“Nothing like blood, sir,” he was in the habit of saying, “in horses, dogs, and men.” And thereafter he usually threw back his shoulders.
The good blood that ran in his veins was astir tonight. The incidents of the day had aroused him from the peacefulness that lies under a weight of years (we have to lift the years one by one and lay them aside before we find it), and Sir John Meredith would have sat very upright in his chair were it not for that carping pain in his back.
He waited for an hour with his eyes almost continually on the clock, but Jack never came. Then he rang the bell.
“Coffee,” he said. “I like punctuality, if you please.”
“Thought Mr. Meredith might be expected, sir,” murmured the butler humbly.
Sir John was reading the evening paper, or appearing to read it, although he had not his glasses.
“Oblige me by refraining from thought,” he said urbanely.
So the coffee was brought, and Sir John consumed it in silent majesty. While he was pouring out his second cup—of a diminutive size—the bell rang. He set down the silver coffeepot with a clatter, as if his nerves were not quite so good as they used to be. It was not Jack, but a note from him.
My Dear Father—Circumstances have necessitated the breaking off of my engagement at the last moment. Tomorrow’s ceremony will not take place. As the above-named circumstances were partly under your control, I need hardly offer an explanation. I leave town and probably England tonight.
There were no signs of haste or discomposure. The letter was neatly written in the somewhat large calligraphy, firm, bold, ornate, which Sir John had insisted on Jack’s learning. The stationery bore a club crest. It was an eminently gentlemanly communication. Sir John read it and gravely tore it up, throwing it into the fire, where he watched it burn.
Nothing was farther from his mind than sentiment. He was not much given to sentiment, this hard-hearted old sire of an ancient stock. He never thought of the apocryphal day when he, being laid in his grave, should at last win the gratitude of his son.
“When I am dead and gone you may be sorry for it” were not the words that any man should hear from his lips.
More than once during their lives Lady Cantourne had said:
“You never change your mind, John,” referring to one thing or another. And he had invariably answered:
“No, I am not the sort of man to change.”
He had always known his own mind. When he had been in a position to rule he had done so with a rod of iron. His purpose had ever been inflexible. Jack had been the only person who had ever openly opposed his desire. In this, as in other matters, his indomitable will had carried the day, and in the moment of triumph it is only the weak who repine. Success should have no disappointment for the man who has striven for it if his will be strong.
Sir John rather liked the letter. It could only have been written by a son of his—admitting nothing, not even defeat. But he was disappointed. He had hoped that Jack would come—that some sort of a reconciliation would be patched up. And somehow the disappointment affected him physically. It attacked him in the back, and intensified the pain there. It made him feel weak and unlike himself. He rang the bell.
“Go round,” he said to the butler, “to Dr. Damer, and ask him to call in during the evening if he has time.”
The butler busied himself with the coffee tray, hesitating, desirous of gaining time.
“Anything wrong, sir? I hope you are not feeling ill,” he said nervously.
“Ill, sir,” cried Sir John. “D⸺n it, no; do I look ill? Just obey my orders if you please.”
XLIV
Made Up
My faith is large in Time,
And that which shapes it to some perfect end.
My Dear Jack—At the risk of being considered an interfering old woman, I write to ask you whether you are not soon coming to England again. As you are aware, your father and I knew each other as children. We have known each other ever since—we are now almost the only survivors of our generation. My reason for troubling you with this communication is that during the last six months I have noticed a very painful change in your father. He is getting very old—he has no one but servants about him. You know his manner—it is difficult for anyone to approach him, even for me. If you could come home—by accident—I think that you will never regret it in after life. I need not suggest discretion as to this letter.
Jack Meredith read this letter in the coffee-room of the Hotel of the Four Seasons at Wiesbaden. It was a lovely morning—the sun shone down through the trees of the Friedrichstrasse upon that spotless pavement, of which the stricken wot; the fresh breeze came bowling down from the Taunus mountains all balsamic and invigorating—it picked up the odours of the Seringa and flowering currant in the Kurgarten, and threw itself in at the open window of the coffee-room of the Hotel of the Four Seasons.
Jack Meredith was restless. Such odours as are borne on the morning breeze are apt to make those men restless who have not all that they want. And is not their name legion? The morning breeze is to the strong the moonlight of the sentimental. That which makes one vaguely yearn incites the other to get up and take.
By the train leaving Wiesbaden for Cologne, “over Mainz,” as the guidebook hath it, Jack Meredith left for England,
