With Edged Tools

in which country he had not set foot for fifteen months. Guy Oscard was in Kashmir; the Simiacine was almost forgotten as a nine days’ wonder except by those who live by the ills of mankind. Millicent Chyne had degenerated into a restless society “hack.” With great skill she had posed as a martyr. She had allowed it to be understood that she, having remained faithful to Jack Meredith through his time of adversity, had been heartlessly thrown over when fortune smiled upon him and there was a chance of his making a more brilliant match. With a chivalry which was not without a keen shaft of irony, father and son allowed this story to pass uncontradicted. Perhaps a few believed it; perhaps they had foreseen the future. It may have been that they knew that Millicent Chyne, surrounded by the halo of whatever story she might invent, would be treated with a certain careless nonchalance by the older men, with a respectful avoidance by the younger. Truly women have the deepest punishment for their sins here on earth; for sooner or later the time will come⁠—after the brilliancy of the first triumph, after the less pure satisfaction of the skilled siren⁠—the time will come when all that they want is an enduring, honest love. And it is written that an enduring love cannot, with the best will in the world, be bestowed on an unworthy object. If a woman wishes to be loved purely she must have a pure heart, and no past, ready for the reception of that love. This is a sine qua non. The woman with a past has no future.

The short March day was closing in over London with that murky suggestion of hopelessness affected by metropolitan eventide when Jack Meredith presented himself at the door of his father’s house.

In his reception by the servants there was a subtle suggestion of expectation which was not lost on his keen mind. There is no patience like that of expectation in an old heart. Jack Meredith felt vaguely that he had been expected thus, daily for many months past.

He was shown into the library, and the tall form standing there on the hearthrug had not the outline for which he had looked. The battle between old age and a stubborn will is long. But old age wins. It never raises the siege. It starves the garrison out. Sir John Meredith’s head seemed to have shrunk. The wig did not fit at the back. His clothes, always bearing the suggestion of emptiness, seemed to hang on ancient-given lines as if the creases were well established. The clothes were old. The fateful doctrine of not-worth-while had set in.

Father and son shook hands, and Sir John walked feebly to the stiff-backed chair, where he sat down in shamefaced silence. He was ashamed of his infirmities. His was the instinct of the dog that goes away into some hidden corner to die.

“I am glad to see you,” he said, using his two hands to push himself further back in his chair.

There was a little pause. The fire was getting low. It fell together with a feeble, crumbling sound.

“Shall I put some coals on?” asked Jack.

A simple question⁠—if you will. But it was asked by the son in such a tone of quiet, filial submission, that a whole volume could not contain all that it said to the old man’s proud, unbending heart.

“Yes, my boy, do.”

And the last six years were wiped away like evil writing from a slate.

There was no explanation. These two men were not of those who explain themselves, and in the warmth of explanation say things which they do not fully mean. The opinions that each had held during the years they had left behind had perhaps been modified on both sides, but neither sought details of the modification. They knew each other now, and each respected the indomitable will of the other.

They inquired after each other’s health. They spoke of events of a common interest. Trifles of everyday occurrence seemed to contain absorbing details. But it is the everyday occurrence that makes the life. It was the putting on of the coals that reconciled these two men.

“Let me see,” said John, “you gave up your rooms before you left England, did you not?”

“Yes.”

Jack drew forward his chair and put his feet out towards the fire. It was marvellous how thoroughly at home he seemed to be.

“Then,” continued Sir John, “where is your luggage?”

“I left it at the club.”

“Send along for it. Your room is⁠—er, quite ready for you. I shall be glad if you will make use of it as long as you like. You will be free to come and go as if you were in your own house.”

Jack nodded with a strange, twisted little smile, as if he were suffering from cramp in the legs. It was cramp⁠—at the heart.

“Thanks,” he said, “I should like nothing better. Shall I ring?”

“If you please.”

Jack rang, and they waited in the fading daylight without speaking. At times Sir John moved his limbs, his hand on the arm of the chair and his feet on the hearthrug, with the jerky, half-restless energy of the aged which is not pleasant to see.

When the servant came, it was Jack who gave the orders, and the butler listened to them with a sort of enthusiasm. When he had closed the door behind him he pulled down his waistcoat with a jerk, and as he walked downstairs he muttered “Thank ’eaven!” twice, and wiped away a tear from his bibulous eye.

“What have you been doing with yourself since I saw you?” inquired Sir John conversationally when the door was closed.

“I have been out to India⁠—merely for the voyage. I went with Oscard, who is out there still, after big-game.”

Sir John Meredith nodded.

“I like that man,” he said, “he is tough. I like tough men. He wrote me a letter before he went away. It was the letter of⁠—one gentleman to another. Is he