expectation. He never took his eyes from Sir John Meredith’s face, as if on the alert for an unspoken order.
Guy Oscard followed his companion into the hall, and the very scent of the house—for each house speaks to more senses than one—made his heart leap in his broad breast. It seemed as if Millicent’s presence was in the very air. This was more than he could have hoped. He had not intended to call this afternoon, although the visit was only to have been postponed for twenty-four hours.
Sir John Meredith’s face was a marvel to see. It was quite steady. He was upright and alert, with all the intrepidity of his mind up in arms. There was a light in his eyes—a gleam of light from other days, not yet burnt out.
He laid aside his gold-headed cane and threw back his shoulders.
“Is Mr. Meredith upstairs?” he said to the butler.
“Yes—sir.”
The man moved towards the stairs.
“You need not come!” said Sir John, holding up his hand.
The butler stood aside and Sir John led the way up to the drawing-room.
At the door he paused for a moment. Guy Oscard was at his heels. Then he opened the door rather slowly, and motioned gracefully with his left hand to Oscard to pass in before him.
Oscard stepped forward. When he had crossed the threshold Sir John closed the door sharply behind him and turned to go downstairs.
XLI
À Trois
Men serve women kneeling; when they get on their feet they go away.
Guy Oscard stood for a moment on the threshold. He heard the door close behind him, and he took two steps farther forward.
Jack Meredith and Millicent were at the fireplace. There was a heap of disordered paper and string upon the table, and a few wedding presents standing in the midst of their packing.
Millicent’s pretty face was quite white. She looked from Meredith to Oscard with a sudden horror in her eyes. For the first time in her life she was at a loss—quite taken aback.
“Oh‑h!” she whispered, and that was all.
The silence that followed was tense as if something in the atmosphere was about to snap; and in the midst of it the wheels of Sir John’s retreating carriage came to the ears of the three persons in the drawing-room.
It was only for a moment, but in that moment the two men saw clearly. It was as if the veil from the girl’s mind had fallen—leaving her thoughts confessed, bare before them. In the same instant they both saw—they both sped back in thought to their first meeting, to the hundred links of the chain that brought them to the present moment—they knew; and Millicent felt that they knew.
“Are you going to be married tomorrow?” asked Guy Oscard deliberately. He never was a man to whom a successful appeal for the slightest mitigation of justice could have been made. His dealings had ever been with men, from whom he had exacted as scrupulous an honour as he had given. He did not know that women are different—that honour is not their strong point.
Millicent did not answer. She looked to Meredith to answer for her; but Meredith was looking at Oscard, and in his lazy
