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 coffee-pot 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. To-morrow'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 to-night.—I am, your affectionate son,
“JOHN MEREDITH.”
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: