Than with an old one dying.
As through an opera runs the rhythm of one dominant1 air, so through men's lives there rings a dominant note, soft in youth, strong in manhood, and soft again in old age. But it is always there, and whether soft in the gentler periods, or strong amidst the noise and clang of the perihelion, it dominates always and gives its tone to the whole life.
The dominant tone of Sir John Meredith's existence had been the high clear note of battle. He had always found something or some one to fight from the very beginning, and now, in his old age, he was fighting still. His had never been the din3 and crash of warfare4 by sword and cannon5, but the subtler, deeper combat of the pen. In his active days he had got through a vast amount of work—that unchronicled work of the Foreign Office which never comes, through the cheap newspapers, to the voracious6 maw of a chattering7 public. His name was better known on the banks of the Neva, the Seine, the Bosphorus, or the swift-rolling Iser than by the Thames; and grim Sir John was content to have it so.
His face had never been public property, the comic papers had never used his personality as a peg8 upon which to hang their ever-changing political principles. But he had always been “there,” as he himself vaguely9 put it. That is to say, he had always been at the back—one of those invisible powers of the stage by whose command the scene is shifted, the lights are lowered for the tragedy, or the gay music plays on the buffoon10. Sir John had no sympathy with a generation of men and women who would rather be laughed at and despised than unnoticed. He belonged to an age wherein it was held better to be a gentleman than the object of a cheap and evanescent notoriety—and he was at once the despair and the dread12 of newspaper interviewers, enterprising publishers, and tuft-hunters.
He was so little known out of his own select circle that the porters in Euston Station asked each other in vain who the old swell13 waiting for the four o'clock “up” from Liverpool could be. The four o'clock was, moreover, not the first express which Sir John had met that day. His stately carriage-and-pair had pushed its way into the crowd of smaller and humbler vehicular fry earlier in the afternoon, and on that occasion also the old gentleman had indulged in a grave promenade14 upon the platform.
He was walking up and down there now, with his hand in the small of his back, where of late he had been aware of a constant aching pain. He was very upright, however, and supremely15 unconscious of the curiosity aroused by his presence in the mind of the station canaille. His lips were rather more troublesome than usual, and his keen eyes twinkled with a suppressed excitement.
In former days there had been no one equal to him in certain diplomatic crises where it was a question of brow-beating suavely16 the uppish representative of some foreign State. No man could then rival him in the insolently17 aristocratic school of diplomacy18 which England has made her own. But in his most dangerous crisis he had never been restless, apprehensive19, pessimistic, as he was at this moment. And after all it was a very simple matter that had brought him there. It was merely the question of meeting a man as if by accident, and then afterwards making that man do certain things required of him. Moreover, the man was only Guy Oscard—learned if you will in forest craft, but a mere2 child in the hand of so old a diplomatist as Sir John Meredith.
That which made Sir John so uneasy was the abiding20 knowledge that Jack21's wedding-day would dawn in twelve hours. The margin22 was much too small, through, however, no fault of Sir John's. The West African steamer had been delayed—unaccountably—two days. A third day lost in the Atlantic would have overthrown23 Sir John Meredith's plan. He had often cut things fine before, but somehow now—not that he was getting old, oh no!—but somehow the suspense24 was too much for his nerves. He soon became irritated and distrustful. Besides the pain in his back wearied him and interfered25 with the clear sequence of his thoughts.
The owners of the West African steamer had telegraphed that the passengers had left for London in two separate trains. Guy Oscard was not in the first—there was no positive reason why he should be in the second. More depended upon his being in this second express than Sir John cared to contemplate26.
The course of his peregrinations brought him into the vicinity of an inspector27 whose attitude betokened28 respect while his presence raised hope.
“Is there any reason to suppose that your train is coming?” he inquired of the official.
“It will be in in one minute, my lord.”
Sir John's hand was over his lips as he walked back to the carriage, casting as it were the commander's eye over the field.
“When the crowd is round the train you come and look for me,” he said to the footman, who touched his cockaded hat in silence.
At that moment the train lumbered31 in, the engine wearing that inanely32 self-important air affected33 by locomotives of the larger build. From all quarters an army of porters besieged35 the platform, and in a few seconds Sir John was in the centre of an agitated36 crowd. There was one other calm man on that platform—another man with no parcels, whom no one sought to embrace. His brown face and close-cropped head towered above a sea of agitated bonnets37. Sir John, whose walk in life had been through crowds, elbowed his way forward and deliberately38 walked against Guy Oscard.
“D—n it!” he exclaimed, turning round. “Ah—Mr. Oscard—how d'ye do?”
“How are you?” replied Guy Oscard, really glad to see him.
“You are a good man for a crowd; I think I will follow in your wake,” said Sir John. “A number of people—of the baser sort. Got my carriage here somewhere. Fool of a man looking for me in the wrong place, no doubt. Where are you going? May I offer you a lift? This way. Here, John, take Mr. Oscard's parcels.”
He could not have done it better in his keenest day. Guy Oscard was seated in the huge, roomy carriage before he had realised what had happened to him.
“Your man will look after your traps, I suppose?” said Sir John, hospitably39 drawing the fur rug from the opposite seat.
“Yes,” replied Guy, “although he is not my man. He is Jack's man, Joseph.”
“Ah, of course; excellent servant, too. Jack told me he had left him with you.”
Sir John leant out of the window and asked the footman whether he knew his colleague Joseph, and upon receiving an answer in the affirmative he gave orders—acting as Guy's mouthpiece—that the luggage was to be conveyed to Russell Square. While these orders were being executed the two men sat waiting in the carriage, and Sir John lost no time.
“I am glad,” he said, “to have this opportunity of thanking you for all your kindness to my son in this wild expedition of yours.”
“Yes,” replied Oscard, with a transparent40 reserve which rather puzzled Sir John.
“You must excuse me,” said the old gentleman, sitting rather stiffly, “if I appear to take a somewhat limited interest in this great Simiacine discovery, of which there has been considerable talk in some circles. The limit to my interest is drawn41 by a lamentable42 ignorance. I am afraid the business details are rather unintelligible43 to me. My son has endeavoured, somewhat cursorily44 perhaps, to explain the matter to me, but I have never mastered the—er—commercial technicalities. However, I understand that you have made quite a mint of money, which is the chief consideration—nowadays.”
He drew the rug more closely round his knees and looked out of the window, deeply interested in a dispute between two cabmen.
“Yes—we have been very successful,” said Oscard. “How is your son now? When I last saw him he was in a very bad way. Indeed, I hardly expected to see him again!”
Sir John was still interested in the dispute, which was not yet settled.
“He is well, thank you. You know that he is going to be married.”
“He told me that he was engaged,” replied Oscard; “but I did not know that anything definite was fixed45.”
“The most definite thing of all is fixed—the date. It is to-morrow.”
“To-morrow?”
“Yes. You have not much time to prepare your wedding garments.”
“Oh,” replied Oscard, with a laugh, “I have not been bidden.”
“I expect the invitation is awaiting you at your house. No doubt my son will want you to be present—they would both like you to be there, no doubt. But come with me now; we will call and see Jack. I know where to find him. In fact, I have an appointment with him at a quarter to five.”
It may seem strange that Guy Oscard should not have asked the name of his friend's prospective46 bride, but Sir John was ready for that. He gave his companion no time. Whenever he opened his lips Sir John turned Oscard's thoughts aside.
What he had told him was strictly47 true. He had an appointment with Jack—an appointment of his own making.
“Yes,” he said, in pursuance of his policy of choking questions, “he is wonderfully well, as you will see for yourself.”
Oscard submitted silently to this high-handed arrangement. He had not known Sir John well. Indeed, all his intercourse48 with him has been noted49 in these pages. He was rather surprised to find him so talkative and so very friendly. But Guy Oscard was not a very deep person. He was sublimely50 indifferent to the Longdrawn Motive34. He presumed that Sir John made friends of his son's friends; and in his straightforward51 acceptance of facts he was perfectly52 well aware that by his timely rescue he had saved Jack Meredith from the hands of the tribes. The presumption53 was that Sir John knew of this, and it was only natural that he should be somewhat exceptionally gracious to the man who had saved his son's life.
“Owing to an unfortunate difference of opinion with my son we have not been very communicative lately,” he said, with that deliberation which he knew how to assume when he desired to be heard without interruption. “I am therefore almost entirely55 ignorant of your African affairs, but I imagine Jack owes more to your pluck and promptness than has yet transpired56. I gathered as much from one or two conversations I had with Miss Gordon when she was in England. I am one of Miss Gordon's many admirers.”
“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 to-morrow could not have taken place.”
The old man paused, and Guy Oscard, who looked somewhat distressed58 and distinctly uncomfortable, could find no graceful59 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.”
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 worthy62 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 debtor63, 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 to-morrow, and has kindly64 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 tinge65 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 scent11 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 postponed66 for twenty-four hours.
Sir John Meredith's face was a marvel67 to see. It was quite steady. He was upright and alert, with all the intrepidity68 of his mind up in arms. There was a light in his eyes—a gleam of light from other days, not yet burnt out.
“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 gracefully70 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.
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1
dominant
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| adj.支配的，统治的；占优势的；显性的；n.主因，要素，主要的人(或物)；显性基因 | |
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mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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3
din
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| n.喧闹声，嘈杂声 | |
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warfare
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| n.战争(状态)；斗争；冲突 | |
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cannon
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| n.大炮，火炮；飞机上的机关炮 | |
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voracious
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| adj.狼吞虎咽的，贪婪的 | |
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7
chattering
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| n. （机器振动发出的）咔嗒声，(鸟等)鸣，啁啾 adj. 喋喋不休的，啾啾声的 动词chatter的现在分词形式 | |
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8
peg
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| n.木栓，木钉；vt.用木钉钉，用短桩固定 | |
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9
vaguely
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| adv.含糊地，暖昧地 | |
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buffoon
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| n.演出时的丑角 | |
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scent
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| n.气味，香味，香水，线索，嗅觉；v.嗅，发觉 | |
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dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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swell
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| vi.膨胀，肿胀；增长，增强 | |
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promenade
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| n./v.散步 | |
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15
supremely
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| adv.无上地，崇高地 | |
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16
suavely
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17
insolently
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| adv.自豪地，自傲地 | |
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18
diplomacy
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| n.外交；外交手腕，交际手腕 | |
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apprehensive
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| adj.担心的，恐惧的，善于领会的 | |
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20
abiding
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| adj.永久的，持久的，不变的 | |
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21
jack
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| n.插座，千斤顶，男人；v.抬起，提醒，扛举；n.（Jake）杰克 | |
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22
margin
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| n.页边空白；差额；余地，余裕；边，边缘 | |
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23
overthrown
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| adj. 打翻的，推倒的，倾覆的 动词overthrow的过去分词 | |
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24
suspense
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| n.（对可能发生的事）紧张感，担心，挂虑 | |
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25
interfered
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| v.干预( interfere的过去式和过去分词 )；调停；妨碍；干涉 | |
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26
contemplate
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| vt.盘算，计议；周密考虑；注视，凝视 | |
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27
inspector
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| n.检查员，监察员，视察员 | |
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28
betokened
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| v.预示，表示( betoken的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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29
touching
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| adj.动人的，使人感伤的 | |
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30
parlance
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| n.说法；语调 | |
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31
lumbered
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| 砍伐（lumber的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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32
inanely
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33
affected
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| adj.不自然的，假装的 | |
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34
motive
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| n.动机，目的；adv.发动的，运动的 | |
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35
besieged
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| 包围，围困，围攻( besiege的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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36
agitated
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| adj.被鼓动的，不安的 | |
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37
bonnets
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| n.童帽( bonnet的名词复数 )；（烟囱等的）覆盖物；（苏格兰男子的）无边呢帽；（女子戴的）任何一种帽子 | |
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38
deliberately
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| adv.审慎地；蓄意地；故意地 | |
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39
hospitably
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| 亲切地，招待周到地，善于款待地 | |
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40
transparent
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| adj.明显的，无疑的；透明的 | |
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41
drawn
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| v.拖，拉，拔出；adj.憔悴的，紧张的 | |
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42
lamentable
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| adj.令人惋惜的，悔恨的 | |
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43
unintelligible
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| adj.无法了解的，难解的，莫明其妙的 | |
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44
cursorily
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| adv.粗糙地，疏忽地，马虎地 | |
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45
fixed
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| adj.固定的，不变的，准备好的；(计算机)固定的 | |
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46
prospective
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| adj.预期的，未来的，前瞻性的 | |
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47
strictly
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| adv.严厉地，严格地；严密地 | |
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48
intercourse
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| n.性交；交流，交往，交际 | |
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49
noted
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| adj.著名的，知名的 | |
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50
sublimely
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| 高尚地，卓越地 | |
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51
straightforward
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| adj.正直的，坦率的；易懂的，简单的 | |
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52
perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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53
presumption
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| n.推测，可能性，冒昧，放肆，[法律]推定 | |
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54
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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55
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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56
transpired
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| （事实，秘密等）被人知道( transpire的过去式和过去分词 )； 泄露； 显露； 发生 | |
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57
frankly
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| adv.坦白地，直率地；坦率地说 | |
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58
distressed
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| 痛苦的 | |
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59
graceful
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| adj.优美的，优雅的；得体的 | |
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60
eyebrows
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| 眉毛( eyebrow的名词复数 ) | |
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61
lamely
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| 一瘸一拐地，不完全地 | |
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62
worthy
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| adj.(of)值得的，配得上的；有价值的 | |
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63
debtor
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| n.借方，债务人 | |
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64
kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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65
tinge
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| vt.(较淡)着色于，染色；使带有…气息；n.淡淡色彩，些微的气息 | |
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66
postponed
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| vt.& vi.延期，缓办，（使）延迟vt.把…放在次要地位；[语]把…放在后面（或句尾）vi.（疟疾等）延缓发作（或复发） | |
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67
marvel
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| vi.(at)惊叹vt.感到惊异；n.令人惊异的事 | |
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68
intrepidity
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| n.大胆，刚勇；大胆的行为 | |
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69
cane
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| n.手杖，细长的茎，藤条；v.以杖击，以藤编制的 | |
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70
gracefully
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| ad.大大方方地；优美地 | |
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