With Edged Tools

H >> Henry Seton Merriman >> With Edged Tools

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This eBook was prepared by Les Bowler, St. Ives, Dorset.

WITH EDGED TOOLS

"Of the same clay he maketh both the vessels that serve for clean
uses, and likewise also such as serve to the contrary; but what is
the use of either sort, the potter himself is the judge."

TO JAMES PAYN

A TOKEN OF SINCERE REGARD

CONTENTS

I. TWO GENERATIONS
II. OVER THE OLD GROUND
III. A FAREWELL
IV. A TRAGEDY
V. WITH EDGED TOOLS
VI. UNDER THE LINE
VII. THE SECRET OF THE SIMIACINE
VIII. A RECRUIT
IX. TO PASS THE TIME
X. LOANGO
XI. A COMPACT
XII. A MEETING
XIII. IN BLACK AND WHITE
XIV. PANIC-STRICKEN
XV. A CONFIDENCE
XVI. WAR
XVII. UNDERHAND
XVIII. A REQUEST
XIX. IVORY
XX. BROUGHT TO THE SCRATCH
XXI. THE FIRST CONSIGNMENT
XXII. THE SECOND CONSIGNMENT
XXIII. MERCURY
XXIV. NEMESIS
XXV. TO THE RESCUE
XXVI. IN PERIL
XXVII. OFF DUTY
XXVIII. A SLOW RECOVERY
XXIX. A CHANCE ACQUAINTANCE
XXX. OLD BIRDS
XXXI. SEED-TIME
XXXII. AN ENVOY
XXXIII. DARK DEALING
XXXIV. AMONG THORNS
XXXV. ENGAGED
XXXVI. NO COMPROMISE
XXXVII. FOUL PLAY
XXXVIII. THE ACCURSED CAMP
XXXIX. THE EXTENUATING CIRCUMSTANCE
XL. SIR JOHNS LAST CARD
XLI. A TROIS
XLII. A STRONG FRIENDSHIP
XLIII. A LONG DEBT
XLIV. MADE UP
XLV. THE TELEGRAM

CHAPTER I. TWO GENERATIONS

Why all delights are vain, but that most vain
Which with pain purchased doth inherit pain.

"My dear--Madam--what you call heart does not come into the question
at all."

Sir John Meredith was sitting slightly behind Lady Cantourne,
leaning towards her with a somewhat stiffened replica of his former
grace. But he was not looking at her--and she knew it.

They were both watching a group at the other side of the great
ballroom.

"Sir John Meredith on Heart," said the old lady, with a depth of
significance in her voice.

"And why not?"

"Yes, indeed. Why not?"

Sir John smiled with that well-bred cynicism which a new school has
not yet succeeded in imitating. They were of the old school, these
two; and their worldliness, their cynicism, their conversational
attitude, belonged to a bygone period. It was a cleaner period in
some ways--a period devoid of slums. Ours, on the contrary, is an
age of slums wherein we all dabble to the detriment of our hands--
mental, literary, and theological.

Sir John moved slightly in his chair, leaning one hand on one knee.
His back was very flat, his clothes were perfect, his hair was not
his own, nor yet his teeth. But his manners were entirely his own.
His face was eighty years old, and yet he smiled his keen society
smile with the best of them. There was not a young man in the room
of whom he was afraid, conversationally.

"No, Lady Cantourne," he repeated. "Your charming niece is
heartless. She will get on."

Lady Cantourne smiled, and drew the glove further up her stout and
motherly right arm.

"She will get on," she admitted. "As to the other, it is early to
give an opinion."

"She has had the best of trainings--," he murmured. And Lady
Cantourne turned on him with a twinkle amidst the wrinkles.

"For which?" she asked.

"Choisissez!" he answered, with a bow.

One sees a veteran swordsman take up the foil with a tentative turn
of the wrist, lunging at thin air. His zest for the game has gone;
but the skill lingers, and at times he is tempted to show the
younger blades a pass or two. These were veteran fencers with a
skill of their own, which they loved to display at times. The zest
was that of remembrance; the sword-play of words was above the head
of a younger generation given to slang and music-hall airs; and so
these two had little bouts for their own edification, and enjoyed
the glitter of it vastly.

Sir John's face relaxed into the only repose he ever allowed it; for
he had a habit of twitching and moving his lips such as some old men
have. And occasionally, in an access of further senility, he
fumbled with his fingers at his mouth. He was clean shaven, and
even in his old age he was handsome beyond other men--standing an
upright six feet two.

The object of his attention was the belle of that ball, Miss
Millicent Chyne, who was hemmed into a corner by a group of eager
dancers anxious to insert their names in some corner of her card.
She was the fashion at that time. And she probably did not know
that at least half of the men crowded round because the other half
were there. Nothing succeeds like the success that knows how to
draw a crowd.

She received the ovation self-possessedly enough, but without that
hauteur affected by belles of balls--in books. She seemed to have a
fresh smile for each new applicant--a smile which conveyed to each
in turn the fact that she had been attempting all along to get her
programme safely into his hands. A halting masculine pen will not
be expected to explain how she compassed this, beyond a gentle
intimation that masculine vanity had a good deal to do with her
success.

"She is having an excellent time," said Sir John, weighing on the
modern phrase with a subtle sarcasm. He was addicted to the use of
modern phraseology, spiced with a cynicism of his own.

"Yes, I cannot help sympathising with her--a little," answered the
lady.

"Nor I. It will not last."

"Well, she is only gathering the rosebuds."

"Wisely so, your ladyship. They at least LOOK as if they were going
to last. The full-blown roses do not."

Lady Cantourne gave a little sigh. This was the difference between
them. She could not watch without an occasional thought for a time
that was no more. The man seemed to be content that the past had
been lived through and would never renew itself.

"After all," she said, "she is my sister's child. The sympathy may
only be a matter of blood. Perhaps I was like that myself once.
Was I? You can tell me."

She looked slowly round the room and his face hardened. He knew
that she was reflecting that there was no one else who could tell
her; and he did not like it.

"No," he answered readily.

"And what was the difference?"

She looked straight in front of her with a strange old-fashioned
demureness.

"Their name is legion, for they are many."

"Name a few. Was I as good-looking as that, for instance?"

He smiled--a wise, old, woman-searching smile.

"You were better-looking than that," he said, with a glance beneath
his lashless lids. "Moreover, there was more of the grand lady
about you. You behaved better. There was less shaking hands with
your partners, less nodding and becking, and none of that modern
forwardness which is called, I believe, camaraderie."

"Thank you, Sir John," she answered, looking at him frankly with a
pleasant smile. "But it is probable that we had the faults of our
age."

He fumbled at his lips, having reasons of his own for disliking too
close a scrutiny of his face.

"That is more than probable," he answered, rather indistinctly.

"Then," she said, tapping the back of his gloved hand with her fan,
"we ought to be merciful to the faults of a succeeding generation.
Tell me who is that young man with the long stride who is getting
himself introduced now."

"That," answered Sir John, who prided himself upon knowing every
one--knowing who they were and who they were not--"is young Oscard."

"Son of the eccentric Oscard?"

"Son of the eccentric Oscard."

"And where did he get that brown face?"

"He got that in Africa, where he has been shooting. He forms part
of some one else's bag at the present moment."

"What do you mean?"

"He has been apportioned a dance. Your fair niece has bagged him."

If he had only known it, Guy Oscard won the privilege of a waltz by
the same brown face which Lady Cantourne had so promptly noted.
Coupled with a sturdy uprightness of carriage, this raised him at a
bound above the pallid habitues of ballroom and pavement. It was,
perhaps, only natural that Millicent Chyne should have noted this
man as soon as he crossed the threshold. He was as remarkable as
some free and dignified denizen of the forest in the midst of
domestic animals. She mentally put him down for a waltz, and before
five minutes had elapsed he was bowing before her while a mutual
friend murmured his name. One does not know how young ladies manage
these little affairs, but the fact remains that they are managed.
Moreover, it is a singular thing that the young persons who succeed
in the ballroom rarely succeed on the larger and rougher floor of
life. Your belle of the ball, like your Senior Wrangler, never
seems to do much afterwards--and Afterwards is Life.

The other young men rather fell back before Guy Oscard--scared,
perhaps, by his long stride, and afraid that he might crush their
puny toes. This enabled Miss Chyne to give him the very next dance,
of which the music was commencing.

"I feel rather out of all this," said Oscard, as they moved away
together. "You must excuse uncouthness."

"I see no signs of it," laughed Millicent. "You are behaving very
nicely. You cannot help being larger and stronger than--the others.
I should say it was an advantage and something to be proud of."

"Oh, it is not that," replied Oscard; "it is a feeling of
unkemptness and want of smartness among these men who look so clean
and correct. Shall we dance?"

He looked down at her, with an admiration which almost amounted to
awe, as if afraid of entering the throng with such a dainty and
wonderful charge upon his powers of steering. Millicent Chyne saw
the glance and liked it. It was different from the others, quite
devoid of criticism, rather simple and full of honest admiration.
She was so beautiful that she could hardly be expected to be unaware
of the fact. She had merely to make comparisons, to look in the
mirror and see that her hair was fairer and softer, that her
complexion was more delicately perfect, that her slight, rounded
figure was more graceful than any around her. Added to this, she
knew that she had more to say than other girls--a larger stock of
those little frivolous, advice-seeking, aid-demanding nothings than
her compeers seemed to possess.

She knew that in saying them she could look brighter and prettier
and more intelligent than her competitors.

"Yes," she said, "let us dance by all means."

Here also she knew her own proficiency, and in a few seconds she
found that her partner was worthy of her skill.

"Where have you been?" she asked presently. "I am sure you have
been away somewhere, exploring or something."

"I have only been in Africa, shooting."

"Oh, how interesting! You must tell me all about it!"

"I am afraid," replied Guy Oscard, with a somewhat shy laugh, "that
that would NOT be interesting. Besides, I could not tell you now."

"No, but some other time. I suppose you are not going back to
Africa to-morrow, Mr. Oscard?"

"Not quite. And perhaps we may meet somewhere else."

"I hope so," replied Miss Chyne. "Besides, you know my aunt, Lady
Cantourne. I live with her, you know."

"I know her slightly."

"Then take an opportunity of improving the acquaintanceship. She is
sitting under the ragged banner over there."

Millicent Chyne indicated the direction with a nod of the head, and
while he looked she took the opportunity of glancing hastily round
the room. She was seeking some one.

"Yes," said Oscard, "I see her, talking to an old gentleman who
looks like Voltaire. I shall give her a chance of recognising me
before the evening is out. I don't mind being snubbed if--"

He paused and steered neatly through a narrow place.

"If what?" she asked, when they were in swing again.

"If it means seeing you again," he answered bluntly--more bluntly
than she was accustomed to. But she liked it. It was a novelty
after the smaller change of ballroom compliments.

She was watching the door all the while.

Presently the music ceased and they made their way back to the spot
whence he had taken her. She led the way thither by an almost
imperceptible pressure of her fingers on his arm. There were
several men waiting there, and one or two more entering the room and
looking languidly round.

"There comes the favoured one," Lady Cantourne muttered, with a
veiled glance towards her companion.

Sir John's grey eyes followed the direction of her glance.

"My bright boy?" he inquired, with a wealth of sarcasm on the
adjective.

"Your bright boy," she replied.

"I hope not," he said curtly.

They were watching a tall fair man in the doorway who seemed to know
everybody, so slow was his progress into the room. The most
remarkable thing about this man was a certain grace of movement. He
seemed to be specially constructed to live in narrow, hampered
places. He was above six feet; but, being of slight build, he moved
with a certain languidness which saved him from that unwieldiness
usually associated with large men in a drawing-room.

Such was Jack Meredith, one of the best known figures in London
society. He had hitherto succeeded in moving through the mazes of
that coterie, as he now moved through this room, without jarring
against any one.

CHAPTER II. OVER THE OLD GROUND

A man who never makes mistakes never makes anything else
either.

Miss Millicent Chyne was vaguely conscious of success--and such a
consciousness is apt to make the best of us a trifle elated. It was
certainly one of the best balls of the season, and Miss Chyne's
dress was, without doubt, one of the most successful articles of its
sort there.

Jack Meredith saw that fact and noted it as soon as he came into the
room. Moreover, it gratified him, and he was pleased to reflect
that he was no mean critic in such matters. There could be no doubt
about it, because he KNEW as well as any woman there. He knew that
Millicent Chyne was dressed in the latest fashion--no furbished-up
gown from the hands of her maid, but a unique creation from Bond
Street.

"Well," she asked in a low voice, as she handed him her programme,
"are you pleased with it?"

"Eminently so."

She glanced down at her own dress. It was not the nervous glance of
the debutante, but the practised flash of experienced eyes which see
without appearing to look.

"I am glad," she murmured.

He handed her back the card with the orthodox smile and bow of
gratitude, but there was something more in his eyes.

"Is that what you did it for?" he inquired.

"Of course," with a glance half coquettish, half humble.

She took the card and allowed it to drop pendent from her fan
without looking at it. He had written nothing on it. This was all
a form. The dances that were his had been inscribed on the
engagement-card long before by smaller fingers than his.

She turned to take her attendant partner's arm with a little flaunt-
-a little movement of the hips to bring her dress, and possibly
herself, more prominently beneath Jack Meredith's notice. His eyes
followed her with that incomparably pleasant society smile which he
had no doubt inherited from his father. Then he turned and mingled
with the well-dressed throng, bowing where he ought to bow--asking
with fervour for dances in plain but influential quarters where
dances were to be easily obtained.

And all the while his father and Lady Cantourne watched.

"Yes, I THINK," the lady was saying, "that that is the favoured
one."

"I fear so."

"I noticed," observed Lady Cantourne, "that he asked for a dance."

"And apparently got one--or more."

"Apparently so, Sir John."

"Moreover--"

Lady Cantourne turned on him with her usual vivacity.

"Moreover?" she repeated.

"He did not need to write it down on the card; it was written there
already."

She closed her fan with a faint smile

"I sometimes wonder," she said, "whether, in our young days, you
were so preternaturally observant as you are now."

"No," he answered, "I was not. I affected scales of the very
opaquest description, like the rest of my kind."

In the meantime this man's son was going about his business with a
leisurely savoir-faire which few could rival. Jack Meredith was the
beau-ideal of the society man in the best acceptation of the word.
One met him wherever the best people congregated, and he invariably
seemed to know what to do and how to do it better than his compeers.
If it was dancing in the season, Jack Meredith danced, and no man
rivalled him. If it was grouse shooting, Jack Meredith held his gun
as straight as any man. All the polite accomplishments in their
season seemed to come to him without effort; but there was in all
the same lack of heart--that utter want of enthusiasm which imparted
to his presence a subtle suggestion of boredom. The truth was that
he was over-educated. Sir John had taught him how to live and move
and have his being with so minute a care, so keen an insight, that
existence seemed to be nothing but an habitual observance of set
rules.

Sir John called him sarcastically his "bright boy," his "hopeful
offspring," the "pride of his old age"; but somewhere in his
shrivelled old heart there nestled an unbounded love and admiration
for his son. Jack had assimilated his teaching with a wonderful
aptitude. He had as nearly as possible realised Sir John Meredith's
idea of what an English gentleman should be, and the old
aristocrat's standard was uncompromisingly high. Public school,
University, and two years on the Continent had produced a finished
man, educated to the finger-tips, deeply read, clever, bright, and
occasionally witty; but Jack Meredith was at this time nothing more
than a brilliant conglomerate of possibilities. He had obeyed his
father to the letter with a conscientiousness bred of admiration.
He had always felt that his father knew best. And now he seemed to
be waiting--possibly for further orders. He was suggestive of a
perfect piece of mechanism standing idle for want of work delicate
enough to be manipulated by its delicate craft. Sir John had
impressed upon him the desirability of being independent, and he had
promptly cultivated that excellent quality, taking kindly enough to
rooms of his own in a fashionable quarter. But upon the principle
of taking a horse to the water and being unable to make him drink,
Sir John had not hitherto succeeded in making Jack take the
initiative. He had turned out such a finished and polished English
gentleman as his soul delighted in, and now he waited in cynical
silence for Jack Meredith to take his life into his own hands and do
something brilliant with it. All that he had done up to now had
been to prove that he could attain to a greater social popularity
than any other man of his age and station; but this was not exactly
the success that Sir John Meredith coveted for his son. He had
tasted of this success himself, and knew its thinness of flavour--
its fleeting value.

Behind his keen old eyes such thoughts as these were passing, while
he watched Jack go up and claim his dance at the hands of Miss
Millicent Chyne. He could almost guess what they said; for Jack was
grave and she smiled demurely. They began dancing at once, and as
soon as the floor became crowded they disappeared.

Jack Meredith was an adept at such matters. He knew a seat at the
end of a long passage where they could sit, the beheld of all
beholders who happened to pass; but no one could possibly overhear
their conversation--no one could surprise them. It was essentially
a strategical position.

"Well," inquired Jack, with a peculiar breathlessness, when they
were seated, "have you thought about it?"

She gave a little nod.

They seemed to be taking up some conversation at a point where it
had been dropped on a previous occasion.

"And?" he inquired suavely. The society polish was very thickly
coated over the man; but his eyes had a hungry look.

By way of reply her gloved hand crept out towards his, which rested
on the chair at his side.

"Jack!" she whispered; and that was all.

It was very prettily done, and quite naturally. He was a judge of
such matters, and appreciated the girlish simplicity of the action.

He took the small gloved hand and pressed it lovingly. The
thoroughness of his social training prevented any further display of
affection.

"Thank Heaven!" he murmured.

They were essentially of the nineteenth century--these two. At a
previous dance he had asked her to marry him; she had deferred her
answer, and now she had given it. These little matters are all a
question of taste. We do not kneel nowadays, either physically or
morally. If we are a trifle off hand, it is the women who are to
blame. They should not write in magazines of a doubtful reputation
in language devoid of the benefit of the doubt. They are equal to
us. Bien! One does not kneel to an equal. A better writer than
any of us says that men serve women kneeling, and when they get to
their feet they go away. We are being hauled up to our feet now.

"But--?" began the girl, and went no further.

"But what?"

"There will be difficulties."

"No doubt," he answered, with quiet mockery. "There always are. I
will see to them. Difficulties are not without a certain advantage.
They keep one on the alert."

"Your father," said the girl. "Sir John--he will object."

Jack Meredith reflected for a moment, lazily, with that
leisureliness which gave a sense of repose to his presence.

"Possibly," he admitted gravely.

"He dislikes me," said the girl. "He is one of my failures."

"I did not know you had any. Have you tried? I cannot quite admit
the possibility of failure."

Millicent Chyne smiled. He had emphasised the last remark with
lover-like glance and tone. She was young enough; her own beauty
was new enough to herself to blind her to the possibility mentioned.
She had not even got to the stage of classifying as dull all men who
did not fall in love with her at first sight. It was her first
season, one must remember.

"I have not tried very hard," she said. "But I don't see why I
should not fail."

"That is easily explained."

"Why?"

"No looking-glass about."

She gave a little pout, but she liked it.

The music of the next dance was beginning, and, remembering their
social obligations, they both rose. She laid her hand on his arm,
and for a moment his fingers pressed hers. He smiled down into her
upturned eyes with love, but without passion. He never for a second
risked the "gentleman" and showed the "man." He was suggestive of a
forest pool with a smiling rippled surface. There might be depth,
but it was yet unpenetrated.

"Shall we go now," he said, "and say a few words in passing to my
redoubtable father? It might be effective."

"Yes, if you like," she answered promptly. There is no more
confident being on earth than a pretty girl in a successful dress.

They met Sir John at the entrance of the ballroom. He was wandering
about, taking in a vast deal of detail.

"Well, young lady," he said, with an old-world bow, "are you having
a successful evening?"

Millicent laughed. She never knew quite how to take Sir John.

"Yes, I think so, thank you," she answered, with a pretty smile. "I
am enjoying myself very much."

There was just the least suggestion of shyness in her manner, and it
is just possible that this softened the old cynic's heart, for his
manner was kinder and almost fatherly when he spoke again.

"Ah!" he said, "at your time of life you do not want much--plenty of
partners and a few ices. Both easily obtainable."

The last words were turned into a compliment by the courtly
inclination of the head that accompanied them.

The exigencies of the moment forced the young people to go with the
stream.

"Jack," said Sir John, as they passed on, "when you have been
deprived of Miss Chyne's society, come and console yourself with a
glass of sherry."

The dutiful son nodded a semi-indifferent acquiescence and
disappeared.

"Wonderful thing, sherry!" observed Sir John Meredith for his own
edification.

He waited there until Jack returned, and then they set off in search
of refreshment. The son seemed to know his whereabouts better than
the father.

"This way," he said, "through the conservatory."

Amidst the palms and tropical ferns Sir John paused. A great deal
of care had been devoted to this conservatory. Half hidden among
languorous scented flowers were a thousand tiny lights, while
overhead in the gloom towered graceful palms and bananas. A
fountain murmured pleasantly amidst a cluster of maidenhairs. The
music from the ballroom fell softly over all.

Sir John Meredith and his son stood in silence, looking around them.
Finally their eyes met.

"Are you in earnest with that girl?" asked Sir John abruptly.

"I am," replied Jack. He was smiling pleasantly.

"And you think there is a chance of her marrying you--unless, of
course, something better turns up?"

"With all due modesty I do."

Sir John's hand was at his mouth. He stood up his full six feet two
and looked hard at his son, whose eyes were level with his own.
They were ideal representatives of their school.

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