THE SLAVE OF THE LAMP

BY

HENRY SETON MERRIMAN

PREFACE

Henry Seton Merriman published his first novel, "Young Mistley, " in1888, when he was twenty-six years old. Messrs. Bentley's reader, in hiscritique on the book, spoke of its "powerful situations" andunconventionality of treatment: and, while dwelling at much greaterlength on its failings, declared, in effect, its faults to be the rightfaults, and added that, if "Young Mistley" was not in itself a goodnovel, its author was one who might hereafter certainly write goodnovels. 

"Young Mistley" was followed in quick succession by "The PhantomFuture, " "Suspense, " and "Prisoners and Captives. " Some years later, considering them crude and immature works, the author, at somedifficulty and with no little pecuniary loss, withdrew all these fourfirst books from circulation in England. Their republication in Americahe was powerless to prevent. He therefore revised and abbreviated them, "conscious, " as he said himself in a preface, "of a hundred defectswhich the most careful revision cannot eliminate. " He was perhaps then, as he was ever, too severe a critic of his own works. But though thesefour early books have, added to youthful failings, the youthful meritsof freshness, vigour and imagination, their author was undoubtedly rightto suppress them. By writing them he learnt, it is true, the techniqueof his art: but no author wishes--or no author should wish--to give hiscopy-books to the world. It is as well then--it is certainly as hehimself desired--that these four books do not form part of the presentedition. It may, however, be noted that both "Young Mistley" and"Prisoners and Captives" dealt, as did "The Sowers" hereafter, withRussian subjects: "Suspense" is the story of a war-correspondent in theRusso-Turkish War of 1877: and "The Phantom Future" is the only novel ofMerriman's in which the scene is laid entirely in his own country. 

In 1892 he produced "The Slave of the Lamp, " which had run seriallythrough the _Cornhill Magazine_, then under the editorship of Mr. James Payn. 

To Mr. Payn, Merriman always felt that he owed a debt of gratitude formuch shrewd and kindly advice and encouragement. But one item of thatadvice he neglected with, as Mr. Payn always generously owned, greatadvantage. Mr. Payn believed that the insular nature of the ordinaryBriton made it, as a general rule, highly undesirable that the scene ofany novel should be laid outside the British Isles. 

After 1892 all Merriman's books, with the single exception of "Flotsam, "which appeared serially in _Longman's Magazine_, and was, at first, produced in book form by Messrs. Longman, were published by the firm ofMessrs. Smith, Elder, & Co. 

His long and serene connection with the great and honourable house whichhad produced the works of such masters of literature as Thackeray, Charlotte Bronte, and Robert Browning, was always a source of sincerepleasure to him. He often expressed the opinion that, from the momentwhen, as an inexperienced and perfectly unknown author, he sent "YoungMistley" to Messrs. Bentley, until the time when, as a very successfulone, he was publishing his later novels with Messrs. Smith, Elder, hehad invariably received from his publishers an entirely just and uprighttreatment. 

Also in 1892 he produced "From One Generation to Another": and, twoyears later, the first of his really successful novels, "With EdgedTools. " It is the only one of his books of which he never visited the_mise-en-scène_--West Africa: but he had so completely imbuedhimself with the scenery and the spirit of the country that few, if any, of his critics detected that he did not write of it from personalexperience. Many of his readers were firmly convinced of the reality ofthe precious plant, Simiacine, on whose discovery the action of the plotturns. More than one correspondent wrote to express a wish to takeshares in the Simiacine Company!

"With Edged Tools" was closely followed by "The Grey Lady. " Somepractical experience of a seafaring life, a strong love of it, and agreat fellow-feeling for all those whose business is in great waters, helped the reality of the characters of the sailor brothers and of thesea-scenes generally. The author was for some years, and at the time"The Grey Lady" was written, an underwriter at Lloyd's, so that on thesubject of ship insurance--a subject on which it will be rememberedpart of the plot hinges--he was _en pays de connaissance_. For thepurpose of this story, he travelled in the Balearic Islands, having, earlier, made the first of many visits to Spain. 

One of the strongest characteristics in his nature, as it is certainlyone of the strongest characteristics in his books, was his sympathywith, and, in consequence, his understanding of, the mind of theforeigner. For him, indeed, there were no alien countries. He learnt thecharacter of the stranger as quickly as he learnt his language. Hisgreatest delight was to merge himself completely in the life andinterests of the country he was visiting--to stay at the mean_venta_, or the _auberge_ where the tourist was never seen--tosit in the local cafés of an evening and listen to local politics andgossip; to read for the time nothing but the native newspapers, and noliterature but the literature, past and present, of the land where hewas sojourning; to follow the native customs, and to see Spain, Polandor Russia with the eyes and from the point of view of the Spaniard, thePole or the Russian. 

The difficulties--sometimes there were even serious difficulties--ofvisiting places where there was neither provision nor protection madefor the stranger, always acted upon him not as deterrent but incentive:he liked something to overcome, and found the safe, comfortable, convenient resting-places as uncongenial to his nature as they wereunproductive for the purposes of his work. 

In 1896 "The Sowers" was published. Merriman's travels in Russia hadtaken place some years before--before, in fact, the publication of"Young Mistley"--but time had not at all weakened the strong and sombreimpression which that great country and its unhappy people had left uponhim. The most popular of all his books with his English public, Merrimanhimself did not consider it his best. It early received the complimentof being banned by the Russian censor: very recently, a Russian womantold the present writers that "The Sowers" is still the first book thetravelling Russian buys in the Tauchnitz edition, as soon as he is outof his own country--"we like to hear the truth about ourselves. "

In the same year as "The Sowers, " Merriman produced "Flotsam. " It isnot, strictly speaking, a romance: some of its main incidents were takenfrom the life of a young officer of the 44th Regiment in Early Victoriandays. The character of Harry Wylam is, as a whole, faithful to itsprototype; and the last scene in the book, recording Harry's death inthe Orange Free State, as he was being taken in a waggon to themissionary station by the Bishop of the State, is literally accurate. Merriman had visited India as a boy; so here, too, the scenery is fromthe brush of an eye-witness. 

His next novel, "In Kedar's Tents, " was his first Spanish novel--pureand simple: the action of "The Grey Lady" taking place chiefly inMajorca. 

All the country mentioned in "In Kedar's Tents" Merriman visitedpersonally--riding, as did Frederick Conyngham and Concepcion Vara, fromAlgeciras to Ronda, then a difficult ride through a wild, beautiful andnot too safe district, the accommodation at Algeciras and Ronda being atthat time of an entirely primitive description. Spain had for Merrimanever a peculiar attraction: the character of the Spanishgentleman--proud, courteous, dignified--particularly appealed to him. 

The next country in which he sought inspiration was Holland. "Roden'sCorner, " published in 1898, broke new ground: its plot, it will beremembered, turns on a commercial enterprise. The title and the mainidea of the story were taken from Merriman's earliest literary venture, the beginning of a novel--there were only a few chapters of it--whichhe had written before "Young Mistley, " and which he had discarded, dissatisfied. 

The novel "Dross" was produced in America in 1899, having appearedserially in this country in a well-known newspaper. Written during aperiod of ill-health, Merriman thought it beneath his best work, and, true to that principle which ruled his life as an author, to give to thepublic so far as he could of that best, and of that best only, hedeclined (of course to his own monetary disadvantage) to permit itspublication in England in book form. 

Its _mise-en-scène_ is France and Suffolk; its period the SecondEmpire--the period of "The Last Hope. " Napoleon III. , a character bywhom Merriman was always peculiarly attracted, shadows it: in it appearsJohn Turner, the English banker of Paris, of "The Last Hope"; anadmirable and amusing sketch of a young Frenchman; and an excellentdescription of the magnificent scenery about Saint Martin Lantosque, inthe Maritime Alps. 

For the benefit of "The Isle of Unrest, " his next book, Merriman hadtravelled through Corsica--not the Corsica of fashionable hotels andhealth-resorts, but the wild and unknown parts of that lawless andmagnificent island. For "The Velvet Glove" he visited Pampeluna, Saragossa, and Lerida. The country of "The Vultures"--Warsaw and itsneighbourhood--he saw in company with his friend, Mr. Stanley Weyman. The pleasure of another trip, the one he took in westernFrance--Angoulême, Cognac, and the country of the Charente--for thescenery of "The Last Hope, " was also doubled by Mr. Weyman's presence. In Dantzig--the Dantzig of "Barlasch of the Guard"--Merriman made a stayin a bitter mid-winter, visiting also Vilna and Königsberg; part of theroute of the Great Retreat from Moscow he traced himself. He wasinclined to consider--and if an author is not quite the worst judge ofhis own work he is generally quite the best--that in "Barlasch" hereached his high-water mark. The short stories, comprised in the volumeentitled "Tomaso's Fortune, " were published after his death. In everycase, the _locale_ they describe was known to Merriman personally. At the Monastery of Montserrat--whence the monk in "A Small World" sawthe accident to the diligencia--the author had made a stay of some days. The Farlingford of "The Last Hope" is Orford in Suffolk: the Frenchscenes, as has been said, Merriman had visited with Mr. Weyman, whose"Abbess of Vlaye" they also suggested. The curious may still find theoriginal of the Hôtel Gemosac in Paris--not far from the Palais d'OrsayHôtel--"between the Rue de Lille and the Boulevard St. Germain. "

"The Last Hope" was not, in a sense, Merriman's last novel. He left athis death about a dozen completed chapters, and the whole plot carefullymapped out, of yet another Spanish book, which dealt with the Spain ofthe Peninsular War of 1808-14. These chapters, which were destroyed bythe author's desire, were of excellent promise, and written with greatvigour and spirit. His last trip was taken, in connection with thisbook, to the country of Sir Arthur Wellesley's exploits. The plot of thestory was concerned with a case of mistaken identity; the sketch of aGuerilla leader, Pedro--bearing some affinity to the Concepcion Vara of"In Kedar's Tents"--was especially happy. 

It has been seen that Merriman was not the class of author who "sits inFleet Street and writes news from the front. " He strongly believed inthe value of personal impressions, and scarcely less in the value offirst impressions. In his own case, the correctness of his firstimpressions--what he himself called laughingly his _"coupd'oeil"_--is in a measure proved by a note-book, now lying before thewriters, in which he recorded his views of Bastia and the Corsicansafter a very brief acquaintance--that view requiring scarcely anymodification when first impressions had been exchanged for realknowledge and experience. 

As to his methods of writing, in the case of all his novels, except thefour early suppressed ones, he invariably followed the plan of drawingout the whole plot and a complete synopsis of every chapter before hebegan to write the book at all. 

Partly as a result of this plan perhaps, but more as a result of greatnatural facility in writing, his manuscripts were often without a singleerasure for many pages; and a typewriter was really a superfluity. 

It is certainly true to say that no author ever had more pleasure in hisart than Merriman. The fever and the worry which accompany many literaryproductions he never knew. 

Among the professional critics he had neither personal friends norpersonal foes; and accepted their criticisms--hostile orfavourable--with perfect serenity and open-mindedness. He was, perhaps, if anything, only too ready to alter his work in accordance with theiradvice: he always said that he owed them much; and admired theirperspicuity in detecting a promise in his earliest books, which hedenied finding there himself. His invincible modesty made him ready toaccept not only professional criticism but--a harder thing--the adviceof critics on the hearth. It was out of compliance with such a domesticcriticism that the _dénouement_ in "The Sowers" was re-written asit now stands, the scene of the attack on the Castle being at firstwholly different. 

The jealousy and bitterness which are supposed to be inseparable fromthe literary life certainly never affected Merriman's. He had no traceof such feelings in his nature. Of one who is known to the publicexclusively through his writings, it may seem strange--but it is not theless true--to say that his natural bent was not to the life of aliterary man, but to a life of action, and that it was fate, rather thaninclination, which made him express himself in words instead of deeds. Awriter's books are generally his best biography: the "strong, quietman, " whose forte was to do much and say nothing; who, like MarcosSarrion, loved the free and plain life of the field and the open, was anatural hero for Merriman, "as finding there unconsciously some image ofhimself. "

To any other biography he was strongly opposed. His dislike of theadvertisement and the self-advertisement of the interview and thepersonal paragraph deepened with time. He held strongly andconsistently, as he held all his opinions, that a writer should be knownto the public by his books, and by his books only. One of his lastexpressed wishes was that there should be no record of his private life. 

It is respect for that wish which here stays the present writers' pen. 

E. F. S. S. G. T. _July_ 1909. 

CONTENTS

CHAPTERS

 I. IN THE RUE ST. GINGOLPHE II. TOOLS III. WITHOUT REST IV. BURDENED V. A REUNION VI. BROKEN THREADS VII. PUPPETS VIII. FALSE METAL IX. A CLUE X. ON THE SCENT XI. BURY BLUFF XII. A WARNING WORD XIII. A NIGHT WATCH XIV. FOILED XV. ROOKS XVI. FOES XVII. A RETREAT XVIII. AN EMPTY NEST XIX. FOUL PLAY XX. WINGED XXI. TRUE TO HIS CLOTH XXII. GREEK AND GREEK XXIII. STRICKEN DOWN XXIV. BACK TO LIFE XXV. BACK TO WORK XXVI. SIGNOR BRUNO XXVII. IN THE RUE ST GINGOLPHE AGAINXXVIII. THE MAKING OF CHRISTIAN VELLACOTT

CHAPTER I

IN THE RUE ST. GINGOLPHE

It was, not so many years ago, called the Rue de l'Empire, butrepublics are proverbially sensitive. Once they are established theybecome morbidly desirous of obliterating a past wherein no republicflourished. The street is therefore dedicated to St. Gingolphe to-day. To-morrow? Who can tell?

It is presumably safe to take it for granted that you are located in theneighbourhood of the Louvre, on the north side of the river which is sounimportant a factor to Paris. For all good Englishmen have been, orhope in the near future to be, located near this spot. All goodAmericans, we are told, relegate the sojourn to a more distant future. 

The bridge to cross is that of the Holy Fathers. So called to-day. Onceupon a time--but no matter. Bridges are peculiarly liable to change introubled times. The Rue St. Gingolphe is situated between the BoulevardSt. Germain and Quai Voltaire. One hears with equal facility thelow-toned boom of the steamers' whistle upon the river, and the crack ofwhips in the boulevard. Once across the bridge, turn to the right, andgo along the Quay, between the lime-trees and the bookstalls. You willprobably go slowly because of the bookstalls. No one worth talking tocould help doing so. Then turn to the left, and after a few paces youwill find upon your right hand the Rue St. Gingolphe. It is noted in theDirectory "Botot" that this street is one hundred and forty-five mètreslong; and who would care to contradict "Botot, " or even to throw thefaintest shadow of a doubt upon his statement? He has probably measured. 

If your fair and economical spouse should think of repairing to theBon-Marché to secure some of those wonderful linen pillow-cases (at onefranc forty) with your august initial embroidered on the centre with aview of impressing the sleeper's cheek, she will pass the end of the RueSt. Gingolphe on her way--provided the cabman be honest. There! Youcannot help finding it now. 

The street itself is a typical Parisian street of one hundred andforty-five mètres. There is room for a baker's, a café, a bootmaker's, and a tobacconist who sells very few stamps. The Parisians do not writemany letters. They say they have not time. But the tobacconist makes upfor the meanness of his contribution to the inland revenue of onedepartment by a generous aid to the other. He sells a vast number ofcigarettes and cigars of the very worst quality. And it is upon theworst quality that the Government makes the largest profit. It is inevery sense of the word a weed which grows as lustily as any of itscompeers in and around Oran, Algiers, and Bonah. 

The Rue St. Gingolphe is within a stone's-throw of the École desBeaux-Arts, and in the very centre of a remarkably cheap and yetrespectable quarter. Thus there are many young men occupying apartmentsin close proximity--and young men do not mind much what they smoke, especially provincial young men living in Paris. They feel it incumbentupon them to be constantly smoking something--just to show that they areParisians, true sons of the pavement, knowing how to live. And theirbrightest hopes are in all truth realised, because theirs is certainly areckless life, flavoured as it is with "number one" tobacco, and those"little corporal" cigarettes which are enveloped in the blue paper. 

The tobacconist's shop is singularly convenient. It has, namely, anentrance at the back, as well as that giving on to the street of St. Gingolphe. This entrance is through a little courtyard, in which is thestable and coach-house combined, where Madame Perinère, a lady whopaints the magic word "Modes" beneath her name on the door-post ofnumber seventeen, keeps the dapper little cart and pony which carry herbonnets to the farthest corner of Paris. 

The tobacconist is a large man, much given to perspiration. In fact, onemay safely make the statement that he perspires annually from the middleof April to the second or even third week in October. In consequence ofthis habit he wears no collar, and a man without a collar does not startfairly on the social race. It is always best to make inquiries beforecondemning a man who wears no collar. There is probably a very goodreason, as in the case of Mr. Jacquetot, but it is to be feared that fewpause to seek it. One need not seek the reason with much assiduity inthis instance, because the tobacconist of the Rue St. Gingolphe isalways prepared to explain it at length. French people are thus. Theytalk of things, and take pleasure in so doing, which we, on this side ofthe Channel, treat with a larger discretion. 

Mr. Jacquetot does not even wear a collar on Sunday, for the simplereason that Sunday is to him as other days. He attends no place ofworship, because he acknowledges but one god--the god of mostFrenchmen--his inner man. His pleasures are gastronomical, his sorrowsstomachic. The little shop is open early and late, Sundays, week-days, and holidays. Moreover, the tobacconist--Mr. Jacquetot himself--isalways at his post, on the high chair behind the counter, near thewindow, where he can see into the street. This constant attention tobusiness is almost phenomenal, because Frenchmen who worship the god ofMr. Jacquetot love to pay tribute on fête-days at one of the littlerestaurants on the Place at Versailles, at Duval's, or even in thePalais Royal. Mr. Jacquetot would have loved nothing better than apilgrimage to any one of these shrines, but he was tied to the littletobacco store. Not by the chains of commerce. Oh, no! When rallied byhis neighbours for such an unenterprising love of his own hearth, hemerely shrugged his heavy shoulders. 

"What will you?" he would say; "one has one's affairs. "

Now the affairs of Mr. Jacquetot were, in the days with which we have todo, like many things on this earth, inasmuch as they were not what theyseemed. 

It would be inexpedient, for reasons closely connected with thetobacconist of the Rue St. Gingolphe, as well as with other gentlemenstill happily with us in the flesh, to be too exact as to dates. Sufficeit, therefore, to say that it was only a few years ago that Mr. Jacquetot sat one evening as usual in his little shop. It happened to bea Tuesday evening, which is fortunate, because it was on Tuesdays andSaturdays that the little barber from round the corner called and shavedthe vast cheeks of the tobacconist. Mr. Jacquetot was therefore quitepresentable--doubly so, indeed, because it was yet March, and he had notyet entered upon his summer season. 

The little street was very quiet. There was no through traffic, andfolks living in this quarter of Paris usually carry their own parcels. It was thus quite easy to note the approach of any passenger, when suchhad once turned the corner. Some one was approaching now, and Mr. Jacquetot threw away the stump of a cheap cigar. One would almost havesaid that he recognised the step at a considerable distance. Youngpeople are in the habit of considering that when one gets old and stoutone loses in intelligence; but this is not always the case. One is aptto expect little from a fat man; but that is often a mistake. Mr. Jacquetot weighed seventeen stone, but he was eminently intelligent. Hehad recognised the footstep while it was yet seventy mètres away. 

In a few moments a gentleman of middle height paused in front of theshop, noted that it was a tobacconist's, and entered, carrying anunstamped letter with some ostentation. It must, by the way, beremembered that in France postage-stamps are to be bought at alltobacconists'. 

The new-comer's actions were characterised by a certain carelessness, asif he were going through a formula--perfunctorily--without admitting itsnecessity. 

He nodded to Mr. Jacquetot, and rather a pleasant smile flickered for amoment across his face. He was a singularly well-made man, of mediumheight, with straight, square shoulders and small limbs. He worespectacles, and as he looked at one straight in the face there was asingular contraction of the eyes which hardly amounted to acast--moreover, it was momentary. It was precisely the look of a hawkwhen its hood is suddenly removed in full daylight. This resemblance wasfurthered by the fact that the man's profile was birdlike. He wasclean-shaven, and there was in his sleek head and determined little facethat smooth, compact self-complacency which is to be noted in the headof a hawk. 

The face was small, like that of a Greek bust, but in expression itsuggested a yet older people. There was that mystic depth of expressionwhich comes from ancient Egypt. No one feature was obtrusive--all werechiselled with equal delicacy; and yet there was only one point of realbeauty in the entire countenance. The mouth was perfect. But the manwith a perfect mouth is usually one whom it will be found expedient toavoid. Without a certain allowance of sensuality no man isgenial--without a little weakness there is no kind heart. ThisFrenchman's mouth was not, however, obtrusively faultless. It wasperfect in its design, but, somehow, many people failed to take note ofthe fact. It is so with the "many, " one finds. The human world is soblind that at times it would be almost excusable to harbour thesuspicion that animals see more. There may be something in that instinctby which dogs, horses, and cats distinguish between friends and foes, detect sympathy, discover antipathy. It is possible that they see thingsin the human face to which our eyes are blinded--intentionally andmercifully blinded. If some of us were a little more observant, a few ofthe human combinations which we bring about might perhaps be lessegregiously mistaken. 

It was probably the form of the lips that lent pleasantness to the smilewith which Mr. Jacquetot was greeted, rather than the expression of thevelvety eyes, which had in reality no power of smiling at all. They weresad eyes, like those of the women one sees on the banks of the UpperNile, which never alter in expression--eyes that do not seem to be busywith this life at all, but fully occupied with something else: somethingbeyond to-morrow or behind yesterday. 

"Not yet arrived?" inquired the new-comer in a voice of somedistinction. It was a full, rich voice, and the French it spoke was notthe French of Mr. Jacquetot, nor, indeed, of the Rue St. Gingolphe. Itwas the language one sometimes hears in an old _château_ lost inthe depths of the country--the vast unexplored rural districts ofFrance--where the bearers of dangerously historical names live out theirlives with a singular suppression and patience. They are either bidingtheir time or else they are content with the past and the part played bytheir ancestors therein. For there is an old French and a new. In Paristhe new is spoken--the very newest. Were it anything but French it wouldbe intolerably vulgar; as it is, it is merely neat and intenselyexpressive. 

"Not yet arrived, sir, " said the tobacconist, and then he seemed torecollect himself, for he repeated:

"Not yet arrived, " without the respectful addition which had slipped outby accident. 

The new arrival took out his watch--a small one of beautifulworkmanship, the watch of a lady--and consulted it. His movements werecompact and rapid. He would have made a splendid light-weight boxer. 

"That, " he said shortly, "is the way they fail. They do not understandthe necessity of exactitude. The people--see you, Mr. Jacquetot, theyfail because they have no exactitude. "

"But I am of the people, " moving ponderously on his chair. 

"Essentially so. I know it, my friend. But I have taught you something. "

The tobacconist laughed. 

"I suppose so. But is it safe to stand there in the full day? Will younot pass in? The room is ready; the lamp is lighted. There is an agentof the police always at the end of the street now. "

"Ah, bah!" and he shrugged his shoulders contemptuously. "I am notafraid of them. There is only one thing to be feared, CitizenJacquetot--the press. The press and the people, _bien entendu_. "

"If you despise the people why do you use them?" asked Jacquetotabruptly. 

"In default of better, my friend. If one has not steam one uses theriver to turn the mill-wheel. The river is slow; sometimes it is tooweak, sometimes too strong. One never has full control over it, but itturns the wheel--it turns the wheel, brother Jacquetot. "

"And eventually sweeps away the miller, " suggested the tobacconistlightly. It must be remembered that though stout he was intelligent. Hadhe not been so it is probable that this conversation would never havetaken place. The dark-eyed man did not look like one who would have thepatience to deal with stupid people. 

Again the pleasant smile flickered like the light of a fire in a darkplace. 

"That, " was the reply, "is the affair of the miller. "

"But, " conceded Jacquetot, meditatively selecting a new cigar from a boxwhich he had reached without moving from his chair, "but thepeople--they are fools, hein!"

"Ah!" with a protesting shrug, as if deprecating the enunciation of sucha platitude. 

Then he passed through into a little room behind the shop--a little roomwhere no daylight penetrated, because there was no window to it. Itdepended for daylight upon the shop, with which it communicated by adoor of which the upper half was glass. But this glass was thicklycurtained with the material called Turkey-red, threefold. 

And the tobacconist was left alone in his shop, smoking gravely. Thereare some people like oysters, inasmuch as they leave an after-tastebehind them. The man who had just gone into the little room at the rearof the tobacconist's shop of the Rue St. Gingolphe in Paris was one ofthese. And the taste he left behind him was rather disquieting. One wasapt to feel that there was a mistake somewhere in the ordering of humanaffairs, and that this man was one of its victims. 

In a few minutes two men passed hastily through the shop into the littleroom, with scarcely so much as a nod for Mr. Jacquetot. 

CHAPTER II

TOOLS

The first man to enter the room was clad in a blouse of coarse greycloth which reached down to his knees. On his head he wore a black silkcap, very much pressed down and exceedingly greasy on the right side. This was to be accounted for by the fact that he used his right shouldermore than the left in that state of life in which he had been placed. Itwas not what we, who do not kill, would consider a pleasant state. Hewas, in fact, a slayer of beasts--a foreman at the slaughter-house. 

It is, perhaps, fortunate that Antoine Lerac is of no great prominencein this record, and of none in his official capacity at theslaughter-house. But the man is worthy of some small attention, becausehe was so essentially of the nineteenth century--so distinctly a productof the latter end of what is, for us at least, the most important cycleof years the world has passed through. He was a man wearing the blousewith ostentation, and glorying in the greasy cap: professing hisunwillingness to exchange the one for an ermine robe or the other for acrown. As a matter of fact, he invariably purchased the largest androughest blouse to be found, and his cap was unnecessarily soaked withsuet. He was a knight of industry of the very worst description--abraggart, a talker, a windbag. He preached, or rather he shrieked, thedoctrine of equality, but the equality he sought was that which wouldplace him on a par with his superiors, while in no way benefiting thosebeneath him. 

At one time, when he had first come into contact with the dark-eyed manwho now sat at the table watching him curiously, there had been astruggle for mastery. 

"I am, " he had said with considerable heat, "as good as you. That is allI wish to demonstrate. "

"No, " replied the other with that calm and assured air of superioritywhich the people once tried in vain to stamp out with the guillotine. "No, it is not. You want to demonstrate that you are superior, and youcannot do it. You say that you have as much right to walk on thepavement as I. I admit it. In your heart you want to prove that you have_more_, and you cannot do it. I could wear your blouse withcomfort, but you could not put on my hat or my gloves without makingyourself ridiculous. But--that is not the question. Let us get tobusiness. "

And in time the butcher succumbed, as he was bound to do, to the manwhom he shrewdly suspected of being an aristocrat. 

He who entered the room immediately afterwards was of a very differenttype. His mode of entry was of another description. Whereas the man ofblood swaggered in with an air of nervous truculence, as if he wereafraid that some one was desirous of disputing his equality, the nextcomer crept in softly, and closed the door with accuracy. He was theincarnation of benevolence--in the best sense of the word, a sweet oldman--looking out upon the world through large tinted spectacles with abeam which could not be otherwise than blind to all motes. In earlieryears his face might, perhaps, have been a trifle hard in its contour;but Time, the lubricator, had eased some of the corners, and it was nowthe seat of kindness and love. He bowed ceremoniously to the firstcomer, and his manner seemed rather to breathe of fraternity thanequality. As he bowed he mentioned the gentleman's name in such lovingtones that no greeting could have been heartier. 

"Citizen Morot, " he said. 

The butcher, with more haste than dignity, assumed the chair which stoodat the opposite end of the table to that occupied by the Citizen Morot. He had evidently hurried in first in order to secure that seat. From hispocket he produced a somewhat soiled paper, which he threw withexaggerated carelessness across the table. His manner was not entirelyfree from a suggestion of patronage. 

"What have we here?" inquired the first comer, who had not hithertoopened his lips, with a deep interest which might possibly have beenironical. He was just the sort of man to indulge in irony for his ownsatisfaction. He unfolded the paper, raised his eyebrows, and read. 

"Ah!" he said, "a receipt for five hundred rifles with bayonets andshoulder-straps complete. 'Received of the Citizen Morot five hundredrifles with bayonets and shoulder-straps complete. --Antoine Lerac. '"

He folded the paper again and carefully tore it into very small pieces. 

"Thank you, " he said gravely. 

Then he turned in his chair and threw the papers into the ash-tray ofthe little iron stove behind him. 

"I judged it best to be strictly business-like, " said the butcher, withmoderately well-simulated carelessness. 

"But yes, Monsieur Lerac, " with a shrug. "We of the Republic distrusteach other so completely. "

The old gentleman looked from one to the other with a soothing smile. 

"The brave Lerac, " he said, "is a man of business. "

Citizen Morot ignored this observation. 

"And, " he said, turning to Lerac, "you have them stored in a safe place?There is absolutely no doubt of that?"

"Absolutely none. "

"Good. "

"They are under my own eye. "

"Very good. It is not for a short time only, but for some months. Onecannot hurry the people. Besides, we are not ready. The rifles webought, the ammunition we must steal. "

"They are good rifles--they are English, " said the butcher. 

"Yes; the English Government is full of chivalry. They are always readyto place it within the power of their enemies to be as well armed asthemselves. "

The old gentleman laughed--a pleasant, cooing laugh. He invariablyencouraged humour, this genial philanthropist. 

"At last Friday's meeting, " Lerac said shortly, "we enrolled forty newmembers. We now number four hundred and two in our _arrondissement_alone. "

"Good, " muttered the Citizen Morot, without enthusiasm. 

"And four hundred hardy companions they are. "

"So I should imagine" (very gravely). 

"Four hundred strong men, " broke in the old gentleman rather hastily. "Ah, but that is already a power. "

"It is, " opined Lerac sententiously, "the strong man who is the power. Riches are nothing; birth is nothing. This is the day of force. Force iseverything. "

"Everything, " acquiesced Morot fervently. He was consulting a smallnote-book, wherein he jotted down some figures. 

"Four hundred and two, " he muttered as he wrote, "up to Friday night, inthe _arrondissement_ of the citizen--the good citizen--AntoineLerac. "

The butcher looked up with a doubtful expression upon his coarse face. His great brutal lips twitched, and he was on the point of speaking whenthe Citizen Morot's velvety eyes met his gaze with a quiet smile inwhich arrogance and innocence were mingled. 

"And now, " said the last-mentioned, turning affably to the oldgentleman, "let us have the report of the reverend Father. "

"Ah, " laughed Lerac, without attempting to conceal the contempt that wasin his soul, "the Church. "

The old gentleman spread out his hands in mild deprecation. 

"Yes, " he admitted, "we are under a shadow. I do not even dare to wearmy cassock. "

"You are in a valley of shadow, my reverend friend, " said the butcher, with visible exultation, "to which the sun will never penetrate now. "

The Citizen Morot laughed at this pleasantry, while the old man againstwhom it was directed bowed his head patiently. 

"And yet, " said the laugher, with a certain air of patronage, "theChurch is of some use still. She paid for those rifles, and she will payfor the ammunition--is it not so, my father?"

"Without doubt--without doubt. "

"Not to mention, " continued the other, "many contributions towards ourgeneral fund. The force that is supplied by the strong right arm of thepeople is, one finds, a force constantly in need of substantialreplenishment. "

"But, " exclaimed the butcher, emphatically banging his fist down uponthe table, "why does she do it? That is what I want to know!"

The old priest glanced furtively towards Morot, and then his faceassumed an air of childish bewilderment. 

"Ah!" he said guilelessly, "who can tell?"

"Who, indeed!" chimed in Morot. 

The butcher was pleased with himself. He sat upright, and, banging thetable a second time, he looked round defiantly. 

"But, " said Morot, in an indifferent way which was frequentlycharacteristic, "I do not see that it matters much. The money is good. It buys rifles, and it places them in the hands of the Citizen Lerac andhis hardy companions. And when all is said and done, when the cartridgesare burnt and a New Commune is raised, what does it matter whose moneybought the rifles, and with what object the money was supplied?"

The old gentleman looked relieved. He was evidently of a timid andconciliatory nature, and would, with slight encouragement, have turnedupon that Church of which he was the humble representative, merely forthe sake of peace. 

The butcher cleared his throat after the manner of the streets--causingMorot to wince visibly--and acquiesced. 

"But, " he added cunningly, "the Church, see you--Ach! it is deep--it istreacherous. Never trust the Church!"

The Citizen Morot, to whom these remarks were addressed, smiled in asingular way and made no reply. Then he turned gravely to the old manand said--

"Have you nothing to report to us--my father?"

"Nothing of great importance, " replied he humbly. "All is going on well. We are in treaty for two hundred rifles with the Montenegrin Government, and shall no doubt carry the contract through. I go to England next weekin order to carry out the--the--what shall I say?--the loan of theammunition. "

"Ha, ha!" laughed the butcher. 

Morot smiled also, as he made an entry in the little note-book. 

"Next week?" he said interrogatively. 

"Yes--on Tuesday. "

"Thank you. "

The butcher here rose and ostentatiously dragged out a watch from thedepths of his blouse. 

"I must go, " he said. "I have committee at seven o'clock. And I shalldine first. "

"Yes, " said Morot gravely. "Dine first. Take good care of yourself, citizen. "

"Trust me. "

"I do, " was the reply, delivered with a little nod in answer to Lerac'scurt farewell bow. 

The butcher walked noisily through the shop--heavy withresponsibility--weighted with the sense of his own importance to theworld in general and to France in particular. Had he walked less noisilyhe might have overheard the soft laugh of the old priest. 

Citizen Morot did not laugh. He was not a laughing man. But a fine, disdainful smile passed over his face, scarce lighting it up at all. 

"What an utter fool the man is!" he said impatiently. 

"Yes--sir, " replied the old man, "but if he were less so it would bedifficult to manage him. "

"I am not sure. I always prefer to deal with knaves than with fools. "

"That is because your Highness knows how to outwit them. "

"No titles--my father, " said the Citizen Morot quietly. "No titles here, if you please. Tell me, are you quite sure of this scum--this Lerac?"

"As sure as one can be of anything that comes from the streets. He is anexcitable, bumptious, quarrelsome man; but he has a certain influencewith those beneath him, although it seems hard to realise that there aresuch. "

"Ha! you are right! But a republic is a social manure-heap--that whichis on the top is not pleasant, and the stuff below--ugh!"

The manner of the two men had quite changed. He who was called Morotleant back in his seat and stretched his arms out wearily. There is nodisguise like animation; when that is laid aside we see the real man orthe real woman. In repose this Frenchman was not cheerful to look upon. He was not sanguine, and a French pessimist is the worst thing of thekind that is to be found. 

When the door had closed behind the departing Lerac, the old priestseemed to throw off suddenly quite a number of years. His voice, whennext he spoke, was less senile, his movements were brisker. He was, in aword, less harmless. 

Mr. Jacquetot had finished his dinner, brought in from a neighbouringrestaurant all hot, and was slumberously enjoying a very strong-smellingcigar, when the door of the little room opened at length, and the twomen went out together into the dimly-lighted street. 

CHAPTER III

WITHOUT REST

Half-way down Fleet Street, on the left-hand side, stands the church ofSt. Dunstan-in-the-West. Around its grimy foundations there seethes astruggling, toiling race of men--not only from morning till night, butthroughout the twenty-four hours. Within sound of this church bell ahundred printing-presses throb out their odorous broadsheets to bedespatched to every part of the world. Day and night, week in week out, the human writing-machines, and those other machines which are almosthuman (and better than human in some points) hurry through theirallotted tasks, and ignore the saintly shadow cast upon them by thespire of St. Dunstan. This is indeed the centre of the world: the hubfrom whence spring the spokes of the vast wheel of life. For to thispoint all things over the world converge by a vast web of wire, railroad, coach road, and steamer track. Upon wings that boast ofgreater speed than the wind can compass come to this point the voices ofour kin in farthest lands. News--news--news. News from the East ofevents occurring in the afternoon--scan it over and flash it westward, where it will be read on the morning of the same day! News in everytongue to be translated and brought into shape--while the solemn churchclock tells his tale in deep voice, audible above the din and scurry. 

From hurried scribbler to pale compositor, and behold, the news isbawled all over London! Such work as this goes on for ever around thechurch of St. Dunstan. Scribblers come and scribblers go; compositorscome to their work young and hopeful, they leave it bent and poisoned, yet the work goes on. Each day the pace grows quicker, each day some newmeans of rapid propagation is discovered, and each day life becomesharder to live. One morning, perhaps, a scribbler is absent from hispost--"Brain-fever, complete rest; a wreck. " For years his writings havebeen read by thousands daily. A new man takes the vacant chair--he hasbeen waiting more or less impatiently for this--and the thousands arenone the wiser. One night the head compositor presses his black hand tohis sunken chest, and staggers home. "And time too--he's had his turn, "mutters the second compositor as he thinks of the extra five shillings aweek. No doubt he is right. Every dog his day. 

Nearly opposite to the church stands a tall narrow house of dirty redbrick, and it is with this house that we have to do. 

At seven o'clock, one evening some years ago--when heads now grey werebrown, when eyes now dim were bright--the Strand was in its usual stateof turmoil. Carriage followed carriage. Seedy clerks hustled past portlymerchants--not their own masters, _bien entendu_, but those ofother seedy clerks. Carriages and foot-passengers were alike goingwestward. All were leaving behind them the day and the busy city--someafter a few hours devoted to the perusal of _Times_ and_Gazette_; others fagged and weary from a long day of dusty books. 

Ah! those were prosperous days in the City. Days when men of but a fewyears' standing rolled out to Clapham or Highgate behind a pair ofhorses. Days when books were often represented by a bank-book and aroughly-kept day-book. What need to keep mighty ledgers when profits aregreat and returns quick in their returning?

As the pedestrians made their way along the narrow pavement some of themglanced at the door of the tall red-brick house and read the inscriptionon a brass plate screwed thereon. This consisted of two mystic words:_The Beacon_. There was, however, in reality, no mystery about it. The _Beacon_ was a newspaper, published weekly, and the clock ofSt. Dunstan's striking seven told the end of another week. Thepublishing day was past; another week with its work and pleasure was tobe faced. 

From early morning until six o'clock in the evening this narrow doorwayand passage had been crowded by a heaving, swearing, laughing mass ofmore or less dilapidated humanity interested in the retail sale ofnewspapers. At six o'clock Ephraim Bander, a retired constable, now onthe staff of the _Beacon_, had taken his station at the door, inorder to greet would-be purchasers with the laconic and discouragingwords: "Sold hout!"

During the last two years ex-constable Bander had announced the selling"hout" of the _Beacon_ every Tuesday evening. 

At seven o'clock Mrs. Bander emerged from her den on the fourth floor, like a portly good-natured spider, and with a broom proceeded to attackthe dust shaken from the boots of the journalistic fraternity, withnoisy energy. After that she polished the door-plate; and peace reignedwithin the narrow house. 

On the second floor there was a small room with windows looking out intoa narrow lane behind the house. It was a singularly quiet room; the dooropened and shut without sound or vibration; double windows insuredimmunity from the harrowing cries of such enterprising merchants asexercised their lungs and callings in the narrow lane beneath. A certainsense of ease and comfort imperceptibly crept over the senses of personsentering this tiny apartment. It must have been in the atmosphere; forsome rooms more luxuriously furnished are without it. It certainly doesnot lie in the furniture--this imperceptible sense of companionship; itdoes not lurk in the curtains. Some mansions know it, and many cottages. It is even to be met with in the tiny cabin of a coasting vessel. 

This diminutive room, despite its lack of sunlight, was such as onemight wish to sit in. A broad low table stood in the middle of thefloor, and on it lay the mellow light of a shaded lamp. At this tabletwo men were seated opposite to each other. One was writing, slowly andeasily, the other was idling with the calm restfulness of a man who hasnever worked very hard. He was rolling his pencil up to the top of hisblotting-pad, and allowing it to come down again in accordance with therules of gravity. 

This was Mr. Bodery's habit when thoughtful; and after all, there was nogreat harm in it. Mr. Bodery was editor and proprietor of the_Beacon_. The amusing and somewhat satirical article which appearedweekly under the heading of "Light" was penned by the chubby hand atthat moment engaged with the pencil. 

Mr. Morgan, sub-editor, was even stouter than his chief. Laughter washis most prominent characteristic. He laughed over "Light" when in itsembryo state, he laughed when the _Beacon_ sold out at six o'clockon Tuesday evenings. He laughed when the printing-machine went wrong onMonday afternoon, and--most wonderful of all--he laughed at his ownjokes, in which exercise he was usually alone. His jokes were not of thefirst force. Mr. Morgan was the author of the slightly laboured andweighty Parliamentary articles on the first page. He never joked onpaper, which is a gift apart. 

These two gentlemen were in no way of brilliant intellect. They hadtheir share of sound, practical common-sense, which is in itself asplendid substitute. Fortune had come to them (as it comes to most menwhen it comes at all) without any apparent reason. Mr. Bodery hadsupplied the capital, and Mr. Morgan's share of the undertaking wasadded in the form of a bustling, hollow energy. The _Beacon_ waslighted, so to speak. It burnt in a dull and somewhat flickering mannerfor some years; then a new hand fed the flame, and its light spreadafar. 

It was from pure good nature that Mr. Bodery held out a helping hand tothe son of his old friend, Walter Vellacott, when that youth appearedone day at the office of the _Beacon_, and in an off-hand mannerannounced that he was seeking employment. Like many actions performedfrom a similar motive, Mr. Bodery's kindness of heart met with itsreward. Young Christian Vellacott developed a remarkable talent forjournalistic literature--in fact, he was fortunate enough to have found, at the age of twenty-two, his avocation in life. 

Gradually, as the years wore on, the influence of the young fellow'ssuperior intellect made itself felt. Prom the position of a meresupernumerary, he worked his way upwards, taking on to his shoulders oneduty after another--bearing the weight, quietly and confidently, of oneresponsibility after another. This exactly suited Mr. Bodery and hissub-editor. There was very little of the slave in the composition ofeither. They delighted in an easy, luxurious life, with just enough workto impart a pleasant feeling of self-satisfaction. It suited ChristianVellacott also. In a few weeks he found his level--in a few months hebegan rising to higher levels. 

He was an only son; the only child of a brilliant father whose name wasknown in every court in Europe as that of a harum-scarum diplomatist, who could have done great things in his short life if he had wished to. It is from only sons that Fortune selects her favourites. Men who haveno brothers to share their amusements turn to serious matters early inlife. Christian Vellacott soon discovered that a head was required atthe office of the _Beacon_ to develop the elements of successundoubtedly lying within the journal, and that the owner of such a headcould in time dictate his own terms to the easy-going proprietor. 

Unsparingly he devoted the whole of his exceptional energies to the workbefore him. He lived in and for it. Each night he went home fagged andweary; but each morning saw him return to it with undaunted spirit. 

Human nature, however, is exhaustible. The influence of a strong mindover a strong body is great, but it is nevertheless limited. The_Beacon_ had reached a large circulation, but its slave was wornout. Two years without a holiday--two years of hurried, hard brain-workhad left their mark. It is often so when a man finds his avocation tooearly. He is too hurried, works too hard, and collapses; or he becomesself-satisfied, over-confident, and unbearable. Fortunately forChristian Vellacott he was devoid of conceit, which is like thescaffolding round a church-spire, reaching higher and falling first. 

There was also a "home" influence at work. When Christian passed out ofthe narrow doorway, and turned his face westward, his day's work was byno means over, as will be shown hereafter. 

As Mr. Bodery rolled his pencil up and down his blotting-pad, he wasslowly realising the fact that something must be done. Presently helooked up, and his pleasant eyes rested on the bent head of hissub-editor. 

"Morgan, " he said, "I have been thinking--Seems to me Vellacott wants arest! He's played out!"

Mr. Morgan wiped his pen vigorously upon his coat, just beneath theshoulder, and sat back in his chair. 

"Yes, " he replied; "he has not been up to the mark for some time. Butyou will find difficulty in making him take a holiday. He is a devil forworking--ha, ha!"

This "ha, ha!" did not mean very much. There was no mirth in it. It wasa species of punctuation, and implied that Mr. Morgan had finished hisremark. 

"I will ring for him now and see what he says about it. "

Mr. Bodery extended his chubby white hand and touched a small gong. Almost instantaneously the silent door opened and a voice from withoutsaid, "Yess'r. " A small boy with a mobile, wicked mouth stood atattention in the doorway. 

"Has Mr. Vellacott gone?"

"No--sir!" In a tone which seemed to ask: "Now _is_ it likely?"

"Where is he?"

"In the shop, sir. "

"Ask him to come here, please. "

"Yess'r. "

The small boy closed the door. Once outside he placed his hand upon hisheart and made a low bow to the handle, retreating backwards to the headof the stairs. Then he proceeded to slide down the banister, to thetrifling detriment of his waistcoat. As he reached the end of hisperilous journey a door opened at the foot of the stairs, and a man'sform became discernible in the dim light. 

"Is that the way you generally come downstairs, Wilson?" asked a voice. 

"It is the quickest way, sir!"

"Not quite; there is one quicker, which you will discover some day ifyou overbalance at the top!"

"Mr. Bodery wishes to see you, please sir!" The small boy's manner wasvery different from what it had been outside the door upstairs. 

"All right, " replied Vellacott, putting on the coat he had been carryingover his arm. A peculiar smooth rapidity characterised all hismovements. At school he had been considered a very "clean" fielder. Thecleanness was there still. 

The preternaturally sharp boy--sharp as only London boys are--watchedthe lithe form vanish up the stairs; then he wagged his head very wiselyand said to himself in a patronising way:

"He's the right sort, he is--no chalk there!"

Subsequently he balanced his diminutive person full length upon thebalustrade, and proceeded to haul himself laboriously, hand over hand, to the top. 

In the meantime Christian Vellacott had passed into the editor's room. The light of the lamp was driven downwards upon the table, but thereflection of it rose and illuminated his face. It was a fairly handsomeface, with eyes just large enough to be keen and quick without beingdreamy. The slight fair moustache was not enough to hide the mouth, which was refined, and singularly immobile. He glanced at Mr. Bodery, ashe entered, quickly and comprehensively, and then turned his eyestowards Mr. Morgan. His face was very still and unemotional, but it waspale, and his eyes were deeply sunken. A keen observer would havenoticed, in comparing the three men, that there was something about theyoungest which was lacking in his elders. It lay in the direct gaze ofhis eyes, in the carriage of his head, in the small, motionless mouth. It was what is vaguely called "power. "

"Sit down, Vellacott, " said Mr. Brodery. "We want to have aconsultation. " After a short pause he continued: "You know, of course, that it is a dull season just now. People do not seem to read the papersin August. Now, we want you to take a holiday. Morgan has been away; Ishall go when you come back. Say three weeks or a month. You've beenover-working yourself a bit--burning the candle at both ends, eh?"

"Hardly at both ends, " corrected Vellacott, with a ready smile whichentirely transformed his face. "Hardly at both ends--at one end in adraught, perhaps. "

"Ha, ha! Very good, " chimed in Mr. Morgan the irrepressible. "At one endin a draught--that is like me, only the draught has got inside my cheeksand blown them out instead of in like yours, eh? Ha, ha!" And he pattedhis cheeks affectionately. 

"I don't think I care for a holiday just now, thanks, " he said slowly, without remembering to call up a smile for Mr. Morgan's benefit. Unconsciously he put his hand to his forehead, which was damp with theheat of the printing-office which he had just left. 

"My dear fellow, " said Mr. Bodery gravely, emphasising his remarks withthe pencil, "you have one thing in life to learn yet--no doubt you havemany, but this one in particular you must learn. Work is not the onlything we are created for--not the only thing worth living for. It is anecessary evil, that is all. When you have reached my age you will cometo look upon it as such. A little enjoyment is good for every one. Thereare many things to form a brighter side to life. Nature--travelling--riding--rowing----"

"And love, " suggested the sub-editor, placing his hand dramatically onthe right side of his broad waistcoat instead of the left. He couldafford to joke on the subject now that the grass grew high in the littlecountry churchyard where he had laid his young wife fifteen yearsbefore. In those days he was a grave, self-contained man, but thatsorrow had entirely changed his nature. The true William Morgan onlycame out on paper now. 

Mr. Bodery was right. Christian had yet to learn a great lesson, andunconsciously he was even now beginning to grasp its meaning. His wholemind was full of his work, and out of those earnest grey eyes his soulwas looking at the man who was perhaps saving his life. 

"We can easily manage it, " said the editor, continuing his advantage. "Iwill take over the foreign policy article. The reviewing you can doyourself, as we can always send you the books, and there is no pressinghurry about them. The general work we will manage somehow--won't we, Morgan?"

"Of course we will; as well as and perhaps better than he could do ithimself, eh? Ha, ha!"

"But seriously, Vellacott, " continued Mr. Bodery, "things will go onjust as well for a time. When I was young I used to make that mistaketoo. I thought that no one could manage things like myself, but in timeI realised (as you will do some day) that things went on as smoothlywhen I was away. Depend upon it, my boy, when a man is put on the shelf, worn out and useless, another soon fills his place. You are too young togo on the shelf yet. To please me, Vellacott, go away for three weeks. "

"You are very kind, sir--" began the young fellow, but Mr. Boderyinterrupted him. 

"Well, then, that is settled. Shall we say this day week? That will giveyou time to make your plans. "

With a few words of thanks Christian left the room. Vaguely andmechanically he wandered upstairs to his own particular den. It was adisappointing little chamber. The chaos one expects to find on the deskof a literary man was lacking here. No papers lay on the table inartistic disorder. The presiding genius of the room wasmethod--clear-headed, practical method. The walls were hidden by shelvesof books, from the last half-hysterical production of some vain woman tothe single-volume work of a man's lifetime. Many of the former wereuncut, the latter bore signs of having been read and studied. Thecompanionship of these silent friends brought peace and contentment tothe young man's spirit. He sat wearily down, and, leaning his chin uponhis folded arms, he thought. Gradually there came into his mind picturesof the fair open country, of rolling hills and quiet valleys, of quietlanes and running waters. A sudden yearning to breathe God's pure airtook possession of his faculties. Mr. Bodery had gained the day. In theroom below Mr. Morgan wrote on in his easy, comfortable manner. Theeditor was still thoughtfully playing with his pencil. The sharp littleboy was standing on his head in the passage. At last Mr. Bodery rosefrom his chair and began his preparations for leaving. As he brushed hishat he looked towards his companion and said:

"That young fellow is worth you and me rolled into one. "

"I recognised that fact some years ago, " replied the sub-editor, wipinghis pen on his coat. "It is humiliating, but true. Ha, ha!"

CHAPTER IV

BURDENED

Christian Vellacott soon descended the dingy stairs and joined thewestward-wending throng in the Strand. In the midst of the crowd he wasalone, as townsmen soon learn to be. The passing faces, the roar oftraffic, and the thousand human possibilities of interest around him inno way disturbed his thoughts. In his busy brain the traffic of thought, passing and repassing, crossing and recrossing, went on unaffected byoutward things. A modern poet has confessed that his muse loves thepavement--a bold confession, but most certainly true. Why does talentgravitate to cities? Because there it works its best--because frictionnecessarily produces brilliancy. Nature is a great deceiver; she drawsus on to admire her insinuating charms, and in the contemplation of themwe lose our energy. 

Christian had been born and bred in cities. The din and roar of life wasto him what the voice of the sea is to the sailor. In the midst ofcrowded humanity he was in his element, and as he walked rapidly alonghe made his way dexterously through the narrow places without thinkingof it. While meditating deeply he was by no means absorbed. In hisactive life there had been no time for thoughts beyond the present, noleisure for dreaming. He could not afford to be absent-minded. Numbersof men are so situated. Their minds are required at all moments, in fullworking order, clear and rapid--ready, shoes on feet and staff in hand, to go whithersoever they may be called. 

Although he was going to the saddest home that ever hung like amill-stone round a young neck, Christian wasted no time. The glory ofthe western sky lay ruddily over the river as he emerged from the smallstreets behind Chelsea and faced the broad placid stream. Presently hestopped opposite the door of a small red-brick house, which formed thecorner of a little terrace facing the river and a quiet street runninginland from it. 

With a latch-key he admitted himself noiselessly--almostsurreptitiously. Once inside he closed the door without unnecessarysound and stood for some moments in the dark little entrance-hall, apparently listening. 

Presently a voice broke the silence of the house. A querulous, high-pitched voice, quavering with the palsy of extreme age. The soundof it was no new thing for Christian Vellacott. To-night his lips gave alittle twist of pain as he heard it. The door of the room on the groundfloor was open, and he could hear the words distinctly enough. 

"You know, Mrs. Strawd, we have a nephew, but he is always gaddingabout, I am sure; he has been a terrible affliction to us. A frothy, good-for-nothing boy--that is what he is. We have not set eyes on himfor a month or more. Why, I almost forget his name!"

"Christian, that is his name--a most inappropriate one, I am sure, "chimed in another voice, almost identical in tone. "Why Walter shouldhave given him such a name I cannot tell. Ah! sister Judith, things aredifferent from what they used to be when we were younger!"

The frothy one outside the door seemed in no great degree impressed bythese impartial views upon himself, though the pained look was stillupon his lips as he turned to hang up his hat. 

"He's coming home to-night, though, Miss Judith, " said another voice, ina coaxing, wheedling tone, such as one uses towards petulant children. "He's coming home to-night, sure enough!" It was a pleasant voice, witha strong, capable ring about it. One instinctively felt that thepossessor of it was a woman to be relied upon at a crisis. 

"Is he now--is he now?" said the first speaker reflectively. "Well, I amsure it is time he did. We will just give him a lesson, eh, sisterHester?--we will give him a lesson, shall we not?"

At this moment the door opened, and a little woman, quiet thoughsomewhat anxious looking, came out. She evinced no surprise at the sightof the good-for-nothing nephew in the dimly-lighted passage, greetinghim in a low voice. 

"How have they been to-day, nurse?" he asked. 

"Oh, they have been well enough, Master Christian, " was the reply, in acheerful undertone. 

"Aunt Judith has 'most got rid of her cold. But they've been verytrying, sir--just like children, as wilful as could be--the samequestion over and over again till I was fit to cry. They are quieternow, but--but it's you they're abusing now, Master Chris!"

The young fellow looked down into the little woman's face. His eyes weresympathetic enough, but he said nothing. With a little nod and asuppressed sigh he turned away from her. He laid his hand upon the doorand then stopped. 

"As soon as you have brought up tea, " he said, looking back, "I willtake them for the evening, and you can have your rest as usual. "

From the room came, at intervals, the ring of silver, as if some onewere moving the spoons and forks from the table. Christian waited untilthese sounds had ceased before he entered. 

"Good evening, Aunt Judith. Good evening, Aunt Hester, " he saidcheerily. 

They were exactly alike, these two old ladies; the same marvellouslywrinkled features and silver hair; voluminous caps and white woollenshawls identical. With exaggerated marks of respect he kissed each byturn on her withered cheek. 

"May I sit down, Aunt Judith?" he asked, and without waiting for ananswer drew a chair towards the fireplace, where a small fire burntthough it was the month of August. 

"Yes, Nephew Vellacott, you may take a seat, " replied Aunt Judith withchill severity, "and you may also tell us where you have been during thelast four weeks. "

Poor old human wreck! Only ten hours earlier her nephew had bid herfarewell for the day. Christian began an explanation in a weary, mechanical way, like an actor tired of the part assigned to him, but theold ladies would not listen. Aunt Hester interrupted him promptly. 

"Your shallow excuses are wasted on us, Nephew Vellacott. You havedoubtless been away, enjoying yourself and leaving us--us who supportyou and deprive ourselves in order to keep a decent coat upon yourback--leaving us to the mercy of all the thieves in London. And tell us, pray--what are we to do for spoons and forks to-night?"

"What?" exclaimed Christian with perfunctory interest, "have the spoonsgone--?" he almost said "again, " but checked himself in time. He turnedto look at the table, which had been carefully denuded of every piece ofsilver. 

"There, you see!" quavered Aunt Judith triumphantly; and the two oldladies rubbed their hands, nodded their palsied old heads at each other, and chuckled in utter delight at their nephew's discomfiture, until AuntJudith was attacked by a violent fit of coughing, which seemed to betearing her to pieces. Christian watched her with the ready keenness ofa sick-nurse. 

"How did it occur?" he asked, when the old lady had recovered. 

"There, you see, " remarked Aunt Hester, with the precise intonation ofher accomplice. 

"I _am_ sure!" panted Aunt Judith triumphantly. 

"I _am_ sure!" echoed Aunt Hester. 

They allowed their nephew's remorse full scope, and then proceededlaboriously to extract the missing articles from the side of AuntJudith's arm-chair. This farce was rehearsed every night, nearly wordfor word. A pleasant recreation for an intellectual man, assuredly. Theonly relief to the monotony was the occasional loss of a spoon in thecrevice between the arm and the seat of Aunt Judith's chair. Thenfollowed such a fumbling and a "dear me-ing" until the worthless nephewwas perforce called to the rescue, to fish and probe with a paper-knifetill the lost treasure was recovered. 

"We only wished, Nephew Vellacott, to show you what might have happenedduring your unconscionable absence. Servants are only too ready to talkto the first comer of their mistresses' wealth and position. They haveno discrimination. " said Aunt Judith in a reproving tone. The old ladieswere very fond of boasting of their wealth and position, whereas, inreality, their nephew was the only barrier between them and theworkhouse. 

"Well, Aunt Judith, " replied Christian patiently, "I will try and stayat home more in future. But you know it is time I was doing something toearn my own livelihood now. I cannot exist on your kindness all mylife!"

He had learnt to humour these two silly old women. During the two yearswhich had just passed he had gradually recognised the utter futility ofendeavouring to make them realise the true state of their affairs. Theyspoke grandiloquently of the family solicitor: a man who had been in hisgrave for nearly a quarter of a century. It was simply impossible toinstil into their minds any fact whatever, and such facts as hadestablished themselves there were permanent. They belonged to anothergeneration, and their mode of thought was a remnant of a forgotten andunsatisfactory period. To them Napoleon the First was a living man, Queen Victoria unheard of. The decay of their minds had been slow, andit had been Christian Vellacott's painful task to watch its steadyprogress. Day by day he had followed the gradual failing of each senseand power. 

There is something pathetic about the decay of a mind which has beendriven to death by constant work, but there is a compensating thought toalleviate the sadness. It may rattle and grow loose, like some worn-outengine, where the friction presses; but it will work till it collapsestotally, and some of the work achieved is good and permanent. It isbound to be so. Infinitely sadder is the sight of a mind which isfalling to pieces by reason of the rust that has eaten into its verycore. For rust must needs mean idleness--and no human intellect_need_ be idle. So it had been with these two old ladies. Born in awofully unintellectual age, they had never left a certain groove inlife. When their brother married Christian Vellacott's grandmother, theyhad left his house in Honiton to go and live in Bodmin upon a limitedbut sufficient income. These "sufficient incomes" are a curse; they donot allow of charity and make no call for labour. 

When Christian Vellacott arrived in England, an orphan with no greatwealth, he made it his first duty to visit the only living relations hepossessed. He was just in time to save them, literally, from starvation. It was obvious that he could not make a literary livelihood in Bodmin, so he made a home for the two old wrecks of humanity in London. Theirmeans, like their minds, were simply exhausted. Aunt Judith wasninety-three; Aunt Hester ninety-one. During that vast blank (for blankit was, so far as their lives were concerned) stretching away back intoa perspective of time which few around them could gauge--they had neverbeen separated for one day. Like two apples they had grown side by side, until their very contact had engendered disease--a slow, deadly, creeping rot, finding its source at the point of contact, reaching itsgoal at the heart of each. They had _existed_ thus with terriblelongevity--lived a mere animal life of sleeping and eating, such ashundreds of women are living around us now. 

"Of course, you must learn to make your daily bread, Nephew Vellacott!"answered Aunt Hester. "The desire does you credit; but you should becareful into what society you go without us. Girls are very designing, and many a one would like to marry a nephew of mine--eh, Judith?"

"Yes, that they would, " replied the old lady. "The minxes know that theymight do worse than catch the nephew of Judith and Hester Vellacott!"

"Look at us, " continued Aunt Hester, drawing up her shrunken old formwith a touch of pride. "Look at us? We have always avoided marriage, andwe are very nice and happy, I am sure!"

She waited for a confirmation of this bold statement, but Christian wasnot listening. He was leaning forward with his hands clasped between hisknees, gazing into the fire. He was recalling the conversation which hadpassed in the little room in the Strand. Could he leave these twohelpless old creatures. Could he get away from it all for a littletime--away from the maddening prattle of unguided tongues, from thedread monotony of hopeless watching? He knew that he was wasting hismanhood, neglecting his intellectual opportunities, and endangering hiscareer; but his course of duty was marked out with terribledistinctness. He never saw the pathos of it, as a woman would have seenit, gathering perhaps some slight alleviation from the sight. It neverentered his thoughts to complain, and he never conceived the idea ofdrawing comparisons between his position and that of other young menwho, instead of being slaves to their relatives, made very good use ofthem. He merely went on doing his obvious duty and striving not to lookforward too eagerly to a release at some future period. 

Fortunately, Mrs. Strawd was not long in bringing in the simple eveningmeal; and the attention of the old ladies was at once turned to themystery hidden beneath the dish-cover. What was it, and would there beenough for Nephew Vellacott?

Deftly, Christian poured out the tea. Two cups very weak and onestronger. Then two thin slices of crustless bread had to be buttered. This operation required great judgment and impartiality. 

"Excuse me, Nephew Vellacott!" said Aunt Judith, with dangerousseverity. "Is that first slice intended for Aunt Hester? It appears tome that the butter is very thick--much thicker than on the second, whichis doubtless intended for me!"

"Do you think so, Aunt Judith?" asked Christian in a voice purposelyloud in order to drown Aunt Hester's remonstrance. "Then I will take alittle off!" He passed the knife harmlessly over the faulty slice, andlaid the two side by side upon a plate. Then the old ladies promptlyheld a survey on them--that declared to be more heavily buttered beingawarded to Aunt Judith in recognition of her seniority. 

With similar fruitful topics of conversation the meal was pleasantlydespatched. The turn of Dick and Mick followed thereon. Dick, theproperty of Aunt Judith, was a canary of thoughtful temperament. Thepart he played in the domestic economy of the small household was acontemplative rather than an active one. Mick, Aunt Hester's bird, wasof a more lively nature. He had, as a rule, something to say upon allsubjects--and said it. 

Now Aunt Hester, in her inmost heart, loved a silent bird, and secretlycoveted Dick, but as Mick was her property, and Dick the silent wasowned by Aunt Judith, she never lost an opportunity of enlarging uponthe stupidity and uselessness of silent birds. Aunt Judith, on the otherhand, admired a lively and talkative canary; consequently she wasweighed down with the conviction that her sister's bird was the superiorarticle. Altogether, birds as a topic of conversation were best avoided. Dick and Mick were housed in cages of similar build--indeed, most thingswere strictly in duplicate in the whole household. Every eveningChristian brought the cages, and Aunt Judith and Aunt Hester carefullyplaced within the wires a small piece of bread-and-butter, which NurseStrawd as carefully removed, untouched, the next morning. 

When the birds' wants had been attended to, it was Christian's duty tosettle the old ladies comfortably in their respective arm-chairs. Thishe did tenderly and cleverly as a woman, but it was not a pleasant sightto look upon. The man, with his lean, strong face, long jaw, andprominent chin, was so obviously out of place. These peaceful dutieswere never meant for such as he. His somewhat closely-set eyes were notsuch as wax tender over drowning flies, for even in repose they weresomewhat direct and stern in their gaze. In fact, Christian Vellacottwas so visibly created for strife and the forefront of life's battle, that it was almost painful to see him fulfilling a more peacefulavocation. 

As a rule he devoted himself to the amusement of his aged relatives foran hour or so; but this evening he sat down to the piano at once, withthe deliberate intention of playing them off to sleep. Ten o'clock wastheir hour for retiring, and before that they would not move, althoughthey dozed in their chairs. 

He was no mean musician, this big West-countryman, with a true ear and atouch peculiarly light and tender for a man. He played gently anddrowsily for some time, half forgetting that he was not alone in theroom. Presently he turned round, letting his fingers rest on the keys. Aunt Judith was asleep, and Aunt Hester made a sign for him to go onplaying. Five minutes more, gradually toned down till the very soundsseemed to fall asleep, and Aunt Hester was peacefully slumbering. Silently the player rose, and crossing the room, he resumed his seat atthe table from which the white cloth had not yet been removed. Pen, ink, and paper were within reach, and in a few minutes he had written thefollowing note:--

"DEAR SIDNEY, --May I retract the letter I wrote yesterday and acceptyour invitation? I have been requested to take a holiday, and, ratherthan offend the powers that be, have given in. I can think of no happierway of spending it than in seeing you all again and recalling the jollyold Prague days. With kind regards, yours ever, "CHRISTIAN VELLACOTT. "

He folded the note and slipped it into an envelope, which he addressedto "Sidney Carew, Esq. , St. Mary Western, Dorset. " Then he slippednoiselessly out of the room and upstairs to where Mrs. Strawd had asmall sitting-room of her own. The little woman heard his footstep onthe old creaking stairs, and opened the door of her room before hereached it. 

"If I went away for three weeks, " he said, "could you do without me?"

"Of course I could, " replied the little woman readily. "Just you go awayand take a holiday, Master Christian. You need it sorely, that I know. You do indeed. We shall get on splendidly without you. I'll just have mysister to come and stay, same as I did when you had to go to the ParisHouse of Parliament. "

"I have not had much of a holiday, you see, for two years now!"

"Of course you haven't, and you want it. It's only human nature--and youa young man that ought to be in the open air all day. For an old womanlike me it's different. We're made differently by the good God onpurpose, I think;"

"Well, then, if your sister comes it must be understood, nurse, that Imake the same arrangement with her as exists with you. She must simplybe a duplicate of you--you understand?"

The little woman laughed, lightly enough. 

"Oh, yes, Master Christian, that is all right. But you need not havetroubled about that. She never would have thought of such a thing aswages, I'm sure!"

"No, " replied he gravely, "I know she would not, but it will be better, I think, to have it understood beforehand. Gratitude is a very nicething to work for, but some work is worth more than gratitude. If youare going out for your walk, perhaps you will post this letter. "

Before Christian went to bed that night he held a candle close to themirror and looked long and hard at his own reflection. There were darkstreaks under his eyes, his small mouth was drawn and dry, his lipscolourless. At each temple the bone stood out rather prominently, andthe skin was brilliant in its whiteness and reflected the light of thecandle. He felt his own pulse. It was beating, at one moment fast andirregular, at the next it was hardly perceptible. 

"Yes!" he muttered, with a professional nod--in his training as ajournalist he had learnt a little of many sciences--"yes, old Bodery wasright. "

CHAPTER V

A REUNION

The gentle August night had cooled and soothed the dusty atmosphere. Allthings looked fair, even in London. The placid Thames glided stealthilydown to the sea, as if wishing to speed on unseen, to cast at last hisreeking waters into the cool ocean. The bright brown sails, low hulls, and gaily painted spars of the barges dropping down with the streamadded to the beauty of the scene. 

Such was the morning that greeted Christian Vellacott, as he opened thedoor of his little Chelsea home and stepped forth a free man. When oncehe had made up his mind to go, every obstacle was thrown aside, and hisdetermination was now as great as had been his previous reluctance. Hehad no presentiment that he was taking an important step in life--one ofthose steps which we hardly notice at the time, but upon which we lookback in after years and note how clear and definite it was, losingourselves in vague conjecture as to what might have been had we heldback. 

Christian being practical in all things, knew how to travel comfortably, dispensing with rugs and bags and such small packages as are understoodto be dear to the elderly single female heart. 

The smoky suburbs were soon left behind, and the smiling land gave forthsuch gentle, pastoral odours as only long confinement in cities canteach us to detect. Christian lowered the window, and the warm airplayed round him as it had not done for two long years. The whizz of thewind past his face brought back the memory of the long, idle, happy daysspent with his father in the Mediterranean, when they had been halfsailors and wholly Bohemians, gliding from port to port, village tocity, in their yacht, as free and careless as the wind. The warm breezealmost seemed to be coming to him from some parched Italian plaininstead of pastoral Buckinghamshire. 

Then his thoughts travelled still further back to his school-days inPrague, when his father and Mr. Carew were colleagues in a brilliant butunfortunate embassy. Five years had passed since then. The two fatherswere now dead, and the children had dropped apart as men and women dowhen their own personal interests begin to engross them. Now again, inthis late summer time, they were to meet. All, that is, who were left. The _débris_, as it were. Three voices there were whose tones wouldnever more be heard in the round of merry jest. Mr. Carew, WalterVellacott (Uncle Walter, the young ones called him), and little CharlieCarew, the bright-eyed sailor of the family, had all three travelled on. The two former, whose age and work achieved had softened theirdeparture, were often spoken of with gently lowered voice, but littleCharlie's name was never mentioned. It was a fatal mistake--thissilence--if you will; but it was one of those mistakes which are oftenmade in wisdom. In splendid, solitary grandeur he lay awaiting the endof all things--the call of his Creator--in the grey ice-fields of theNorth. The darling of his ship, he had died with a smile in his blueeyes and a sad little jest upon his lips to cheer the rough fur-cladgiants kneeling at his side. Time, the merciful, had healed, as best hecould (which is by no means perfectly), the wound in the younger hearts. It is only the old that are quite beyond his powers; he cannot touchthem. Mrs. Carew, a woman with a patient face and a ready smile, was theonly representative of the vanishing generation. Her daughters--ay! andperhaps her sons as well (though boys are not credited with so muchtender divination)--knew the meaning of the little droop at the side oftheir mother's smiling lips. They detected the insincerity of her kindlylaugh. 

Shortly after leaving Exeter, Christian's station was reached. This wasan old-fashioned seaport town, whose good fortune it was to lie too farwest for a London watering-place, and too far east for Plymouth orBristol. Sidney Carew was on the platform--a sturdy, typical Englishman, with a certain sure slowness of movement handed down to him by seafaringancestors. The two friends had not met for many years, but with menabsence has little effect upon affection. During the space of many yearsthey may never meet and seldom write, but at the end that gulf of timeis bridged over by a simple "Halloa, old fellow!" and a warm grip. Slowly, piece by piece, the history of the past years comes out. Bothare probably changed in thought and nature, but the old individualityremains, the old bond of friendship survives. 

"Well, Sidney?"

"How are you?"

Simultaneously--and that was all. The changes were there in both, andnoted by both, but not commented upon. 

"Molly is outside with the dog-cart, " said Sidney; "is your luggageforward?"

"Yes, that is it being pitched out now. "

It was with womanly foresight that Miss Molly Carew had elected to waitoutside with the dog-cart while her brother met Christian on theplatform. She feared a little natural embarrassment at meeting the oldplayfellow of the family, and concluded that the first moments would bemore easily tided over here than at the train. Her fears were, as itturned out, unnecessary, but she did not know what Christian might belike after the lapse of years. Of herself she was sure enough, being oneof those happy people who have no self-consciousness whatever. 

On seeing her, Christian came forward at once, raising his hat andshaking hands as if they had parted the day before. 

She saw at once that it was all right. This was Christian Vellacott asshe had remembered him. She looked down at him as he stood with one handresting on the splashboard, and he, looking up to her, smiled in return. 

"Christian, " she said, "do you know I should scarcely have recognisedyou. You are so big, and--and you look positively ghastly!" She finishedher remark with a little laugh which took away from the spoken meaningof it. 

"Ghastly?" he replied. "Thanks: I do not feel like it--only hungry. Hungry, and desperately glad to see a face that does not lookoverworked. "

"Meaning me. "

"Meaning you. "

She gave a little sarcastic nod, and pursed up a pair of very red lips. 

"Nevertheless I am the only person in the house who does any work atall. Hilda, for instance--"

At this moment Sidney came up and interrupted them. 

"Jump up in front, Chris, " he said; "Molly will drive, while I sitbehind. Your luggage will follow in the cart. "

The drive of six miles passed away very pleasantly. Molly's stronglittle hands were quite accustomed to the reins, and the men were freeto talk, which, however, she found time to do as well. The two youngpeople on the front seat stole occasional sidelong glances at eachother. The clever, mischievous little girl of Christian's recollectionwas transformed by the kindly hand of time into a fascinating andcapable young lady. The uncertain profile had grown clear and regular. The truant hair was somewhat more under control, which, however, was allthat could be said upon that subject. Only her eyes were unchanged, thelaughing, fearless eyes of old. Fearless they had been in the times ofchildish mischief and adventure; fearless they remained in the face oflife's graver mischances now. 

Christian had been a shy and commonplace-enough boy as she recollectedhim. Now she found a self-possessed man of the world. Tall and strong ofbody she saw he was, and she felt that he possessed another strength--astrength of mind and will which, reaching out, can grasp and holdanything or everything. 

With practised skill, Molly turned into the narrow gateway at a swingingtrot, and then only was the house visible--a low, rambling building ofbrick and stone uncouthly mixed. Its chief outward characteristic was apromise of inward comfort. The sturdy manner in which its windows facedthe scantily-wooded tableland that stretched away unbroken by wall orhedgerow to the sea, implied a certain thickness of wall and woodwork. The doorway which looked inland was singularly broad, and bore signsabout its stonework of having once been even broader. The house hadoriginally been a hollow square, with a roofless courtyard in thecentre, into which the sheep and cattle were in olden times driven forsafety at night against French marauders. This had later on been roofedin, and transformed into a roomy and comfortable hall, such as might beused as a sitting-room. All around the house, except, indeed, upon thesea-ward side, stood gnarled and twisted trees; Scotch firs inabundance, here and there a Weymouth pine, and occasionally a knotteddwarf oak with a tendency to run inland. The garden was, however, richenough in shrubs and undergrowth, and to the landward side was a gleamof still water, being all that remained of a broad, deep moat. 

Mrs. Carew welcomed Christian at the open door. She said very little, but her manner was sufficiently warm and friendly to dispense withwords. 

"Where is Hilda?" asked Molly, as she leapt lightly to the ground. 

"I do not know, dear. She is out, somewhere; in the garden, I expect. You are before your time a little. The train must have been punctual, for a wonder. Had Hilda known, she would have been here to welcome you, I know, Christian. "

"I expect she is at the moat, " said Molly. "Come along, Christian; wewill go and look for her. This way. "

In the meantime Sidney had driven the dog-cart round to the stables, kneeling awkwardly upon the back seat. 

As Christian followed his fair guide down the little path leading to themoat, he began to feel that it was not so difficult after all to throwoff the dull weight of anxiety that lay upon his mind. The thoughtsabout the _Beacon_ were after all not so very absorbing. Theanxiety regarding the welfare of the two old ladies was alreadyalleviated by distance. The strong sea air, the change to pleasant andkindly society, were already beginning their work. 

Suddenly Molly stopped, and Christian saw that she was standing at theedge of a long, still sheet of water bounded by solid stonework, which, however, was crumbling away in parts, while everywhere the green mossgrew in velvety profusion. 

"Oh, Christian, " said Molly lightly, "I suppose Sidney told you a littleof our news. Men's letters are not discursive as a rule I know, but nodoubt he told you--something. "

He was standing beside her at the edge of the moat, looking down intothe deep, clear water. 

"Yes, " he replied slowly, "yes, Molly; he told me a little in a scrappy, unsatisfactory way. "

A pained expression came into her eyes for a moment, and then she spoke, rather more quickly than was habitual with her, but without raising hervoice. 

"He told you--nothing about Hilda?" she said interrogatively. 

He turned and looked down at her. 

"No--nothing. "

Then he followed the direction of her eyes, and saw approaching them ayoung man and a maiden whose footsteps had been inaudible upon themoss-grown path. The man was of medium height, with an honest brownface. He was dressed for riding, and walked with a slight swagger, whicharose less from conceit than from excessive riding on horseback. Themaiden was tall and stately, and in her walk there was an old-fashionedgrace of movement which harmonised perfectly with the old-worldsurroundings. She was looking down, and Christian could not see herface; but as she wore no hat, he saw and recognised her hair. This wasof gold--not red, not auburn, not flaxen, but pure and living gold. Thesun glinting through the trees shone upon it and gleamed, but in realitythe hair gleamed without the aid of sunlight. 

CHAPTER VI

BROKEN THREADS

They came forward, and suddenly the girl raised her face. She made alittle hesitating movement of non-recognition, and then suddenly herface was transformed by a very pleasant smile. There was somethingpeculiar in Hilda Carew's smile, which came from the fact that hereyelashes were golden, while her eyes were dark blue. The effectsuggested a fascinating kitten. In repose her face was almost severe inits refined beauty, and the set of her lips indicated a certainself-reliance which with years might become more prominent if troubleshould arrive. 

"Christian!" she exclaimed, "I am sorry I did not know you. " They shookhands, and Molly hastened to introduce her sister's companion. 

"Mr. Farrar, " she said; "Mr. Vellacott. "

The two men shook hands, and Christian was disappointed. The grip ofFarrar's fingers was limp and almost nerveless, in strikingcontradiction to the promise of his honest face and well-set person. 

"Tea is ready, " said Molly somewhat hastily; "let us go in. "

Hilda and her companion passed on in front while Molly and Christianfollowed them. The latter purposely lagged behind, and his companionfound herself compelled to wait for him. 

"Look at the effect of the sunlight through the trees upon that water, "said he in a conversational way; "it is quite green, and almosttransparent. "

"Yes, " replied Molly, moving away tentatively, "we see most peculiareffects over the moat. The water is so very still and deep. "

He raised his quiet eyes to her face, upon which the ready smile stilllingered. As she met his gaze she raised her hand and pushed back a fewtruant wisps of hair which, curling forward like tendrils, tickled hercheek. It was a movement he soon learned to know. 

"Yes, " he said absently. He was wondering in an analytical way whetherthe action was habitual with her, or significant of embarrassment. Atlength he turned to follow her, but Molly had failed in her object; theothers had passed out of earshot. 

"Tell me, " said Christian in a lowered voice, "who is he?"

"He is the squire of St. Mary Eastern, six miles from here, " shereplied; "very well off; very good to his mother, and in every waynice. "

Christian tore off a small branch which would have touched his foreheadhad he walked on without stooping. He broke it into small pieces, andcontinued throwing up at intervals into the air a tiny stick, hitting itwith his hand as they walked on. 

"And, " he said suggestively, "and--"

"Yes, Christian, " she replied decisively, "they are engaged. Come, letus hurry; I always pour out the tea. I told you before, if you remember, that I was the only person in the house who did any work. "

When Christian opened his eyes the following morning, the soft hum ofinsects fell on his ear instead of the roar of London traffic. Throughthe open window the southern air blew upon his face. Above the sound ofbusy wings the distant sea sang its low dirge. It was a livingperspective of sound. The least rustle near at hand overpowered it, andyet it was always there--an unceasing throb to be felt as much as heard. Some acoustic formation of the land carried the noise, for the sea waseight miles away. It was very peaceful; for utter stillness is notpeace. A room wherein an old clock ticks is infinitely more soothingthan a noiseless chamber. 

Nevertheless the feeling that forced itself into Christian Vellacott'swaking thoughts was not peaceful. It was a sense of discomfort. Town-people expect too much from the country--that is the truth of it. They quite overlook the fact that where human beings are there can be nopeace. 

This sudden sense of restlessness annoyed him. He knew it so well. Ithad hovered over his waking head almost daily during the last two years, and here, in the depths of the country, he had expected to be withoutit. Moreover, he was conscious that he had not brought the cause withhim. He had found it, waiting. 

There were many things--indeed there was almost everything--to make hislife happy and pleasant at St. Mary Western. But in his mind, as he wokeup on this first morning, none of these things found place. He came tohis senses thinking of the one little item which could be described asuntoward--thinking of Hilda, and Hilda engaged to be married to FredFarrar. It was not that he was in love with Hilda Carew himself. He hadscarcely remembered her existence during the last two years. But thisengagement jarred, and Farrar jarred. It was something more than thevery natural shock which comes with the news that a companion of ouryouth is about to be married--shock which seems to shake the memory ofthat youth; to confuse the background of our life. It is by means ofsuch shocks as these that Fate endeavours vainly to make us realise thatthe past is irrevocable--that we are passing on, and that that which hasbeen can never be again. And at the same time we learn something else:namely, that the past is not by any means unchangeable. So potential isTo-day that it not only holds To-morrow in the hollow of its hand, butit can alter Yesterday. 

Christian Vellacott lay upon his bed in unwonted idleness, gazingvaguely at the flying clouds. The window was open, and the song of thedistant sea rose and fell with a rhythm full of peace. But in this man'smind there was no peace. In all probability there never would becomplete peace there, because Ambition had set its hold upon him. Hewanted to do more than there was time for. Like many of us, he began bythinking that Life is longer than it is. Its whole length is in those"long, long thoughts" of Youth. When those are left behind, we settledown to work, and the rest of the story is nothing but labour. Vellacottresented this engagement because he felt that Hilda Carew had steppedout of that picture which formed what was probably destined to be thehappiest time of his life--his Youth. For the unhappiness of Youth ispreferable to the resignation of Age. He felt that she had willinglyresigned something which he would on no account have given up. Aboveall, he felt that it was a mistake. This was, of course, at the bottomof it. He probably felt that it was a pity. We usually feel so onhearing that a pretty and charming girl is engaged to be married. Wethink that she might have done so much better for herself, and we growpensive or possibly sentimental over her lost opportunity whencontemplating him in the mirror as he shaves. Like all so-called happyevents, an engagement is not usually a matter of universal rejoicing. Some one is, in all probability, left to think twice about it. ButChristian Vellacott was not prepared to admit that he was in thatposition. 

He was naturally of an observant habit--his father had beenone of the keenest-sighted men of his day--and he had graduated at thesubtlest school in the world. He unwittingly fell to studying hisfellow-men whenever the opportunity presented itself, and the result ofthis habit was a certain classification of detail. He picked up littlescraps of evidence here and there, and these were methodicallypigeon-holed away, as a lawyer stores up the correspondence of hisclients. 

With regard to Frederick Farrar, Vellacott had only made one note. Thesquire of St. Mary Eastern was apparently very similar to his fellows. He was an ordinary young British squire with a knowledge of horses and ahighly-developed fancy for smart riding-breeches and long boots. He hadprobably received a fair education, but this had ceased when he closedhis last school-book. The seeds of knowledge had been sown, but theylacked moisture and had failed to grow. He was good-natured, plucky in ahard-headed British way, and gentlemanly. In all this there was nothingexceptional--nothing to take note of--and Vellacott only remembered thelimpness of Frederick Farrar's grasp. He thought of this toopersistently and magnified it. And this being the only mental note made, was rather hard on the young squire of St. Mary Eastern. 

Vellacott thought of these things while he dressed, he thought of themintermittently during the unsettled, noisy, country breakfast, and whenhe found himself walking beside the moat with Hilda later on he wasstill thinking of them. 

They had not yet gathered into their hands the threads which had beenbroken years before. At times they hit upon a topic of some slightcommon interest, but something hovered in the air between them. Hildawas gay, as she had always been, in a gentle, almost purring way; but acertain constrained silence made itself felt at times, and they wereboth intensely conscious of it. 

Vellacott was fully aware that there was something to be got over, andso instead of skipping round it, as a woman might have done, he wentblundering on to the top of it. 

"Hilda, " he said suddenly, "I have never congratulated you. "

She bent her head in a grave little bow which was not quite English; butshe said nothing. 

"I can only wish you all happiness, " he continued rather vaguely. 

Again she made that mystic little motion of the head, but did not looktowards him, and never offered the assistance of smile or word. 

"A long life, a happy one, and your own will, " he added more lightly, looking down into the green water of the moat. 

"Thank you, " she said, standing quite still beside him. 

And then there followed an awkward pause. It was Vellacott who finallybroke the silence in the only way left to him. 

"I like Farrar, " he said. "I am sure he will make you happy. He--is alucky fellow. "

At the end of the walk that ran the whole length of that part of themoat which had been allowed to remain intact, she made a little movementas if to turn aside beneath the hazel trees and towards the house. Buthe would not let her go. He turned deliberately upon his heel and waitedfor her. There was nothing else to do but acquiesce. They retraced theirsteps with that slow reflectiveness which comes when one walks backwardsand forwards over the same ground. 

There is something eminently conversational in the practice of walkingto and fro. For that purpose it is better than an arm-chair and a pipe, or a piece of knitting. 

Occasionally Vellacott dropped a pace behind, apparently with a purpose;for when he did so he raised his eyes instantly. He seemed to be slowlydetailing the maiden, and he frowned a little. She was exactly what shehad promised to be. The singularly golden hair which he had last seenflowing freely over her slight young shoulders had acquired adecorousness of curve, although the hue was unchanged. The shoulderswere exactly the same in contour, on a slightly larger scale; and themanner of carrying her head--a manner peculiarly her own, and suggestiveof a certain gentle wilfulness--was unaltered. 

And yet there was a change: that subtle change which seems to come togirls suddenly, in the space of a week--of one night. And this man waswatching her with his analytical eyes, wondering what the change mightbe. 

He was more or less a bookworm, and he possibly thought that thissubject--this pleasant young subject walking beside him in a blue cottondress--was one which might easily be grasped and understood if only onegave one's mind to it. Hence the little frown. It denoted the gift ofhis mind. It was the frown that settled over his eyes when he cut thepages of a deep book and glanced at the point of his pencil. 

He had read many books, and he knew a number of things. But there is onesubject of which very little can be learnt in books--precisely thesubject that walked in a blue cotton dress by Christian Vellacott's sideat the edge of the moat. If any one thinks that book-learning can aidthis study, let him read the ignorance of Gibbon, comparing it with thelearning of that cheery old ignoramus Montaigne. And Vellacott wasnearer to Gibbon in his learning than to Montaigne in his carelessignorance of those things that are written in books. 

He glanced at her; he frowned and brought his whole attention to bearupon her, and he could not even find out whether she was pleased tolisten to his congratulations, or angry, or merely indifferent. It wasrather a humiliating position for a clever man--for a critic who knewhimself to be capable of understanding most things, of catching thedrift of most thoughts, however imperfectly expressed. He was vaguelyconscious of defeat. He felt that he was nonplussed by a pair of softround eyes like the eyes of a kitten, and the dignified repose of a pairof demure red lips. Both eyes and lips, as well as shoulders and goldenhair, were strangely familiar and strangely strange by turns. 

With one finger he twisted the left side of his moustache into hismouth, and, dragging at it with his teeth, distorted his face in anunbecoming if reflective manner, which was habitually indicative of thedeepest attention. 

While reflecting, he forgot to be conversational, and Hilda seemed to becontent with silence. So they walked the length of the moat twicewithout speaking, and might have accomplished it a third time, hadlittle Stanley Carew not appeared upon the scene with the impulsiveenergy of his thirteen years, begging Christian to bowl him some reallyswift overhands. 

CHAPTER VII

PUPPETS

"Ah! It goes. It goes already!"

The speaker--the Citizen Morot--slowly rubbed his white hands one overthe other. 

He was standing at the window of a small house in an insignificantstreet on the southern side of the Seine. He was remarkably calm--quitethe calmest man within the radius of a mile; for the insignificantlittle street was in an uproar. There was a barricade at each end of it. Such a barricade as Parisians love. It was composed of a few overturnedomnibuses; for the true Parisian is a cynic. He likes overturned things, and he loves to see objects of peace converted to purposes of war. He isnot content that ploughshares be beaten into swords. He prefersaltar-rails. And so this little street was blocked at either end by abarricade of overturned omnibuses, of old hampers and empty boxes, of afew loads of second-hand bricks and paving-stones brought from the sceneof some drainage operations round the corner. 

In the street between the barricades, surged, hooted, and yelled thatwildest and most dangerous of incomprehensibles--a Paris mob. Half-a-dozen orators were speaking at once, and no one was listening tothem. Here and there amidst the rabble a voice was raised at times withsuspicious persistence. 

"_Vive le Roi!_" it cried. "Long live the King!"

A few took up the refrain, but the general tone was negative. It was notso much a question of upholding anything as of throwing down that whichwas already up. 

"Down with the Republic!" was the favourite cry. "Down with thePresident! Down with everything!"

And each man cried down his favourite enemy. 

The Citizen Morot listened, and his contemptuous mouth was twisted witha delicate, subtle smile. 

"Ah!" he muttered. "The voice of the people. The howling of the wolves. Go on, go on, my braves. Cry 'Long live the King, ' and soon you willbegin to believe that you mean it. They are barking now. Let them bark. Soon we shall teach them to bite, and then--then, who knows?"

His voice dropped almost to a whisper, and he stood there amidst the dinand hubbub--dreaming. At last he raised his hand to his forehead--aprominent, rounded forehead, flat as the palm of one's hand from eyebrowto eyebrow, and curving at either side, sharply, back to deep-sunkentemples. 

"Ah!" he exclaimed, with a little laugh; and he drew from an innerpocket a delicately scented pocket-handkerchief, with which he wiped hisbrow. "If I get excited now, what will it be when they begin--to bite?"

All this while the orators were shouting their loudest, and the voicesdispersed throughout the crowd raised at intervals their short, sharpcry of--

"Long live the King!"

And the police? There were only two agents attached to the immediateneighbourhood, and they were smoking cigars and drinking absinthe in twoseparate cellars, with the door locked on the outside. They wereprisoners of war of the most resigned type. The room in which stood theCitizen Morot was dark, and wisely so. For the Parisian streetpolitician can make very pretty practice of a lighted petroleum-lampwith an empty bottle or half a brick. The window was wide open, and thewooden shutters were hooked back. 

The attitude of the man was interested and slightly self-satisfied. Itsuggested that of the manager of a theatre looking down from anupper-tier box upon a full house and a faultless stage. At the same timehe was keeping what sailors call a very "bright look-out" towards eitherend of the street. From his elevated position he was able to see overthe barricades, and he watched with intense interest the movements oftwo women (or perhaps men disguised as such) who stood in the centre ofthe street just beyond each obstruction. 

There was something dramatic in the motionless attitude of these twowomen, standing guard alone in the deserted street, on the wrong side ofthe barricades. 

At times Morot leant well out of the window and listened. Then he stoodback again and contemplated the crowd. 

Each orator was illuminated by a naphtha "flare, " which, being held inunsteady hands, flickered and wavered, casting strange gleams of lightover the evil faces upturned towards it. At times one speaker wouldsucceed in raising a laugh or extracting a groan, and when he did sothose listening to his rivals turned and surged towards him. There wasplenty of movement. It was what the newspapers call an animatedscene--or a disgraceful scene--according to their political bias. 

The Citizen Morot could not hear the jokes nor distinguish the cause ofthe groaning. But he did not seem to mind much. The speeches were not ofthe description to be given in full in the morning papers. There were, fortunately, no reporters present. It was the frank eloquence of theslaughter-house--the unclad humour of the market. 

Suddenly one of the women--she who was posted at the southern end of thestreet--raised both her arms, and the Citizen leant far out of thewindow. He was very eager, and his hawk-like eyes blinked perpetually. His hand was raised to his mouth, and the lights of the orators gleamedon something that he held in his fingers--something that looked likesilver. 

The woman held her two arms straight up into the air for some moments, then she suddenly crossed them twice, turning at the same moment andscrambling over the barricade. A long shrill whistle rang out over theheads of the mob, and its effect was almost instantaneous. The "flares"disappeared like magic. Dark figures swarmed up the lamp-posts andextinguished the feeble lights. The voice of the orator was still. Silence and darkness reigned over that insignificant little street onthe southern side of the Seine. Then came the clatter of cavalry--therattle of horses' feet, and the ominous clank of empty scabbards againstspur and buckle. A word of command, and a scrambling halt. Then silenceagain, broken only by the shuffling of feet (not too well clad) in thedarkness between the barricades. 

The Citizen Morot leant recklessly out of the window, peering intothe gloom. He forgot to make use of the delicately scented pocket-handkerchief now, and the drops of perspiration trickled slowly downhis face. 

The soldiers shuffled in their saddles. Some of the spirited littleArabs pawed the pavement. One of them squealed angrily, and there was aslight commotion somewhere in the rear ranks--an equine difference ofopinion. The officers had come forward to the barricade and wereconsulting together. The question was--what was there behind thatbarricade? It might be nothing--it might be everything. In Paris one cannever tell. At last one of them determined to see for himself. Hescrambled up, putting his foot through the window of an omnibus inpassing. Against the dim light of the street-lamp beyond, his slight, straight figure stood out in bold relief. It was a splendid mark for aman with chalked sights to his rifle. 

"Ah!" muttered the Citizen, "you are all right this time--master, theyoung officer. They are only barking. Next time perhaps it will be quiteanother history. "

The officer turned and disappeared. After the lapse of a few moments adozen words of command were shouted, and upon them followed the sharpclick of hilt on scabbard as the sabres fell home. 

After a pause it became evident that the barricade was being destroyed. And then lights flashed here and there. In a compact column the cavalryadvanced at a trot. The street was empty. 

Citizen Morot turned away and sat down on a chair that happened to beplaced near the window. His finely-drawn eyebrows were raised with aquestioning weariness. 

"Pretty work!" he ejaculated. "Pretty work for--my father's son! Sogrand, so open, so noble!"

He waited there, in the darkness, until the cavalry had been withdrawnand the local firemen were at work upon the barricade. Then, when orderwas fully restored, he left the house, walking quietly down the lengthof the insignificant little street. 

Ten minutes later he entered the tobacco-shop in the Rue St. Gingolphe. Mr. Jacquetot was at his post, behind the counter near the window, withthe little tin box containing postage-stamps in front of him upon hisdesk. He was always there--like the poor. He laid aside the _PetitJournal_ and wished the new-comer a courteous, though breathless, good evening. 

The salutation was returned gravely and pleasantly. The Citizen Morotlingered a moment and remarked that it was a warm evening. He neverseemed to be in a hurry. Then he passed on into the little room behindthe shop. 

There he found Lerac, the foreman of the slaughter-house. The butcherwas pale with excitement. His rough clothing was dishevelled; hisstringy black hair stood up uncouthly in the centre of his head, whileover his temples it was plastered down with perspiration and suetpleasingly mingled. 

"Well?" he exclaimed, with triumphant interrogation. 

"Good, " said Morot. "Very good. It marches, my friend. It marchesalready. "

"Ah! But you are right. The People see you--it is a power!"

"It is, " acquiesced Morot fervently. 

How he hated this man!

"And you stayed to the last?" inquired Lerac. He was rather white aboutthe lips for a brave man. 

"Till the last, " echoed Morot, taking up some letters addressed to himwhich lay on the table. 

"And the street was quite clear before they broke through the barrier?"

"Quite--the People did not wait. " He seemed to resign himself toconversation, for he put the letters into his pocket and sat down. "Hadyou, " he inquired, "any difficulty in getting them away?"

"Oh no, " somewhat loftily and quite unsuspicious of irony. "The passageswere narrow, of course; but we had allowed for that in our organisation. Organisation and the People, see you--"

"Yes, " replied Morot. "Organisation and the People. " Like Lerac, hestopped short, apparently lost in the contemplation of the vastpossibilities presented to his mental vision by the mere thought of sucha combination. 

"Well!" exclaimed the butcher energetically, "I must move on. I havemeetings. I merely wished to hear from you that all was right--that noone was caught. "

He was bubbling over with excitement and the sense of his own hugeimportance. 

The Citizen Morot raised his secretive eyes. 

"Good-night, " he said, with an insolence far too fine for the butcher'scomprehension. 

"Well--good-night. We may congratulate ourselves, I think, Citizen!"

"I congratulate you, " said Morot. "Good-night. "

"Good-night. "

It is probable that, had Lerac looked back, there would have been murderdone in the small room behind the tobacco-shop. But the contemptuoussmile soon vanished from the face of the Citizen Morot. No smilelingered there long. It was not built upon smiling lines at all. 

Then he took up his letters. There were only two of them: one bearingthe postmark of a small town in Morbihan, the other hailing fromEngland. 

He replaced the first in his pocket unread; the second he opened. It waswritten in French. 

"There are difficulties, " it said. "Can you come to me? Cross fromCherbourg to Southampton--train from thence to this place, and ask forSignor Bruno, an Italian refugee, living at the house of Mrs. Potter, a_ci-devant_ laundress. "

The Citizen Morot rubbed his chin thoughtfully with the back of hishand, making a sharp, grating sound. 

"That old man, " he said, "is getting past his work. He is losing nerve;and nerve is a thing that we cannot afford to lose. "

Then he turned to the letter again. 

"Ah!" he exclaimed suddenly; "St. Mary Western. He is there--how verystrange. What a singular coincidence!"

He fell into a reverie with the letter before him. 

"Carew is dead--but still I can manage it. Perhaps it is just as wellthat he is dead. I was always afraid of Carew. "

Then he wrote a letter, which he addressed to "Signor Bruno, care ofMrs. Potter, St. Mary Western, Dorset. "

"I shall come, " he wrote, "but not in the way you suggest. I have abetter plan. You must not know me when we meet. "

He purchased a twenty-five centime stamp from Mr. Jacquetot, and postedthe letter with his own hand in the little wall-box at the corner of theRue St. Gingolphe. 

CHAPTER VIII

FALSE METAL

There was, however, no cricket for Stanley Carew that morning. Whenthey came within sight of the house Mrs. Carew emerged from an openwindow carrying several letters in her hand. She was not hurrying, butwalking leisurely, reading a letter as she walked. 

"Just think, Hilda dear, " she said, with as much surprise as she everallowed herself. "I have had a letter from the Vicomte d'Audierne. Youremember him?"

"Yes, " said the girl; "I remember him, of course. He is not the sort ofman one forgets. "

"I always liked the Viscount, " said Mrs. Carew, pensively looking at theletter she held in her hand. "He was a good friend to us at one time. Inever understood him, and I like men whom one does not understand. "

Hilda laughed. 

"Yes, " she answered vaguely. 

"Your father admired him tremendously, " Mrs. Carew went on to say. "Hesaid that he was one of the cleverest men in France, but that he hadfallen in a wrong season, and would not adapt himself. Had France been amonarchy, the Vicomte d'Audierne would have been in a very differentposition. "

Vellacott did not open his own letters. He seemed to be interested inthe conversation of these ladies. He was not a reserved man, but asecretive, which is quite a different thing. Reserve is natural--itcomes unbidden, and often unwelcome. Secretiveness is born ofcircumstances. Some men find it imperative to cultivate it, althoughtheir soul revolts within them. In professional or social matters it isoften merely an expediency--in some cases it almost feels like a crime. There are some secrets which cannot be divulged; there are somedeceptions which a certain book-keeper will record upon the credit sideof our account. 

Like most young men who have got on in their calling, ChristianVellacott held his career in great respect. He felt that any sacrificemade for it carried its own reward. He thought that it levelled scruplesand justified deceptions. 

He knew this Vicomte d'Audierne by reputation; he wished to hear more ofhim; and so he feigned ignorance--listening. 

"What has he written about?" inquired Hilda. 

"To ask if he may come and see us. I suppose he means to come and stay. "

Vellacott looked what the French call "contraried. "

"When?" asked the girl. 

"On Monday week. "

And then Mrs. Carew turned to her other letters. Vellacott took thebudget addressed to him, and walked away to where an iron table and somechairs stood in the shade of a deodar. 

In a few minutes he looked still more put out. He had learnt of thedisturbances in Paris, and was reading a rather panic-stricken letterfrom Mr. Bodery. The truth was that there was no one in the office ofthe _Beacon_ who knew anything whatever about French home politicsbut Christian Vellacott. 

A continuance of these disturbances would necessarily assume politicalimportance, and might even lead to a crisis. This meant an instantrecall for Vellacott. In a crisis his presence in London or Paris wasabsolutely necessary to the _Beacon_. 

His holiday had barely lasted twenty-four hours, and there was already aquestion of recall. It happened also that within that short space aconsiderable change had come over Vellacott. The subtle influence of acountry life, and possibly the low, peaceful song of the distant sea, were already beginning to make themselves felt. He actually detected adesire to sit still and do nothing--a feeling of which he had nothitherto been conscious. He was distinctly averse to leaving St. MaryWestern just yet. But there is one task-master who knows no mercy andmakes no allowances. Some of us who serve him know it to our cost, andyet we would be content to serve no other. That task-master is thePublic. 

Vellacott was a public servant, and he knew his position. 

Somewhat later in the morning Molly and Hilda found him still seated atthe table, writing with that concentrated rapidity which only comes withpractice. 

"I am sorry, " he said, looking up, "but I must send off a telegram. Ishall walk in to the station. "

"I was just coming, " said Hilda, "to ask if you would drive me in. Iwant to get some things. "

"And, " added Molly, "there are some domestic commissions--butcher, baker, &c. "

Vellacott expressed his entire satisfaction with the arrangement, and bythe time he had finished his letter the dog-cart was waiting at thedoor. 

Several of the family were standing round the vehicle talking in adesultory manner, and Vellacott learnt then for the first time thatFrederick Farrar had left home that same morning to attend a midlandrace-meeting. 

It was one of those brilliant summer days when it is quite impossible tobe pessimistic and exceedingly difficult to compass preoccupation. Thelight breeze bowling over the upland from the sea had just sufficientstrength to blow away all mental cobwebs. Also, Christian Vellacott hadsuddenly given way to one of those feelings which sometimes come to uswithout apparent reason. The present was joyous enough without the aidof the ever-to-be-bright future, and Vellacott felt that, after all, French politics and Frederick Farrar did not quite monopolise the world. 

Hilda was on this occasion more talkative than usual. There was in hermanner a new sense of ease, almost of familiarity, which Vellacott couldnot understand. He noticed that she spoke invariably in generalities, avoiding all personal matters. Of herself she said no word, though sheappeared willing enough to answer any question he might ask. She led himon to talk of himself and his work, listening gravely to his account ofthe little household at Chelsea. He made the best of this topic, andeven treated it in a merry vein; but her smile, though sincere enough, was of short duration and not in itself encouraging. She appeared to seethe pathos of it instead of the humour. Suddenly, in the middle of aparticularly funny story about Aunt Judith, she interrupted him andchanged the conversation entirely. She did not again refer to his homelife. 

As they were returning in the full glare of the midday sun, theydescried in front of them the figure of an old man; he was walkingpainfully and making poor progress. Carefully dressed in blackbroadcloth, he wore a soft felt hat of a shape seldom seen in England. 

"I believe, " said Hilda, as they approached him, "that is Signor Bruno. Yes, it is. Please pull up, Christian. We must give him a lift!"

Christian obeyed her. He thought he detected a shade of annoyance inHilda's voice, with which he fully sympathised. 

On hearing the sound of the wheels, the old man looked up in surprise, as a deaf person might have been expected to do. This movement showed amost charming old face, surrounded by a halo of white hair and beard. The features were almost perfect, and might in former days have been atrifle cold, by reason of their perfection. Now, however, they weresoftened by the touch of years, and Signor Bruno was the livingsemblance of guilelessness and benevolence. 

"How do you do, Signor Bruno?" said Hilda, speaking rather loudly andvery distinctly. "You are back from London sooner than you expected, areyou not?"

"Ah! my dear young lady, " he replied, courteously removing his hat andstanding bareheaded. 

"Ah! now indeed the sun shines upon me. Yes, I am back from London--amost terrible place--terrible--terrible--terrible! As I walked alongjust now I said to myself: 'The sun is warm, the skies are blue; yonderis the laughing sea, and yet, Bruno, you sigh for Italy. ' This is Italy, Miss Hilda--Italy with a northern fairy walking in it!"

Hilda smiled her quick, surprising smile, and hastened to speak beforethe old gentleman recovered his breath. 

"Allow me to introduce to you Sidney's friend, Mr. Vellacott, SignorBruno!"

Sidney's friend, Mr. Vellacott, was by this time behind her. He hadalighted, and was employed in arranging the back seat of the dog-cart. When Signor Bruno looked towards him, he found Christian's eyes fixedupon his face with a quiet persistence which might have beenembarrassing to a younger man. He raised his hat and murmured somethingunintelligible in reply to the Italian's extensive salutation. 

"Sidney Carew's friends are, I trust, mine also!" said Signor Bruno, ashe replaced his picturesque hat. 

Christian smiled spasmodically and continued arranging the seat. He thencame round to the front of the cart and made a sign to Hilda that sheshould move into the right-hand seat and drive. Signor Bruno saw thesign, and said urbanely:

"You will, if you please, resume your seat. I will place myself behind!"

"Oh, no! You must allow me to sit behind!" said Christian. 

"But why, my dear sir? That would not be correct. You are Mr. Carew'sguest, and I--I am only a poor old Italian runaway, who is accustomed toback seats; all my life I have occupied back seats, I think, Mr. Vell'cott. There is no reason why I should aspire to better things now!"

The old fellow's voice was strangely balanced between pathos and apeculiar self-abnegating humour. 

"If we were both to take our hats off again, I think it would be easy tosee why you should sit in front!" said Christian with a laugh, whichalthough quite genial, somehow closed the discussion. 

"Ah!" replied the old gentleman with outspread hands. "There you haveworsted me. After that I am silent, and--I obey!"

He climbed into the cart with a little senile joke about the stiffnessof his aged limbs. He chattered on in his innocent, childish way untilthe village was reached. Here he was deposited on the dusty road at thegate of a small yellow cottage where he had two rooms. The seat wasre-arranged, and amidst a volley of thanks and salutations, Hilda andChristian drove away. Presently Hilda looked up and said:

"Is he not a dear old thing? I believe, Christian, in all the variouslocal information I have given you, I have never told you about SignorBruno. I shall reserve him for the next awkward pause that occurs. "

"Yes, " replied Christian quietly. "He seems very nice. "

Something in his tone seemed to catch her attention. She half turned asif to hear more, but he said nothing. Then she raised her eyes to hisface, which was not expressive of anything in particular. 

"Christian, " she said gravely, "you do not like him?"

Looked upon as a mere divination of thought, this was very quick; but heseemed in no way perturbed. He turned and looked down with a smile ather grave face. 

"No, " he replied. "Not very much. "

"Why?"

"I do not know. There is something wrong about him, I think!"

She laughed and shook her head. 

"What do you mean?" she asked. "How can there be anything wrong withhim--anything that would affect us, at all events?"

He shrugged his shoulders, still smiling. 

"He says he is an Italian?"

"Yes, " she replied. 

"I say he is a Frenchman, " said Christian, suddenly turning towards her. "Italians do not talk English as he talks it. "

She looked puzzled. 

"Do you know him?" she asked. 

"No; not yet. I know his face. I have seen it or a photograph of itsomewhere, and at some time. I cannot tell when or where yet, but itwill come to me. "

"When it does come, " said Hilda, with a smile, "you will find that it issome one else. I can assure you Signor Bruno is an Italian, and beyondthat he is the nicest old gentleman imaginable. "

"Well, " replied Christian. "In the meantime I vote that we do nottrouble ourselves about him. "

The subject was dropped, and not again referred to until after they hadreached home, when Hilda informed her mother that Signor Bruno hadreturned. 

"Oh, indeed, " was the reply. "I am very glad. You must askhim to dinner to-morrow evening. Is he not a nice old man, Christian?"

"Very, " replied Christian, almost before the words were out of her lips. "Yes, very nice. " He looked across the table towards Hilda with anabsolutely expressionless composure. 

During the following day, which he passed with Sidney and Stanley at seain a little cutter belonging to the Carews, Christian learnt, withoutasking many questions, all that Signor Bruno had vouchsafed in the wayof information respecting himself. It was a short story and an old one, such as many a white-haired Italian could tell to-day. A life, income, and energy devoted to a cause which never had much promise of reward. Failure, exile, and a life closing in a land where the blue skies ofItaly are known only by name, where Maraschino is at a premium, and longblack cigars almost unobtainable. 

Hilda was engaged on this day to lunch and spend the afternoon with Mrs. Farrar, at Farrar Court. Molly and Christian were to drive over for herin the evening. This programme was carried out, but the young peoplelingered rather longer at Farrar Court listening to the quaint, old-world recollections of its white-haired hostess than was allowedfor. Consequently they were late, and heard the first dinner-bellringing as they drove up the lane that led in a casual way to theirhome. (This lane was characteristic of the house. It turned offunobtrusively from the high road at right angles with the evidentintention of leading nowhere. ) A race upstairs ensued and a hurriedtoilet. Molly and Christian met on the stairs a few minutes later. Christian had won the race, for he was ready, while Molly struggled witha silver necklace that fitted closely round her throat. Of course he hadto help her. While waiting patiently for him to master the intricaciesof the old silver clasp, Molly said:

"Oh, Christian, there is one place you have not seen yet. Quite close athand too. "

"Ye--es, " he replied absently, as he at length fixed the clasp. "There, it is done!"

As he held open the drawing-room door, he said: "What is the place Ihave to see?"

Signor Bruno, who was seated at the far end of the room with Mrs. Carew, rose as he heard the door opened, and advanced to meet Molly. 

"Porton Abbey, " she said over her shoulder as she advanced into theroom. "You must see Porton Abbey. "

The Italian shook hands with the new-comers and made a clever, laughingreference to Christian's politeness of the previous day. At this momentHilda entered, and as soon as she had returned Signor Bruno's courteoussalutation Molly turned towards her. 

"Hilda, " she said, "we have never shown Christian Porton Abbey. "

"No, " was the reply. "I have been reserving it for some afternoon whenwe do not feel very energetic. Unfortunately, we cannot get inside theAbbey now, though. "

"Why?" asked Christian, without looking towards Hilda. He had discoveredthat Signor Bruno was attempting to keep up a conversation with hishostess, while he took in that which was passing at the other end of theroom. The old man was seated, and his face was within the radius oflight cast by a shaded lamp. Christian, who stood, was in the shade. 

"Because it is a French monastery, " replied Molly. "Here, " she added, "is a flower for your coat, as you say the button-hole is warped byconstant pinning in of stalks. "

"Thanks, " he replied, stooping a little in order that she could reachthe button-hole of his coat. She was in front of him, directly betweenhim and Signor Bruno; but he could see over her head. "What sort ofmonastery is it?" he continued conversationally. "I did not know thatthere were any establishments of that sort in England. "

Hilda looked up rather sharply from an illustrated newspaper shehappened to be studying. She knew that he was not adhering strictly tothe truth. From her point of vantage behind the newspaper she continuedto watch Christian, and she realised during the minutes that followed, that this was indeed the brilliant young journalist of whose fame Farrarhad spoken as already known in London. 

Signor Bruno's conversation with Mrs. Carew became at this momentsomewhat muddled. 

"There, you see, " said Molly vivaciously, "we endeavour to interest himby retailing the simple annals of our neighbourhood, and his highnesssimply disbelieves us!"

"Not at all, " Christian hastened to add, with a laugh. "It simplyhappened that I was surprised. It shall not occur again. But tell me, what sort of monastery is it? Dominican? Franciscan? Carmelite?--"

"Oh, goodness! I do not know. "

"Perhaps, " said Christian, advancing towards the Italian--"perhapsSignor Bruno can tell us. "

"What is that, Mr. Vell'cott?" asked the old gentleman, making amovement as if about to raise his curved hand to his ear, butrestraining himself upon second thoughts. 

Hilda noticed that, instead of raising his voice, Christian spoke in thesame tone, or even lower, as he said:

"We want some details of the establishment at Porton Abbey, SignorBruno. "

The old gentleman made a little grimace expressive of disgust, at thesame time spreading out his hands as if to ward off something hurtful. 

"Ach!" he said, "do not ask me. I know nothing of such people, and wishto learn no more. It is to them that my poor country owes her downfall. No, no; leave them alone. I always take care of myself against--against--what you say--_ces gens-là_!"

Christian awaited the answer in polite silence, and, when Signor Brunohad again turned to Mrs. Carew, he looked across the room towards Hildawith the same expression of vacant composure that she had noticed on aprevious occasion. The accent with which Signer Bruno had spoken the fewwords of French was of the purest Parisian, entirely free from theharshness which an Italian rarely conquers. 

After dinner Hilda went out of the open window into the garden alone. Christian, who had seated himself at a small table in the drawing-room, did not move. Sidney and his mother were talking with the Italian. 

The young journalist was stooping over a book, a vase of flowers stoodin front of him, but by the movement of his arm it appeared as if hewere drawing instead of reading. Presently a faint, low whistle camefrom the garden. Though soft, the sound was very clear, and each notedistinctly given. It was like the beginning of a refrain which broke offsuddenly and was repeated. Signor Bruno gave a little start and a quickupward glance. 

"What is that?" he asked, with a little laugh, as if at the delicacy ofhis own nerves. 

"Oh, " replied Mrs. Carew, "the whistle, you mean. That is our familysignal. The children were in the habit of calling each other by thatmeans in bygone years. I expect they are in the garden now, and wish usto join them. "

Mrs. Carew knew that Molly was not in the garden, but in making thisintentional mistake she showed the wisdom of her kind. 

"It seems to me, " said Signor Bruno, "that the air--the refrain, onemight call it--is familiar. "

Christian Vellacott smiled suddenly behind his screen of flowers, butdid not move or look up. 

"I expect, " explained Sidney, "that you have heard the air played uponthe bugle. It is the French 'retraite, ' played by the patrol in garrisontowns at night. "

In the meantime Christian had cut the fly-leaf from the book before him, and, after carefully folding it, he placed the paper in hisbreast-pocket. Then he rose and passed out of the open window into thegarden. 

Immediately Signor Bruno asked his hostess a few polite questionsregarding her guest--what was his occupation, how long he was going tostay, and whether she did not agree with him in considering that theiryoung friend had a remarkably interesting face. In the course of hisremarks the old gentleman rose and crossed to the table where Christianhad been sitting. There was a flower there which he had not seen inEngland before. Absently he took up the book which Christian had justbeen studying, and very naturally turned to the title-page. The fly-leafwas gone! When he laid the volume down again he replaced it in theidentical position in which he had found it. 

CHAPTER IX

A CLUE

When Christian left the drawing-room he walked quickly down themoss-grown path to the moat. Hilda was standing at the edge of the darkwater, and as he joined her she turned and walked slowly by his side. 

"You are a most unsatisfactory person, " she said gravely after a fewmoments. 

He looked down at her without replying. His eyes softened for a momentinto a smile, but his lips remained grave. 

"You deliberately set yourself, " she continued, "to shatter one illusionafter another. You have made me feel quite old and worldly to-night, andthe worst of it is that you are invariably right. It is most annoying. "

Her voice was only half-playful. There was a shade of sadness in it. Christian must have divined her thoughts, for he said:

"Do not let us quarrel over Signor Bruno. I dare say I am wrongaltogether. "

She looked slowly round. Her eyes rested on the dark surface of thewater, where the shadows lay deep and still; then she raised them to thetrees, clearly outlined against the sky. 

"I suppose that such practical, matter-of-fact people as you are proofagainst mere outward influences. "

"So I used to imagine, but I am beginning to find that outward thingsare very important after all. In London it seemed only natural thatevery one should live in a hurry, with no time for thought, pushingforward and trying to outstrip their neighbours; but in the country itseems that things are different. Intellectual people live quiet, thoughtful, and even dreamy lives. They get through somehow withoutseeing the necessity for doing something--trying to be something thattheir neighbours cannot be--and no doubt they are happier for it. I ambeginning to see how they are content to go on with their uneventfullives from year to year until the end even comes without a shock. "

"But you yourself would never reach that stage, Christian. "

"No, no, Hilda. I can understand it in others, but for me it isdifferent. I have tasted too deeply of the other life. I should getrestless----"

"You are getting restless already, " she interrupted gravely, "and youhave not been here two days!"

They were interrupted by Sidney's clear whistle, and a moment laterMolly came tripping down the path. 

"Come along in, " she said; "the old gentleman is going. I was juststealing away to join you when Sidney whistled. "

When Signor Bruno reached his home that evening, he threw his hat uponthe table with some considerable force. His aged landlady, having leftthe lamp burning, had retired to bed. He sank into an armchair, andcontemplated the square toes of his own boots for some moments. Then hescratched his head thoughtfully. 

"Sacré nom d'un chien!" he muttered; "where have I seen that facebefore?"

Signor Bruno spoke French when soliloquising, which was perhaps somewhatpeculiar for an Italian. However proficient a man may be in the masteryof foreign tongues, he usually dreams and talks to himself in thelanguage he learnt at his mother's knee. He may count fluently in astrange tongue, but he invariably works out all mental arithmetic in hisown. Likewise he prays--if he pray at all--in one tongue only. On theother hand, it appears very easy to swear in an acquired language. Probably our forefathers borrowed each other's expletives when thingswent so lamentably wrong over the Tower of Babel. Still muttering tohimself, Signor Bruno presently retired to rest with the remembrance ofa young face, peculiarly and unpleasantly strong, haunting his dreams. 

Shortly after Signor Bruno's departure, Christian happened to be leftalone in the drawing room with Hilda. He promptly produced from hispocket the leaf he had cut from a book earlier in the evening. Unfoldingthe paper, he handed it to her, and said:--

"Do you recognise that?"

She looked at it, and answered without hesitation--

"Signor Bruno!"

The drawing was slight, but the likeness was perfect. The face was inprofile, and the reproduction of the intelligent features could scarcelyhave been more lifelike in a careful portrait. Christian replaced thepaper in his pocket. 

"You remember Carl Trevetz, at Paris, " continued he, "his fatherbelonged to the Austrian Embassy!"

"Yes, I remember him!"

"To-morrow I will send this to him, simply asking who it is. "

"Yes--and then?"

"When the answer comes, Hilda, I will write on the outside of theenvelope the name that you will find inside--written by Trevetz. "

For a moment she looked across the table at him with a vague expressionof wonder upon her face. 

"Even if you are right, " she said, "will it affect us? Will it make uscease to look upon him as a friend?"

"I think so. "

"Then, " she said slowly, "it has come. You remember now?"

"Yes; I remember now--but it may be a mistake yet. I would rather havemy memory confirmed by Trevetz before telling you what I know--or thinkI know--about Bruno!"

Hilda was about to question him further when Molly entered the room, andthe subject was perforce dropped. 

The next morning there came a letter for Christian from Mr. Bodery. Itwas short, and not very pleasant. 

"DEAR VELLACOTT, --Sorry to trouble you with business so early in yourholiday, but there has been another great row in Paris, as you will seefrom the papers I send you. It is hinted that the mob are mere tools inthe hands of influential wire-pullers, and the worst of it is that theywere armed with English rifles and bayonets of a pattern just supersededby the War Office. How these got into their hands is not yet explained, but you will readily see the gravity of the circumstance in the presentsomewhat strained state of affairs. Several of the 'dailies' refer tous, as you will see, and express a hope that our 'exceptional knowledgeof French affairs' will enable us to throw some light upon the subject. Trevetz is giving us all the information he can gather; but, of course, he is only able to devote a portion of his time to us. He hints thatthere is plenty of money in the background somewhere, and that a strongparty has got up the whole affair--perhaps the Church. We must havesomething to say (something of importance) next week, and with this inview I must ask you to hold yourself in readiness to go to Paris onreceipt of a telegram or letter from me. --Yours, "C. C. BODERY. "

Christian folded the letter, and replaced it in the envelope. Suddenlyhis attention was attracted to the latter. Upon the back there was a rimround the adhesive portion, and within this the glaze was gone from thepaper. The envelope had been tampered with by a skilful manipulator. IfMr. Bodery had been in the habit of using inferior stationery, no tracewould have been left upon the envelope. 

Christian slipped the letter into his pocket, and, glancing round, sawthat his movements had passed unobserved. 

"Anything new?" asked Sidney, from the head of the table. 

"Well, yes, " was the reply. "There has been a disturbance in Paris. Imay have to go over there on receipt of a telegram from the office;" hestopped, and looked slowly round the table. Hilda's attention was takenup by her plate, upon which, however, there was nothing. He leantforward, and handed her the toast-rack. She took a piece, but forgot tothank him. "I am sorry, " he continued simply, "very sorry that thedisturbances should have taken place just at this time. "

His voice expressed natural and sincere regret, but no surprise. Thisseemed to arouse Molly's curiosity, for she looked up sharply. 

"You do not seem to be at all surprised, " she said. 

"No, " he replied; "I am accustomed to this sort of thing, you see. Iknew all along that there was the chance of being summoned at any time. This letter only adds to the chance--that is all!"

"It is a great shame, " said Molly, with a pout. "I am sure there areplenty of people who could do it instead of you. "

Christian laughed readily. 

"I am sure there are, " he replied, "and that is the very reason why Imust take the opportunities that fortune offers. "

Hilda looked across the table at him, and noted the smile upon his lips, the light of energy in his eyes. The love of action had driven all otherthoughts from his mind. 

"I suppose, " she said conversationally, "that it will in reality be agood thing for you if the summons does come. "

"Yes, " he replied, without meeting her glance; "it will be a good thingfor me. "

"Is that consolatory view of the matter the outcome of philosophy, or ofvirtue?" inquired Molly mischievously. 

"Of virtue, " replied Christian gravely, and then he changed the subject. 

After breakfast he devoted a short time to the study of some newspapercuttings inclosed in Mr. Bodery's letter. Then he suddenly expressed hisdetermination of walking down to the village post office. 

"I wish, " he said, "to send a telegram, and to get some newspapers, which have no doubt come by the second post. After that you will betroubled no more about my affairs. "

"Until a telegram comes, " said Hilda quietly, without looking up from aletter she held in her hand. She received one daily from Farrar. 

Christian glanced at her with his quick smile. 

"Oh, " he said, "I do not expect a telegram. It is not so serious as allthat. In fact, it is not worth thinking about. "

"You have a most enviable way of putting aside disagreeable subjects, "persisted Hilda, "for discussion at a vague future period. "

Christian was steadily cheerful that morning, imperturbably practical. 

"That, " he said, "is the outcome--not of virtue--but of philosophy. Willyou come to the post office with Stanley and me? I am sure there is nopossible household duty to prevent you. "

Together they walked through the peaceful fields. Stanley never lingeredlong beside them; something was for ever attracting him aside or ahead, and he ran restlessly away. Christian could not help noticing thedifference in Hilda's manner when they were alone together. Thesemi-sarcastic _badinage_ to which he had been treated lately wascompletely dropped, and her earnest nature was allowed to show itselfundisguised. Still she was a mystery to him. He was by habit a closeobserver, but her changing moods and humours were to him unaccountable. At times she would make a remark the direct contradiction of which wasshining in her eyes, and at other times she remained silent when merepoliteness would seem to demand speech. Who knows? Perhaps at all timesand in all things they understood each other. When their lips wereexchanging mere nothings--the very lightest and emptiest ofconversational chaff--despite averted eyes, despite indifferent manner, their souls may have been drawn together by that silent bond of sympathywhich holds through fair and foul, through laughter and tears, throughlife and beyond death. 

Christian was not in the habit of allowing himself to become absorbed byany passing thoughts, however deep they might be. His mind had adapteditself to the work required of it, as the human mind is ever ready todo. No deep meditating was required of it, but a quick grasp and asomewhat superficial treatment. Journalism is superficial, it cannot beotherwise; it must be universal and immediate, and therefore its touchis necessarily light. There is nothing permanent about it except theceaseless throb of the printing machine and the warm smell of ink. Thatwhich a man writes one day may be rendered useless and worthless thenext, through no carelessness of his, but by the simple course ofevents. He must perforce take up his pen again and write againsthimself. He may be inditing history, and his words may be forgotten intwelve hours. There is no time for deep thought, even if such wererequired. He who writes for cursory reading is wise if he writescursorily. 

Mr. Bodery's communication in no manner disturbed Christian. He wasready enough to talk and laugh, or talk and be grave, as Hilda mightdictate, while they walked side by side that morning, but she wasstrangely silent. It thus happened that little passed between them untilthey reached the post office. There, he was formally introduced to thespry little postmistress, who looked at him sharply over her spectacles. 

"I wish, Mrs. Chalder, " he said cheerily, as he scribbled off hismessage to Mr. Bodery, while Hilda made friendly overtures to theofficial cat, "I wish that you would forget to send me the disagreeableletters, and only forward the pleasant ones. There was one this morning, for instance, which you might very easily have mislaid. Instead of whichyou carefully sent it rather earlier than usual and spoilt mybreakfast. "

His voice unconsciously followed the swing of his pencil. It seemedcertain that he was making conversation with the sole purpose ofentertaining the old woman. With a pleased laugh and a shake of her greycurls she replied:

"Ah, I wish I could, sir. I wish I could burn the bad letters and sendon only the good ones--but they're all alike on the outside. It's ashard to say what's inside a letter as it is to tell what's inside a manby lookin' on his face. "

"Yes, " replied Christian, reading over what he had just written. "Yes, Mrs. Chalder, you are right. "

"But the reason of your letter gettin' earlier this morning was thatSeen'yer Bruno said he was goin' past the Hall, sir, and would justleave the letters at the Lodge. It is a bit out of the carrier's way, and that man _do_ have a long tramp every day, sir. "

"Ah, that accounts for it, " murmured the journalist, without looking up. He was occupied in crossing his t's and dotting his i's. He felt thatHilda was looking at him, and some instinct told him that she saw themotive of his conversation, but still he played his part and wore hismask of carelessness, as men have done before women, knowing thefutility of it, since the world began. She never referred to theincident, and made no remark whatever with a view to his doing so, buthe knew that it would be remembered, and in after days he learnt tobuild up a very castle of hope upon that frail foundation. 

Hilda had not been paying much attention to what he was saying untilSignor Bruno's name was mentioned. The old man had hitherto occupied avery secondary place in her thoughts. He was no one in her circle ofpossibly interesting people, beyond the fact of his having passedthrough a troubled political phase--a fighter on the losing side. Now hehad, as it were, assumed a more important _rôle_. The mention of hisname possessed a new suggestion: and all this, forsooth, becauseChristian Vellacott opined that the benevolent old face was known tohim. 

She began to entertain exaggerated ideas concerning the youngjournalist's thoughts and motives. Twice had she obtained a glimpse intothe inner chamber of his mind, and on each occasion the result had beena vague suggestion of some mental conflict, some dark game ofcross-purposes between him and Signor Bruno. Remembering this, she, inher intelligent simplicity, began to ascribe to Christian's every wordand action an ulterior motive which in reality did not perhaps exist. She noted Christian's calm and direct way of reaching the end hedesired, and unconsciously she yielded a little to the influence of hisstrength--an influence dangerously fascinating for a strong woman. Herstrength is so different from that of a man that there is no realconflict--it seeks to yield, and glories over its own downfall. 

After paying for the telegram, Christian took possession of the bulkypacket of newspapers addressed to him, and they left the post office. 

CHAPTER X

ON THE SCENT

It appeared to Stanley, on the way home that morning, that theconversation flagged somewhat. He therefore set to himself the task ofreviving it. 

"Christian, " he began conversationally, "is there any smuggling donenow? Real smuggling, I mean. "

"No, I think not, " replied Christian. He evidently did not look uponsmuggling as a fruitful topic at that moment. 

"Why do you ask?" interposed Hilda goodnaturedly. 

"Well, I was just wondering, " replied the boy. "It struck me yesterdaythat our boat had been moved. "

"But, " suggested Christian, "it should be very easy to see whether ithas been dragged over the sand or not. "

"Three strong men could carry it bodily into the water and make no markswhatever on the sand, " argued little Stanley, determined not to becheated out of his smugglers. 

"Perhaps some one has been out for a row for his own pleasure andenjoyment, " suggested Christian, without thinking much of what he wassaying. 

"Then how did he get the padlock open?"

"Smugglers, I suppose, " said Hilda, smiling down at her small brother, "would be provided with skeleton keys. "

"Of course, " replied Stanley in an awestruck tone. 

"I will tell you what we will do, Stanley, " said Christian. "To-morrowmorning we will go and have a bathe; at the same time I will look at theboat and tell you whether it has been moved. "

"Unless, " added Hilda, "a telegram comes today. "

Christian laughed. 

"Unless, " he said gravely, "the world comes to an end this evening. "

It happened during the precise moments occupied by this conversation, that Mr. Bodery, seated at his table in the little editor's room, openedthe flimsy brown envelope of a telegram. He spread out the pink paper, and Mr. Morgan, seated opposite, raised his head from theclosely-written sheets upon which his hand was resting. 

"It is from Vellacott, " said the editor, and after a moment's thought heread aloud as follows:--

"Letter and papers received; believe I have dropped into the clue of thewhole affair. Will write particulars. "

Mr. Morgan caressed his heavy moustache with the end of his penholder. 

"That young man, " he said, "goes about the world with his eyesremarkably wide open, ha-ha!"

Mr. Bodery rolled the telegram out flat with his pencil silently. 

 * * * * *

Stanley Carew was so anxious that the inspection of the boat should notbe delayed, that an expedition to the Cove was arranged for the sameafternoon. Accordingly the five young people walked across the bleaktableland together. Huge white clouds were rolling up from thesouth-west, obscuring every now and then the burning sun. A gentlebreeze blew gaily across the bleak upland--a very different breath fromthat which twisted and gnarled the strong Scotch firs in winter-time. 

"You would not care about climbing _down_ there, I should think, "observed Sidney, when they had reached the Cove. "It is a very differentmatter getting up. "

He was standing, gazing lazily up at the brown cliffs with his straw hattilted backwards, his hands in his pockets, and his whole personpresenting as fair a picture as one could desire of lazy, quiescentstrength--a striking contrast to the nervous, wiry townsman at his side. 

"Hardly, " replied Christian, gazing upwards at the dizzy height. "It israther nasty stuff--slippery in parts and soft. "

He turned and strolled off by Hilda's side. With a climber's love of arocky height he looked upwards as they walked, and she noted thedirection of his gaze. 

Presently they sat on the edge of the boat over which Stanley's sense ofproprietorship had been so grievously outraged. 

"What do you know, Christian, or what do you suspect about SignorBruno?" asked Hilda suddenly. 

Stanley was running across the sands towards them, and Christian, seeinghis approach, avoided the question by a generality. 

"Wait a little longer, " he said. "Let me have Trevetz's answer toconfirm my suspicions, and then I will tell you. Suspicions aredangerous things to meddle with. In imparting them to other people it isso difficult to remember that they _are_ suspicions and nothing more. "

At this moment Stanley arrived and threw himself down breathlessly onthe warm sand. 

"Chris!" he exclaimed, "come down here and look at these seams in theboat--the damp is there still. "

The boat was clinker-built, and where the planks overlapped a slightappearance of dampness was certainly discernible. Christian lay lazilyleaning upon his elbow, sometimes glancing at the boat in obedience toStanley's accusatory finger, sometimes looking towards Hilda, whose eyeswere turned seawards. 

Suddenly he caught sight of some words pencilled on the stern-post ofthe boat, and by the merest chance refrained from calling Stanley'sattention to them. Drawing nearer, he could read them easily enough. 

 Minuit vingt-six. 

"It certainly looks, " he said rising, "as if the boat had been in thewater, but it may be that the dampness is merely owing to heavy dew. Theboat wants painting, I think. "

He knew well enough that little Stanley's suspicions were correct. Therewas no doubt that the boat had been afloat quite recently; but Christianknew his duty towards the _Beacon_ and sacrificed his strict sense oftruth to it. 

On the way home he was somewhat pre-occupied--as much, that is to say, as he was in the habit of allowing. The pencil scrawl supplied foodenough for conjectural thought. The writing was undoubtedly fresh, andthis was the 26th of the month. Some appointment was made for midnightby the words pencilled on the boat, and the journalist determined thathe would be there to see. The question was, should he go alone? Hewatched Sidney Carew walking somewhat heavily along in front of him, anddecided that he would not seek aid from that quarter. There was no timeto communicate with Mr. Bodery, so the only course open to him was to goby himself. 

In a vague manner he had connected the Jesuit party with thedisturbances in Paris and the importation of the English rifleswherewith the crowd had been armed. The gay capital was at that time inthe hands of the most "Provisional" and uncertain Government imaginable, and the home politics of France were completely disorganised. It wasjust the moment for the Church party to attempt a retrieval of theirlost power. The fire-arms had been recognised by the English authoritiesas some of a pattern lately discarded. They had been stored at Plymouth, awaiting shipment to the colonies, where they were to be served out tothe auxiliary forces, when they had been cleverly removed. The robberywas not discovered until the rifles were found in the hands of a Parismob, still fresh and brutal from the horrors of a long course ofmilitary law. Some of the more fiery of the French journals boldlyhinted that the English Government had secretly sold the firearms with aview to their ultimate gain by the disorganisation of France. 

Christian knew as much about affairs in Paris as most men. He was fullyaware that in the politics of a disturbed country a deed is either acrime or a heroism according to circumstances, and he was wise enough toawait the course of events before thrusting his opinion down the publicthroat. But now he felt that the crisis had supervened, and unwillinglyhe recognised that it was not for him to be idle amidst those rapidevents. 

These thoughts occupied his mind as he walked inland from the Cove, andrendered his answers to Stanley's ceaseless flow of questions upon allconceivable subjects somewhat vague and unreliable. Hilda was walkingwith them, and divided with Christian the task of supplying her smallbrother with varied information. 

As they were approaching the Hall, Christian discerned two figures uponthe smooth lawn, evidently coming towards them. At the same momentStanley perceived them. 

"I see Fred Farrar and Mr. Signor Bruno, " he exclaimed. 

Christian could not resist glancing over the little fellow's headtowards Hilda, though he knew that it was hardly a fair action. Hildafelt the glance but betrayed no sign. She was looking straight in frontof her with no change of colour, no glad smile of welcome for herstalwart lover. 

"I wonder why she never told me, " thought Christian. 

Presently he said, in an airy, conversational way: "I did not knowFarrar was coming back so--so soon. "

He knew that by this early return Farrar was missing an important day ofthe race-meeting he had been attending, but did not think it necessaryto remark upon the fact. 

"Yes, " replied Hilda. "He does not like to leave his mother for manydays together. " The acutest ears could have detected no lowering of thevoice, no tenderness of thought. She was simply stating a fact; but shemight have been speaking of Signor Bruno, so cool and unembarrassed washer tone. 

"I am glad he is back, " said Christian thoughtlessly. It was a merestop-gap. The silence was awkward, but he possessed tact enough to havebroken it by some better means. Instantly he recognised his mistake, andfor a moment he felt as if he were stumbling blindfold through anunknown country. He experienced a sudden sense of vacuity as if his mindwere a blank and all words futile. It was now Stanley's turn to breakthe silence, and unconsciously he did it very well. 

"I wonder, " he said speculatively, "whether he has brought any chocolatecreams?"

Hilda laughed, and the smile was still hovering in her eyes when shegreeted the two men. Stanley ran on into the house to open a parcelwhich Farrar told him was awaiting inspection. It was only natural thatHilda should walk on with the young squire, leaving Bruno and Christiantogether. The old man lingered obviously, and his companion took thehint readily enough, anticipating some enjoyment. 

"To you, Mr. Vellacott, " said the Italian, with senile geniality, "toyou whose life is spent in London this must be very charming, verypeaceful, and--very disorganising, I may perhaps add. "

Christian looked at his companion with grave attention. 

"It is very enjoyable, " he replied simply. 

Signor Bruno mentally trimmed his sails, and started off on anothertack. 

"Our young friends, " he said, indicating with a wave of his expressivehand Hilda and Farrar, "are admirably suited to each other. Both young, both handsome, and both essentially English. "

"Yes, " answered Christian, with a polite display of interest: "and, nevertheless, the Carews were all brought up and educated in France. "

"Ah!" observed the old man, stopping to raise the head of a "Souvenir deMalmaison, " of which he inhaled the odour with evident pleasure. Thelittle ejaculation, and its accompanying action, were admirablycalculated to leave the hearer in doubt as to whether mere surprise wasexpressed or polite acquiescence in the statement of a known fact. 

"Yes, " added Christian, deliberately. He also stooped and raised a whiterose to his face, thus meeting Signor Bruno upon his own ground. TheItalian looked up, and the two men smiled at each other across the rosebush; then they turned and walked on. 

"You also know France?" hazarded Signor Bruno. 

"Yes; if I were not an Englishman I should choose to be a Frenchman. "

"Ah!"

"Yes. "

"Now with me, " said Signor Bruno frankly, "it is different. If I werenot an Italian (which God forbid!) I think--I think, yes, I am sure, Iwould by choice have been born an Englishman. "

"Ah!" observed Christian gravely, and Signor Bruno turned sharply toglance at his face. The young Englishman was gazing straight in front ofhim earnestly, with no suspicion upon his lips of the incredulous smilewhich seemed somehow to have lurked there when he last spoke. TheItalian turned away dissatisfied, and they walked on a few paces insilence, until he spoke again, reflectively:--

"Yes, " he said, "there is a quality in the English character which to meis very praiseworthy. It is a certain directness of purpose. You knowwhat you wish to do, and you proceed calmly to do it, without stoppingto consider what your neighbours may think of it. Now with the Gallicraces--for I take this virtue of straightforwardness as Teutonic--and inmy own country especially, men seek to gain their ends by less openmeans. "

They were now walking up a gentle incline to the house, which was builtupon the buried ruins of its ancient predecessor, and Signor Bruno wascompelled to pause in order to gain breath. 

"But, " interposed Christian softly, "you are now talking not so much ofthe people as of the Church. "

Again the Italian looked sharply up, and this time he met hiscompanion's eyes fixed quietly on his face. He shrugged his shouldersdeprecatingly and spread out his delicate hands. 

"Perhaps you are right, " he said, with engaging frankness. "I am afraidyou are. But you must excuse a little ill-feeling in a man such as I, with a past such as mine has been, and loving his country as I do. "

"I am afraid, " continued Christian, "that foreigners find our bluntnessvery disagreeable and difficult to meet; but I know that they frequentlymisjudge us on the same account. It is to our benefit, so we cannotcomplain. "

"In what way do we misjudge you?" asked Signor Bruno genially. They werealmost on the threshold of the drawing-room window, which stoodinvitingly open, and from which came the sounds of cups and saucersbeing mated. 

"You give us credit for less intelligence than we in reality possess, "said Christian with a smile, as he stood aside to let his companion passin first. 

Whatever influences may have been at work among those congregated at theHall during the half-hour or so occupied by afternoon tea, no signappeared upon the surface. Molly as usual led the chorus of laughter. Hilda smiled her sweet "kittenish" smile. Signor Bruno surpassed himselfin the relation of innocent little tales, told with a true southern"verve" and spirit, while Fred Farrar's genial laugh filled in theinterstices reliably. Grave and unobtrusive, Christian moved about amongthem. He saw when Molly wanted the hot water, and was invariably thefirst to detect an empty cup. He laughed softly at Signor Bruno'sstories, and occasionally capped them with a better, related in aconciser and equally humorous manner. It was to him that Farrar turnedfor an encouraging acquiescence when one of his latest Newmarketanecdotes threatened to fall flat, and with it all he found time for anoccasional spar with Signor Bruno, just by way of keeping that inquiringgentleman upon his guard. 

CHAPTER XI

BURY BLUFF

As Christian walked rapidly across the uneven turf towards the sea atmidnight, his thoughts were divided between a schoolboy delight in theadventurous nature of his expedition and an uncomfortable sensation ofsurreptitiousness. He was not accustomed to this sort of work, and feltremarkably like a thief. If by some mischance his absence was discoveredat the Hall, it would be difficult to account for it unless he playedthe part of a temporary lunatic. Fortunately his window communicatedeasily enough with the garden by means of a few stone steps, butvisitors are not usually in the habit of leaving their bedrooms in orderto take the air at midnight. Thinking over these things in his rapid andrather superficial way, he unconsciously quickened his pace. 

The night was clear and starlit; the air soft and very pleasant, with afaint breath of freshness from the south-west. The moon, being well uponthe wane, would not rise for an hour or more, but the heavens wereglowing with the gentler light of stars, and on earth the darkness wasof that transparent description which sailors prefer to the brightestmoonlight. 

Christian Vellacott had worked out most problems in life for himself. Taken as a whole, his solutions had been fairly successful--assuccessful as those of most men. If his views upon things in generalwere rather photographic--that is to say, hard, with clearly definedshadows--it was owing to his father's somewhat cynical training and tothe absence of a mother's influence. Elderly maiden ladies, withsufficient time upon their hands to manage other people's affairs inaddition to their own, complained of his want of sympathy, which may beread in the sense of stating that he neither sought theirs nor askedadvice upon questions connected with himself. This self-reliance was theinevitable outcome of his life at home and at the office of the_Beacon_. Admirable as it may be, independence can undoubtedly becarried to an unpleasant excess--unpleasant that is for home life. Womenlove to see their men-folk a trifle dependent upon them. 

Christian was in the midst of a problem as he walked across thetableland that stretched from St. Mary Western to the sea. That problemabsorbed more of his attention than the home politics of France; itrequired a more careful study than any article he had ever penned forthe _Beacon_. It gave him greater anxiety than Aunt Judy and Aunt Hestercombined. Yet it was comprised in a single word. A single arm couldencompass the whole of it. The single word--Hilda. 

Leaving the narrow road, he presently struck the little pathway leadingto the Cove. Suddenly he stopped, and stood motionless. There--nottwenty yards from him--was the still figure of a man. Behind Christianthe land rose gradually to some considerable height, so that he stood indarkness, while against the glowing sky the figure of this watcher wasclearly defined in hard outline. Instinctively crouching down andseeking the covert of a few low bushes, Christian decreased theintervening distance by a few yards. The faint hope that it might proveto be a coastguard was soon dispelled. The heavy clothing and loosethigh-boots were those of a fisherman. The huge "cache-nez" which lay incoils upon his shoulders and completely protected the neck and throat, was such as is worn by the natives of the Côtes-du-Nord. 

The sea boomed forth its melancholy song, far down in the black depthsbeyond. The tide was high, and the breeze freshening every moment. Christian could have crept up to the man's very feet without beingdetected. Lying still upon the short, dry grass, he watched for somemoments. 

From the man's clumsy attitude it was almost possible to divine hisslow, mindless nature--for there is expression in the very turn of aman's leg as he stands--and it was easy to see that he was guarding thelittle path down the cliff to the Cove. 

He had been posted there, and evidently meant to stay till called away. 

There was only one way, now, to the Cove, and that was down the face ofthe cliff: the way that Christian had that very afternoon pronounced sohazardous. By day it was dangerous enough; by night it was almost animpossibility. 

He crept noiselessly along to the eastward, so that the watcher stoodupon the windward side of him, and reaching the brink he peered overinto the darkness. Of course he could discern nothing. The sea rose andfell with a monotonous roar; overhead the stars twinkled as merrily asthey have twinkled over the strifes of men from century to century. 

Quietly he knelt upright and buttoned his coat with some care. Thenwithout a moment's hesitation he crept to the edge and cautiouslydisappeared into the grim abyss of darkness. Slowly and laboriously heworked his way down, feeling for each foothold in advance. Occasionallyhe muttered impatiently to himself at the slowness of his progress. Heknew that the strata of soft sandstone trended downwards at an easyangle, and with consummate skill took full advantage of his knowledge. Occasionally he was forced to progress sideways with his face to therock and hands outstretched till his fingers were cramped, and thefeeling known as "pins and needles" assailed his arms. Then he wouldrest for some moments, peering into the darkness below him all thewhile. Once or twice he dropped a small stone cautiously, holding it atarm's length. When the tiny messenger touched earth soon after leavinghis hand, he continued his downward progress. Once, no sound followedfor some seconds, and then it was only a distant concussion far downbeside the sea. With an involuntary shudder, the climber turned and madehis way upwards and sideways again, before venturing to descend oncemore. 

For half an hour he continued his perilous struggle, till his strongarms were stiff and his fingers almost powerless. With marvelloustenacity he held to his purpose. Never since leaving the summit had hebeen able to rest both hands at once. With a dogged, mechanicalendurance which is essentially characteristic of climbers andmountaineers, he lowered himself, inch by inch, foot by foot. Louder andlouder sang the sea, as if in derision at his petty efforts, but throughhis head there rushed another sound infinitely more terrible: apainful, continuous buzz, which seemed to press upon his temples. A dullpain was slowly creeping up the muscles of his neck towards his head. All these symptoms the climber knew. The buzzing in his ears would nevercease until he could lie down and breathe freely with every musclerelaxed, every sinew slack. The dull ache would creep up until itreached his brain, and then nothing could save him--no strength of willcould prevent his fingers from relaxing their hold. 

"Sish--sish, sish--sish!" laughed the waves below. Placidly the starsheld on their stately course--each perhaps peopled by millions of itsown--young and old, tame and fiery--all pursuing shadows as we do here. 

"This is getting serious, " muttered Christian, with a pitiful laugh. Theperspiration was running down his face, burning his eyes, and drippingfrom his chin. With straining eyes he peered into the night. Closebeneath him there was a ledge of some breadth. It was not flat, butinclined upwards from the face of the cliff, thus forming a shelf ofsolid stone. For some seconds he stared continuously at this, so as toreduce to a minimum the chance of being mistaken. Then with greatcaution he slid down the steep incline of smooth stone and landedsafely. The glissade lasted but a moment, nevertheless it recalled tohis mind a picture which was indelibly stamped in his memory. Yearsbefore he had seen a man slide like this, unintentionally, after a falsestep. Again that picture came to him--unimpressionable as his life hadrendered him. Again he saw the glittering expanse of snow, and on it thebroad, strong figure of the Vaudois guide sliding down and down, withmadly increasing speed--feet foremost, skilful to the last. Again hefelt the thrill which men cannot but experience at the sight of a man, or even of a dumb beast, fighting bravely for life. Again he saw thedull gleam of the uplifted ice-axe as the man dealt scientific blowafter blow on the frozen snow, attempting to arrest his terrible career. And again in his mind's eye the pure expanse of spotless white laybefore him, scarred by one straight streak, marking where the taciturnmountaineer had vanished over the edge of the precipice to his certaindoom. 

Christian lay like a half-drowned man upon the shelving ledge, slowlyrealising his position. He calculated that he could not yet be half-waydown, and his strength was almost exhausted. Yet, as he lay there, nothought of waiting for daylight, no question of retreat entered hisstubborn West-country brain. The exploit still possessed for him theelements of a good joke, to be related thereafter in such a manner aswould enforce laughter. 

Suddenly--within the softer sound of the sea below--a harsh, gratingnoise struck his ears. It was to him like the sound made by a nailedboot upon rock. It was as if another were following him down the face ofthe cliff. In a second he was upon his feet, his weariness a thingforgotten. Overhead, against the starlit sky, he could define the lineof rock with its sharp, broken angles and uncouth turns. Not thirty feetabove him something was moving. His first feeling was one of intensefear. Every climber knows that it is easier to pass a difficult cornerthan to stand idle, watching another do it. Slowly the dark form camedownwards, and suddenly, with a quick sense of unutterable relief, Christian saw the black line of a tightened rope. When it was barely tenfeet above him he saw that the object was no man, but a square case. Ina flash of thought he divined what the box contained, and unhesitatinglyran along the ledge towards it. As it descended he seized it with bothhands and swung it in towards himself. With pendulum-like motion itdescended, and at last touched the rock at his feet. As this took placehe grasped the rope with both hands and threw his entire weight upon it, hauling slowly in, hand over hand. So quickly and deftly was thiscarried out that those lowering overhead were deceived, and continued topay out the rope slowly. Steadily Christian hauled in, the slack fallingin snake-like coils at his feet. Only being able to guess at hisposition on the cliff, it was no easy matter to calculate how much ropeit was necessary to take in in order to carry out the deception. 

At length he ceased abruptly, and proceeded to untie the knots round thebale. Then, after the manner of a sailor who is working out of sightwith a life-line, he jerked the rope, which immediately began to ascendrapidly and with irregularity. Coil after coil ran easily away, and atlast the frayed end passed into the darkness above Christian's head. Hestood there watching it, and when it had disappeared he burst into a lowhoarse laugh which suddenly broke off into a sickening gurgle, and hefell sideways and backwards on to the box, clutching at it with hisnerveless fingers. 

When he recovered his faculties his first sensation was one of greatcold. The breeze had freshened with the approach of dawn, and blowingfull upon him as he lay bathed in perspiration, the effect was like thatof a refrigerator. He moved uneasily, and found that he was lying on thestone ledge _outside_ the box, from which he had fallen. After a moment, he rose rapidly to his feet as if desirous of dismissing the memory ofhis own collapse, and turned his attention to the bundle. Beneath therough covering of canvas, which was not sewn but merely lashed round, itwas easy enough to detect the shape of the case. 

"What luck--what wonderful luck, " he muttered, as he groped round thesurface of the bundle. 

Indeed it seemed as if everything had arranged itself for his specialbenefit and advantage. 

The three men whose duty it had been to lower the case coiled up theirrope and started off on foot inland, after telling the sentinelstationed at the head of the little path to rejoin his boat. This theman was only too willing to do at once. He was a semi-superstitiousBreton of no great intelligence, who vastly preferred being afloat inhis unsavoury yawl to climbing about unknown rocks in the dark. On thebeach, he found his two comrades, to whom he gruffly imparted theinformation that they were to go on board. 

"Had the 'monsieur' said nothing else?"

"No, the 'monsieur' said nothing else. "

The Breton intellect is not, as a rule, acute. Like sheep the three menproceeded to carry up from the water's edge Stanley's boat, which wasrequired to carry the heavy case, their own dinghy being too small. Thisdone, they rowed off silently to the yawl, which was rolling lazily inthe trough of the sea, a quarter of a mile from the shore. Once on boardthey were regaled with some choice French profanity from the lips of alarge man in a sealskin cap and a dirty woollen muffler. This gentlemanthey addressed as the "patron, " and, with clumsy awe, informed him thatthey had waited at the same spot as before, but nothing had come, untilat length Hoel Grall arrived with instructions from the "monsieur" to goon board. Whereupon further French profanity, followed by unintelligibleorders, freely interlarded with embellishments of a forcible tenor. 

As the yawl swung slowly round and stood out to sea, Christian turned toclimb up Bury Bluff. He found that he had in reality made very littleprogress in descending. Before leaving the case, he edged it by degreesnearer to the base of the ledge, which would render it invisible fromthe beach. The ascent was soon accomplished, and after a cautious searchhe concluded that no one was about, so set off home at a rapid pace. 

Before he reached the Hall the light of coming day was already creepingup into the eastern sky. All nature was stirring, refreshed with thebalmy dew and coolness of the night. Far up in the higher branches ofthe Weymouth pines, the wrens were awake, calling to each other withtentative twitter, and pluming themselves the while for another day ofsunshine and song. 

Like a thief Christian hurried on, and creeping into his bedroom window, was soon sleeping the dreamless, forgetful sleep of youth. 

By seven o'clock he was awake with all the quick realisation of aLondoner. In the country men wake up slowly, and slowly gather togethertheir senses after an all-sufficing sleep of ten hours. In cities, five, four, or even three are sufficient for the unfatigued body and therestless mind. Men wake up quickly, and are at once in full possessionof their faculties. It is, after all, a mere matter of habit. 

Christian had slept sufficiently. He rose quite fresh and strong, andpresently sat down, coatless to write. 

Page after page he wrote, turning each leaf over upon its face as it wascompleted--never referring back, never hesitating, and only occasionallyraising his pen from the paper. Line after line of neat, small writing, quite different from what his friends knew in letters or on envelopes, flowed from his pen. It was his "press" handwriting, plain, rapid, andas legible as print. The punctuation was attended to with singular care:the commas broad and heavy, the colons like the kisses in a child'sletter, round and black. Once or twice he smiled as he wrote, andoccasionally jerked his head to one side critically as he re-read asentence. 

In less than two hours it was finished. He rose from his seat, andwalked slowly to the window. Standing there he gazed thoughtfully acrossthe bare, unlovely tableland towards the sea. He had written manyhundreds of pages, all more or less masterly; he had read criticismsupon his own work saying that it was good; and yet he knew that thebest--the best he had ever written--lay upon the table behind him. Thenhe turned and shook the loose leaves together symmetrically. Pensivelyhe counted them. He was young and strong; the world and life lay beforehim, with their infinite possibilities--their countless opportunities tobe seized or left. He looked curiously at the written pages. The writingwas his own; the form of every letter was familiar; the heavypunctuation and clean, closely written lines such as the compositorloved to deal with; and while he turned the leaves over he wondered ifever he would do better, for he knew that it was good. 

CHAPTER XII

A WARNING WORD

As the breakfast-bell echoed through the house Christian ran downstairs. He met Hilda entering the open door with the letters in her hand. 

"Down already?" he exclaimed. 

"Yes, " she replied incautiously, "I wished to get the letters early. "

"And, after all, there is nothing for you?"

"No, " she replied. "No, but--"

She stopped suddenly and handed him two letters, which he took slowly, and apparently forgot to thank her, saying nothing at all. There was apeculiar expression of dawning surprise upon his face, and he studiedthe envelopes in his hand without reading a word of the address. Presently he raised his eyes and glanced at Hilda. She was holding aletter daintily between her two forefingers, cornerwise, and with littlepuffs of her pouted lips was spinning it round, evidently enjoying theinfantile amusement immensely. 

He dropped his letters into the pocket of his jacket, and stood asidefor her to pass into the house; but she, abruptly ceasing her windmilloperations, looked at him with raised eyebrows and stood still. 

"Well?" she said interrogatively. 

"What?"

"And Mr. Trevetz's answer--I suppose it is one of those letters?"

"Oh yes!" he replied. "I had forgotten my promise. "

He took the letters from his pocket, and looked at the addresses again. 

"One is from Trevetz, " he said slowly, "and the other from Mrs. Strawd. "

"Nothing from Mr. Bodery?" asked she indifferently. 

He had taken a pencil from his pocket, and, turning, he held Trevetz'sletter against the wall while he wrote across it. Without ceasing hisoccupation, and in a casual way, he replied:--

"No, nothing from Mr. Bodery; so I am free as yet. "

"I am very glad, " she murmured conventionally. 

"And I, " he said, turning with a polite smile to hand her the letter. 

She took the envelope, and holding it up in both hands examined itcritically. 

"M-a-x, " she read; "how badly it is written! Max--Max Talma--is thatit?"

"Yes, " he answered gravely, "that is it. "

With a little laugh and a shrug of her shoulders she proceeded to openthe envelope. It contained nothing but the sketch made upon the fly-leafof a novel. Christian was watching her face. She continued to smile asshe unfolded the paper. Then she suddenly became grave, and handed theopen sketch to him. At the foot was written:--

"Max Talma--look out! Avoid him as you would the devil!

"In haste, C. T. "

Christian read it, laughed carelessly, and thrust the paper into hispocket. "Trevetz writes in a good forcible style, " he said, turning togreet Molly, who came, singing, downstairs at this moment. For aninstant her merry eyes assumed a scrutinising, almost anxious look asshe caught sight of her sister and Christian standing together. 

"Are you just down?" she asked carelessly. 

"Yes, " answered Christian, still holding her hand. 

"I have just come down. "

As usual the day's pleasure was all prearranged. A groom rode to thestation at Christian's request with a large envelope on which wasprinted Mr. Bodery's name and address. This was to be given to theguard, who would in his turn hand it to a special messenger atPaddington, and the editor of the _Beacon_ would receive it by fouro'clock in the afternoon. 

The day was fine, with a fresh breeze, and the programme of pleasure wassatisfactorily carried out. But with sunset the wind freshened into abrisk gale, and heavy clouds rolled upwards from the western horizon. This was the first suggestion of autumn, the first sigh of dying summer. The lamps were lighted a few minutes earlier that night, and the familyassembled in the drawing-room soon after dark, although the windows wereleft open for those who wished to pass in and out. 

Mrs. Carew's grey head was, as usual, bent over some simple needlework, while Molly sat near at hand. According to her wont she also was busy, while around her the work lay strewed in picturesque disorder. Sidneywas reading in his own room--reading for a vague law examination whichalways appeared to have been lately postponed till next October. 

Christian was seated at the piano, playing by snatches and turning overthe brown leaves of some very old music, unearthed from a lumber-room byMrs. Carew for his benefit. He waited for no thanks or comment;sometimes he read a few bars only, sometimes a page. He appeared to haveforgotten that he had an audience. Presently he rose, leaving the musicin disorder. Hilda had been called away some time before by an oldvillage woman requiring medicaments for unheard-of symptoms. Christianlooked slowly round the room, then raising his hand he dexterouslycaught a huge moth which had flown past his face. 

As he crossed the room towards the open window, with a view ofliberating the moth, a low whistle reached his ear. The refrain was thatof the familiar "retraite. " Hilda had evidently gone out to the moat byanother door. Bowing his head, he passed between the muslin curtains anddisappeared in the darkness. The sound of his footsteps died away almostimmediately amidst the rustle of branch and leaf already crisp withapproaching change. 

It was Stanley's bed-time. Mechanically, Molly kissed her brother, continuing to work thoughtfully. 

In a few minutes the door opened and Hilda entered the room. She came upto the table, and standing there with her hands resting upon some piecesof Molly's work, she gave a graphic description of the old woman'scomplaints and maladies. She stood quite close to Molly, and told herstory to Mrs. Carew merrily, failing to notice that her sister hadceased sewing, and was listening with a surprised look in her eyes. Whenthe symptoms had been detailed and laughed over, Hilda turned quietlyand passed out into the garden. With fearless familiarity she ranlightly down the narrow pathway towards the moat, but no signal-whistlegreeted her. The leaves rustled and whispered overhead; the water lappedand gurgled at her feet, but there was no sign or sound of life. 

Silent and motionless she stood, a tall fair form clad in white, amidstthe universal, darkness. So silent and so still that it might have beenthe shade of some fair maid of bygone years mourning the loss of hertrue knight, who in all the circumstances of war had crossed that samemoat never to return. 

Presently a sudden feeling of loneliness, a new sense of fear, came overHilda. All around was so forbidding. The water at her feet was so blackand mysterious. She gave a soft low whistle identical with that whichhad called Christian out twenty minutes before, but it remainedunanswered, and through the rustling leaves she sped towards the house. From the open window a glow of rosy light shone forth upon the flowers, imparting to all alike a pallid pink, and dimly defining the greytree-trunks across the lawn. As Hilda stepped between the curtains, theservants entered the drawing-room in solemn Indian file for eveningprayers. 

Mrs. Carew looked up from the Bible which lay open before her, and saidto Hilda:--

"Where is Christian?"

"I don't know, mother; he is not in the garden, " answered the girl, crossing the room to her own particular chair. 

Sidney rose from his seat, and going to the window, sent his loud clearwhistle away into the night. His broad figure remained motionless forsome minutes, almost filling up the window; then he silently resumed hisseat. 

Mrs. Carew smoothed down the silken book-marker, and began reading in alow voice. It is to be feared that the Psalmist's words of joy were notheard with understanding ears that night. A short prayer followed;softly and melodiously Mrs. Carew asked for blessings upon the bowedheads around her, and the servants left the room. 

"Have you not seen Christian since you went to see Mrs. Sender, Hilda?"asked Molly, at once. 

"No, " replied Hilda, arranging the music into something like order uponthe piano. 

"He went out about half an hour ago, in answer to your whistle. "

Hilda turned her head as if about to reply hastily, but checked herself, and resumed her task of setting the music in order. 

"How could I whistle, " she asked gently, "when I was in the kitchendoling out medicated cotton-wool to Mrs. Sender?"

Molly looked puzzled. 

"Did _you_ whistle, Sidney?" she asked. 

"I--no; I was half-asleep over a law-book in my own room. "

"I expect he has gone for a stroll, and forgotten the time, " suggestedMrs. Carew reassuringly, as she sat down to work again. 

"But what about the whistle; are you sure you heard it, Molly?" askedHilda, speaking rather more quickly than was habitual with her. Shewalked towards the window and drew aside the curtain, keeping her backturned towards the room. 

"Yes, " answered Molly uneasily. "Yes--I heard it, and so did he, for hewent out at once. "

Sidney stood awkwardly with his shoulder against the mantelpiece, listening in a half-hearted way to his sisters' conversation. With aheavy jerk he threw himself upright and slowly crossed the room. Hestood for some moments immediately behind Hilda without touching her. Then he raised his hand and with gentle, almost caressing pressure roundher waist, he made her step aside so that he could pass out. He was asingularly undemonstrative man, rarely giving way to what he consideredthe weakness of a caress. Fortunately, however, for their own happiness, his womenfolk understood him, and especially between himself and Hildathere existed a peculiar unspoken sympathy. 

In the ordinary way he would have mumbled--

"Le'mme out!"

On this occasion he touched her waist gently, and the caress almoststartled her. It seemed like a confession that he shared the vagueanxiety which she concealed so well. 

With the charity of maternal love, which is by no means so blind as isgenerally supposed, Mrs. Carew often said of Sidney that he invariablyrose to the occasion; and Mrs. Carew's statements were as a rulecorrect. His slowness was partly assumed; his indifference was a merehabit. The assumption of the former saved him infinite worry andresponsibility; the habit of indifference did away with the necessity ofcoming to a decision upon general questions. This state of mind may, totownsmen, be incomprehensible. Certain it is that such as are in thatcondition are not found among the foremost dwellers in cities. But inthe country it is a different matter. Such cases are only too common, and (without breath of disparagement) they are usually to be found inhouseholds where one man finds himself among several women--be thelatter mother and sisters, or wife and sisters-in-law. 

The man may be a thorough sportsman, he may be an excellent landlord anda popular squire, but within his own doors he is overwhelmed. Chivalrybids him give way to the wishes and desires of some woman or other, andif he be a sportsman he is necessarily chivalrous. When one is tiredafter a long day in the saddle or with a gun, it is so much easier toacquiesce and philosophically persuade oneself that the matter is notworth airing an adverse opinion over. This is the beginning, and if anybeginning can look forward to great endings it is that of a habit. 

It would appear that Sidney Carew's occasion had come at last, for onceoutside the window he changed to a different being. The lazy slouchvanished from his movements, his eyes lost their droop, and he held hishead erect. 

He made his way rapidly to the stable, and there, without the knowledgeof the grooms, he obtained a large hurricane-lamp, lighted it, andreturned towards the house. From the window Hilda saw him pass down alittle path towards the moat, with the lamp swinging at his side, whilethe shadows waved backwards and forwards across the lawn. 

The mind is a strange storehouse. However long a memory may have beenwarehoused there, deep down beneath piles of other remembrances andconceits, it is generally to be found at the top when the demand comes, ready for use--for good or evil. A dim recollection was resuscitated inSidney's mind. An unauthenticated nursery tale of a departing guestleaving with a word of joy upon his lips and warm comfort in his heart, turning from the glowing doorway and walking down the little pathwaystraight into the moat. 

Christian, however, was an excellent swimmer; he knew every inch of thepathway, every stone round the moat. That he should have been drowned inten feet of clear water, with an easy landing within ten yards, seemedthe wildest impossibility. Of course such things have happened, butChristian Vellacott was essentially wide awake, and unlikely to come tomishap through his own carelessness. Of all these things Sidney thoughtas he walked rapidly towards the moat, and in particular he ponderedover Molly's statement that she had heard Hilda whistle. This had metwith flat denial from Hilda, and Sidney, with brotherly candour, couldonly arrive at the conclusion that Molly had been mistaken. He would notgive way to the least suggestion of anxiety even in his own mind. Afterall Christian would probably come in with some simple explanation and alaugh for their fears. It often happens thus, as we must all know. Themoments so long and dreary for the watcher, whose imagination gains moreand more power as the time passes, slip away unheeded by the awaited, who treats the matter with a laugh or, at the most, a few conventionalwords of sympathy. 

Sidney stood at the edge of the water and threw the beams of lightacross the rippling surface. Mechanically he followed the ray as itswept from end to end of the moat, and presently, without heeding, heturned his attention to the stones at his feet. A gleam of reflectedlight caught his passing gaze, and he stooped to examine the cause moreclosely. 

The smooth stonework was wet; in fact the water was standing in littlepools upon it. Round these there were circles of dampness, showing thatevaporation was taking place. The water had not lain there long. A manfalling into the moat would have thrown up splashes such as these; in noother way could they be plausibly accounted for. Sidney stood erect. Again he held the lamp over the gleaming water, half fearing to seesomething. His lips had quite suddenly become dry and parched, and therewas an uncomfortable throb in his throat. Suddenly he heard a rustlebehind him, and before he could draw back Hilda was at his side. Sheslipped her hand through his arm, and by the slightest pressure drew himaway from the moat. 

"You know--Sid--he could swim perfectly, " she said persuasively. 

He made no answer, but walked slowly by her side, swinging the lampbackwards and forwards as a schoolboy swings his satchel. Thus he gainedtime to moisten his lips and render speech possible. 

Together they went round the grounds, but no sign or vestige ofChristian did they discover. A pang of remorse came to Hilda as shetouched her brother's strong arm. Ever since Christian's arrival sheremembered that Sidney had been somewhat neglected, or only rememberedwhen his services were required. Christian had indeed been attentive tohim, but Hilda felt that their friendship was not what it used to be. The young journalist in his upward progress had left the slow-thinkingcountry squire behind him. All they had in common belonged to the past;and, for Christian, the past was of small importance compared to thepresent. She recollected that during the last fortnight everything hadbeen arranged with a view to giving pleasure to herself, Molly, andChristian, without heed to Sidney's inclinations. By word or sign he hadnever shown his knowledge of this; he had never implied that hisexistence or opinion was of any great consequence. She remembered eventhat such pleasures as Christian had shared with Sidney--pleasures afterhis own heart, sailing, shooting, and fishing--had been undertaken atChristian's instigation or suggestion, and eagerly welcomed by Sidney. 

And now, at the first suspicion of trouble, she turned instinctively toher brother for the help and counsel which were so willingly andmodestly accorded. 

"Sidney, " she said, "did he ever speak to you of his work?"

"No, " he replied slowly; "no, I think not. "

"He has been rather worried over those disturbances in Paris, I think, and--and--I suppose he has never said anything to you about SignorBruno?"

"Signor Bruno!" said Sidney, repeating the name in some surprise. "No, he has never mentioned his name to me. "

"He does not like him----"

"Neither do I. "

"But you never told me--Sid!"

"No, " he replied simply: "there was nothing to be gained by it!"

This was lamentably true, and Hilda felt that it was so, although herbrother had no thought of posing as a martyr. 

"Christian, " she continued softly, "distrusted him for some reason. Heknows something of his former life, and told me a short time ago thatBruno was not his name at all. This morning Christian received a letterfrom Carl Trevetz, whom we knew in Paris, you will remember, saying thatSignor Bruno's real name was Max Talma, also warning Christian to avoidhim. "

"Is this all you know?" asked Sidney, in a peculiarly quiet tone. 

"That is all I know, " she replied. "But it has struck me that--thatthis may have something to do with Signor Bruno. I mean--is it notprobable that Christian may have discovered something which caused himto go away suddenly without letting Bruno know of his departure?"

Sidney thought of the water at the edge of the moat. The incident mightprove easy enough of explanation, but at the moment it was singularlyunreconcilable with Hilda's comforting explanation. And again, therecollection of the signal-whistle heard by Molly was unwelcome. 

"Yes, " he replied vaguely. "Yes, it may. "

He was, by nature and habit, a slow thinker, and Hilda was running awayfrom him a little; but he was, perhaps, surer than she. 

"I am convinced, Sidney, " she continued, "that Christian connects SignorBruno in some manner with the disturbances in France. It seems verystrange that an old man buried alive in a small village should have itin his power to do so much harm. "

"A man's power of doing harm is practically unlimited, " he said slowly, still wishing to gain time. 

"Yes, but he has always appeared so childlike and innocent. "

"That is exactly what I disliked about him, " said Sidney. 

"Then do you think he has been deliberately deceiving us all along?"she asked. 

"Not necessarily, " was the tolerant reply. "You must remember thatChristian is essentially a politician. He does not suspect Bruno ofanything criminal; his suspicions are merely political; and it may bethat Bruno's doings, whatever they appear to be now, may in the futurebe looked upon as the actions of a hero. Politics are impersonal, andSignor Bruno is only known to us socially. "

Hilda could not see the matter in this light. No woman could have beenexpected to do so. 

"I suppose, " she said presently, "that Signor Bruno is a politicalintriguer. "

"I expect so, " replied her brother. 

They were walking slowly up the broad path towards the house, havinggiven up the idea of searching for Christian or calling him. 

"Then, " continued Sidney, "you think it is likely that he has gone offto see Bruno, or to watch him?"

"I think so. "

"That is the only reasonable explanation I can think of, " he saidgravely and doubtfully, for he was still thinking of the moat. 

They entered the house, and to Mrs. Carew and Molly their explanationwas imparted. It was received somewhat doubtfully, especially by Molly. However, the farce had to be kept up--and do we not act in similarcomedies every day?

CHAPTER XIII

A NIGHT WATCH

Cheerfulness is, thank goodness, infectious. The watchers at the Hallthat night made a great show of light-heartedness. Sidney had risen tothe occasion. He laughed at the idea of anything serious having happenedto Christian, and his confidence gradually spread and gained newstrength. Molly, however, was apparently beyond its influence. With herperpetual needle-work in her hands she sat beneath the lamp and workedrapidly. Occasionally she glanced towards Hilda, but contributed nothingto the explanations forthcoming from all quarters. 

Hilda was also working; slowly, however, and with marvellous care. Shewas engaged upon a more artistic production than ever came from Molly'swork-basket. Once she consulted Mrs. Carew about the colour of a skeinof wool, but otherwise showed no inclination to avoid topics in anymanner connected with Christian, despite the fact that these wereobviously distasteful to her family. In all that she said, indifferencewas blended in a singular way with imperturbable cheerfulness. 

Thus they waited until after midnight, pretending bravely to work andread as if there were no such feeling as suspense in the human heart. Then Mrs. Carew persuaded the young people to go to bed. She had lettersto write, and would not be ready for hours. If Christian did not appearby the time that she was sleepy, she would wake Sidney. After all, sheacted her part better than they. She was old at it--they were new. Shewas experienced in stage-craft and made her points skilfully; above all, she did not over-act. 

The three young people kissed their mother and left the room, assuringeach other of their conviction that they would find Christian at thebreakfast table next morning. Molly's room was at the head of thestairs. With a smile and a nod she closed her door while Hilda andSidney walked slowly down the long passage together. Arrived at the end, Sidney kissed his sister. She turned the handle of her door and stoodwith her back to him for a few moments without entering the room, as ifto give him an opportunity of speaking if he had aught to say. He stoodawkwardly behind her, gazing mechanically at her hair, which reflectedthe light from the candle that he was holding all awry, while the waxdripped upon the carpet. 

"It will be all right, Hilda, " he said unevenly, "never fear!"

"Yes, dear, I know it will, " she replied. 

And then she passed into the room without closing the door, and hewalked on with loudly-creaking shoes. 

Hilda crossed her room and set the candle upon the dressing-table. Shewaited there till Sidney's footsteps had ceased, and then she turned andwalked uprightly to the door, which she closed. She looked round theroom with a strange, vacant look in her eyes, and then she made her wayunsteadily towards the bed, where she lay staring at the wavering candleand its reflection in the mirror behind until daylight came to make itsflame grow pale and yellow. 

There were four watchers in the house that night. Downstairs, Mrs. Carewsat by the shaded lamp in her upright armchair. She was not writing, buthad re-opened the large black Bible. Molly was courting sleep in vain, having resolutely blown out her candle. Sidney made no pretence. He wasfully dressed, and seated at his rarely-used writing-table. Before himlay a telegraph-form bearing nothing but the address--

C. C. BODERY, _Beacon_ Office, Fleet St. , London. 

He was gazing mechanically at the blank spaces waiting to be filled in, and through his mind was passing and repassing the same question thatoccupied the thoughts of his mother and sisters. What could be theexplanation of the whistle heard by Molly? The want of this alonesufficed to overthrow the most ingenious of consolatory explanations. All four looked at it from different points of view, and to each thesignal-whistle calling Christian into the garden was an insurmountablebarrier to every explanation. 

Before it was wholly light Hilda moved wearily to the window. She threwit open, and sat with arms resting on the sill and her chin upon herhands, mechanically noting the wonders of the sunrise. A soft white mistwas rising from the thick pasture, wholly obscuring the sea and fillingthe atmosphere with a damp chill. Seated there in her thin eveningdress, she showed no sign of feeling the cold. At times physical pain isalmost a pleasure. The glistening damp rested on every blade of grass, on every leaf and twig, while the many webs stood whitely against theshadows, some hanging like festoons from tree to tree, others floatingout in mid-air without apparent reason or support. In and among thebranches lingered little secret deposits of mist waiting the sun'swarmth to melt them all away. 

The suppressed creak of Sidney's door attracted Hilda's attention, butshe did not move, merely turning to look at her own door as her brotherpassed it with awkward caution. A dull instinct told her that he wasgoing to the moat again. Presently he passed beneath her window andacross the dewy lawn, leaving a trailing mark upon the grass. The wholepicture seemed suddenly to be familiar to her. She had lived through itall before--not in another life, not in years gone by, not in a dream, but during the last few hours. 

The air was very still, and she could hear the clank of the chain asSidney unmoored the old punt, rarely used except by the gardener toclean the moat when the weeds died down in autumn. The quiet wasrendered more remarkable by the suddenness of its advent. All night ithad been blowing a wild gale, which dropped at dawn, and from the softland the mist rose instantly. 

Prompted by a vague desire to be doing something, Hilda presently turnedfrom the window, and, after a moment's indecision, chose from the shelfa novel fresh from the brain of the king of writers. With it shereturned to her low chair and listlessly turned over the leaves for somemoments. She raised her head and sought in vain the tiny form of a larktrilling out his morning hymn far up in the blue sky. Then sheresolutely commenced to read uninterruptedly. 

She read on until Sidney's firm step upon the gravel beneath the windowroused her. A minute later he knocked softly at her door. The water wasglistening on his rough shooting-boots as he entered the room, and uponthe brown leather gaiters there was a deeper shade showing where the wetgrass had brushed against his legs. His honest, immobile face showed butlittle surprise at the sight of Hilda still in evening dress, but shesaw that he noticed it. 

She rose from her low chair and laid aside the book, but no sort ofgreeting passed between them. 

"I have been all round again, " he said quietly, "by daylight, and--andof course there is no sign. "

She nodded her head, but did not speak. 

"I have been thinking, " he continued somewhat shyly, "as to what is tobe done. First of all, no one must be told. Mother, Molly, you, and Iknow it, and we must keep it to ourselves. We will tell Stanley thatChristian has gone off suddenly in connection with his work, and thesame excuse will do for the neighbours and servants. I will telegraphthis morning to Mr. Bodery, the editor of the _Beacon_, and await hisinstructions. I think that is all that we can do in the meantime. "

She was standing close to him, with one hand on the table, resting uponthe closed volume of "Vanity Fair, " but instead of looking at herbrother she was gazing calmly out of the window. 

"Yes, " she murmured, "I think that is all that we can do in themeantime. "

Sidney moved awkwardly as if about to leave the room, but hesitatedstill. 

"Have you nothing to suggest?" he asked. "Do you think I am actingrightly?"

She was still looking out of the window--still standing motionless nearthe table with her hand upon Thackeray's "Vanity Fair. "

"Yes, " she replied; "everything you suggest seems wise and prudent. "

"Then will you see mother and Molly in their rooms and forewarn them tosay nothing--nothing that may betray our anxiety?"

"Yes, I will see them. "

Sidney walked heavily to the door. Grasping the handle, he turned roundonce more. 

"It is nearly half-past seven, " he said, with more confidence in histone, "and Mary will soon be coming to awake you. It would not do forher to see you in that dress. "

Hilda turned and raised her eyes to his face. 

"No, " she said, with a sudden smile; "I will change it at once. "

CHAPTER XIV

FOILED

When Mr. Bodery opened the door of the room upon the second floor of thetall house in the Strand that morning, he found Mr. Morgan seated at thetable surrounded by proof-sheets, with his coat off and shirt-sleevestucked up. The subeditor of the _Beacon_ was in reality a good hardworker in his comfortable way, and there was little harm in his desirethat the world should be aware of his industry. 

"Good morning, Morgan, " said the editor, hanging up his hat. 

"Morning, " replied the other genially, but without looking up. BeforeMr. Bodery had seated himself, however, the sub-editor laid his handwith heavy approval upon the odoriferous proof-sheet before him, andlooked up. 

"This article of Vellacott's is first-rate, " he said. "By Jove! sir, hedrops on these holy fathers--lets them have it right and left. The wayhe has worked out the thing is wonderful, and that method of puttingeverything upon supposition is a grand idea. It suggests how the thing_could_ be done upon the face of it, while the initiated will seequickly enough that it means to show how the trick was in realityperformed--ha, ha!"

"Yes, " replied Mr. Bodery absently. He was glancing at the pile ofletters that lay upon his desk. There were among them one or twotelegrams, and these he put to one side while he took up each envelopein succession to examine the address, throwing it down again unopened. At length he turned again to the telegrams, and picked up the top one. He was about to tear open the envelope when there was a sharp knock atthe door. 

"'M'in!" said Mr. Morgan sharply, and at the same moment the silent doorwas thrown open. The diminutive form of the boy stood in the aperture. 

"Gentleman to see you, sir, " he said, with great solemnity. 

"What name?" asked Mr. Bodery. 

"Wouldn't give his name, sir--said you didn't know it, sir. "

Even this small office-boy was allowed his quantum of discretionarypower. It rested with him whether an unknown visitor was admitted orpolitely dismissed to a much greater extent than any one suspected. Intohis manner of announcing a person he somehow managed to convey hisopinion as to whether it was worth the editor's time to admit him ornot, and he invariably received Mr. Bodery's "Tell him I'm engaged" witha little nod of mutual understanding which was intensely comprehensive. 

On this occasion, his manner said, "Have him in have him in, my boy, andyou will find it worth your while'"

"Show him in, " said Mr. Bodery. 

The nameless gentleman must have been at the door upon the boy's heels, for no sooner had the words left Mr. Bodery's lips than a tall, darkform slid into the room. So noiseless and rapid were this gentleman'smovements that there is no other word with which to express his mode ofprogression. 

He made a low bow, and shot up erect again with startling rapidity. Hethen stood quietly waiting until the door had closed behind the smallboy, who, after having punctiliously expectorated upon a silver coinwhich had found its way into the palm of his hand, proceeded to slidedown the balustrade upon his waistcoat. 

It often occurred that strangers addressed themselves to Mr. Morgan whenushered into the little back room, under the impression that he was theeditor of the _Beacon_. Not so, however, this tall, clean-shaven person. He fixed his peculiar light-blue eyes upon Mr. Bodery, and, with aslight inclination, said suavely--

"This, sir, is, I believe, your printing day?"

"It is, sir, and a busy day with us, " replied the editor, with no greatwarmth of manner. 

"Would it be possible now, " inquired the stranger conversationally, "atthis late hour, to remove a printed article and substitute another?"

At these words Mr. Morgan ceased making some pencil notes with which hewas occupied, and looked up. He met the stranger's benign glance and, while still looking at him, deliberately turned over all theproof-sheets before him, leaving no printed matter exposed to the gazeof the curious. 

Mr. Bodery had in the meantime consulted his watch. 

"Yes, " he replied, with dangerous politeness. "There would still be timeto do so if necessary--at the sacrifice of some hundredweight of paper. "

"How marvellously organised your interesting paper must be!"

Dead silence. Most men would have felt embarrassed, but no sign of suchfeeling was forthcoming from any of the three. It is possible that thedark gentleman with the sky-blue eyes wished to establish a sense ofembarrassment with a view to the furtherance of his own ends. If so, hisattempt proved lamentably abortive. Mr. Bodery sat with his plump handsresting on the table, and looked contemplatively up into the stranger'sface. Mr. Morgan was scribbling pencil notes on a tablet. 

"The truth is, " explained the stranger at length, "that a friend ofmine, who is unfortunately ill in bed this morning--"

(Mr. Bodery did not look in the least sympathetic, though he listenedattentively. )

" ... Has received a telegram from a gentleman who I am told is on thestaff of your journal--Mr. Vellacott. This gentleman wishes to withdraw, for correction, an article he has sent to you. He states that he willre-write the article, with certain alterations, in time for next week'sissue. "

Mr. Bodery's face was pleasantly illegible. 

"May I see the telegram?" he asked politely. 

"Certainly!"

The stranger produced and handed to the editor a pink paper covered withfaint black writing. 

"You will see at the foot this--Mr. Vellacott's reason for not wiring toyou direct. He wished my friend to be here before the printers got towork this morning; but owing to this unfortunate illness--"

"I am afraid you are too late, sir, " interrupted Mr. Bodery briskly. "The press is at work--"

"My friend instructed me, " interposed the stranger in his turn, "to makeyou rather a difficult proposition. If a thousand pounds will compensatefor the loss incurred by the delay of issue, and defray the expense ofpaper spoilt--I--I have that amount with me. "

Mr. Bodery did not display the least sign of surprise, merely shakinghis head with a quiet smile. Mr. Morgan, however, laid aside his pencil, and placed his elbow upon the proof-sheets before him. 

The stranger then stepped forward with a sudden change of manner. 

"Mr. Bodery, " he said, in a low, concentrated voice, "I will give youfive hundred pounds for a proof copy of Mr. Vellacott's article. "

A dead silence of some moments' duration followed this remark. Mr. Morgan raised his head and looked across the table at his chief. Theeditor made an almost imperceptible motion with his eyebrows in thedirection of the door. 

Then Mr. Morgan rose somewhat heavily from his chair, with a hand uponeither arm, after the manner of a man who is beginning to put on weightrapidly. He went to the door, opened it, and, turning towards thestranger, said urbanely:

"Sir--the door!"

This kind invitation was not at once accepted. 

"You refuse my offers?" said the stranger curtly, without deigning tonotice the sub-editor. 

Mr. Bodery had turned his attention to his letters, of which he wascutting open the envelopes, one by one, with a paper-knife, without, however, removing the contents. He looked up. 

"To-morrow morning, " he said, "you will be able to procure a copy fromany stationer for the trifling sum of sixpence. "

Then the stranger walked slowly past Mr. Morgan out of the room. 

"A curse on these Englishmen!" he muttered, as he passed down the narrowstaircase. "If I could only see the article I could tell whether it isworth resorting to stronger measures or not. However, that is Talma'sbusiness to decide, not mine. "

Mr. Morgan closed the door of the small room and resumed his seat. Hethen laughed aloud, but Mr. Bodery did not respond. 

"That's one of them, " observed Mr. Morgan comprehensively. 

"Yes, " replied the editor, "a dangerous customer. I do not like ablue-chinned man. "

"I was not much impressed with his diplomatic skill. "

"No; but you must remember that he had difficult cards to play. No doubthis information was of the scantiest, and--we are not chickens, Morgan. "

"No, " said Mr. Morgan, with a little sigh. He turned to the revision ofthe proof-sheets again, while the editor began opening and reading histelegrams. 

"This is a little strong, " exclaimed Mr. Morgan, after a few moments ofsilence, broken only by the crackle of paper. "Just listen here:--

"'It simply comes to this--the General of the Society of Jesus is anautocrat in the worst sense of the word. He holds within his fingers thewires of a vast machine moving with little friction and no noise. Nofarthest corner of the world is entirely beyond its influence; nopolitical crisis passes that is not hurried on or restrained by itspower. Unrecognised, unseen even, and often undreamt of, the vastSociety does its work. It is not for us who live in a broad-minded, tolerant age to judge too harshly. It is not for us to say that theJesuits are unscrupulous and treacherous. Let us be just and give themtheir due. They are undoubtedly earnest in their work, sincere in theirbelief, true to their faith. But it is for us to uphold our ownintegrity. We are accused--as a nation--of stirring up the seeds ofrebellion, of crime and bloodshed in the heart of another country. Ourdenial is considered insufficient; our evidence is ignored. Thereremains yet to us one mode of self-defence. After denying the crime (forcrime it is in humane and political sense) we can turn and boldly lay itupon those whom its results would chiefly benefit: the Roman CatholicChurch in general--the Society of Jesus in particular. We haveendeavoured to show how the followers of Ignatius Loyola could havebrought about the present crisis in France; the extent to which theywould benefit by a religious reaction is patent to the most casualobserver; let the Government of England do the rest. '"

Mr. Bodery was, however, not listening. He was staring vacantly at atelegram which lay spread out upon the table. 

"What is the meaning of this?" he exclaimed huskily. 

The sub-editor looked up sharply, with his pen poised in the air. ThenMr. Bodery read:

"Is Vellacott with you? Fear something wrong. Disappeared from here lastnight. "

Mr. Morgan moved in his seat, stretching one arm out, while he pensivelyrubbed his clean-shaven chin and looked critically across the table. 

"Who is it from?" he asked. 

"Sidney Carew, the man he is staying with. "

They remained thus for some moments; the editor looking at the telegramwith a peculiar blank expression in his eyes; Mr. Morgan staring at himwhile he rubbed his chin thoughtfully with outspread finger and thumb. In the lane beneath the window some industrious housekeeper was sweepingher doorstep with aggravating monotony; otherwise there was no sound. 

At length Mr. Morgan rose from his seat and walked slowly to the window. He stood gazing out upon the smoke-begrimed roofs and crooked chimneys. Between his lips he held his pen, and his hands were thrust deeply intohis trouser pockets. It was on that spot and in that attitude that heusually thought out his carefully written weekly article upon "HomeAffairs. " He was still there when the editor touched a small gong whichstood on the table at his side. The silent door instantly opened, andthe supernaturally sharp boy stood on the threshold grimly awaiting hisorders. 

"Bradshaw. "

"Yess'r, " replied the boy, closing the door. His inventive mind hadconceived a new and improved method of going downstairs. This was to lieflat on his back upon the balustrade with a leg dangling on either side. If the balance was correct, he slid down rapidly and shot out some feetfrom the bottom, as he had, from an advantageous point of view onBlackfriars Bridge, seen sacks of meal shoot from a Thames warehouseinto the barge beneath. If, however, he made a miscalculation, heinevitably rolled off sideways and landed in a heap on the floor. Eitherresult appeared to afford him infinite enjoyment and exhilaration. Onthis occasion he performed the feat with marked success. 

"Guv'nor's goin' on the loose--wants the railway guide, " he confided toa small friend in the printing interest whom he met as he was returningwith the required volume. 

"Suppose you'll be sitten' upstairs now, then, " remarked theblack-fingered one with fine sarcasm. Whereupon there followed afeint--a desperate lunge to one side, a vigorous bob of the head, and aresounding bang with the railway guide in the centre of the sarcasticyouth's waistcoat. 

Having executed a strategic movement, and a masterly retreat up thestairs, the small boy leant over the banisters and delivered himself ofthe following explanation:

"I 'it yer one that time. Don't do it agin. _Good_ morning, sir. "

Mr. Bodery turned the flimsy leaves impatiently, stopped, looked rapidlydown a column, and, without raising his eyes from the railway guide, tore a telegraph form from the handle of a drawer at his side. Then hewrote in a large clear style:

"Will be with you at five o'clock. Invent some excuse for V. 's absence. On no account give alarm to authorities. "

The sharp boy took the telegram from the editor's hand with anexpression of profound respect upon his wicked features. 

"Go down to Banks, " said Mr. Bodery, "ask him to let me have two copiesof the foreign policy article in ten minutes. "

When the silent door was closed, Mr. Morgan wheeled round upon hisheels, and gazed meditatively at his superior. 

"Going down to see these people?" he asked, with a jerk of his headtowards the West. 

"Yes, I am going by the eleven-fifteen. "

"I have been thinking, " continued the sub-editor, "we may as well keepthe printing-office door locked to-day. That slippery gentleman with thewatery eyes meant business, or I am very much mistaken. I'll just sendupstairs for Bander to go on duty at the shop door to-day as well asto-morrow; I think we shall have a big sale this week. "

Mr. Bodery rose from his seat and began brushing his faultless hat. 

"Yes, " he replied; "do that. It would be very easy to get at themachinery. Printers are only human!"

"Machinery is ready enough to go wrong when nobody wishes it, " murmuredMr. Morgan vaguely, as he sat down at the table and began setting thescattered papers in order. 

Mr. Bodery and his colleagues were in the habit of keeping at the officea small bag, containing the luggage necessary for a few nights in caseof their being suddenly called away. This expedient was due to ChristianVellacott's forethought. 

The editor now proceeded to stuff into his bag sundry morning newspapersand a large cigar case. Telegraph forms, pen, ink, and foolscap paperwere already there. 

"I say, Bodery, " said the sub-editor with grave familiarity, "it seemsto me that you are taking much too serious a view of this matter. Vellacott is as wide awake as any man, and it always struck me that hewas very well able to take care of himself. "

"I have a wholesome dread of men who use religion as a means ofjustification. A fanatic is always dangerous. "

"A sincere fanatic, " suggested the sub-editor. 

"Exactly so; and a sincere fanatic in the hands of an agitator is thevery devil. That is whence these fellows got their power. Half of themare fanatics and the other half hypocrites. "

Mr. Bodery had now completed his preparations, and he held out his plumphand, which the subeditor grasped. 

"I hope, " said the latter, "that you will find Vellacott at the stationto meet you--ha, ha!"

"I hope so. "

"If, " said Mr. Morgan, following the editor to the door--"if he turns uphere, I will wire to Carew and to you, care of the station-master. "

CHAPTER XV

BOOKS

The London express rolled with stately deliberation into Brayportstation. Mr. Bodery folded up his newspapers, reached down his bag fromthe netting, and prepared to alight. The editor of the _Beacon_ hadenjoyed a very pleasant journey, despite broiling sun and searchingdust. He knew the possibilities of a first-class smoking-carriage--howto regulate the leeward window and chock off the other with a woodenmatch borrowed from the guard. 

He stepped from the carriage with the laboured sprightliness of a manpast the forties, and a moment later Sidney Carew was at his side. 

"Mr. Bodery?"

"The same. You are no doubt Mr. Carew?"

"Yes. Thanks for coming. Hope it didn't inconvenience you?"

"Not at all, " replied the editor, breaking his return ticket. 

"D----n!" said Sidney suddenly. 

He was beginning to rise to the occasion. He was one of those men whoare usually too slack to burthen their souls with a refreshingexpletive. 

"What is the matter?" inquired Mr. Bodery gravely. 

"There is a man, " explained Sidney hurriedly, "getting out of the trainwho is coming to stay with us. I had forgotten his existence. _Don't_look round!"

Mr. Bodery was a Londoner. He did not look round. Nine out of tencountry-bred people would have indulged in a stare. 

"Is this all your luggage?" continued Sidney abruptly. He certainly wasrising. 

"Yes. "

"Then come along. We'll bolt for it. He'll have to get a fly, and thatmeans ten minutes' start if the porter is not officious and mullsthings. "

They hurried out of the station and clambered into the dog-cart. Sidneygathered up the reins. 

"Hang it, " he exclaimed. "What bad luck! There is a fly waiting. It isnever there when you want it. "

Mr. Bodery looked between the shafts. 

"You need not be afraid of that fly, " he said. 

"No--come up, you brute!"

Mr. Bodery turned carelessly to put his bag in the back of the cart. 

"Let him have it, " he exclaimed in a low voice. "Your friend sees you, but he does not know that you have seen him. He is pointing you out tothe station-master. "

As he spoke the cart swung round the gate-post of the station yard, nearly throwing him out, and Sidney's right hand felt for thewhip-socket. 

"There, " he said, "we are safe. I think I can manage that fly. "

Mr. Bodery settled himself and drew the dust-cloth over his chubbyknees. 

"Now, " he said, "tell me all about Vellacott. "

Sidney did so. 

He gave a full and minute description of events previous to ChristianVellacott's disappearance, omitting nothing. The relation was somewhatdisjointed, somewhat vague in parts, and occasionally incoherent. Thenarrator repeated himself--hesitated--blurted out some totallyirrelevant fact, and finished up with a vague supposition (possessing asolid basis of truth) expressed in doubtful English. It suited Mr. Bodery admirably. In telling all about Vellacott, Sidney unconsciouslytold all about Mrs. Carew, Molly, Hilda, and himself. When he reachedthe point in his narration telling how Vellacott had been attracted intothe garden, he became extremely vague and his style notably colloquial. Tell the story how he would, he felt that he could not prevent Mr. Bodery from drawing his own inferences. Young ladies are not in thehabit of whistling for youthful members of the opposite sex. Few of themmaster the labial art, which perhaps accounts for much. Sidney Carew wasconscious that his style lacked grace and finish. 

Mr. Bodery did draw his own inferences, but the countenance into whichSidney glanced at intervals was one of intense stolidity. 

"Well, I confess I cannot make it out--at present, " he said; "Vellacotthas written to us only on business matters. We publish to-morrow a verygood article of his purporting to be the dream of an overworked_attaché_. It is very cutting and very incriminating. The Governmentcannot well avoid taking some notice of it. My only hope is that he isin Paris. There is something brewing over there. Our Paris agent wiredfor Vellacott this morning. By the way, Mr. Carew, is there a monasterysomewhere in this part of the country?"

"Down that valley, " replied Sidney, pointing with his whip. 

"In Vellacott's article there is mention of a monastery--not toominutely described, however. There are also some remarkable suppositionsrespecting an old foreigner living in seclusion. Could that be the manyou mentioned just now--Signor Bruno?"

"Hardly. Bruno is a harmless old soul, " replied Sidney, pulling up toturn into the narrow gateway. 

There was no time to make further inquiries. 

Sidney led the way into the drawing-room. The ladies were there. 

"My mother, Mr. Bodery--my sister; my sister Hilda, " he blurted outawkwardly. 

Mrs. Carew shook hands, and the two young ladies bowed. They were alldisappointed in Mr. Bodery. He was too calm and comfortable--also therewas a suggestion of cigar smoke in his presence, which jarred. 

"I am sorry, " said the Londoner, with genial self-possession, "to owethe pleasure of this visit to such an unfortunate incident. "

Molly felt that she hated him. 

"Then you have heard nothing of Christian?" said Mrs. Carew. 

"Nothing, " replied Mr. Bodery, removing his tight gloves. "But it is toosoon to think of getting anxious yet. Vellacott is eminently capable oftaking care of himself--he is, above all things, a journalist. Thingsare disturbed in Paris, and it is possible that he has run acrossthere. "

Mrs. Carew smiled somewhat incredulously. 

"It was a singular time to start, " observed Hilda quietly. 

Mr. Bodery turned and looked at her. 

"Master mind in _this_ house, " he reflected. 

"Yes, " he admitted aloud. 

He folded his gloves and placed them in the pocket of his coat. Theothers watched him in silence. 

"Do you take sugar and cream?" inquired Hilda sweetly, speaking for thesecond time. 

"Please--both. In moderation. "

"I say, " interrupted Sidney at this moment, "the Vicomte d'Audierne isfollowing us in a fly. He will be here in five minutes. "

Mrs. Carew nodded. She had not forgotten this guest. 

"The Vicomte d'Audierne, " said Mr. Bodery, with considerable interest, turning away from the tea-table, cup in hand. "Is that the man who gotout of my train?"

"Yes, " replied Sidney; "do you know him?"

"I have heard of him. " Mr. Bodery turned and took a slice of bread andbutter from a plate which Hilda held. 

At this moment there was a rumble of carriage wheels. 

"By the way, " said the editor of the _Beacon_, raising his voice so asto command universal attention, "do not tell the Vicomte d'Audierneabout Vellacott. Do not let him know that Vellacott has been here. Donot tell him of my connection with the _Beacon_. "

The ladies barely had time to reconsider their first impression of Mr. Bodery when the door was thrown open, and a servant announced M. D'Audierne. 

He who entered immediately afterwards--with an almost indecenthaste--was of middle height, with a certain intrepid carriage of thehead which appeals to such as take pleasure in the strength andendurance of men. His face, which was clean shaven, was the face of ahawk, with the contracted myope vision characteristic of that bird. Itis probable that from the threshold he took in every occupant of theroom. 

"Mrs. Carew, " he said in a pleasant voice, speaking almost faultlessEnglish, "after all these years. What a pleasure!"

He shook hands, turning at the same time to the others. 

"And Sid, " he said, "and Molly--wicked little Molly. Never mind--yourantecedents are safe. I am silent as the grave. "

This was not strictly true. He was as deep, and deeper than theresting-place mentioned, but his method was superior to silence. 

"And Hilda, " he continued, "thoughtful little Hilda, who was always toobusy to be naughty. Not like Molly, eh?"

"Heavens! How old it makes one feel!" he exclaimed, turning to Mrs. Carew. 

The lady laughed. 

"You are not changed, at all events, " she said. "Allow me to introduceMr. Bodery--the Vicomte d'Audierne. "

The two men bowed. 

"Much pleasure, " said the Frenchman. 

Mr. Bodery bowed again in an insular manner, which just escapedawkwardness, and said nothing. 

Then Molly offered the new-comer some tea, and the party broke up intogroups. But the Vicomte's personality in some subtle manner pervaded theroom. Mr. Bodery lapsed into monosyllables and felt ponderous. Monsieurd'Audierne had it in his power to make most men feel ponderous when thespirit moved him in that direction. 

As soon as tea was finally disposed of Mrs. Carew proposed anadjournment to the garden. She was desirous of getting Mr. Bodery toherself. 

It fell to Hilda's lot to undertake the Frenchman. They had been greatfriends once, and she was quite ready to renew the pleasantrelationship. She led her guest to the prettiest part of the garden--theold overgrown footpath around the moat. 

As soon as they had passed under the nut-trees into the open space atthe edge of the water, the Vicomte d'Audierne stopped short and lookedround him curiously. At the same time he gave a strange little laugh. 

"_Hein--hein--c'est drôle_, " he muttered, and the girl remembered thatin the old friendship between the brilliant, middle-aged diplomatist andthe little child they had always spoken French. She liked to hear himspeak his own language, for in his lips it received full justice: it wasthe finest tongue spoken on this earth. But she did not feel disposedjust then to humour him. She looked at him wonderingly as his deep eyeswandered over the scene. 

While they stood there, something--probably a kestrel--disturbed therooks dwelling in the summits of the still elms across the moat, andthey rose simultaneously in the air with long-drawn cries. 

"Ah! Ah--h!" said the Vicomte, with a singular smile. 

And then Hilda forgot her shyness. 

"What is it?" she inquired in the language she had always spoken to thisman. 

He turned and walked beside her, suiting his steps to hers, for somemoments before replying. 

"I was not here at all, " he said at length, apologetically; "I was faraway from you. It was impolite. I am sorry. "

He intended that she should laugh, and she did so softly. "Where wereyou?" she inquired, glancing at him beneath her golden lashes. 

Again he paused. 

"There is, " he said at length, "an old _château_ in Morbihan--manymiles from a railway--in the heart of a peaceful country. It has a moatlike this--there are elms--there are rooks that swing up into the airlike that and call--and one does not know why they do it, and what theyare calling. Listen, little girl--they are calling something. What isit? I think I was _there_. It was impolite--I am sorry, Miss Carew. "

She laughed again sympathetically and without mirth; for she was meantto laugh. 

He looked back over his shoulder at times as if the calling of the rooksjarred upon his nerves. 

"I do not think I like them--" he said, "now. "

He was not apparently disposed to be loquacious as he had been at first. Possibly the rooks had brought about this change. Hilda also had herthoughts. At times she glanced at the water with a certain shrinking inher heart. She had not yet forgotten the moments she had passed at theedge of the moat the night before. They walked right round the moat anddown a little pathway through the elm wood without speaking. The rookshad returned to their nests and only called to each other querulously atintervals. 

"Has it ever occurred to you, little girl, " said the Vicomte d'Audiernesuddenly, "to doubt the wisdom of the Creator's arrangements for ourcomfort, or otherwise, here below?"

"I suppose not, " he went on, without waiting for an answer, which sheremembered as an old trick of his. "You are a woman--it is different foryou. "

The girl said nothing. She may have thought differently; one cannotalways read a maiden's thoughts. 

They walked on together. Suddenly the Vicomte d'Audierne spoke. 

"Who is this?" he said. 

Hilda followed the direction of his eyes. 

"That, " she answered, "is Signor Bruno. An old Italian exile. A friendof ours. "

Bruno came forward, hat in hand, bowing and smiling in his charming way. 

Hilda introduced the two men, speaking in French. 

"I did not know, " said Signor Bruno, with outspread hands, "that youspoke French like a Frenchwoman. "

Hilda laughed. 

"Had it, " she said, with a sudden inspiration, "been Italian, I shouldhave told you. "

There was a singular smile visible, for a moment only, in the eyes ofthe Vicomte d'Audierne, and then he spoke. 

"Mademoiselle, " he said, "learnt most of it from me. We are oldfriends. "

Signor Bruno bowed. He did not look too well pleased. 

"Ah--but is that so?" he murmured conversationally. 

"Yes; I hope she learnt nothing else from me, " replied the Vicomtecarelessly. 

Hilda turned upon him with a questioning smile. 

"Why?"

"I do not imagine, little girl, " replied d'Audierne, "that you couldlearn very much that is good from me. "

Hilda gave a non-committing little laugh, and led the way through thenut-trees towards the house. The Vicomte d'Audierne followed, and SignorBruno came last. When they emerged upon the lawn in view of Mrs. Carewand Mr. Bodery, who were walking together, the Vicomte dropped hishandkerchief. Signor Bruno attempted to pick it up, and there was aslight delay caused by the interchange of some Gallic politeness. 

Before the two foreigners came up with Hilda, who had walked on, SignorBruno found time to say:

"I must see you to-night, without fail; I am in a very difficultposition. I have had to resort to strong measures. "

"Where?" inquired the Vicomte d'Audierne, with that pleasant nonchalancewhich is so aggravating to the People. 

"In the village, any time after nine; a yellow cottage near the well. "

"Good!"

And they joined Hilda Carew. 

CHAPTER XVI

FOES

It is only when our feelings are imaginary that we analyse them. Whenthe real thing comes--the thing that only does come to a few of us--wecan only feel it, and there is no thought of analysis. Moreover, theaction is purely involuntary. We feel strange things--such things asmurder--and we cannot help feeling it. We may cringe and shrink; we maytoss in our beds when we wake up with such thoughts living, moving, having their being in our brains--but we cannot toss them off. The veryattempt to do so is a realisation, and from consciousness we spring toknowledge. We know that in our hearts we are thieves, murderers, slanderers; we know that if we read of such thoughts in a novel weshould hold the thinker in all horror; but we are distinctly consciousall the time that these thoughts are our own. This is just thedifference existing between artificial feelings and real: the one bearsanalysis, the other cannot. 

Hilda Carew could not have defined her feelings on the evening of thearrival of Mr. Bodery and the Vicomte d'Audierne. She was conscious ofthe little facts of everyday existence. She dressed for dinner withsingular care; during that repast she talked and laughed much as usual, but all the while she felt like any one in all the world but HildaCarew. At certain moments she wondered with a throb of apprehensionwhether the difference which was so glaringly patent to herself couldpossibly be hidden from others. She caught strange inflections in herown voice which she knew had never been there before--her own laughterwas a new thing to her. And yet she went on through dinner and untilbedtime, acting this strange part without break, without fault--a partwhich had never been rehearsed and never learnt: a part which wasutterly artificial and yet totally without art, for it came naturally. 

And through it all she feared the Vicomte d'Audierne. Mr. Bodery countedfor nothing. He made a very good dinner, was genial and even witty in amanner befitting his years and station. Mrs. Carew was fully engagedwith her guests, and Molly was on lively terms with the Vicomte; whileSidney, old Sidney--no one counted him. It was only the Vicomte whopaused at intervals during his frugal meal, and looked across the tabletowards the young girl with those deep, impenetrable eyes--shadowless, gleamless, like velvet. 

When bedtime at length arrived, she was quite glad to get away from thatkind, unobtrusive scrutiny of which she alone was aware. She went to herroom, and sitting wearily on the bed she realised for the first time inher life the incapacity to think. It is a realisation which usuallycomes but once or twice in a lifetime, and we are therefore unable toget accustomed to it. She was conscious of intense pressure within herbrain, of a hopeless weight upon her heart, but she could defineneither. She rose at length, and mechanically went to bed like one in atrance. In the same way she fell asleep. 

In the meantime Mr. Bodery, Sidney Carew, and the Vicomte d'Audiernewere smoking in the little room at the side of the porch. A single lampwith a red shade hung from the ceiling in the centre of this room, hardly giving enough light to read by. There were half-a-dozen deeparmchairs, a divan, and two or three small tables--beyond that nothing. Sidney's father had furnished it thus, with a knowledge and appreciationof Oriental ways. It was not a study, nor a library, nor a den; butmerely a smoking-room. Mr. Bodery had lighted an excellent cigar, andthrough the thin smoke he glanced persistently at the Vicomted'Audierne. The Vicomte did not return this attention; he glanced at theclock instead. He was thinking of Signor Bruno, but he was too politeand too diplomatic to give way to restlessness. 

At last Mr. Bodery opened fire from, as it were, a masked battery; forhe knew that the Frenchman was ignorant of his connection with one ofthe leading political papers of the day. It was a duel between sheerskill and confident foreknowledge. When Mr. Bodery spoke, Sidney Carewleant back in his chair and puffed vigorously at his briar pipe. 

"Things, " said the Englishman, "seem to be very unsettled in France justnow. "

The Vicomte was engaged in rolling a cigarette, and he finished thedelicate operation before looking up with a grave smile. 

"Yes, " he said. "In Paris. But Paris is not France. That fact is hardlyrealised in England, I think. "

"What, " inquired Mr. Bodery, with that conversational heaviness of touchwhich is essentially British, "is the meaning of this disturbance?"

Sidney Carew was enveloped in a perfect cloud of smoke. 

For a moment--and a moment only--the Vicomte's profound gaze rested onthe Englishman's face. Mr. Bodery was evidently absorbed in theenjoyment of his cigar. The smile that lay on his genial face like amask was the smile of a consciousness that he was making himselfintensely pleasant, and adapting his conversation to his company in aquite phenomenal way. 

"Ah!" replied the Frenchman, with a neat little shrug of bewilderment. "Who can tell? Probably there is no meaning in it. There is so often nomeaning in the action of a Parisian mob. "

"Many things without meaning are not without result. "

Again the Vicomte looked at Mr. Bodery, and again he was baffled. 

"You only asked me the meaning, " he said lightly. "I am glad you did notinquire after the result; because there I should indeed have been atfault. I always argue to myself that it is useless to trouble one'sbrain about results. I leave such matters to the good God. He willprobably do just as well without my assistance. "

"You are a philosopher, " said Mr. Bodery, with a pleasant and friendlylaugh. 

"Thank Heaven--yes! Look at my position. Fancy carrying in France to-daya name that is to be found in the most abridged history. One needs to bea philosopher, Mr. Bodery. "

"But, " suggested the Englishman, "there may be changes. It may all comeright. "

The Vicomte sipped his whisky and water with vicious emphasis. 

"If it began at once, " he said, "it would never be right in my time. Notas it used to be. And in the meantime we are in the present--in thepresent France is governed by newspaper men. "

Sidney drew in his feet and coughed. Some of his smoke had gone astray. 

Mr. Bodery looked sympathetic. 

"Yes, " he said calmly, "that really seems to be the case. "

"And newspaper men, " pursued the Vicomte, "what are they? Men of noeducation, no position, no sense of honour. The great aim of politiciansin France to-day is the aggrandisement of themselves. "

Mr. Bodery yawned. 

"Ah!" he said, with a glance towards Sidney. 

Perhaps the Frenchman saw the glance, perhaps he was deceived by theyawn. At all events, he rose and expressed a desire to retire to hisroom. He was tired, he said, having been travelling all the previousnight. 

Mr. Bodery had not yet finished his cigar, so he rose and shook handswithout displaying any intention of following the Vicomte's example. 

Sidney lighted a candle, one of many standing on a side table, and ledthe way upstairs. They walked through the long, dimly lighted corridorsin silence, and it was only when they had arrived in the room set apartfor the Vicomte d'Audierne that this gentleman spoke. 

"By the way, " he said, "who is this person--this Mr. Bodery? He was nota friend of your father's. " Sidney was lighting the tall candles thatstood upon the dressing-table, and the combined illumination showed withremarkable distinctness the reflection of his face in the mirror. Fromwhence he stood the Frenchman could see this reflection. 

"He is the friend of a great friend of mine; that is how we know him, "replied Sidney, prizing up the wick of a candle. He was still rising tothe occasion--this dull young Briton. Then he turned. "ChristianVellacott, " he said; "you knew his father?"

"Ah, yes: I knew his father. "

Sidney was moving to the door without any hurry, and also without anyintention of being deterred. 

"His father, " continued the Vicomte, winding his watch meditatively, "was brilliant. Has the son inherited any brain?"

"I think so. Good night. "

"Good night. "

When the door was closed the Vicomte looked at his watch. It was almostmidnight. 

"The Reverend Father Talma will have to wait till to-morrow morning, " hesaid to himself. "I cannot go to him to-night. It would be tootheatrical. That old gentleman is getting too old for his work. "

In the meantime, Sidney returned to the little smoking-room at the sideof the porch. There he found Mr. Bodery smoking with his usualcomposure. The younger man forbore asking any questions. He poured outfor himself some whisky, and opened a bottle of soda-water withdeliberate care and noiselessness. 

"That man, " said Mr. Bodery at length, "knows nothing about Vellacott. "

"You think so?"

"I am convinced of it. By the way, who is the old gentleman who came totea this afternoon?"

"Signor Bruno, do you mean?"

"I suppose so--that super-innocent old man with the white hair who wearswindow-glass spectacles. "

"Are they window-glass?" asked Sidney, with a little laugh. 

"They struck me as window-glass--quite flat. Who is he--beyond his name, I mean?"

"He is an Italian refugee--lives in the village. "

Mr. Bodery had taken his silver pencil from his waistcoat pocket, andwas rolling it backwards and forwards on the table. This was indicativeof the fact that the editor of the _Beacon_ was thinking deeply. 

"Ah! And how long has he been here?"

"Only a few weeks. "

Mr. Bodery looked up sharply. 

"Is _that_ all?" he inquired, with an eager little laugh. 

"Yes. "

"Then, my dear sir, Vellacott is right. That old man is at the bottom ofit. This Vicomte d'Audierne, what do you know of him?"

"Personally?"

"Yes. "

"He is an old friend of my father's. In fact, he is a friend of thefamily. He calls the girls by their Christian names, as you have heardto-night. "

"Yes; I noticed that. And he came here to-day merely on a friendlyvisit?"

"That is all. Why do you ask?" inquired Sidney, who was getting ratherpuzzled. 

"I know nothing of him personally--except what I have learnt to-day. Formy own part, I like him, " answered Mr. Bodery. "He is keen and clever. Moreover, he is a thorough gentleman. But, politically speaking, he isone of the most dangerous men in France. He is a Jesuit, an activeRoyalist, and a staunch worker for the Church party. I don't know muchabout French politics--that is Vellacott's department. But I know thatif he were here, and knew of the Vicomte's presence in England, he wouldbe very much on the alert. "

"Then, " asked Sidney, "do you connect the presence of the Vicomte herewith the absence of Vellacott?"

"There can be little question about it, directly or indirectly. Indirectly, I should think, unless the Vicomte d'Audierne is ascoundrel. "

Sidney thought deeply. 

"He may be, " he admitted. 

"I do not, " pursued Mr. Bodery, with a certain easy deliberation, "thinkthat the Vicomte is aware of Vellacott's existence. That is my opinion. "

"He asked who you were--if you were a friend of my father's. "

"And you said--"

"No! I said that you were a friend of a friend, and mentionedVellacott's name. He knew his father very well. "

"Were you"--asked Mr. Bodery, throwing away the end of his cigar andrising from his deep chair--"were you looking at the Vicomte when youanswered the question?"

"Yes. "

"And there was no sign of discomfort--no flicker of the eyelids, forinstance?"

"No; nothing. "

Mr. Bodery nodded his head in a businesslike way, indicative of the factthat he was engaged in assimilating a good deal of useful information. 

"There is nothing to be done to-night, " he said presently, as he made amovement towards the door, "but to go to bed. To-morrow the _Beacon_will be published, and the result will probably be rather startling. Weshall hear something before to-morrow afternoon. "

Sidney lighted Mr. Bodery's candle and shook hands. 

"By the way, " said the editor, turning back and speaking more lightly, "if any one should inquire--your mother or one of your sisters--you cansay that I am not in the least anxious about Vellacott. Good night. "

CHAPTER XVII

A RETREAT

It was quite early the next morning when the Vicomte d'Audierne lefthis room. As he walked along the still corridor and down the stairs itwas noticeable that he made absolutely no sound, without, however, indulging in any of those contortions which are peculiar to latearrivals in church. It would seem that Nature had for purposes of herown made his footfall noiseless--if, by the way, Nature can be creditedwith any purpose whatever in her allotment of human gifts and failings. 

In the hall he found a stout cook armed for assault upon the front-doorstep. 

"Good morning, " he said. "Can you tell me the breakfast-hour? I forgotto inquire last night. "

"Nine o'clock, sir, " replied the servant, rather taken aback at thethought of having this visitor dependent upon her for entertainmentduring the next hour and a half. 

"Ah--and it is not yet eight. Never mind. I will go into the garden. Iam fond of fruit before breakfast. "

He took his hat and lounged away towards the kitchen-garden which laynear the moat. 

"And now, " he said to himself, looking round him in a searching way, "where is this pestilential village?"

The way was not hard to find, and as the church clock struck eight theVicomte d'Audierne opened the little green gate of the cottage whereSignor Bruno was lodging. 

The old gentleman must have been watching for him; for he opened thedoor before the Vicomte reached it. 

He turned and led the way into a little room on the right hand of thenarrow passage. A little room intensely typical: china dogs, knittedantimacassars of a brilliant tendency, and horse-hair covered furniture. There was even the usual stuffy odour as if the windows, half-hiddenbehind muslin curtains and scarlet geraniums, were never opened from oneyear's end to another. 

Signor Bruno closed the door before speaking. Then he turned upon hiscompanion with something very like fury glittering in his eyes. 

"Why did you not come last night?" he asked. "I am left alone to contendagainst one difficulty on the top of another. Read that!"

He drew from his pocket a thin and somewhat crumpled sheet of paper, upon which there were two columns of printed matter. 

"That, " he said, "cost us two thousand francs. " The Vicomte d'Audierneread the printed matter carefully from beginning to end. He hadapproached the window because the light was bad, and when he finished helooked up for a few minutes, out of the little casement, upon the quietvillage scene. 

"The _Beacon_, " he said, turning round, "what is that?"

"A leading weekly newspaper. "

"Published--?

"To-day, " snapped Signor Bruno. 

The Vicomte d'Audierne made a little grimace. 

"Who wrote this?" he inquired. 

"Christian Vellacott, son of _the_ Vellacott, whom you knew in the olddays. "

"Ah!"

There was something in the Vicomte's expressive voice that made SignorBruno look at him sharply with some apprehension. 

"Why do you say that?"

The Vicomte countered with another question. 

"Who is this Mr. Bodery?"

He gave a little jerk with his head in the direction of the house he hadjust left. 

"I do not know. "

"I was told last night that he was a friend of this ChristianVellacott--a protector. "

The two Frenchmen looked at each other in silence. Signor Bruno wasevidently alarmed--his lips were white and unsteady. There was a smileupon the bird-like face of the younger man, and behind his spectacleshis eyes glittered with an excitement in which there was obviously nofear. 

"Do you know, " he asked in a disagreeably soft manner, "where ChristianVellacott is?"

Across the benevolent old face of Signor Bruno here came a very evilsmile. 

"You will do better not to ask me that question, " he replied, "unlessyou mean to run for it--as I do. "

The Vicomte d'Audierne looked at his companion in a curious way. 

"You had, " he said, "at one time no rival as a man of action--"

Signor Bruno shrugged his shoulders. 

"I am a man of action still. "

The Vicomte folded the proof-sheet carefully, handed it back to hiscompanion, and said:

"Then I understand that--there will be no more of these very cleverarticles?"

Bruno nodded his head. 

"I ask no questions, " continued the other. "It is better so. I shallstay where I am for a few days, unless it grows too hot--unless I thinkit expedient to vanish. "

"You have courage?"

"No; I have impertinence--that is all. There will be a storm--anewspaper storm. The embassies will be busy; in the English Parliamentsome pompous fool will ask a question, and be snubbed for his pains. Inthe _Chambre_ the newspaper men will rant and challenge each other inthe corridors; and it will blow over. In the meantime we have got whatwe want, and we can hide it till we have need of it. Your Reverence andI have met difficulties together before this one. "

But Signor Bruno was not inclined to fall in with these optimisticviews. 

"I am not so sure, " he said, "that we have got what we want. There hasbeen no acknowledgment of receipt of the last parcel--in the usualway--the English _Standard_. "

"What was the last parcel?"

"Fifty thousand cartridges. "

"But they were sent?"

"Yes; they were despatched in the usual way; but, as I say, they havenot been acknowledged. There may have been some difficulty on the otherside. Our police are not so easy-going as these coastguard gentlemen. "

"Well, " said the aristocrat, with that semi-bantering lightness ofmanner which sometimes aggravated, and always puzzled, his colleagues, "we will not give ourselves trouble over that: the matter is out of ourhands. Let us rather think of ourselves. Have you money?"

"Yes--I have sufficient. "

"It is now eight o'clock--this newspaper--this precious _Beacon_ is nowcasting its light into some dark intellects in London. It will takethose intellects two hours to assimilate the information, and one morehour to proceed to action. You have, therefore, three hours in which tomake yourself scarce. "

"I have arranged that, " replied the old man calmly. "There is a smallFrench potato-ship lying at Exmouth. In two hours I shall be one of hercrew. "

"That is well. And the others?"

"The others left yesterday afternoon. They cross by this morning's boatfrom Southampton to Cherbourg. You see how much I have had to do. "

"I see also, my friend, how well you have done it. "

"And now, " said Signor Bruno, ignoring the compliment, "I must go. Wewill walk away by the back garden across the fields. You must rememberthat you may have been seen coming here. "

"I have thought of that. One old man saw me, but he did not look at metwice. He will not know me again. And your landlady--where is she?"

"I have sent her out on a fool's errand. "

As they spoke they left the little cottage by the back door, as SignorBruno had proposed, through the little garden, and across some low-lyingfields. Presently they parted, Signor Bruno turning to the left, whilethe Vicomte d'Audierne kept to the right. 

"We shall meet, I suppose, " were the last words of the younger man, "inthe Rue St. Gingolphe?"

"Yes--in the Rue St. Gingolphe. "

For so old a man the pace at which Signor Bruno breasted the hill thatlay before him was somewhat remarkable. The Vicomte d'Audierne, on theother hand, was evidently blessed with a greater leisure. He looked athis watch and strolled on through the dew-laden meadows, wrapt inthought as in a cloak that hid the sweet freshness of the floweryhedgerows, that muffled the broken song of the busy birds, that killedthe scent of ripening hay. Thus these two singular men parted--and ithappened that they were never to meet again. These little things _do_happen. We meet with gravity; we part with a smile; perhaps we make anappointment; possibly we speak of the pleasure that the meeting seems topromise: and the next meeting is put off; it belongs to the greatpostponement. 

Often we part with an indifferent nod, as these two men parted amidstthe sylvan peace of English meadow on that summer morning. They belongedto two different stations in life almost as far apart as two socialstations could be, even in a republic. They were not, in any sense ofthe word, friends; they were merely partners, intensely awake, aspartners usually are, to each other's shortcomings. 

The Vicomte d'Audierne probably thought no more of Signor Bruno from themoment that he raised his hat and turned. A few moments later histhoughts were evidently far away. 

"The son of Vellacott, " he muttered, as he took a cigarette from a neatsilver case. "How strange! And yet I am sorry. He might have donesomething in the world. That article was clever--very clever--curse it!He cannot yet be thirty. But one would expect something from the son ofa man like Vellacott. "

It was not yet nine o'clock when the Vicomte entered the dining-room bythe open window. Only Hilda was there, and she was busy with the oldleather post-bag. Among the letters there were several newspapers, andthe Vicomte d'Audierne's expression underwent a slight change onperceiving them. His thin, mobile lips were closely pressed, and hischin--a very short one--was thrust forward. Behind the gentle spectacleshis eyes assumed for a moment that singular blinking look which cannotbe described in English, for it seemed to change their colour. In hiscountry it would have been called _glauque_. 

"Ah, Hilda!" he said, approaching slowly, "do I see newspapers? I love anewspaper!"

She handed him the _Times_ enveloped in a yellow wrapper, upon which wasprinted her brother's name and address. 

"Ah, " he said lightly, "the _Times_--estimable, but just a trifleopaque. Is that all?"

His eyes were fixed upon two packets she held in her hand. 

"These are Mr. Bodery's, " she replied, looking at him with someconcentration. 

"And what newspaper does Mr. Bodery read?" asked the Frenchman, holdingout his hand. 

She hesitated for a moment. His position with regard to her wassingular, his ascendency over her had never been tried. It was anunknown quantity; but the Vicomte d'Audierne knew his own power. 

"Let me look, little girl, " he said quietly in French. 

She handed him the newspapers, still watching his face. 

"The _Beacon_, " he muttered, reading aloud from the ornamented wrapper, "a weekly journal. "

He threw the papers down and returned to the _Times_, which he unfolded. 

"Tell me, Hilda, " he said, "is Mr. Bodery connected with this weeklyjournal, the _Beacon?_"

Her back was turned towards him. She was hanging up the key of thepost-bag on a nail beside the fireplace. 

"Yes, " she replied, without looking round. 

"Is he the editor?"

"Yes. "

The Vicomte d'Audierne turned the _Times_ carelessly. 

"Ah!" he muttered, "the phylloxera has appeared again. "

For some time he appeared to be absorbed in this piece of news, then hespoke again. 

"I knew something of a man who writes for that newspaper--the _Beacon_. I knew his father very well. "

"Yes. "

The Vicomte glanced at her. 

"Christian Vellacott, " he said. 

"We know him also, " she answered, moving towards the bell. He made astep forward as if about to offer to ring the bell for her, but she wastoo quick. 

When the butler entered the room, Hilda reminded him of some smallomission in setting out the breakfast-table. The item required was inthe room, and the man set it upon the table with some decision and aslightly aggrieved cast of countenance. 

The Vicomte d'Audierne raised his eyes, and then he looked very grave. He was a singular man in many ways, but those who worked with him wereaware of one peculiarity which by its prominence cast others into theshade. He possessed a very useful gift rarely given to men--the gift ofintuition. It was dangerous to _think_ when the eyes of the Vicomted'Audierne were upon one's face. He had a knack of knowing one'sthoughts before they were even formulated. He looked grave--almostdistressed--on this occasion, because he knew something of which Hildaherself was ignorant. He knew that she was engaged to be married to oneman while she loved another. 

CHAPTER XVIII

AN EMPTY NEST

In the middle of breakfast a card was handed to Sidney Carew. He glancedat it, nodded his head as a signal to the servant that he need not wait, and slipped the card into his pocket. Mr. Bodery and the Vicomted'Audierne were watching him. 

Presently he rose from the table and left the room. Mrs. Carew becamesuddenly lively, and the meal went on unconcernedly. It was not longbefore Sidney came back. 

"Do you want, " he said to his mother, "some tickets for a concert atBrayport on the 4th of next month?"

"What sort of a concert?"

Sidney consulted the tickets. 

"In aid, " he read, "of an orphanage--the Police Orphanage. "

"We always take six tickets, " put in Miss Molly, and her mother began toseek her pocket. 

"Mr. Bodery, " said Sidney, at this moment, "you have nothing to eat. Letme cut you some ham. "

He moved towards the sideboard, but Mr. Bodery rose from his seat. 

"I prefer to carve it myself, " he replied, proceeding to do so. 

Sidney held the plate. They were quite close together, and Hilda wastalking persistently and gaily to the Vicomte d'Audierne. 

"The London police are here already, " whispered Sidney; "shall I sayanything about Vellacott?"

"No, " replied Mr. Bodery, after a moment's reflection. 

"I am going to ride over to Porton Abbey with them now. "

"Right, " replied the editor, returning to the table with his plate. 

Sidney left the room again, and the Vicomte d'Audierne detected thequick, anxious glance directed by Hilda at his retreating form. A fewminutes later young Carew rode away from the house in company with twomen, while a fourth horseman followed closely. 

He who rode on Sidney's left hand was a tall, grizzled man, with thebearing of a soldier, while his second companion was fair and gentle inmanner. The soldier was Captain Pharland, District Inspector of Police;the civilian was the keenest detective in London. 

"Of course, " said this man, who sat his hired horse with perfectconfidence. "Of course we are too late, I know that. "

He spoke softly and somewhat slowly; his manner was essentially that ofa man accustomed to the entire attention of his hearers. 

"The old Italian, " he continued, "who went under the name of SignorBruno, disappeared this morning. It is just possible that he willsucceed in getting out of the country. It all depends upon who he is. "

"Who do you suppose he is?" asked Captain Pharland. He was an uprightold British soldier, and felt ill at ease in the society of hiscelebrated _confrère_. 

"I don't know, " was the frank reply; "you see this is not a criminalaffair, it is entirely political; it is hardly in my line of country. "

They rode on in silence for a space of time, during which CaptainPharland lighted a cigar and offered one to his companions. Sidneyaccepted, but the gentleman from London refused quietly, and withoutexplanation. It was he who spoke first. 

"Mr. Carew, " he said, "can you tell me when this monastery was firstinstituted at Porton Abbey?"

"Last autumn. "

The thin flaxen eyebrows went up very high, until they were lost tosight beneath the hat brim. 

"Did they--ah--deal with the local tradesmen?"

"No, " replied Sidney, "I think not. They received all their stores bytrain from London. "

"And you have never seen any of the monks?"

"No, never. "

The fair-haired gentleman gave a little upward jerk of the head andsmiled quietly for his own satisfaction. 

He did not speak again until the cavalcade reached Porton Abbey. The oldplace looked very peaceful in the morning light, standing grimly in themidst of that soft lush grass which only grows over old habitations. 

One side of the long, low building was in good repair, while the otherhalf had been allowed to crumble away. The narrow Norman windows hadbeen framed with unpainted wood and cheap glass. The broad doorway hadbeen partly filled in with unseasoned deal, and an inexpensive door hadbeen fitted up. 

The bell-knob was of brass, new and glaring in the morning sun. Thegentleman from London, having alighted, took gently hold of this andrang. A faint tinkle rewarded him. It was the peculiar sound of a bellringing in an empty house. After a moment's pause he wrenched the bellnearly out of its socket, and a long peal was the result. At last thisceased, and there was no sound in the house. The fair man looked backover his shoulder at Captain Pharland. 

"Gone!" he said tersely. 

Then he took from his breast pocket a little bar in the shape of alever. He introduced the bent end of this between the door and the post, just above the keyhole, and gave a sharp jerk. There was a short cracklike that made by the snapping of cast iron, and the door flew open. 

Without a moment's hesitation the man went in, followed closely bySidney and Captain Pharland. 

The birds had flown. As mysteriously as they had come, the devotees hadvanished. Bare walls met the eyes of the searchers. Porton Abbey stoodempty again after its brief return to life and warmth, and indeed itscarcely looked habitable. The few personal effects of the simple monkshad been removed; the walls and stone floors were rigidly clean; thesmall chapel showed signs of recent repair. There was an altar-cloth, acrucifix, and two brass candlesticks. 

The gentleman from London noted these items with a cynical smile. He hadinstinctively removed his hat; it is just possible that there wasanother side to this man's life--a side wherein he dealt with men whowere not openly villains. He may have been a churchwarden at home. 

"Clever beggars!" he ejaculated, "they were ready for every emergency. "

Captain Pharland pointed to the altar with his heavy riding-whip. 

"Then, " he said, "you think this all humbug?"

"I do. They were no more monks than we are. "

The search did not last much longer. Only a few rooms had beeninhabited, and there was absolutely nothing left--no shred of evidence, no clue whatever. 

"Yes, " said the fair-haired man, when they had finished theirinspection, "these were exceptional men; they knew their business. "

As they left the house he paused, and closed the door again, remaininginside. 

"You see, " he said, "there is not even a bolt on the door. They knewbetter than to depend on bolts and bars. They knew a trick worth two ofthat. "

At the gate they met a small, inoffensive man, with a brown beard and awalking-stick. There was nothing else to say about him; without thebeard and the walking-stick there would have been nothing left to knowhim by. 

"That is my assistant, " announced the London detective quietly. "He hasbeen down to the cliff. "

The two men stepped aside together, and consulted in an undertone forsome time. Then the last speaker returned to Captain Pharland andSidney, who were standing together. 

"That newspaper, " he said, "the _Beacon_, is word for word right. Myassistant has been to the spot. The arms and ammunition have undoubtedlybeen shipped from this place. The cases of cartridges mentioned by theman who wrote the article as having been seen, in a dream, half-way downthe cliff, are actually there; my assistant has seen them. "

Captain Pharland scratched his honest cavalry head. He was beginning toregret that he had accepted the post of district inspector of thepolice. Sidney Carew puffed at his pipe in silence. 

"Of course, " said the detective, "the newspaper man got all thisinformation through the treachery of one of the party. I should like toget hold of that traitor. He would be a useful man to know. "

In this the astute gentleman from London betrayed his extremely limitedknowledge of the Society of Jesus. There are no traitors in that vastcorporation. 

Sidney and Captain Pharland rode home together, leaving the twodetectives to find their way to Brayport Station. 

They rode in silence, for the Captain was puzzled, and his companion wasintensely anxious. 

Sidney Carew was beginning to realise that the events of the last threedays had a graver import than they at first promised to conceal. The nowcelebrated article in the _Beacon_ opened his eyes, and he knew that thewriter of it must have paid very dearly for his daring. It seemedextremely probable that the head and hands which had conceived andcarried out this singular feat were both still for ever. Vellacott's ownwritten tribute to the vast powers of the Jesuits, and their immovablehabit of forcing a way through all obstacles to the end in view, wasscarcely reassuring to his friends. 

Sidney knew and recognised the usual fertility of resource possessed byhis friend; but against him were pitted men of greater gifts, of lessscruple, and of infinitely superior training in the crooked ways ofhumanity. That he should have been so long without vouchsafing word orsign was almost proof positive that his absence was involuntary; and mencapable of placing fire-arms into the hands of a maddened mob were notlikely to hesitate in sacrificing a single life that chanced to stand intheir path. 

As the young fellow rode along, immersed in meditation, he heard thesound of carriage-wheels, and, looking up, recognised his own grey horseand dog-cart. Mr. Bodery was driving, and driving hard. On seeing Sidneyhe pulled up, somewhat recklessly, in a manner which suggested that hehad not always been a stout, middle-aged Londoner. 

"Been telegraphed for, " he shouted, "by the people at the office. Government is taking it up. Just time to catch the train. "

And the editor of the _Beacon_ disappeared in a cloud of dust. 

The Vicomte d'Audierne was thus left in full possession of the field. 

CHAPTER XIX

FOUL PLAY

When Christian Vellacott passed out of the drawing-room window in answerto what he naturally supposed to be a signal-whistle from Hilda orSidney, he turned down the narrow, winding pathway that led to the moat. The extreme darkness, contrasting suddenly with the warm light of theroom he had just left, caused him to walk slowly with outstretchedhands. Floating cobwebs broke across his face, and frequently he stoppedto brush the clinging fibre away. The intense darkness was somewhatrelieved when he reached the edge of the moat, and the clear sky wasoverhead instead of interlocked branches. He could just discern thatHilda was not at her usual seat upon the rustic bench farther towardsthe end of the moat, and he stopped short, with a sudden misgiving, atthe spot where the path met, at right angles, the broader stone walkextending the full length of the water. 

He was on the point of whistling softly the familiar refrain, when therewas a rustle in the bushes behind him. A rush, a sudden shock, and apair of muscular hands were closed round his throat, dragging himbackwards. But Christian stood like a rock. Quick as thought he seizedthe two wrists, which were small and flat, and wrenched them apart. Then, stepping back with one foot in order to obtain surer leverage, helifted his assailant from the ground, swung him round, and literally lethim fly into the moat--with a devout hope that it might be Signor Bruno. The man hurtled through the darkness, without a cry or sound, and fellface foremost into the water, five yards from the edge, throwing intothe air a shower of spray. 

Christian Vellacott was one of those men whose litheness is greater thantheir actual muscular force; but a lithe man possesses greater powers ofendurance than a powerful fellow whose muscles are more highlydeveloped. The exertion of lifting his assailant and swinging him awayinto the darkness was great, although the man's weight was nothing veryformidable, and Christian staggered back a few paces without, however, actually losing his balance. At this moment two men sprang upon him frombehind and dragged him to the ground. He felt at once that this was avery different matter. Either of these two could have overpowered himsingly. Their thick arms encompassed him like the coils of a snake, andthere was about their heavy woollen clothing a faint odour of saltwater. He knew that they were sailors. Recognising that it was of noavail, he still fought on, as Englishmen do. One of the men had wound alarge woollen scarf round his mouth, the other was slowly but verysurely succeeding in pinioning his arms. Then a third assailant came, and Christian knew by the wet hand (for he used one arm only) that itwas the smallest of the three, who had suffered for his temerity. 

"Quick, quick!" this man whispered in French. With his uninjured hand hetwisted the scarf tighter and tighter until Christian gasped for breath. 

Still the Englishman struggled and writhed upon the ground, while thehard breathing of the two sailors testified that it was no meanresistance. Suddenly the one-armed man loosened the scarf, but beforeChristian could recover his breath a handkerchief was pressed over hislips, and a sweet, pungent odour filled his nostrils. 

"Three to one, " he gasped, and quite suddenly his head fell forward, while his clutch relaxed. 

"He is a brave man, " said the dripping leader of the attack, as he stoodupright and touched his damaged shoulder gently and tentatively. "Nowquick to the carriage with him. You have not managed this well, myfriends, not at all well. "

The speaker raised his cold hand to his forehead, which was wet, lessperhaps from past exertion than from the agony he was enduring. 

"But, monsieur, " grumbled one of the sailors in humble self-defence, "heis made of steel!"

 * * * * *

The pale light of a grey dawn was stealing slowly up into the riven sky, lighting up the clouds which were flying eastward on the shoulder of aboisterous wind. The heavy grey sea, heaving, surging, and hissing, threw itself upwards into broken spray, which flew to leeward at a sharpangle, blown from the summit of the wave like froth from an over-filledtankard. After a night of squally restlessness, accompanied by a drivingrain that tasted brackish, things had settled down with the dawn into asteady, roaring gale of wind. In the growing light sea-gulls rosetriumphantly with smooth breasts bravely facing the wind. 

In the midst of this a dripping vessel laboured sorely. The green waterrushed from side to side over her slippery, filthy deck as she rolled, and carried with it a tangled mass of ropes, a wooden bucket, a capstanbar, and--ominous sign--a soaking, limp fur cap. The huge boom, reachingnearly the whole length of the little vessel, swung wildly from side toside as the yawl dipped her bulwarks to the receding wave. It wascertain death for a man to attempt to stand upright upon the soppingdeck, for the huge spar swung shoulder high. The steersman, crouchinglow by his strong tiller, was doing his best to avoid a clean sweep, butonly a small jib and the mizzen were standing with straining clews andgleaming seams. Crouching beneath the weather bulwarks, with their feetwedged against the low combing of the hatch, three men were vainlyendeavouring to secure the boom, and to disentangle the clogged ropes. Two were huge fellows with tawny, washed-out beards innocent of brush orcomb, their faces were half hidden by rough sou'-westers, and they wereenveloped from head to foot in oilskins from which the water ran inlittle rills. The third was Christian Vellacott, who looked very wetindeed. The water was dripping from his cuffs and running down his face. His black dress-clothes were clinging to him with a soppy hindrance, while the feet firmly planted against the combing of the hatch wereencased in immaculate patent-leather shoes, and the salt water ran offsilk socks. It would have been very funny if it were not that Fortuneinvariably mingles her strokes of humour most heedlessly with sadderthings. Christian Vellacott was apparently unconscious of the humour ofthe situation. He was working patiently and steadily, as men must needswork when fighting Nature, and his half-forgotten sea-craft was alreadycoming back. Beneath his steady hands something akin to order was slowlybeing achieved; he was coiling and disentangling the treacherous rope, of which the breaking had cast the boom adrift, laying low a goodseaman. 

Farther forward upon the hatch lay the limp body of a very big man. Hismatted head was bare, and the dead, brown face, turned upward to itsMaker, jerked from side to side as the vessel heaved. The stalwart legswere encased in greasy sea-boots, deeply wrinkled, and the coils of ahuge scarf of faded purple lay upon his broad breast, where they hadbeen dragged down by a hasty hand in order to see more clearly the stillfeatures. 

At the dead man's side knelt upon the deck a small, spare figure clad inblack and wearing his left arm in a sling. With his right hand he held acrucifix to the blue lips that would never breathe a prayer to theVirgin again. The small mouth and refined features of the praying manwere strangely out of keeping with his tempestuous surroundings. Unmindful, however, of wind and waves alike, he knelt and prayedaudibly. Each lurch of the vessel threw him forward, so that, in orderto save himself from falling, he was obliged to press heavily upon thedead man's throat and breast; but this he heeded not. His girlish blueeyes were half closed in an ecstasy of religious fervour, and the pale, narrow face wore a light that was not reflected from sea or sky. Thiswas the man who had unhesitatingly attacked Vellacott, had dared to pithis small strength, more of nerve than of muscle, against the youngEnglishman's hardened sinews. Violence in itself was most abhorrent tohim; it had no part in his nature; and consequently, by the strangetenets of Ignatius Loyola's disciples, he was condemned to a course ofit. Any objectionable duty, such as this removal of Vellacott, wasimmediately assigned to him in the futile endeavour of subjecting thesoul to the brain. A true Jesuit must have no nature of his own and noindividuality. He is simply a machine, with likes and dislikes, conscience and soul subject to the will of his superior, whose mind isalso under the same arbitrary control; and so on to the top. If at thehead there were God, it would be well; but man is there, and consequentlythe whole society is a gigantic mistake. To be a sincere member of it, aman must be a half-witted fool, a religious fanatic, or a rogue for whomno duplicity is too scurrilous, even though it amount to blasphemy. 

René Drucquer, the man kneeling on the slimy deck, was as nearly areligious fanatic as his soft, sweet nature would allow. With greaterbodily strength and attendant greater passions, he would have been asimple monomaniac. In him the passion for self-devotion was singularlystrong, and contact with men had cooled it down into an unusually deepsense of duty. 

Personally courageous, his bravery was of a high order, if the spirit ofself-devotion called it into existence. In this his courage was moreakin to that of women than of men. If duty drove him he would go wherethe devil drags most people, and René Drucquer was not by any means thefirst man or woman whose life has been wrecked, wasted, and utterlymisled by a blind devotion to duty. 

When throwing himself upon Christian Vellacott, no thought of possibledanger to his own person had restrained or caused him a moment'shesitation. His blind faith in the righteousness of his cause was, however, on the wane. This disciple of St. Ignatius might have lived atrue and manly life three hundred years earlier when his master trod theearth, but the march of intellect had trodden down the "Constitutions"years before René Drucquer came to study them. An ignoramus and a zealotwho lived nearly four centuries ago can be no guide or help to men ofthe present day, and this young priest was overshadowed by the saddestdoubt that comes to men on earth--the doubt of his own Creed. 

While Christian Vellacott was assisting the sailors he glancedoccasionally towards the kneeling priest, and on the narrow, intelligentface he read a truth that never was forgotten. He saw that René Drucquerwas unconscious of his surroundings--unmindful of the fact that he wason board a disabled vessel at the mercy of the wild wind. His wholebeing was absorbed in prayer: this priest remembered only that the soulof the great, rough, disfigured man was winging its serene way to theland where no clouds are. Christian was not an impressionableman--journalism had killed all that--nor, it is to be feared, did hedevote much thought to religion; but he recognised goodness when he metit. The young journalist's interest was aroused, and in that triflingincident lay the salvation of the priest. From that small beginning camethe gleam of light that was to illuminate gloriously the darkness of amistaken life. 

Chance had capriciously ruled that the hand that had dislocated theAbbé's arm should set it again, and the dead sailor lying on the sticky, tarred hatch-cover had helped. The "patron" of the boat, for he it waswhose head had been smashed by the spar, had held the priest'strembling, swollen shoulder while Christian's steady hands gave thepainful jerk required to slip the joint back into its socket. The great, coarse lips which had trembled a little, with a true Frenchman'ssympathy for suffering, were now blue and drawn; the stout, tender handswere nerveless. 

The priest prayed on, while the men worked near at hand seeking torestore order, and to repair the damages made by sea and wind. They hadgot over their sullen, native shyness on finding that Christian couldspeak French like the Abbé and was almost as good a sailor asthemselves. One offered him a rough blue jersey, while another placed agold-embroidered Sunday waistcoat at his disposal, with a visiblestruggle between kindness of heart and economy. The first was accepted, but the waistcoat was given back with a kind laugh and an assurance thatthe jersey was sufficient. 

The Englishman knew too well with whom he was dealing to harbour anyill-feeling against the ignorant fishermen or even towards the AbbéDrucquer for the rough treatment he had received. The former were poor, and money never was beaten by a scruple in open combat yet. The latter, he rightly presumed, was only obeying a mandate he dared not dispute. The authority was to him Divine, the command came from one whom he hadsworn to look up to and obey as the earthly representative of hisMaster. 

At length the deck was cleared, and order reigned on board, though themainsail could not be set until the weather moderated. 

Then Hoel Grall came up to the young Englishman and said:

"Monsieur, let us carry the 'patron' down below. It is not right for thedead to lie there in this wind and storm. "

"I am willing, " answered Christian, looking towards the spot where thedead man lay. 

"Then, perhaps--Monsieur, " began the Breton with some hesitation. 

"Yes, " answered Christian encouragingly, "what is it?"

"Perhaps Monsieur will speak to--to the Abbé. It is that we do not liketo disturb him in prayer. "

The young Englishman bowed his head with characteristic decision. 

"I will do so, " he said gravely. Then he crawled across the deck andtouched René Drucquer's shoulder. The priest did not look up until thetouch had been repeated. 

"Yes, " he murmured; "yes. What do you want?"

Christian, guessed at the words, for in the tumult of the gale he couldnot hear them. 

"Is it not better to take him below?" he shouted. 

Then for the first time did the priest appear to remember that this wasnot one of the sailors. 

"I beg your pardon, " he said, rising from his knees. "You are right; itis better. But I am afraid the men will not assist me. They are afraidof touching the dead when they are afloat. "

"I will help you, " said Christian simply, "and that man also, I think, because he proposed it. "

With a motion of the head he indicated Hoel Grall, upon whom the commandof the little vessel had now devolved. The man was better educated thanhis companions, and spoke French fluently, but in the Breton charactersuperstition is so deeply rooted that generations of education willscarcely eradicate it. 

The priest looked into the Englishman's face with a gentle wonder in hiseyes, which were shadowy with the fervour of his recent devotions. Thetwo men were crouching low upon the deck, grasping the black rail withtheir left hands; the water washed backwards and forwards around theirfeet. 

It was the first time they had seen each other face to face in opendaylight, and their eyes met quietly and searchingly as they swayed fromside to side with the heavy lurching of the ship. The Englishman spokefirst. 

"You must leave it to us, " he said calmly. "You could do nothing in thisheavy sea with your one arm!"

The gentle blue eyes were again filled with wonder, and presently thepriest's intellectual face relaxed into a shadowy smile, which did notaffect his thin red lips. 

"You are very good, " he murmured simply. 

Christian did not hear this remark. He had turned away to call Gralltowards him, and was about to move towards the body lying on the hatch, when the priest called him back. 

"Monsieur, " he said. 

"Yes. "

"Tell me, " continued René Drucquer quickly, as if in doubt, "are youChristian Vellacott?"

"Of course!"

The priest looked relieved, and at the same time he appeared to bemaking an effort to restrain himself, as if he had been betrayed into agreater show of feeling than was desirable. When he at length spoke inreply to the Englishman's obvious desire for some explanation of thestrange question, his voice was singularly cold, and modulated in such amanner as to deprive it of any expression, while his eyes were fixed onthe deck. 

"You are not such as I expected, " he said. 

Christian looked down at him with straightforward keenness, and he sawthe priest's eyelids move uneasily beneath his gaze. Mixing with manymen as he had done, he had acquired a certain mental sureness of touch, like that of an artist with his brush when he has handled many subjectsand many effects. He divined that René Drucquer had been led to expect aviolent, head strong man, and he could not restrain a smile as he turnedaway. Before going, however, he said:

"At present it is a matter of saving the ship, and our lives. My ownaffairs can wait, but when this gale is over you may rest assured theyshall have my attention. "

CHAPTER XX

WINGED

Beyond this one allusion to their respective positions, Christian wassilent regarding his captivity. After the gale subsided the weather tooka turn for the better, and clear skies by day and night renderednavigation an easy matter. 

With characteristic daring the young Englishman had decided to offer noresistance and to seize no opportunities of escape until the terminationof the voyage. The scheme half-formed within his mind was to see thevoyage through, and effect his escape soon after landing in France. Itwas not without a certain adventurous fascination, and in the meantimethere was much to interest him in his surroundings. If this young Abbéwas a typical member of the Society of Jesus, he was worth studying. Ifthis simplicity was an acquired cloak to deeper thought, it was worthpenetrating, and if the man's entire individuality had been submerged inthe mysterious system followed in the College of Jesuits, it was nowaste of time to seek for the real man beneath the cultivated suavitythat hid all feeling. 

The more the two young men saw of each other the closer grew theirintimacy, and with growing intimacy the domination of the strongerindividuality was more marked in its influence. 

To the frail and nervous priest this young Englishman was a newexperience; his vitality and calm, straightforward manner of speech weresuch as the Abbé had never met with before. Such men and better menthere were and are in the Society of Jesus, otherwise the power of thegreat Order would not be what it is; but René Drucquer had never come incontact with them. According to the wonderful code of laws laid down byits great founder (who, in other circumstances, might have prepared theworld for the coming of such a man as Napoleon the First), the educationof the young is entrusted to such brethren as are of slower parts; andfrom these honest, but by no means intelligent, men the young Abbé hadlearnt his views upon mankind in general. The creed they taught withoutunderstanding it themselves was that no man must give way to naturalimpulses; that he must restrain and quell and quench himself into amachine, without individuality or impulse, without likes or dislikes;that he must persistently perform such duties as are abhorrent to him, eat such food as nauseates him, and submit to the dictates of such menas hate him. And these, forsooth, are the teachings of one who, in hiszealous shortsightedness, claims to have received his inspiration directfrom the lips of the Great Teacher. 

René Drucquer found himself in the intimate society of a man who saidwhat he thought, acted as he conceived best, and held himselfresponsible, for word or deed, to none on earth. It was his firstmission after a long and rigorous training. This was the first enemy ofthe Holy Church against whom he had been sent to fight, armed with theimmeasurable power of the greatest brotherhood the world has ever known, protected by the shadow of its blessing; and there was creeping into theyoung priest's heart a vague and terrible suspicion that there might betwo sides to the question. All the careful years of training, all theinvisible meshes of the vast net that had been gathering its folds roundhim since he had first donned the dress of a Probationer of the Collegeof Jesuits, were powerless to restrain the flight of a pure andguileless heart to the height of truth. Despite the countless one-sidedand ingenious arguments instilled into his eager young mind in guise ofmental armour against the dangers of the world, René Drucquer foundhimself, at the very first contact with the world, unconvinced that hewas fighting upon the righteous side. 

Brest had been left behind in a shimmering blue haze. Ahead lay the grimPointe de Raz, with its short, thick-set lighthouse facing the vastAtlantic. Out to sea, in the fading glory of sunset, lay the long, lowIle-de-Sein, while here and there black rocks peeped above the water. The man holding the tiller was a sardine fisher, to whom every rock, every ripple, of these troubled waters was familiar. Fearlessly heguided the yawl close round by the high cliff--the westernmost point ofEurope--but with the sunset the wind had dropped and the sails hungloosely, while the broad bows glided onwards with no sound of partedwater. 

The long Atlantic roll was swinging lazily in, and the yawl rose to itsleepily, with a long, slow movement. The distant roar of the surf uponthe Finisterre coast rose in the peaceful atmosphere like a lullaby. Theholy calm of sunset, the hush of lowering night, and the presence of theonly man who had ever drawn him with the strange, unaccountable bondthat we call sympathy, moved the heart of the young priest as it hadnever been moved before by anything but religious fervour. 

For the first time he spoke of himself. The solitary heart suddenlybroke through the restraining influence of a mistaken education, andunfolded its sad story of a misread existence. Through no fault of hisown, by no relaxation of supervising care on the part of his teachers, the Jesuit had run headlong into the very danger which his Superior hadendeavoured to avoid. He had formed a friendship. Fortunately the friendwas a _man_, otherwise René Drucquer were lost indeed. 

"I should think, " he said musingly, "that no two lives have ever been sowidely separated as yours and mine, and yet our paths have met!"

Vellacott took the cigarette from his lips. It was made of a viletobacco, called "Petit Caporal, " but there was nothing better to be had, and he was in the habit of making the best of everything. Therefore heblew into the air a spiral column of thin blue smoke with a certainsense of enjoyment before replying. He also was looking across theglassy expanse of water, but his gaze was steady and thoughtful, whilehis companion's eyes were dreamy and almost vacant. The light shone fullupon his face, and a physician--or a mother--would have noticed, perhaps, that there was beneath his eyes a dull shadow, while his lipswere dry and somewhat drawn. 

"Yes, " he said at length, with grave sympathy, "we have drifted togetherlike two logs in a torrent. "

The young priest changed his position, drawing in one leg and claspinghis hands round his knee. The movement caused his long black garment tofall aside, displaying the dark purple stockings and rough shoes. Thehands clasped round his knee were long and white, with peculiarly flatwrists. 

"One log, " he said vaguely, "was bound for a certain goal, the other wasdrifting. "

Vellacott turned slowly and glanced at his companion's face. The smokefrom the bad cigarette drifted past their heads to windward. He was notsure whether the priest was speaking from a professional point of view, with reference to heresy and the unknown goal to which all heretics aredrifting, or not. Had René Drucquer been a good Jesuit, he would haveseen his opportunity of saying a word in season. But this estimabledesire found no place in his heart just then. 

"Your life, " he continued in a monotone, "is already mapped out--likethe voyage of a ship traced across a chart. Is it not so? I haveimagined it like that. "

Vellacott continued to smoke for some moments in silence. He sat withhis long legs stretched out in front of him, his back against the rail, and his rough blue jersey wrinkled up so that he could keep one hand inhis pocket. The priest turned to look at him with a sudden fear that hismotives might be misread. Vellacott interpreted his movement thus, forhe spoke at once with a smile on his face. 

"I think it is best, " he said, "not to think too much about it. Fromwhat experience I have had, I have come to the humiliating conclusionthat men have very little to do with the formation of their own lives. Aship-captain may sit down and mark his course across the chart with thegreatest accuracy, the most profound knowledge of wind and current, andthe keenest foresight; but that will have very little effect upon theactual voyage. "

"But, " argued the priest in a low voice, "is it not better to have anend in view--to have a certain aim, and a method, more or less formed, of attaining it?"

"Most men have that, " answered Christian, "but do not know that theyhave it!"

"_You_ have?"

Christian smoked meditatively. A month ago he would have said "Yes"without a moment's hesitation. 

"And you know it, I think, " added the priest slowly. He was perfectlyinnocent of any desire to extract details of his companion's life fromunwilling lips, and Christian knew it. He was convinced that, whateverpart René Drucquer had attempted to play in the past, he was sincere atthat moment, and he divined that the young Jesuit was weakly giving wayto a sudden desire to speak to some fellow-being of his own life--to layaside the strict reserve demanded by the tenets of the Society to whichhe was irrevocably bound. In his superficial way, Christian Vellacotthad studied men as well as letters, and he was not ignorant of theinfluence exercised over the human mind by such trifling circumstancesas moonshine upon placid water, distant music, the solemn hush ofeventide, or the subtle odour of a beloved flower. If René Drucquer wason the point of committing a great mistake, he at least would not urgehim on towards it, so he smoked in silence, looking practical andunsympathetic. 

The priest laughed a little short, deprecating laugh, in which there wasno shadow of mirth. 

"I have not, " he said, rubbing his slim hands together, palm to palm, slowly, "and--I know it. "

"It will come, " suggested the Englishman, after a pause. 

The priest shook his head with a little smile, which was infinitelysadder than tears. His cold silence was worse than an outburst of grief;it was like the keen frost that comes before snow, harder to bear thanthe snow itself. Presently he moved slightly towards his companion sothat their arms were touching, and in his soft modulated voice, trainedto conceal emotion, he told his story. 

"My friend, " he said, intertwining his fingers, which were veryrestless, "no man can be the worse for hearing the story of anotherman's life. Before you judge of me, listen to what my life has been. Ihave never known a friend or relation. I have never had a boy companion. Since the age of thirteen, when I was placed under the care of the holyfathers, I have never spoken to a woman. I have been taught that lifewas given us to be spent in prayer; to study, to train ourselves, and tofollow in the footsteps of the blessed Saint Ignatius. But how are wewho have only lived half a life, to imitate him, whose youth andmiddle-age were passed in one of the most vicious courts of Europebefore he thought of turning to holy things? How are we, who are buriedin an atmosphere of mystic religion, to cope with sin of which we knownothing, and when we are profoundly ignorant of its evil results? Thesethings I know now, but I did not suspect them when I was in the college. There all manliness, and all sense of manly honour, were suppressed andinsidiously forbidden. We were taught to be spies upon each other, tocringe servilely to our superiors, and to deal treacherously with suchas were beneath us. Hypocrisy--innate, unfathomable hypocrisy--wasinstilled into our minds so cunningly that we did not recognise it. Every movement of the head or hands, every glance of the eyes, and everyword from the lips was to be the outcome--not of our own hearts--but ofa law laid down by the General himself. It simply comes to this: we arenot men at all, but machines carefully planned and fitted together, soas to render sin almost an impossibility. When tempted to sin we areheld back, not by the fear of God, but by the thought that discovery isalmost certain, and that the wrath of our Superior is withheld by noscruple of human kindness.... But remember, I knew nothing of thisbefore I took my vows. To me it was a glorious career. I became anenthusiast. At last the time came when I was eligible; I offered myselfto the Society, and was accepted. Then followed a period of hard work; Ilearned Spanish and Italian, giving myself body and soul to the work. Even the spies set to watch me day and night, waking and sleeping, feeding and fasting, could but confess that I was sincere. One day theProvincial sent for me--my mission had come. I was at last to go forthinto the world to do the work of my Master. Trembling with eagerness, Iwent to his room; the Provincial was a young man with a beautiful face, but it was like the face of the dead. There was no colour, no life, nosoul, no heart in it. He spoke in a low, measured voice that had neitherpity nor love. 

"When that door closed behind me an hour later the scales had fallenfrom my eyes. I began to suspect that this great edifice, built not ofstones but of men's hearts, was nothing less than an unrighteousmockery. With subtle, double-meaning words, the man whom I had beentaught to revere as the authorised representative of Our Lord, unfoldedto me my duties in the future. The work of God, he called it; and to dothis work he placed in my hands the tools of the devil. What I suspectedthen, I know now. "

The young Englishman sat and listened with increasing interest. Hiscigarette had gone out long before. 

"And, " he said presently, in his quiet, reassuring voice, which seemedto infer that no difficulty in life was quite insurmountable--"And, ifyou did not know it then, how have you learnt it now?"

"From you, my friend, " replied the priest earnestly, "from you and fromthese rough sailors. They, at least, are men. But you have taught methis. "

Christian Vellacott made no answer. He knew that what his companion saidwas true. Unconsciously, and with no desire to do so, he had opened thisyoung zealot's eyes to what a man's life may be. The tale was infinitelysad, but with characteristic promptitude the journalist was alreadyseeking a remedy without stopping to think over the pathos of thismistaken career. 

Presently René Drucquer's quick, painful tones broke the silence again, and he continued his story. 

"He told me, " he said, "that in times gone by we had ruled the RomanCatholic world invisibly from the recesses of kings' cabinets andqueens' boudoirs. That now the power has left us, but that the Order isas firm as ever, nearly as rich, and quite as intelligent. It lies likea huge mill, perfect but idle, waiting for the grist that will nevercome to be crushed between its ruthless wheels. He told me that the swayover kings and princes has lapsed with the growth of education, but thatwe hold still within our hands a lever of greater power, though thedanger of wielding it is proportionately greater to those who would useit. This power is the People. Before us lies a course infinitely moreperilous than the sinuous paths trodden by the first followers of St. Ignatius as they advanced towards power. It lies on the troubled waters;it leads over the restless, mobile heads of the people. "

Again the priest ceased speaking. There was a strange thrill offoreboding in his voice, which, however, had never been raised above amonotone. The two men sat side by side, as still as the dead. They gazedvacantly into the golden gates of the west, and each in his own waythought over these things. Assuredly the Angel of Silence hung over thatlittle vessel then, for no sound from earth or sea or sky came to wakethose two thinkers from their reverie. 

At last the Englishman's full, steady tones broke the hush. 

"This, " he said, "has not been learnt in two days. You must have knownit before. If you knew it, why are you what you are? You never have beena real Jesuit, and you never will be. "

"I swore to the Mother of God--I am bound.... "

"By an oath forced upon you!"

"No! By an oath I myself begged to take!"

This was the bitterest drop in the priest's cup. Everything had beendone of his own free will--at his own desire. During eleven years anetwork of perfidy had been cunningly woven around him, mesh after mesh, day after day. As he grew older, so grew in strength the warp of thenet. Thus, in the fulness of time, everything culminated to the onegreat end in view. Nothing was demanded (for that is an essential rule), everything must be offered freely, to be met by an apparently hesitatingacceptance. Constant dropping wears the hardest stone in time. 

"But, " said Vellacott, "you can surely represent to your Provincial thatyou are not fitted for the work put before you. "

"My friend, " interrupted the priest, "we can represent nothing. We aresupposed to have no natural inclinations. All work should be welcome, none too difficult, no task irksome. "

"You can volunteer for certain services, " said Vellacott. 

The priest shrugged his shoulders. 

"What services?" he asked. 

The Englishman looked at him for some seconds in the fading light. Inhis quick way he had already found a remedy, and he was wonderingwhether he should propose it or hold his peace. He was not afraid ofincurring responsibility. The young Jesuit had appealed to him, andthere was a way out of the difficulty. Christian felt that things couldnot be made worse than they were. In a moment his mind was made up. 

"As you know, " he said, "the Society has few friends and a multitude ofenemies. I am afraid I am an enemy; but there is one redeeming point inthe Jesuit record which we are all bound to recognise, and I recogniseit unhesitatingly. You have done more to convert the heathen than therest of the Christian Church put together. Whatever the motive has been, whatever the results have proved to be, the missionary work isunrivalled. Why do you not offer yourself for that?"

As he asked the question Christian glanced at his companion's face. Hesaw the sad eyes light up suddenly with a glow that was not of this dullearth at all; he saw the thin, pure face suddenly acquire a great andwondrous peace. The young priest rose to his feet, and, crossing thedeck, he stood holding with one hand to the tarred rigging, his backturned towards the Englishman, looking over the still waters. 

Presently he returned, and laying his thin hand upon Christian'sshoulder, he said, "My friend, you have saved me. In the first shock ofmy disillusion I never thought of this. I think--I think there is workfor me yet. "

CHAPTER XXI

TRUE TO HIS CLOTH

With the morning tide, the _Deux Frères_ entered Audierne harbour. The rough sailors crossed themselves as they looked towards the oldwooden cross upon the headland, facing the great Atlantic. They thoughtof the dead "patron" in the little cabin below, and the joyous youngwife, whose snowy head-dress they could almost distinguish upon the pieramong the waiters there. 

Both Christian Vellacott and the Abbé were on deck. They had been therethe whole night. They had lain motionless side by side upon the oldsail. Day vanished, night stole on, and day came again without eitherhaving closed his eyes or opened his lips. 

They now stood near the steersman, and looked upon the land with aninterest which only comes after heavy weather at sea. To the Englishmanthis little fishing-port was unknown, and he did not care to ask. Thevessel was now dropping up the river, with anchor swinging, and thewomen on the pier were walking inland slowly, keeping pace and waving agreeting from time to time in answer to a husband's shout. 

"That is she, Monsieur L'Abbé, " said Hoel Grall, with a peculiar twitchof his coarse mouth, as if from pain. "That is she with the littlechild!"

René Drucquer bowed his head, saying nothing. The _Deux Frères_slowly edged alongside the old quay in her usual berth above the sardineboats. A board was thrown across from the rail to the quay, and thepriest stepped ashore alone. He went towards the smiling young wifewithout any hesitation; she stood there surrounded by the wives of thesailors on board the _Deux Frères_, with her snowy coiffe andspotless apron, holding her golden-haired child by the hand. All thewomen curtsied as the priest approached, for in these western provincesthe Church is still respected. 

"My daughter, " said the Abbé, "I have bad news for you. "

She smiled still, misunderstanding his calmness. 

"Ah, mon père, " she said, "it is the season of the great winds now. Whata long voyage it has been! And you say it is a bad one. My husband is nodoubt in despair, but another voyage is sure to be better; is it not so?I have not seen Loic upon the deck, but then my sight is not good. I amnot from Audierne, mon père, but from inland where we cannot see sofar. "

The priest changed colour; no smile came into his face in response tohers. He stepped nearer, and placed his hand upon her comely arm. 

"It has been a very bad voyage for your poor husband, " he said. "TheHoly Virgin give you comfort. "

Slowly the colour vanished from the woman's round checks. Her soft, short-sighted eyes filled with a terrible, hopeless dismay as she staredat the young priest's bowed head. The women round now began tounderstand, and they crossed themselves with a very human prayer ofthankfulness that their husbands and brothers had been spared. 

"Loic is dead?" she said, in a rasping voice. For some moments she stoodmotionless, then, in obedience to some strange and unaccountableinstinct, she began turning up the sleeves of her rough brown dress, asif she were going to begin some kind of manual work. 

"The Holy Virgin comfort you, my daughter; and you, my little one, " saidthe priest, as he stooped to lay his hand upon the golden head of thechild. 

"Loic is dead! Loic is dead!" spread from mouth to mouth. 

"That comes from having ought to do with the priests, " muttered thecustoms officer, beneath his heavy moustache. He was an old soldier, whoread the newspapers, and spoke in a loud voice on Sunday evenings in theCafé de l'Ouest. 

The Abbé heard the remark, and looked at the man, but said nothing. Heremembered that no Jesuit must defend himself. 

The girl-widow stepped on board the untidy vessel in a mechanical, dreamy way. She dragged the little trotting child almost roughly afterher. Christian Vellacott stood at the low cabin door. He was in thedress of a Probationer of the Society of Jesus, which he had assumed atthe request, hesitatingly made, of René Drucquer, and for the verypractical reason that he had nothing else to wear except a torndress-coat and Hoel Grall's Sunday garments. 

"Bless me, mon père, " lisped the little one, stopping in front of him. 

"Much good will a blessing of mine do you, little one, " he muttered inEnglish. Nevertheless, he lifted the child up and kissed her rosy cheek. He kept her by his side, letting the mother go to her dead husbandalone. 

When the woman came from the cabin half-an-hour later, hard-faced, andwith dry, stony eyes, she found the child sitting on Christian's knee, prattling away in broken French. Tears came to her aching eyes at thesight of the happy, fatherless child; the hard Breton heart was touchedat last. 

The Abbé's instructions were to keep his prisoner confined under lockand key in the cabin until nightfall, when he was to be removed inlandin a carriage under the surveillance of two lay-brethren. Christian, however, never for a moment doubted his ability to escape when he wishedto do so, and acting upon this conviction he volunteered a promise notto attempt evasion. Dressed as he was, in the garments of a probationer, there was no necessity of awaiting nightfall, as there was nothingunusual about him to attract attention. Accordingly the departure fromthe _Deux Frères_ was fixed for midday. In the meantime the youngEnglishman found himself the object of unremitting attention on the partof two smooth-faced individuals who looked like domestic servants. Thesetwo men had come on board at the same moment that the Abbé steppedashore, and Christian noticed that no word of greeting or recognitionpassed between them and René Drucquer. This was to him a further proofof the minuteness of organisation which has characterised the Ordersince Ignatius Loyola wrote down his wonderful "Constitutions, " in whichno trifle was too small to be unworthy of attention, no petty dramaticeffect devoid of significance. Each man appeared to have received hisinstructions separately, and with no regard to those of his companion. 

In the meantime, however, the journalist had not been wasting his time. Although he still looked upon the whole affair as a very good farce, hehad not forgotten the fact that his absence must necessarily have beencausing endless anxiety in England. During the long night of wakefulnesshe had turned over in his mind every possible event at St. Mary Westernsince his sudden disappearance. Again and again he found himselfwondering how they would all take it, and his conclusions wereremarkably near to the truth. He guessed that Mr. Bodery would, sooneror later, be called in to give his opinion, and he sincerely hoped thatthe course taken would be the waiting tactics which had actually beenproposed by the editor of the _Beacon_. 

In this hope he determined to communicate with Sidney Carew, and havingpossessed himself of a blank Customs Declaration Form, he proceeded towrite a letter upon the reverse side of it. In this he told his friendto have no anxiety, and, above all, to institute no manner of search, because he would return to England as soon as his investigations werecomplete. The letter was written in guarded language, because Christianhad arrived at the conclusion that the only means he had of despatchingit was through the hands of René Drucquer. The crew of the _DeuxFrères_ were not now allowed to speak with him. He possessed nomoney, and it would have been folly to attempt posting an unstampedletter addressed to England in a little place like Audierne. 

Accordingly, as they were preparing to leave the vessel (the care ofpoor Loic having been handed over to the village curé), Christian boldlytendered his request. 

"No, my friend, I cannot do it, " replied the Abbé promptly. 

"Read it yourself, " urged Christian. "No harm can possibly come of it. My friend will do exactly as I tell him. In fact, it will be to yourbenefit that it should go. "

Still the Jesuit shook his head. Suddenly, however, in the midst of anargument on the part of the Englishman, he gave in and took the letter. 

"Give it to me, " he said; "I will risk it. "

Christian watched him place the letter within the breast of his"soutane, " unread. The two lay-brethren were noting every movement. 

Presently the priest removed his broad-brimmed hat and passed throughthe little doorway into the dimly lighted cabin where the dead sailorlay. He left the door ajar. After glancing at the dead man's still facehe fell upon his knees by the side of the low bunk, and remained withbowed head for some moments. At last he rose to his feet and took theEnglishman's letter from his breast. The envelope was unclosed, and withsmooth, deliberate touch he opened the letter and read it by the lightof the candle at the dead man's head, of which the rays were toilluminate the wandering soul upon its tortuous way. The priest readeach word slowly and carefully, for his knowledge of English waslimited. Then he stood for some seconds motionless, with arms hangingstraight, staring at the flame of the candle with weary, wondering eyes. At last he raised his hand and held the flimsy paper in the flame of thecandle till it was all burnt away. The charred remains fluttered to theground, and one wavering flake of carbonised paper sank gently upon thedead man's throat, laid bare by the hand of his frenzied wife. 

"He said that I was not a Jesuit, " murmured the priest, as he burnt theenvelope, and across his pale face there flitted an unearthly smile. 

Scarcely had the thin smoke mingled with the incense-laden air whenChristian pushed open the door. The two men looked their last upon therigid face dimly illuminated by the light of the wavering candles, andthen turned to leave the ship. 

The carriage was waiting for them on the quay, and Christian noticedthat the two men who had been watching him since his arrival at Audiernewere on the box. René Drucquer and himself were invited to enter theroomy vehicle, and by the way in which the door shut he divined that itwas locked by a spring. 

At the village post-office the carriage stopped, and, one of theservants having opened the door, the priest descended and passed intothe little bureau. He said nothing about the letter addressed to SidneyCarew, but Christian took for granted that it would be posted. Insteadof this, however, the priest wrote a telegram announcing the arrival ofthe _Deux Frères_, which he addressed to "Morel et Fils, Merchants, Quimper. "

"Hoel Grall asked me to despatch this, " he said quietly, as he handedthe paper to the old postmaster. 

After this short halt the carriage made its way rapidly inland. Thusthey travelled through the fair Breton country together, these twostrangely contrasting men brought together by a chain of circumstancesof which the links were the merest coincidences. Christian Vellacottdid not appear to chafe against his confinement. He took absolutely nonotice of the two men whose duty it was to watch his every movement. Thespirit of adventure, which is not quite educated out of us Englishmenyet, was very strong in him, and the rapid movement through an unknownland to an unknown goal was not without its healthy fascination. He layback in the comfortable carriage and sleepily watched the flyinglandscape. Withal he noticed by the position of the sun the direction inwhich he was being taken, and despite many turns and twists he kept hisbearings fairly well. The carriage had left the high road soon aftercrossing the bridge above Audierne, and was now going somewhat heavilyover inferior thoroughfares. 

The sun had set before Vellacott awoke to find that they were stilllumbering on. He had, of course, lost all bearing now, but he soon foundthat they had been journeying eastward since leaving the coast. 

A halt was made for refreshment at a small hillside village whichappeared to be mainly inhabited by women, for the men were all sailors. The accommodation was of the poorest, but bread was procurable, andeggs, meat being an unknown luxury in the community. 

In the lowering light they journeyed on again, sometimes on the broadpost-road, sometimes through cool and sombre forests. Many times whenChristian spoke kindly, or performed some little act of consideration, the poor Abbé was on the point of disclosing his own treason. Before hiseyes was the vision of that little cabin. He saw again the dancing flameof the paper in his hand, throwing its moving light upon the marblefeatures of that silent witness as the charred fragments fluttered pastthe still face to the ground. But as the stone is worn by the droppingwater, so at last is man's better nature overcome by persistentundermining when the work is carried out by men chosen as possessing "amind self-possessed and tranquil, delicate in its perceptions, sure inits intuitions, and capable of a wide comprehension of varioussubjects. " What youthful nature could be strong enough to resist thecunning pressure of influences wielded thus? So René Drucquer carriedthe secret in his heart until circumstances rendered it unimportant. 

Man is, after all, only fallible, and those to whom is given theprivilege of accepting or refusing candidates for admission to the greatSociety of Jesus had made a fatal error in taking René Drucquer. Neverwas a man more unfitted to do his duty in that station of life in whichhe was placed. His religious enthusiasm stopped short of fanaticism; hispliability would not bend so low as duplicity. All this the youngjournalist learnt as he penetrated further into the sensitive depths ofhis companion's gentle temperament. The priest was of those men to whomlove and brotherly affection are as necessary as the air they breathe. His wavering instincts were capable of being hardened into convictions;his natural gifts (and they were many) could be raised into talents; hislife, in fact, could have been made a success by one influence--the loveof a woman--the one influence that was forbidden: the single humanacquirement that must for ever be beyond the priest's reach. ThisChristian Vellacott felt in a vague, uncertain way. He did not know verymuch about love and its influence upon a man's character, thesequestions never having come under his journalistic field of inquiry; buthe had lately begun to wonder whether man's life was given to him to beinfluenced by no other thoughts than those in his own brain--whetherthere is not in our existence a completing area in the development ofcharacter. 

Looking at the matter from his own personal point of view--from whenceeven the best of us look upon most things--he was of the opinion thatlove stands in the path of the majority of men. This had been his viewof the matter for many years; probably it was the reflection of hisfather's cynically outspoken opinion, and a well-grown idea is hard touproot. 

Brought up, as he had been, by a pleasure-seeking and somewhat cynicalman, and passing from his care into the busy and practical journalisticworld, it was only natural that he should have acquired a certainhardness of judgment which, though useful in the world, is not anamiable quality. He now felt the presence of a dawning charity towardsthe actions of his fellow-men. A month earlier he would have despisedRené Drucquer as a weak and incapable man; now there was in his heartonly pity for the young priest. 

Soon after darkness had settled over the country the carriage descendedinto a deep and narrow valley through which ran a rapid river of nogreat breadth. Here the driver stopped, and the two travellers descendedfrom the vehicle. The priest exchanged a few words in a low voice withone of the servants who had leapt down from the box, and then turning toVellacott he said in a curt manner--

"Follow me, please. "

The Englishman obeyed, and leaving the road they turned along a broadpathway running at the side of the water. Christian noticed that theywere going upstream. Presently they reached a cottage, and a woman camefrom the open doorway at their approach. Without any greeting or word ofwelcome she led the way down some wooden steps to the ferry-boat. As sherowed them across, the journalist took note of everything in his quick, keen way. The depth of the water, rapidity of current, and even the factthat the boat woman was not paid for her services. 

"Are we near our destination?" he asked in English when he saw this. 

"We have five minutes more, " replied the priest in the same language. 

On landing, they followed another small path for some distance, down-stream. It was a quiet moss-grown path, with poplar trees on eitherside, and appeared to be little used. Suddenly the young priest stopped. There was the trunk of an elm tree lying on the inside of the path, evidently cut for the purpose of making a rough seat. 

"Let us sit here a few minutes, " said René. 

Christian obeyed. He sat forward and stretched his long legs out. 

"I am aching all over, " he said impatiently; "I wonder what it means!"

The priest ignored the remark entirely. 

"My friend, " he said presently, "a few minutes more and my care of youceases. This journey will be over. For me it has been very eventful. Inthese few days I have learnt more than I did during all the long yearsof my education, and what I have learnt will never be forgotten. Withoutbreathing one word of religion you have taught me to respect yours;without uttering a single complaint you have made me think with horrorand shame of the part I have played in this affair. I dare ... Scarcelyhope that one day you will forgive me!"

Christian raised his hand slowly to his forehead. The gleam of thesleek, smooth water flowing past his feet made him giddy. He wonderedvaguely if the strange, dull feeling that was creeping over his senseswas the result of extreme fatigue. 

"You speak as if we were never going to meet again, " he said dreamily. 

The priest did not answer for some moments. His slim hands were tightlyclasped upon his knees. 

"It is probable, " he said at length, "that such will be the case. If ourfriendship is discovered it is certain!"

"Then our friendship must not be discovered, " said the practicalEnglishman. 

"But, my friend, that would be deceit--duplicity!"

"A little duplicity, more or less, cannot matter much, " repliedChristian, in a harder voice. 

The priest looked up sharply, half fearing that his own treachery in thematter of the letter was suspected. But his companion remained silent, and the darkness prevented the expression of his face from being seen. 

"And, " continued the Englishman, after a long pause, "I am to be lefthere?"

There was a peculiar ring of weary indifference in his tone, as if itmattered little where he was left. The priest noticed it and rememberedit later. 

"I know nothing, my friend. I have but to obey my orders. "

"And close your mind against thought?"

"I cannot prevent the thoughts from coming into my mind, " replied thepriest gently, "but I can keep them prisoners when they have entered. "

He rose suddenly, and led the way along the river bank. Had Christian'smanner been more encouraging he would have told him then and there aboutthe letter. 

As they passed along the narrow footpath, the dim form of a man rosefrom behind the log of wood upon which they had been sitting. It was oneof the lay brethren who had accompanied them from Audierne. Contrary toRené Drucquer's whispered instructions, he had followed them afterquitting the carriage, and had crept up behind the poplars unheard andunsuspected. He came, however, too late. Unconsciously, Christian hadsaved his companion. 

CHAPTER XXII

GREEK AND GREEK

When they had walked about a hundred yards farther on, the footpath wasbrought to a sudden termination by a house built across it to thewater's edge. In this lay the explanation of its scanty use andluxuriant growth of moss. 

It was not a dark night, and without difficulty the priest found thehandle of a bell, of which, however, no sound reached their ears. Thedoor, cut deep in the stone, was opened after a short delay by a laybrother who showed no signs of rigid fasting. Again Christian noticedthat no greeting was exchanged, no word of explanation offered orexpected. The lay brother led the way along a dimly lighted corridor, inwhich there were doors upon each side at regular intervals. There was achill and stony feeling in the atmosphere. 

At the end of the corridor a gleam of light shone through a half-opendoor upon the bare stone floor. Into this cell Christian was shown. Without even noticing whether the priest followed him or not, he enteredthe tiny room and threw himself wearily upon the bed. Although it was anintensely hot night he shivered a little, and as he lay he clasped hishead with either hand. His eyes were dull and lifeless, and the colourhad entirely left his cheeks, though his lips were red and moist. Hetook no notice of his surroundings, which, though simple and somewhatbare, were not devoid of comfort. 

In the meantime, René Drucquer had followed the door-keeper up a broadflight of stairs to a second corridor which was identical with thatbelow, except that a room took the place of this small entrance-lobbyand broad door. Thus the windows of this room were immediately above theriver, which rendered them entirely free from overlookers, as the landon the opposite side was low and devoid of trees. 

The lay brother stopped in front of the door of this apartment, andallowed the young priest to pass him and knock at the door with his ownhands. The response from within was uttered in such a low tone that ifhe had not been listening most attentively René would not have heard it. He opened the door, which creaked a little on its hinges, and passedinto the room alone. 

In front of him a man dressed in a black soutane was seated at a tableplaced before the window. The only lamp in the room, which was long andnarrow, stood on the table before him, so that the light of it wasreflected from his sleek black head disfigured by a tiny tonsure. AsRené Drucquer advanced up the room, the occupant raised his headslightly, but made no attempt to turn round. With a quick, unobtrusivemovement of his large white hand he moved the papers on the table beforehim, so that no written matter remained exposed to view. Upon the tablewere several books, and on the right-hand side of the plain inkstandstood a beautifully carved stone crucifix, while upon the left there wasa small mirror no larger than a carte-de-visite. This was placed at aslight angle upon a tiny wire easel, and by raising his eyes any personseated at the table could at once see what was passing in the roombehind him--the entire apartment, including the door, being reflected inthe mirror. 

Though seated, the occupant of this peculiarly constructed room wasevidently tall. His shoulders, though narrow, were very square, and inany other garment than a thin soutane his slightness of build wouldscarcely have been noticeable. His head was of singular and remarkableshape. Very narrow from temple to temple, it was quite level from thesummit of the high forehead to the spot where the tonsure gleamedwhitely, and the length of the skull from front to back was abnormal. The dullest observer could not have failed to recognise that there wassomething extraordinary in such a head, either for good or evil. 

The Abbé Drucquer advanced across the bare stone floor, and took hisstand at the left side of the table, within a yard of his Provincial'selbow. Before taking any notice of him, the Provincial opened a thickbook bound in dark morocco leather, of which the leaves were of whiteunruled paper, interleaved, like a diary, with blotting paper. The pageswere numbered, although there was, apparently, no index attached to thevolume. After a moment's thought, the tall man turned to a certain foliowhich was partially covered by a fine handwriting in short paragraphs. Then for the first time he looked up. 

"Good evening, " he said, in full melodious voice. As he raised his facethe light of the lamp fell directly upon it. There was evidently nodesire to conceal any passing expression by the stale old method of ashaded lamp. The face was worthy of the head. Clean-cut, calm, anddignified; it was singularly fascinating, not only by reason of itsbeauty, which was undeniable, but owing to the calm, almost superhumanpower that lay in the gaze of the velvety eyes. There was no keenness ofexpression, no quickness of glance, and no seeking after effect bymobility of lash or lid. When he raised his eyes, the lower lid waselevated simultaneously, which peculiarity, concealing the white aroundthe pupil, imparted an uncomfortable sense of inscrutability. There wasno expression beyond a vague sense of velvety depth, such as is feltupon gazing for some space of time down a deep well. 

"Good evening, " replied René Drucquer, meeting with some hesitation theslow, kindly glance. 

The Provincial leant forward and took from the tray of the inkstand aquill pen. With the point of it he followed the lines written in thebook before him. 

"I understand, " he said, in a modulated and business-like tone, "thatyou have been entirely successful?"

"I believe so. "

The Provincial turned his head slightly, as if about to raise his eyesonce more to the young priest's face, but after remaining a moment inthe same position with slightly parted lips and the pen poised above thebook, he returned to the written notes. 

"You left, " he continued, "on Monday week last. On the Wednesday eveningyou ... Carried out the instructions given to you. This morning youarrived at Audierne, and came into the harbour at daybreak. Your parthas been satisfactorily performed. You have brought your prisoner withall expedition. So--" here the Provincial raised the pen from the bookwith a jerk of his wrist and shrugged his shoulders almostimperceptibly, "so--you have been entirely successful?"

Although there was a distinct intention of interrogation in the tone inwhich this last satisfactory statement was made, the young priest stoodmotionless and silent. After a pause, the other continued in the samekind, even voice:

"What has not been satisfactory to you, my son?"

"The 'patron' of the boat, Loic Plufer, was killed by the breaking of arope, before we were out of sight of the English coast. "

"Ah! I am sorry. Had you time--were you enabled to administer to him theHoly Rites?"

"No, my father. He was killed at one blow. "

The Provincial laid aside his pen and leant back. His soft eyes restedsteadily on the book in front of him. 

"Did the accident have any evil effect upon the crew!" he askedindifferently. 

"I think not, " was the reply. "I endeavoured to prevent such effectarising, and--and in this the Englishman helped me greatly. "

Without moving a muscle the Provincial turned his eyes towards the youngpriest. He did not look up into his face, but appeared to be watchinghis slim hands, which were moving nervously upon the surface of hisblack soutane. 

"My son, " he said smoothly. "As you know, I am a great advocate forfrankness. Frankness in word and thought, in subordinate and superior. Ihave always been frank with you, and from you I expect similartreatment. It appears to me that there is still something unsatisfactoryrespecting your successfully executed mission. It is in connection withthis Englishman. Is it not so?"

René Drucquer moved a little, changing his attitude and clasping hishands one over the other. 

"He is not such as I expected, " he replied after a pause. 

"No, " said the Provincial meditatively. "They are a strange race. Someof them are strong--very strong indeed. But most of them are foolish;and singularly self-satisfied. He is intelligent, this one; is it notso?"

"Yes, I think he is very intelligent. "

"Was he violent or abusive?"

"No; he was calm and almost indifferent. "

For some moments the Provincial thought deeply. Then he waved his handin the direction of a chair which stood with its back towards the windowat the end of the table. 

"Take a seat, my son, " he said, "I have yet many questions to ask you. Iam afraid I forgot that you might be tired. "

"Now tell me, " he continued, when René had seated himself, "do you thinkthis indifference was assumed by way of disarming suspicion and for thepurpose of effecting a speedy escape?"

"No!"

"Did you converse together to any extent?"

"We were naturally thrown together a great deal; especially after thedeath of the 'patron. ' He was of great assistance to me and to HoelGrall, the second in command, by reason of his knowledge of seamanship. "

"Ah! He is expert in such matters?"

"Yes, my father. "

A further note was here added to the partially-filled page of themanuscript book. 

"Of what subjects did he speak? Of religion, our Order, politics, himself and his captivity?"

"Of none of those. "

The Provincial leant back suddenly in his chair, and for some minutescomplete silence reigned in the room. He was evidently thinking deeply, and his eyes were fixed upon the open book with inscrutable immobility. Once he glanced slowly towards René Drucquer, who sat with downcast eyesand interlocked fingers. Then he pressed back his elbows and inhaled adeep breath, as if weary of sitting in one position. 

"I have met Englishmen, " he said speculatively, "of a type similar--Ithink--to this man. They never spoke of religion, of themselves or oftheir own opinion; and yet they were not silent men. Upon most subjectsthey could converse intelligently, and upon some with brilliancy; butthese subjects were invariably treated in a strictly general sense. Suchmen _never_ argue, and never appear to be highly interested in thatof which they happen to be speaking.... They make excellentlisteners.... " Here the speaker stopped for a moment and passed his longhand downwards across his eyes as if the light were troubling his sight;in doing so he glanced again towards the Abbé's fingers, which were nowquite motionless, the knuckles gleaming like ivory. 

"... And one never knows quite how much they remember and how much theyforget. Perhaps it is that they hear everything ... And forget nothing. Is our friend of this type, my son?"

"I think he is. "

"It is such men as he who have made that little island what it is. Theyare difficult subjects; but they are liable to sacrifice theiropportunities to a mistaken creed they call honour, and therefore theyare not such dangerous enemies as they otherwise might have been. "

The Provincial said these words in a lighter manner, almost amounting topleasantry, and did not appear to notice that the priest moved uneasilyin his seat. 

"Then, " he continued, "you have learnt nothing of importance during thefew days you have passed with him?"

"Nothing, my father. "

"Did he make any attempt to communicate with his friends?"

"He wrote a letter which he requested me to post. "

The Provincial leant forward in his chair and took a pen in his righthand, while he extended his left across the table towards his companion. 

"I burnt it, " said René gently. 

"Ah! That is a pity. Why did you do that?"

"I had discretion!" replied the young priest, with quiet determination. 

The Provincial examined the point of his pen critically, his perfectlyformed lips slightly apart. 

"Yes, " he murmured reflectively. "Yes, of course, you had discretion. What was in the letter?"

"A few words in English, telling his friends to have no anxiety, andasking them particularly to institute no search, as he would return homeas soon as he desired to do so. "

"Ah! He said that, did he? And the letter was addressed to--"

"Mr. Carew. "

"Thank you. "

The Provincial made another note in the manuscript book. Then he readthe whole page over carefully and critically. His attitude was like thatof a physician about to pronounce a diagnosis. 

"And, " he said reflectively, without looking up, "was there nothingnoticeable about him in any way? Nothing characteristic of the man, Imean, and peculiar. How would you describe him, in fact?"

"I should say, " replied René Drucquer, "that his chief characteristic isenergy; but for some reason, during these last two days this seems tohave slowly evaporated. His resistance on Wednesday night was veryenergetic--he dislocated my arm, and reset it later--and when the vesselwas in danger he was full of life. Later this peculiar indifference ofmanner came over him, and hour by hour it has increased in power. Italmost seems as if he were anxious to keep away from England just now. "

The Provincial raised his long white finger to his upper lip. It was theaction of a man who is in the habit of tugging gently at his moustachewhen in thought, and one would almost have said that the smooth-facedpriest had at no very distant period worn that manly ornament. Hisfinger passed over the shaded skin with a disagreeable, rasping sound. 

"That does not sound very likely, " he said slowly. "Have you anytangible reason, to offer in support of this theory?"

"No, my father. But the idea came to me, and so I mention it. It seemedas if this desire came to him upon reflection, after the ship was out ofdanger, and the indifference was contemporaneous with it. "

The Provincial suddenly closed the book and laid aside his pen. 

"Thank you, my son!" he said, in smooth, heartless tones, "I will nottrouble you any more to-night. You will need food and rest. Good night, my son. You have done well!"

René Drucquer rose and gravely passed down the long room. Before hereached the door, however, the clear voice of his superior caused him topause for a moment. 

"As you go down to the refectory, " he said, "kindly make a request thatMr. Vellacott be sent to me as soon as he is refreshed. I do not wantyou to see him before I do!"

When the door had closed behind René Drucquer the Provincial rose fromhis seat and slowly paced backwards and forwards from the door to thetable. Presently he drew aside the curtain which hid a small recess nearthe door, whore a simple bed and a small table were concealed. With abrush he smoothed back his sleek hair, and, dipping the ends of hisfingers into a basin of water, he wiped them carefully. Thus he preparedto receive Christian Vellacott. 

He returned to his chair and seated himself somewhat wearily. Althoughthere were but few papers on the table, he had three hours' hard workbefore him yet. He leant back, and again, that singular gesture, as ifto stroke a moustache that was not there, was noticeable. 

"I have a dull presentiment, " he muttered reflectively, "that we havemade a mistake here. We have gone about it in the wrong way, and ifthere is blame to be attached to any one, Talma is the man. That temperof his is fatal!"

After a pause he heaved a weary sigh, and stretched his long arms out oneither side, enjoying a free and open yawn. 

"Ah me!" he sighed, "what an uphill fight this has become, and day byday it grows harder. Day by day we lose power; one hold after anotherslips from our grasp. Perhaps it means that this vast organisation iseffete--perhaps, after all, we are dying of inanition, and yet--yet itshould not be, for we have the people still.... Ah! I hear footsteps. This is our journalistic friend, no doubt. I think he will proveinteresting. "

A moment later someone knocked softly at the door. There was a slightshuffling of feet, and Christian Vellacott entered the room alone. Therewas a peculiar dull expression in his eyes, as if he were sufferingpain, mental or physical. After glancing at the mirror, the Provincialrose and bowed formally with his hand upon the back of his chair. As theEnglishman came forward the Jesuit glanced at his face, and with apolite motion of the hand he said:

"Sir, take the trouble of seating yourself, " speaking in French at once, with no apology, as if well aware that his companion knew that languageas perfectly as his own. 

"Thank you, " replied Christian. He drew the chair slightly forward as heseated himself, and fixed his eyes upon the Jesuit's face. Through theentire interview he never removed his gaze, and he noticed that untilthe last words were spoken those soft, deep eyes were never raised tohis. 

"I suppose, " said the Jesuit at length, almost humbly, "that we areirreconcilable enemies, Mr. Vellacott?"

The manner in which this was spoken did not bear the slightestresemblance to the cold superiority with which René Drucquer had beentreated. 

The Englishman sat with one lean hand resting on the table and watched. He knew that some reply was expected, but in face of that knowledge hechose to remain silent. It was a case of Greek meeting Greek. Theinscrutable Provincial had met a foeman worthy of his steel at last. Hisstrange magnetic influence threw itself vainly against a will as firm ashis own, and he felt that his incidental effects, dramatic andconversational, fell flat. Instantly he became interested in ChristianVellacott. 

"I need hardly remind a man of your discrimination, Mr. Vellacott, " hecontinued tentatively, "that there are two sides to every question. "

The Englishman smiled and moved slightly in his chair, drawing in hisfeet and leaning forward. 

"Implying, I presume, " he said lightly, "that in this particularquestion you are on one side and I upon the other. "

"Alas! it seems so. "

Vellacott leant back in his chair again and crossed his legs. 

"In my turn, " he said quietly, "I must remind you, monsieur, that I am ajournalist. "

The Provincial raised his eyebrows almost imperceptibly and waited forhis companion to continue. His silence and the momentary motion of hiseyebrows, which in no way affected the lids, expressed admirably hisfailure to see the connection of his companion's remark. 

"Which means, " Christian went on to explain, "that my place is not uponeither side of the question, but in the middle. I belong to no party, and I am the enemy of no man. I do not lead men's opinions. It is myduty to state facts as plainly and as coldly as possible in order thatmy countrymen may form their own judgment. It may appear that at onetime I write upon one side of the question; the next week I may seem towrite upon the other. That is one of the misfortunes of my calling. "

"Then we are not necessarily enemies, " said the Jesuit softly. 

"No--not necessarily. On the other hand, " continued Christian, withdaring deliberation, "it is not at all necessary that we should befriends. "

The Jesuit smiled slightly--so slightly that it was the mere ghost of asmile, affecting the lines of his small mouth, but in no way relievingthe soft darkness of his eyes. 

"Then we are enemies, " he said. "He whose follower I am, said that allwho are not with Him are against Him. "

The Englishman's lips closed suddenly, and a peculiar stony look cameover his face. There was one subject upon which he had determined not toconverse. 

"I am instructed, " continued the Provincial, with a sudden change ofmanner from pleasant to practical, "to ask of you a written promisenever to write one word either for or against the Society of Jesusagain. In exchange for that promise I am empowered to tender to you thesincere apologies of the Society for the inconvenience to which you mayhave been put, and to assist you in every way to return home at once. "

A great silence followed this speech. A small clock suspended somewherein the room ticked monotonously, otherwise there was no sound audible. The two men sat within a yard of each other, each thinking, of the otherin his individual way, from his individual point of view, the Jesuitwith downcast eyes, his companion watching his immobile features. 

At length Christian Vellacott's full and quiet tones broke the spell. 

"Of course, " he said simply, "I refuse. "

The Provincial rose from his seat, pushing it back as he did so. 

"Then I will not detain you any longer. You are no doubt fatigued. Thelay brother waiting outside will show you the room assigned to you, andat whatever time of day or night you may wish to see me, remember that Iam at your service. "

Christian rose also. He appeared to hesitate, and then to grasp thetable with both hands to assist himself. He stood for a moment, andsuddenly tottered forward. Had not the Provincial caught him he wouldhave fallen. 

"My head turns, " he mumbled incoherently. 

"What is the matter? ... What is the matter?"

The Jesuit slipped his arm round him--a slight arm, but as hard andstrong as steel. 

"You are tired, " he said sympathetically, "perhaps you have a littletouch of fever. Come, I will assist you to your room. "

And the two men passed out together. 

CHAPTER XXIII

STRICKEN DOWN

In later days Christian Vellacott could bring back to his memory nodistinct recollection of that first night spent in the monastery. Therewas an indefinite remembrance of the steady, monotonous clang of a bellin the first hours, doubtless the tolling of the matins, calling theelect to prayer at midnight. 

After that he must have fallen into a deep, lethargic sleep, for henever heard the distant strains of the organ and the melodious chantingof gruff voices. The strange, unquiet melody hovered over him in thelittle cell, following him as he glided away from earth upon the blessedwings of sleep, and haunted his restless dreams. 

The monks were early astir next morning, for the sweet smell of dryinghay filled the air, and the second crop of the fruitful earth laywaiting to be stacked. With tucked-up gowns and bared arms the sturdydevotees worked with rake and pitchfork. No whispered word passedbetween them; none raised his head to look around upon the smilinglandscape or search in the cloudless sky for the tiny lark whose morninghymn rippled down to them. Each worked on in silence, tossing thescented hay, his mind being no doubt filled with thoughts above allearthly things. 

Near at hand lay a carefully-kept vegetable garden of large dimensions. Here grew in profusion all nourishing roots and herbs, but there was nosign of more luscious fruits. Small birds hopped and fluttered here andthere unheeded and unmolested, calling to each other joyously, and thewarming air was alive with the hum of tinier wings. 

In the midst of this walked man--the lord of all--humbly, silently, withbowed head and unadmiring eyes--man whose life was vouchsafed for theenjoyment of all these things. 

A little square patch of sunlight lay on the stone floor of the smallcell allotted to Christian Vellacott. The thick oak door deadened thesounds of life in the monastery, such as they were, and the strong, laboured breathing of the young Englishman alone broke the chillsilence. 

Christian lay, all dressed, on the narrow bed. His eyes were halfclosed, and the ruddy brown of his cheeks had faded into an ashy grey. His clenched hands lay numbly at his side. Through his open, swollenlips meaningless words came in a hoarse whisper. 

Presently the door opened with a creaking sound, but the sleeper movedno limb or feature. René Drucquer entered the cell and ran quickly tothe bedside. Behind, with more dignity and deliberation, followed thesub-prior of the monastery. The young priest had obtained permissionfrom his Provincial to see Christian Vellacott for a few moments beforehis hurried departure for India. Thus René had received his missionsooner than he had hoped for. The astute and far-seeing Provincial hadfrom the beginning intended that René Drucquer should be removed fromharm's way without delay once his disagreeable mission to St. MaryWestern was performed. 

"My father, " exclaimed the young priest in alarm, "he is dying!"

The venerable sub-prior bent his head over the bed. He was a tall, spareman, with very sunken cheeks, and a marvellous expression of placidcontentment in his eyes such as one never finds in the face of a youngmonk. He was very learned in medicines, and in the administration ofsuch simple herbs as were required to remedy the illnesses within themonastery walls. Perhaps some of his patients died when they might havelived under more skilled treatment, but it is a short and easy step fromlife to death within a comfortless cell, and his bony hands were astender over his sick brethren as those of a woman. 

He felt the Englishman's pulse and watched his ashen face for somemoments, touching the clammy forehead softly, while René Drucquer stoodby with a great sickening weight of remorse and fear upon his heart. Then the sub-prior knelt stiffly down, and placed his clean-shaven lipsnear to Christian's ear. 

"My son, " he said, "do you hear me?"

Christian breathed less heavily, as if he were listening to some far-offsound, but never moved a feature. Presently he began to murmurincoherently, and the sub-prior bent his ear to listen. 

"Much good would a blessing of mine do you, Hilda, " observed Christianinto the reverend ear. The old gentleman raised his cadaverous head andlooked somewhat puzzled. Again he listened. 

"Look after Aunt Judy--she cannot last long, " murmured the youngEnglishman in his native tongue, which was unknown to the monk. 

"It is fever, " said the sub-prior presently--"one of those terriblefevers which kill men as the cold kills flies!"

No thought seemed to enter the monk's mind of possible infection. Heknelt upon the cold floor with one bare and bony arm beneath the sickman's head, while the other lay across his breast. He was lookingintently into the veiled eyes, inhaling the very breath of the swollenlips. 

"Will he die, my father?" asked René Drucquer in a whisper; his face wasas pale as Vellacott's. 

"He is in the hands of the good God, " was the pious answer. The tallmonk rose to his feet and stood before the bed thinking. He rubbed hisbony hands together slowly. Through the tiny window a shaft of sunlightpoured down upon his grizzled head, and showed up relentlessly the deepfurrows that ran diagonally down from his cheek-bone to his chin. 

"You must watch here, my son, " he continued, "while I inform theFather-Provincial of this. "

The venerable sub-prior was no Jesuit, and perhaps he would have beenjust as well pleased had the Provincial elected to live elsewhere thanin the monastery. But the Prior--an old man of ninety, and incapable ofwork or thought--was completely in the power of the Society. 

When he found himself alone with the Englishman, René Drucquer satwearily upon a small wooden bench, the only form of seat provided, andleaned his narrow face upon his hands. 

The prospect that he saw before him as he sat staring vacantly at thefloor of the little cell was black enough. He saw no possible outlet, and he had not the courage to force his way through the barriers erectedall round him. It must be remembered that he was a Roman Catholic, andover a sincere disciple of the Mother Church the power of the Jesuits isgreater than man should ever be allowed to exercise. The slavery thatEngland fought against so restlessly is nothing to it, for mentalbondage is infinitely heavier than physical service. He had determinedto accept the Provincial's offer of missionary work in Asia, but thesudden horror of realising that he was a Jesuit, and could never beanything else than a Jesuit for the rest of his days, was fresh uponhim. He was too young yet to find consolation in the thought that he atall events could attempt to steer a clear, unsullied course through theshoals and quicksands that surround a priest's existence, and he was tooold to buoy himself up with the false hope that he might, despite hisJesuit's oath, do some good work for his Church. His awakening had beenrendered more terrible by the brilliancy of the dreams which it hadinterrupted. 

He had not looked upon Christian Vellacott as a victim hitherto, for thebravest receive the least sympathy, and the young Englishman's cool wayof treating his reverse of fortune had repelled pity or commiseration. But now all that was changed. Whatever this sickness might prove to be, René Drucquer felt that the blame of it lay at his own door. IfChristian Vellacott were to die, he, René Drucquer, was in the eyes ofGod a murderer, for he had forcibly brought him to his death. This wasan unpleasant reflection for a young devotee whose inward soul was fullof human kindness; and the presence of the strong man who lay gaspingfor breath upon the narrow, comfortless bed was not reassuring. 

It was only natural that those thoughts, coupled with the realisation ofthe aimlessness of his own existence, should have bred in the youngJesuit's heart a dull fire of antagonism against the man who was inimmediate authority over him, and when the Provincial noiselesslyentered the cell a few minutes later, he felt a sudden thrill ofmisgiving at the thought that his feelings were sacred to none--thatthis man with his deep, inscrutable eyes could read the face of his verysoul like an open book. 

In this, René Drucquer was right. The Provincial was fully aware of thepresence of this spirit of antagonism, and, moreover, he knew that itextended to the taciturn sub-prior who accompanied him. But thisknowledge in no way disturbed him. The spirit of antagonism had met himin every turn of life. It was so familiar that he had learned to despiseit. Hitherto he had never failed in any undertaking, and he had neverbeen turned aside from the execution of his purpose by the fear ofincurring the enmity of men. Such minds as this make their mark in theline of life which they take up, and if they do not happen to win thelove of their fellow-beings, they get on remarkably well without it. 

The Provincial came into the cell with a singular noiselessness ofmotion. His pale face expressed neither surprise nor annoyance, and hiseyes rested upon the form of the sick man with no sign of apprehension. He approached, and with his long white finger touched Christian's wrist. For a few moments he watched the uneasy movements of his flushed face, and then he turned aside, without, however, leaving the bedside. Hereagain there seemed to be no fear or thought of infection. 

The sub-prior stood behind him with clasped hands, while René, who hadrisen from his seat, was near at hand. 

"This man, my father, " said the Provincial coldly, "must not die. Youmust take every care, and spare no expense or trouble. If it isnecessary you can have doctors from Nantes. I will bear every expense, and I shall be grieved to hear of his death!"

Then he turned to leave the cell. He was a busy man, and his visit hadalready lasted nearly three minutes. 

René Drucquer stepped forward hurriedly. He was between his superior andthe door, so that he was in a position to command attention. 

"My father, " he pleaded, "may I nurse him?"

The Provincial raised his eyebrows almost imperceptibly; then he wavedhis hand, commanding the young priest to stand aside. 

"No, " he said softly, "you must leave for Nantes in half-an-hour, " andhe passed out into the noiseless corridor. 

CHAPTER XXIV

BACK TO LIFE

One mellow autumnal evening, when the sunlight reflected from the whitemonastery walls upon the fruit trees climbing there was still warm andfull of ripening glow, the Provincial was taking his post-prandialpromenade. 

It is, perhaps, needless to observe that he was alone. No one everwalked with the Provincial. No footstep ever crushed the gravel inharmony with his gliding tread. Perhaps, indeed, no one had ever walkedwith him thus, in the twilight, since a fairy, dancing form had moved inthe shadow of his tall person, and footsteps lighter than his own hadvainly endeavoured to keep time with his longer limbs. But that was inno monastery garden; and the useful, vegetable producing enclosure borelittle resemblance to the château terrace. In those days it may be thatthere was a gleam of life in the man's deep, velvety eyes--perhaps, indeed, a moustache adorned the short, twisted lip where the whitefingers rasped so frequently now. 

The pious monks were busy with their evening meal, and the Provincialwas quite alone in the garden. All around him the leaves glowed ruddilyin the warm light. Everywhere the fruits of earth were ripe and fullwith mature beauty; but the solitary walker noted none of these. Hepaced backwards and forwards with downcast eyes, turning slowly andindifferently as if it mattered little where he walked. The merryblackbirds in the hay field adjoining the garden called to each othercontinuously, and from a hidden rookery came the voice of the duskysettlers, which is, perhaps, the saddest sound in all nature'sharmonies. But the Jesuit resolutely refused to listen. Once, however, he stopped and stood motionless for some seconds, with his head turnedslightly to meet the distant cry; but he never raised his eyes, whichwere deep and lifeless in their gaze. It may be that there was a rookerynear that southern château, where he once had walked in the solemnevening hour, or perhaps he did not hear that sound at all though hisear was turned towards it. 

It would be hard indeed to read from the priest's still features thethoughts that might be passing through his powerful brain; but thestrange influence of his being was such as makes itself felt without anyspoken word. As he walked there with his long hands clasped behind hisback, his peculiarly shaped head bent slightly forward, and his perfectlips closely pressed, no one could have looked at him without feelinginstinctively that no ordinary mind was busy beneath the tinytonsure--that no ordinary soul breathed there for weal or woe, seekingafter higher things in the right way or the wrong. The man's cultivatedrepose of manner, his evident intellectuality, and his subtle strengthof purpose visible in every glance of his eyes, betrayed that althoughhis life might be passed in the calm retreat of a monastery, his soulwas not there. The man was never created to pass his existence inprayerful meditation; his mission was one of strife and contentionamidst the strong minds of the age. One felt that he was living in thisquiet Breton valley for a purpose; that from this peaceful spot he wasdexterously handling wires that caused puppets--aye, puppets with goldencrowns--to dance, and smirk, and bow in the farthest corners of theearth. 

Presently the Jesuit heard footsteps upon the gravel at the far side ofthe garden, but he did not raise his head. His interest in the trivialincidents of everyday life appeared to be quite dead. 

"Softly, softly!" said a deep, rough voice, which the Provincialrecognised as that of the sub-prior; then he raised his eyes slightlyand looked across the garden, without, however, altering his pace. 

He saw there Christian Vellacott walking by the side of the hard-facedold monk with long, hesitating strides, like a man who had forgotten howto use his legs. It was exactly six weeks since the young journalist hadpassed through that garden with René Drucquer, and those weeks had beento him a strange and not unpleasant dream. It seemed as if the man lyingupon that little bed was in no way connected with the wiry, energeticChristian Vellacott of old. As he lay there semi-somnolent and lazilycomfortable from sheer weakness, his interest in life was of aspeculative description, as if he looked on things from afar off. Nothing seemed to matter much. There was an all-pervading sense ofrestful indifference as to whether it might be night or day, morning, noon, or evening. All responsibility in existence seemed to have lefthim: his ready pride of self-dependence had given way to a gentleobedience, and the passage from wakefulness to sleep was very sweet. 

Through all those dreamy hours he heard the soft rustle of woollengarments and the suppressed shuffle of sandalled feet. Whenever heopened his heavy eyes he discerned vaguely in the dim light a grey, still form seated upon the plain wooden bench at his bedside. Wheneverhe tried to change his position upon the hard bed and his weary bonesrefused their function, strong, hard hands were slipped beneath him andkind assistance freely given. As a rule, it was the tall sub-prior whoministered to the sick man, fighting the dread fever with all his simpleknowledge; his hands smoothed oftenest the tossed pillow; but manyclean-shaven, strong, and weary faces were bowed over the bed duringthose six weeks, for there was a competition for the post of sick-nurse. The monks loved to feel that they were performing some tangible good, and not spending their hours over make-believe tasks like aman-of-warsman in fine weather. 

One frequent visitor, however, Christian Vellacott never saw beneath hislazy lashes. The Provincial never entered that little cell unless he waspositively informed that its inmate was asleep. The inscrutable Jesuitseemed almost to be ashamed of the anxiety that he undoubtedly feltrespecting the sick man thus thrown upon his hands by a peculiar chainof incidents. He spoke coldly and sarcastically to the sub-priorwhenever he condescended to mention the subject at all; but no daypassed in which he failed to pay at least one visit to the little cellat the end of the long, silent corridor. 

"Softly, softly!" said the old sub-prior, holding out his bony hand tostay his companion's progress, "you are too ambitious, my son. "

Christian laughed in a low, weak voice, and raised his head to lookround him. The laugh ceased suddenly as he caught sight of theProvincial, and across the potato-bed the two strong men lookedspeculatively into each other's eyes in the peaceful twilight. TheJesuit's gaze fell first, and with a dignified bow he moved gently away. 

"I am stronger than I look, my father, " said Christian, turning to hiscompanion. Then they walked slowly on, and presently rested upon awooden bench built against the monastery wall. 

The young Englishman leaned back and watched the Provincial, who waspacing backwards and forwards where they had first seen him. The oldmonk sat with clasped hands, and gravely contemplated the gravel beneathhis feet. Thus they waited together within the high, whitewashed walls, while the light faded from the western sky. Three types, as strangelycontrasted as the student of human kind could wish to see: the old monkwith his placid bloodless face and strong useless arms--a wastedenergy, a mere monument to mistaken zeal; and the younger men so widelysevered by social circumstances, and yet resembling each other somewhatin heart and soul. Each had a strong individuality--each a great andfar-reaching vitality. Each was, in his way, a power in the world, asall strong minds are; for in face of what may be said (and with apparentjustice) respecting chance and mere good fortune, good men must come tothe top among their fellows. They must--and most assuredly they do. Asin olden days the doughtiest knights sought each other in thebattlefield to measure steel, so in these later times the rulingintellects of the day meet and clear a circle round them. The Provincialwas a power in the Society of Jesus; perhaps he was destined one day tobe General of it; and Christian Vellacott had suddenly appeared upon thefield of politic strife, heralding his arrival with two most deadlyblows dealt in masterly succession. From the first they were sure tocome together, sooner or later; and now, when they were separated bynothing more formidable than a bed of potatoes, they were glancingaskance and longing to be at each other. But it could not be. Had thesub-prior left the garden it would have made no difference. It wasmorally impossible that those two men could speak what they werethinking, for one of them was a Jesuit. 

The Provincial, however, made the first move, and the Englishman oftenwondered in later days what his intention might have been. He walked onto the northern end of the garden, where a few thick-stemmed pear treeswere trained against the wall. The fruit was hanging in profusion, forit was not consumed in the monastery but given to the poor atharvest-time. The Provincial selected a brown, ripe pear, and broke itdelicately from the tree without allowing his fingers to come in contactwith the fruit itself. Then he turned and walked with the same lazyprecision towards the two other occupants of the garden. At his approachthe sub-prior rose from his seat and stood motionless with claspedhands; there was a faint suggestion of antagonism in his attitude, whichwas quite devoid of servility. Christian, however, remained seated, raising his keen grey eyes to the Provincial's face with a quietself-assertion which the Jesuit ignored. 

"I am glad, Monsieur, to see you restored to health, " he said coldly toChristian, meeting his gaze for a moment. 

The Englishman bowed very slightly, and there was a peculiarexpressiveness in the action which betrayed his foreign education, butthe cool silence with which he waited for the Provincial to speak againwas essentially British. The Jesuit moved and glanced slowly beneath hislowered eyelids towards the motionless figure of the sub-prior. He wastoo highly bred to allow himself to be betrayed into any sign ofembarrassment, and too clever to let the Englishman see that he washesitating. After a momentary pause he turned gravely to the sub-prior, and said:

"Will you allow your patient, my brother, to taste of our fruit? it isripe and wholesome. "

Then, without awaiting a reply, he presented the pear to Vellacott. Itwas a strange action, and no doubt there was some deep intention in it. The Jesuit must have known, however, from René Drucquer's report, andfrom his own observations, that Christian Vellacott was of too firm amould to allow his feelings to be influenced by a petty action of thisdescription, however sincere and conciliatory might have been the spiritin which it was conceived. Perhaps he read the Englishman's charactertotally wrong, although his experience of men must have been very great;or perhaps he really wished to conciliate him, and took this first stepwith the graceful delicacy of his nation, with a view to following itup. 

With a conventional word of thanks, Vellacott took the pear and set itdown upon the bench at his side. Whatever the Jesuit's intention mighthave been, it was frustrated by his quiet action. It would have been soeasy to have said a few words of praise regarding the fruit, and it wasonly natural to have begun eating it at once; but Vellacott read adeeper meaning in all this, and he chose a more difficult course. It wasassuredly harder to keep silence then than to talk, and a weaker-mindedman would have thanked the Provincial with effusion. The manner in whichVellacott laid the fruit upon the bench, his quiet and deliberatesilence, conveyed unmistakably and intentionally that the Provincial'ssociety was as unwelcome as it was unnecessary. There was nothing to bedone but take the hint; and in the lowering twilight the solitary, miserable man moved reluctantly away. With contemplative hardness ofheart the Englishman watched him go; there was no feeling of triumph inhis soul--neither, however, was there pity. The Jesuit had chosen hisown path, he had reached his goal, and that most terrible thirst--thethirst for power--was nearly slaked. If at times--at the end of a longday of hard mental work, when men's hearts are softened by weariness andlowering peace--he desired something else than power, some little touchof human sympathy perhaps, his was the blame if no heart responded tohis own. Christian Vellacott sat and wondered dreamily, with thenonchalance of a man who has been at the very gates of death, if powerwere worth this purchase-money. 

The sub-prior had seated himself again, and with his strong hands meeklyclasped he waited. He knew that something was passing which he could notunderstand: his dull instincts told him vaguely that between these twostrong men there was war-fare, dumb, sullen, and merciless; but unusedas he was to the ways of men, unlearned in the intricacies of humanthoughts, he could not read more. 

"You have not told me yet, my father, " said Vellacott, "how long I havebeen ill. "

"Six weeks, my son, " replied the taciturn monk. 

"And it was very bad?"

"Yes, very bad. "

Christian slowly rubbed his thin hands together. His fingers were moistand singularly white, with a bleached appearance about the knuckles. Hisface was thin, but not emaciated, his long jaw and somewhat pronouncedchin were not more bony than of old, but the expression of his mouth wasquite changed; his lips were no longer thrust upward with a determinedcurve, and a smile seemed nearer at hand. 

"I have a faint recollection of being very tenderly nursed and caredfor; generally by you, I think. No doubt you saved my life. "

The sub-prior moved a little, and drew in his feet. 

"The matter was not in my hands, " he said quietly. 

The Englishman, with some tact, allowed this remark to pass inacquiescent silence. 

"Did you ever think that ... I was not ... Going back to England?" heasked presently, in a lighter tone, though the thought of returninghome brought no smile to his face. 

The sub-prior did not reply at once. He appeared to be thinking deeply, for he leaned forward in an unmonastic attitude with his knees apart, his elbows resting upon them, and his hands clasped. He gazed across theprosaic potato-bed with his colourless lips slightly apart. 

"One night, " he began meditatively, "I went to sit with you after thebell for matins had been rung. From midnight till three o'clock younever moved. Then I gave you some cordial, and as I stooped over you thecandle flickered a little; there were strange shadows upon your face, but around your lips there was a deeper shade. I had seen it oncebefore, on my brother's face when he lay upon the hard Paris pavementwith a bullet in his lungs, and his breath whistling through the orificeas the wind whistles round our walls in winter. I held the candle closerto your face, and as I did so, a hand came over my shoulder and took itfrom my fingers. The Father Provincial had come to help me. He said noword, but set the candle down upon the bed, and I held you up while headministered the cordial drop by drop, as a man oils a cartwheel. "

"Ah!" said Christian slowly and suggestively, "_he_ was there!"

The monk made no reply. He sat motionless, with a calm, acquiredsilence, which might have meant much or nothing. 

"Did he come often?" inquired the Englishman. 

"Very often. "

"I never saw him. "

This, again, was met with silence. Presently the sub-prior continued hisnarrative. 

"When daylight came at last, " he said, "the shadow had left your lips. Ithink that night was the worst; it was then that you were nearer ... Nearer than at any other time. "

Christian Vellacott was strong enough now to take his usual interest inoutward things. With the writer's instinct he went through the worldlooking round him, always studying men and things, watching, listening, and storing up experience. The Provincial interested him greatly, but hedid not dare to show his curiosity; he hesitated to penetrate thedarkness that surrounded the man's life, past, present, and future. In aminor degree the taciturn sub-prior arrested his attention. The old monkwas in a communicative humour, and the Englishman led him on a littlewithout thinking much about the fairness of it. 

"Did your brother die?" he asked sympathetically. 

"He died, " was the reply. "Yes, my son, he died--died cursing thetyrant's bullet in his lungs. He threw away his life in a vain attemptto alter human nature, to set straight that which is crooked and cannotbe set straight. He sought to bring about at once that which cometh notuntil the lion shall eat straw like an ox. See, my son, that you do notattempt the same. "

"I think, " said Christian, after a pause, "that we all try a little, andperhaps some day a great accumulation of little efforts will take place. You, my father, have tried as well!"

The monk slowly shook his head, without, however, any great display ofconviction. 

"I was not always a monk, " he said, as if seeking to excuse a bygonefolly. 

It was nearly dark now. The birds were silent, and only the whisperingof the crisp, withering leaves broke the solemn hush of eventide. Thetwo men sat side by side without speaking. They had learnt to know eachother fairly well during the last weeks--so well that between themsilence was entirely restful. At length Christian moved restlessly. Hehad reached that stage of convalescence where a position becomes irksomeafter a short time. It was merely a sign of returning strength. 

"Where is the Abbé Drucquer, " he asked abruptly. 

"He left us some time ago, " was the guarded reply. 

"He spoke of going abroad, " said Christian, deliberately ignoring thesub-prior's tone. 

"The Father Provincial told me that the Abbé had gone abroad--toIndia--to spread there the Holy Light to such as are still in darkness. "

The young journalist thought that he detected again a faint suggestionof antagonism in the sub-prior's voice. The manner in which theinformation was imparted was almost an insult to the Provincial. It wasa repetition of his words, given in such a manner that had the speakerbeen a man of subtle tongue it would have implied grave doubt. 

Christian was somewhat surprised that René Drucquer should have attainedhis object so quickly. He never suspected that he himself might have hadmuch to do with it, that it had been deemed expedient to remove theyoung priest beyond the possible reach of his influence, because he wasquite unconscious of this influence. He did not know that its power hadaffected René Drucquer, and that some reflection of it had even touchedthe self-contained Provincial--that it was even now making this oldsub-prior talk more openly than was prudent or wise. He happened to betaking the question from a very different point of view. 

CHAPTER XXV

BACK TO WORK

Day by day Christian Vellacott recovered strength. The enforced rest, and perhaps also the monastic peacefulness of his surroundings, contributed greatly towards this. In mental matters as in physical weare subject to contagion, and from the placid recluses, vegetatingunheeded in the heart of Brittany, their prisoner acquired a certainrestfulness of mind which was eminently beneficial to his body. Lifeinside those white walls was so sleepy and withal so pleasant that itwas physically and mentally impossible to think and worry over eventsthat might be passing in the outer world. 

Presently, however, Christian began to feel idle, which is a good signin invalids; and soon the days became long and irksome. He began to takean increased interest in his surroundings, and realised at once howlittle he knew of the existence going on about him. Though he frequentlypassed, in the dim corridors and cloisters, a silent, grey-clad figure, exchanging perhaps with him a scarcely perceptible salutation, he hadnever spoken with any other inmates of the monastery than the Provincialand the sub-prior. 

He noticed also that the watchful care of the nurse had imperceptiblyglided into that of a warder. He was never allowed out of his cellunless accompanied by the sub-prior--in fact, he was a state prisoner. His daily walks never extended beyond the one path near the potato bed, or backwards and forwards at the sunny end of the garden, where the hugepears hung ripely. From neither point was any portion of the surroundingcountry visible, but the Provincial could not veil the sun, andChristian knew where lay the west and where the east. 

No possible opportunity for escape presented itself, but the Englishmanwas storing up strength and knowledge all the while. He knew that thingswould not go on for long like this, and felt that the Provincial wouldsooner or later summon him to the long room at the end of the corridorupon the upper floor. 

This call came to him three weeks after the day when the two men had metin the garden--nine weeks after the Englishman's captivity hadcommenced. 

"My son, " said the sub-prior one afternoon, "the Father Provincialwishes to speak with you to-day at three. "

Christian glanced up at the great monastery clock, which declared thetime to be a quarter to three. 

"I am ready, " he said quietly. There was no tremor in his voice or lightin his eyes, and he continued walking leisurely by the side of the oldmonk; but a sudden thrill of pleasant anticipation warmed his heart. 

A little later they entered the monastery and mounted the stone stairstogether. As they walked along the corridor the clock in the toweroverhead struck three. 

"I will wait for you at the foot of the stairs, " said the monk slowly, as if with some compunction. Then he led the way to the end of thecorridor and knocked at the door. He stood back, as if the Provincialwere in the habit of keeping knockers waiting. Such was, at all events, the case now, and some minutes elapsed before a clear, low voice badehim enter. 

The monk opened the door and stood back against the wall for Christianto pass in. The Provincial was seated at the table near the window, which was open, the afternoon being sultry although the autumn wasnearly over. At his left hand stood the small Venetian mirror whichenabled him to see who was behind him without turning round. 

As Christian crossed the room the Provincial rose and bowed slightly, with one of his slow, soft glances. Then he indicated the chair at theleft-hand side of the table, and said, without looking up:

"Be good enough--Mr. Vellacott. "

When they were both seated the Provincial suddenly raised his eyes andfixed them upon the Englishman's face. The action was slightly dramatic, but very effective, and clearly showed that he was accustomed to findthe eyes of others quail before his. Christian met the gaze with acalmness more difficult to meet than open defiance. After a moment theyturned away simultaneously. 

"I need scarcely, " said the Provincial, with singular sweetness ofmanner, which, however, was quite devoid of servility, "apologise toyou, Monsieur, for speaking in French, as it is almost your nativelanguage. "

Christian bowed, at the same time edging somewhat nearer to the table. 

"There are one or two matters, " continued the Jesuit, speaking faster, "upon which I have been instructed to treat with you; but first I mustcongratulate you upon your restoration to health. Your illness has beenvery serious... I trust that you have had nothing to complain of... Inthe treatment which you have received at our hands. "

Christian, while sitting quite motionless, was making an exhaustivesurvey of the room. 

"On the contrary, " he said, in a conventional tone which, in comparisonto his companion's manner, was almost brutal, "it is probably owing tothe care of the sub-prior that I am alive at the present moment, and--"

He stopped suddenly; an almost imperceptible motion of the Jesuit'sstraight eyebrows warned him. 

"And... ?" repeated the Provincial, interrogatively. He leant back in hischair with an obvious air of interest. 

"And I am very grateful----to him. "

"The reverend father is a great doctor, " said the Jesuit lightly. "Excuse me, " he continued, rising and leaning across the table, "I willclose the window; the air from the river begins to grow cool. "

The journalist moved slightly, looking over his shoulder towards thewindow; at the same moment he altered, with his elbow, the position ofthe small mirror standing upon the table. Instead of reflecting thewhole room, including the door at the end, it now reproduced the blankwall at the side opposed to the curtained recess where the bed wasplaced. 

"And now, Mr. Vellacott, " continued the Jesuit, reseating himself, "Imust beg your attention. I think there can be no harm in a little mutualfrankness, and--and it seems to me that a certain allowance forrespective circumstances can well be demanded. "

He paused, and opening the leather-bound manuscript book, becameabsorbed for a moment in the perusal of one of its pages. 

"From your pen, " he then said, in a businesslike monotone, "there hasemanated a serious and hitherto unproved charge against the Holy Societyof Jesus. It came at a critical moment in the political strife thenraging in France; and, in proportion to the attention it attracted, harmand calumny accrued to the Society. I am told that your motives werepurely patriotic, and your desire was nothing beyond a most laudable oneof keeping your countrymen out of difficulties. Before I had thepleasure of seeing you I said, 'This is a young journalist who, at anyexpense, and even at the sacrifice of truth, wishes to make a name inthe world and force himself into public attention. ' Since then I havewithdrawn that opinion. "

During these remarks the Provincial had not raised his eyes from thetable. He now leant back in the chair and contemplated his own claspedhands. Christian had listened attentively. His long, grave face wasturned slightly towards the Provincial, and his eyes were perhaps alittle softer in their gaze. 

"I endeavoured, " he said, "some weeks ago, to explain my position. "

The Jesuit inclined his head. Then he raised his long white finger tohis upper lip, stroking the blue skin pensively. 

Presently he raised his eyes to the Englishman's face, and in theirvelvety depths Christian thought he detected an expression which wasalmost pleading. It seemed to express a desire for help, for some slightassistance in the performance of a difficult task. He never again lookedinto those eyes in all his life, but the remembrance of them remained inhis heart for many years after the surrounding incidents had passed awayfrom memory and interest. He knew that the Soul looking forth from thatpale and heartless face was of no ordinary mould or strength. In lateryears, when they were both grey-haired men whose Yea or No was of someweight in the world--one speaking with the great and open voice of thePress, the other working subtly, dumbly, secretly--their motives mayhave clashed once more, their souls may have met and touched, as itwere, over the heads of the People, but they never looked into eachother's eyes again. 

The Provincial moved uneasily. 

"It has been a most unfortunate business, " he said gently, and after apause continued more rapidly, with his eyes upon the book. "I aminstructed to lay before you the apologies of the Society for theinconvenience to which you have been put. Your own sense of justice willtell you that we were bound to defend ourselves in every way. You havedone us a great injury, and, as is our custom, we have contradictednothing. The Society of Jesus does not defend itself in the vain hope ofreceiving justice at the hands of men. I am now in a position to informyou again that you are at liberty--free to go where you will, when youwill--and that any sum you may require is at your disposal to convey youhome to England ... On your signing a promise never to write anotherword for private or public circulation on the subject of the Holy Orderof Jesus, or to dictate to the writing of another. "

"I must refuse, " said Christian laconically, almost before the words hadleft the Jesuit's lips. "As I explained before, I am simply a publicservant; what I happen to know must ever be at the public disposal or Iam useless. "

A short silence followed this remark. When at length the Provincialspoke his tone was cold and reserved. 

"Of course, " he said, "I expected a refusal--at first. I am instructedto ask you to reconsider your refusal and to oblige me, at the end of aweek, with the result of your meditations. If it remains a refusal, another week will be accorded, and so on. "

"Until--?"

The Jesuit closed the book upon the table in front of him and with greatcare altered its position so that it lay quite squarely. He raised hiseyebrows slightly and glanced sideways towards the Englishman. At thatmoment the bell began summoning the devotees to their evening meal, itsdeep tone vibrating weirdly through the bare corridors. 

"Until you accept, " suggested he softly. 

Christian looked at him speculatively. The faintest suspicion of a smilehovered for a moment in his eyes, and then he turned and looked out ofthe window. 

"I hope, Monsieur, " continued the Jesuit, "that when I have the pleasureof seeing you--a week hence--your health will be quite re-established!"

"Thank you!"

"And in the meantime I shall feel honoured by your asking for anythingyou may require. "

"Thank you!" answered Christian again. He was still looking over hisshoulder, down at the brown river which ran immediately below thewindow. 

"Please excuse my rising to open the door for you, " said the Provincial, with cool audacity, "but I have a few words to write before joining ourbrethren at their evening repast. "

Christian turned and looked at him vaguely. There was a peculiar gleamin his eyes, and he was breathing heavily. Then he rose and, as hepassed the Jesuit, bowed slightly in acknowledgment of his gravesalutation. He walked quickly down the length of the room, which was notcarpeted, and opened the door, closing it again with some noiseimmediately. But he never crossed the threshold. To the man sitting atthe table it was as if the Englishman had left the room, closing thedoor after him. 

Presently the Provincial glanced at the mirror, from mere habit, andfound that it was displaced. He re-arranged it thoughtfully, so that theentire room was included in its field of reflection. 

"I wonder, " he said aloud, "when and why he did that!"

Then he returned to his writing. In a few minutes, however, he rose andpushed back his chair. With his hands clasped behind his back he stoodand gazed fixedly out of the window. Beneath him the brown water glidedpast with curling eddy and gleaming ripple, while its soft murmur wasthe only sound that broke the pathetic silence surrounding this lonelyman. His small and perfectly formed face was quite expressionless; thecurve of his thin lips meant nothing; all the suppressed vitality of hisbeing lay in those deep, soft eyes over which there seemed to be a veil. Presently he turned, and with lithe, smooth steps passed down the longroom and out of the door. 

Instantly Christian Vellacott came from his hiding-place within therecess. He ran to the window and opened it noiselessly. A moment laterhe was standing upon the stone sill. The afternoon sun shone full uponhis face as he stood there, and showed a deep red flush on either cheek. Slowly he stooped forward, holding with one hand to the woodwork of thewindow while he examined critically the surface of the water. Suddenlyhe threw his arms forward and like a black shadow dived noiselessly, passing into the depth without a splash. When he rose to the surface heturned to look at the monastery. The Provincial's window was the onlyoutlet directly on to the river. 

The stream was rapid, and after swimming with it for a short time heleft the water and lay down to recover his breath under the friendlycover of some bushes. There he remained for some time, while the shortOctober twilight closed over the land. A man just dragged from the jawsof death, he lay in his wet clothes where he first found shelter withouteven troubling to move his limbs from the pools of water slowlyaccumulating. Already the monastery was a thing of the past. With therapid forethought of his generation he was already looking to thefuture. He knew too well the spirit of the people in France to fearpursuit. The monks never ventured beyond their own walls except onostentatious missions of charity. The machinations of the Society ofJesus were less to be feared in France than in England, and he had onlyto take his story to the nearest sub-prefecture to raise a storm ofpopular opinion in his favour. But this was not his project. With him, as in all human plans, his own personal feelings came before thepossible duty he owed to the public. He lay beneath the brambleundergrowth, and speculated as to what might have taken place subsequentto his disappearance. At that moment the fortunes of the _Beacon_gave him no food for thought. What Mr. Bodery and his subordinate might, or might not, think found no interest in his mind. All his speculationswere confined to events at St. Mary Western, and the outcome of hismeditations was that when the friendly cover of darkness lay on the landhe rose and started to walk briskly across the well-tilled countrytowards the north. 

That portion of Brittany which lies along the northern coast is apastoral land where sleep occupies the larger half of man's life. Although it was only evening, an hour when Paris and London recover, asit were, from the previous night's vigil and brighten up into vigour, the solitary Englishman passed unheeded through the squalid villages, unmolested along the winding roads. Mile after mile of scanty forestland and rich meadow were left behind, while, except for a fewheavily-breathing cattle, he met no sign of life. At last he came upona broader road which bore unmistakable signs of military workmanship inits construction, and here he met, and passed with laconic greeting, afew peasant women returning with empty baskets from some neighbouringmarket; or perhaps a "cantonnier" here and there, plodding home with"sabots" swinging heavily and round shoulders bent beneath the burdenof his weighty stone-breaking implements. 

Following the direction of this road his course was now towards thenorth-east, with more tendency to the eastward than he desired, butthere was no choice. About eight o'clock he passed through a smallvillage, which appeared to be already wrapped in stupid slumber such asattends the peasant's pillow. A cock crowed loudly, and in reply a dogbarked with some alarm, but Christian was already beyond the villageupon the deserted high road again. 

He now began to feel the weakening effect of his illness; his legsbecame cramped, and he frequently rested at the roadside. The highwaywas running still more to the eastward now, and Christian was justbeginning to consider the advisability of taking to the country again, when it joined a broader road cut east and west. Here he stopped short, and, raising his head, stood quite still for some moments. 

"Ah!" he muttered. "The sea. I smell the sea. "

He now turned to the left, and advanced along the newly-discovered roadtowards the west. As he progressed the pungent odour of seaweedrefreshed him and grew stronger every moment. Suddenly he became awarethat although high land lay upon his left hand there was to his right ahollow darkness without shadow or depth. No merry plash of waves came toexplain this; the smell of the sea was there, but the joyous tumble ofits waters was not to be heard. The traveller stooped low and peeredinto the darkness. Gradually he discerned a distant line of horizon, andto that point there seemed to stretch a vast dead sheet of water withoutlight or motion. Upon his ears there stole a soft bubbling sound, variedoccasionally by a tiny ripple. Suddenly a flash of recollection appearedto pass through the watcher's mind, and he muttered an exclamation ofsurprise as he turned towards the east and endeavoured to pierce thegloom. He was right. Upon the distant line of horizon a jagged outlinecut the sky. It was like the form of a huge tooth jutting out from thesofter earth. Such is Mont St. Michel standing grandly alone in themidst of a shallow, sullen sea. The only firm thing among the quakingsands, the only stone for miles around. 

"The Bay of Cancale!" reflected Christian. "If I keep to the westward Ishall reach St. Mâlo before ten o'clock!"

And he set off with renewed vigour. From his feet there stretched awayto the north a great dead level of quicksand, seething, bubbling, andheaving in the darkness. The sea, and yet no sea. Neither honest landnor rolling water. 

CHAPTER XXVI

SIGNOR BRUNO

Silas Lebrun, captain and part-owner of the brig _Agnes and Mary_of Jersey, was an early riser. Moreover, the old gentleman entertainedpeculiar views as to the homage due to Morpheus. He made no elaboratetoilet before entering the presence of that most lovable god. Indeed healways slept in his boots, and the cabin-boy had on several occasionsinvited the forecastle hands to believe that he neither removed theancient sealskin cap from his head nor the wooden pipe from his lipswhen slumber soothed his senses; but this statement was always set asideas unauthenticated. 

In person the ancient sailor was almost square, with short legs and abody worthy of promotion to something higher. His face was wrinkled andbrown, like the exterior of that incomprehensible fruit the medlar, which is never ripe till it is bad, and then it is to be avoided. Ayellow-grey beard clustered closely round a short chin, and whenperchance the sealskin cap was absent yellow-grey hair of a similar huecompleted the circle, standing up as high from his brow as fell thebeard downward from his chin. A pair of intensely blue eyes, liquidalways with the milk of human kindness, rendered the hirsute medlar apleasant thing to look at. 

The _Agnes and Mary_ was ready for sea, her cargo of potatoes, witha little light weight in the way of French beans and eggs, comfortablystowed, and as Captain Lebrun emerged from what he was pleased to callhis "state-room" with the first breath of a clear morning he performedhis matinal toilet with a certain sense of satisfaction. Thisoperation was simple, consisting merely in the passage of four verybrown fingers through the yellow-grey hair, and a hurried dispersal ofthe tobacco ash secreted in his beard. 

The first object that met the mariner's astonished gaze was the longblack form of a man stretched comfortably upon the cabin locker. Thegreen mud adhering to the sleeper's thin shoes showed that he hadclimbed on board at low tide when the harbour was dry. 

Captain Lebrun gazed meditatively at the intruder for some moments. Thenhe produced a powerfully-scented pipe of venerable appearance, which hadbeen, at various stages of its existence, bound in a seaman-like mannerwith pieces of tarred yarn. He slowly filled this object, and proceededto inform it in a husky voice that he was "blowed. " The pipe was, apparently, in a similar condition, as it refused absolutely to answerto the powerful suction applied to it. 

He then seated himself with some difficulty upon the corner of the lowtable, and examined the sleeper critically. 

"Poor devil, " he again said, addressing himself to his pipe. "He's oneof them priest fellows. --Hi, mister!" he observed, raising his voice. 

Christian Vellacott woke up at once, and took in the situation withoutdelay. He was not of those who must go through terrible contortionsbefore regaining their senses after sleep. 

"Good morning, Captain!" he observed pleasantly. 

"Oh--yourn't a parlee voo, then!"

"No, I'm an Englishman. "

"Indeed. Then you'll excuse me, but what in the name of glory are youdoing here?"

Christian sat up and looked at his muddy shoes with some interest. 

"Well, the truth is that I am bolting. I want to get across to England. I saw where you hailed from by your rig, and clambered on board lastnight. It seemed to me that when an Englishman is in a hole he cannot dobetter than go to a fellow-countryman for help. "

Captain Lebrun made a mighty effort to force a passage through his pipe, and was rewarded by a very high-pitched squeak. 

"Ay!" he said doubtfully. "But what sort of hole is it? Nothing dirty, I'm hopin'. Who are yer? Why are ye runnin' away, and who are ye runnin'from?"

Though a trifle blunt the sailor's manner was not unfriendly, andChristian laughed before replying. 

"Well, " he said, "to tell you the whole story would take a long time. You remember perhaps there was a row, about two months ago, respectingsome English rifles found in Paris?"

"Of course I remember that; we had a lot o' trouble with the Customsjust then. The thing was ferreted out by a young newspaper fellow!"

Christian rubbed his hands slowly together. He was terribly anxious tohear the sequel. 

"I am that newspaper fellow, " he said, with a quick smile. 

Captain Lebrun slowly stood up. He contemplated his pipe thoughtfully, then laying it upon the table he turned solemnly towards Christian, andheld out a broad brown hand which was covered with scales in lieu ofskin. 

"Shake hands, mister?" he said. 

Christian obliged him. 

"And now, " he said quickly, "I want to know what has happenedsince--since I left England. Has there been a great row? Has ... Hasanybody wondered where I was?"

The old sailor may have had his suspicions. He may have guessed thatChristian Vellacott had not left England at the dictates of his own freewill, for he looked at him very kindly with his liquid blue eyes, andreplied slowly:--

"I couldn't say that _nobody_ hasn't been wonderin' where ye was, but--but there's been nothing in the papers!"

"That is all right! And now will you give me a passage, Captain?"

"Course I will! We sail about eleven this morning. I'm loaded andcleared out. But I should like you to have a change o' clothes. Can'tbear to see ye in them black things. It makes me feel as if I wastalkin' to a priest. "

"I should like nothing better, " replied Christian, as he rose andcontemplated his own person reflectively. 

"Come into my state-room then. I've got a few things of my own, and abit of a slop-chest: jerseys and things as I sell to the men. "

The Captain's wardrobe was of a marine character and somewhat rough intexture. He had, however, a coat and waistcoat of thick blue pilot-clothwhich fitted Christian remarkably well, but the continuations thereofwere so absurdly out of keeping with the young fellow's long limbs as toprecipitate the skipper on to the verge of apoplexy. When he recovered, and his pipe was re-lighted, he left the cabin and went forward toborrow a pair of the required articles from Tom Slake, an ordinaryseaman of tall and slim proportions. In a short time Christian Vellacottbore the outward semblance of a very fair specimen of the British tar, except that his cheeks were bleached and sunken, which discrepancy waspromptly commented upon by the blunt old sailor. 

Secrecy was absolutely necessary, so Tom, of the long legs, was the onlyperson to whom Christian's presence was made known; and he it was who(in view of a possible berth as steward later on) was entrusted with thesimple culinary duties of the vessel. 

Breakfast, as served up by Tom, was of a noble simplicity. A long shinyloaf of yesterday's bread, some butter in a saucer--which vessel wasdeemed entirely superfluous in connection with cups--brown sugar in anold mustard-tin, with portions of yellow paper adhering to it, and solidslices of bacon brought from the galley in their native frying-pan. Suchslight drawbacks, however, as there might have been in the matter oftable-ware disappeared before the sense of kindly hospitality with whichCaptain Lebrun poured the tea into a cracked cup and a borrowedpannikin, dropping in the sugar with careful judgment from his brownfingers. Such defects as there might have lurked in the culinary art ascarried on in the galley vanished before the friendly solicitude withwhich Tom tilted the frying-pan to pour into Christian's plate a brightflow of bacon-fat cunningly mingled with cinders. 

When the meal had been duly despatched Captain Lebrun produced his pipeand proceeded to fill it, after having extracted from its inward partsthe usual high-toned squeak. 

Christian leant back against the bulkhead with his hands buried deeplyin Tom's borrowed pockets. He felt much more at home in pilot cloth thanin cashmere. 

"There is one more thing I should like to borrow, " he said. 

"Ay?" repeated the captain interrogatively, as he searched in hiswaistcoat-pocket for a match. 

"Ay, what is it?"

"A pipe. I have not had a smoke for two months. "

The Captain struck a light upon his leg. 

"I've got one somewhere, " he replied reassuringly; "carried it for manyyears now, just in case this one fell overboard or got broke. "

Tom, who happened to be present, smiled audibly behind a hand which washardly a recommendation for the coveted berth of steward, but Christianlooked at the battered pipe with sympathetic gravity. 

At ten o'clock the _Agnes and Mary_ warped out of harbour anddropped lazily down the Rance, setting sail as she went. Christian hadspent most of the morning in the little cabin smoking Captain Lebrun'sreserve pipe, and seeking to establish order among the accounts of theship. The accounts were the _bête noire_ of the old sailor'sexistence. Upon his own confession he "wasn't no arithmetician, " andChristian found, upon inspecting his accounts, no cause to contradictthis ambiguous statement. 

When the _Agnes and Mary_ was clear of the harbour he went on deck, where activity and maritime language reigned supreme. The channel wasnarrow and the wind light, consequently the little brig drifted more orless at her own sweet will. This would have been well enough had thewaterway been clear of other vessels, but the Jersey steamer was comingin, with her yellow funnel gleaming in the sunlight, her mail-flagfluttering at her foremast, and her captain swearing on the bridge, withthe whistle-pull in his hand. 

Seeing that the _Agnes and Mary_ had no steerage way, the captainstopped his engines for a few minutes, and then went ahead again athalf-speed. This brought the vessels close together, and, as is theinvariable custom in such circumstances, the two crews stared stonily ateach other. On the deck were one or two passengers enjoying the morningair after a cramped and uncomfortable night. Among these was an old manwith a singularly benign expression; he was standing near theafter-wheel, gazing with senile placidity towards St. Mâlo. As thevessels neared each other, however, he walked towards the rail, andstood there with a pleasant smile upon his face, as if ready to exchangea greeting with any kindred soul upon the _Agnes and Mary_. 

Christian Vellacott, seated upon the rail of the after-deck, saw the oldman and watched him with some interest--not, however, altering hisposition or changing countenance. The vessels moved slowly on, and, indue course, the two men were opposite to each other, each at the extremestern of his ship. 

Then the young journalist removed Captain Lebrun's spare pipe from hislips, and leaning sideways over the water, called out:

"Good morning, Signor Bruno!"

The effect of this friendly greeting upon the benevolent old gentlemanwas peculiar. He grasped the rail before him with both hands, and staredat the young Englishman. Then he stamped upon the deck with a suddenaccess of fury. 

"Ah!" he exclaimed fiercely, while a tiger-like gleam shone out frombeneath his smooth white brows. "Ah! it is you!"

Christian swung his legs idly, and smiled with some amusement across thelittle strip of water. 

Suddenly the old man plunged his hand into the breast-pocket of hiscoat. He appeared to be tugging wildly at some article which was caughtin the lining of his clothes, when a remarkable change came over hisface. A dull red colour flew to his cheeks, and his eyes gleamedruddily, as if shot with blood. Then without a word he fell forward withhis breast against the painted rail, remained there a second, and as thetwo ships passed away from each other, rolled over upon his back on theclean deck, grasping a pistol in his right hand. 

Christian Vellacott sat still upon the rail, swinging one leg, andsmiling reflectively. He saw the old man fall and the other passengerscrowd round him, but the _Agnes and Mary_ had now caught the breezeand was moving rapidly out to sea, where the sunlight danced upon thewater in little golden bars. 

"Apperlexy!" said a voice in the journalist's ear. He turned and foundCaptain Lebrun standing at his side looking after the steamer. "Apperlexy!"

"Do you think so?" asked Christian. 

"I do, " was the reply, given with some conviction. "I seen a man falljust like that; he was a broad-built man wi' a thick neck, and in amoment of excitement he fell just like that, and died a'most at once. Apperlexy they said it was. "

"It seemed to come over him very suddenly, did it not?" said Christianabsently. 

"Ay, it did, " said the captain. "Ye seemed to know him!"

Christian turned and looked his companion full in the face. "I have methim twice, " he said quietly. "He was in England for some years, Ibelieve; a political refugee, he called himself. "

By sea and land Captain Lebrun had learnt to devote an exclusiveattention to his own affairs, allowing other men to manage theirs, wellor ill, according to their fancy. He knew that Christian Vellacottwished to tell him no more, and he was content that it should be so, buthe had noticed a circumstance which, from the young journalist'sposition, was probably invisible. He turned to give an order to the manat the wheel, and then walked slowly and with some difficulty (forCaptain Lebrun suffered, in a quiet way, agonies from rheumatism) backtowards his passenger. 

"Seemed to me, " he said reflectively, as he looked upwards to see if theforetopsail was shivering, "as if he had something in his hand when a'fell. "

Christian followed the Captain's gaze. The sails were now filling well, and there was an exhilarating sound of straining cordage in the airwhile the vessel glided on. The young journalist was not animpressionable man, but he felt all these things. The sense of openfreedom, the gentle rise and fall of the vessel, the whirring breeze, and the distant line of high land up the Rance towards Dinant--allthese were surely worth hearing, feeling, and seeing; assuredly, theyadded to the joy of living. 

"Something in his hand, " he repeated gravely; "what was it?"

Captain Lebrun turned sideways towards the steersman, and made a littlegesture with his left hand. A wrinkle had appeared in one corner of theforetopsail. Then he looked round the horizon with a sailor'sfar-seeing gaze, before replying. 

"Seemed to me, " he mumbled, without taking his pipe from his lips, "that it was a revolver. "

Then the two men smoked in silence for some time. The little vesselmoved steadily out towards the blue water, passing a lighthouse builtupon a solitary rock, and later a lightship, with its clean red hullgleaming in the sunlight as it rose and fell lazily. So close were theyto the latter that the man watching on deck waved his hand insalutation. 

Still Vellacott had vouchsafed no reply to Captain Lebrun's strangestatement. He sat on the low rail, swinging one leg monotonously, whilethe square little sailor stood at his side with that patient maritimereflectiveness which is being slowly killed by the quicker ways ofsteam. 

"My calling brings me into contact with a rum lot of people, " said theyoung fellow at last, "and I suppose all of us make enemies withoutknowing it. "

With this vague elucidation the little skipper was forced to contenthimself. He gave a grunt of acquiescence, and walked forward tosuperintend the catheading of the anchor. 

CHAPTER XXVII

IN THE RUE ST. GINGOLPHE AGAIN

One would almost have said that the good citizen Jacquetot was restlessand disturbed. It was not that the little tobacco shop left aught to bedesired in the way of order, neither had the tobacconist quitted hisseat at the window-end of the counter. But he was not smoking, and atshort intervals he drew aside the little red curtain and looked out intothe quiet Rue St. Gingolphe with a certain eagerness. 

The tobacconist was not in the habit of going to meet things. He usuallywaited for them to come to him. But on this particular evening ofSeptember in a year which it is not expedient to name, he seemed to belooking out into the street in order that he might not be taken bysurprise in the event of an arrival. Moreover he mopped his vastforehead at unnecessarily frequent intervals, just as one may note asnuff-taker have recourse to that solace more frequently when he isagitated than when a warm calm reigns within his breast. 

"So quiet--so quiet, " he muttered, "in our little street--and in theothers--who knows? It would appear that they have their shutters loweredthere. "

He listened intently, but there was no sound except the clatter of anoccasional cart or the distant whistle of a Seine steamer. 

Then the tobacconist returned to the perusal of the _PetitJournal_. Before he had skimmed over many lines, he looked up sharplyand drew aside the red curtain. Yes! It was some one at last. Thefootsteps were hurried and yet hesitating--the gait of a person notknowing his whereabouts. And yet the man who entered the shop a momentlater was evidently the same who had come to the citizen Jacquetot whenlast we met him. 

"Ah!" exclaimed the tobacconist. "It is you!"

"No, " replied the other. "It is not. I am not the citizen... Morot--Ithink you call it. "

"But, yes!" exclaimed the fat man in amazement. "You are that citizen, and you are also the Vicomte d'Audierne. "

The new-comer was looking round him curiously; he stepped towards thecurtained door, and turned the handle. 

"I am, " he said, "his brother. We are twins. There is a resemblance. Isthis the room? Yes!"

"Yes, monsieur. It is! But never was there such a resemblance. "

The tobacconist mopped his head breathlessly. 

"Go, " said the other, "and get a mattress. Bring it and lay it on thistable. My brother is wounded. He has been hit. "

Jacquetot rose laboriously from his seat. He knew now that this was notthe Vicomte d'Audierne. This man's method was quite different. He spokewith a quiet air of command, not doubting that his orders would beobeyed. He was obviously not in the habit of dealing with the People. The Vicomte d'Audierne had a different manner of speaking to differentpeople--this man, who resembled him so strangely, gave his orderswithout heeding the reception of them. 

The tobacconist was essentially a man of peace. He passed out of a smalldoor in the corner of the shop, obeying without a murmur, and leavingthe new-comer alone. 

A moment later the sound of wheels awoke the peaceful stillness of theRue St. Gingolphe. The vehicle stopped, and at the same instant the manpassed through the little curtained doorway into the room at the back ofthe shop, closing the door after him. 

The gas was turned very low, and in the semi-darkness he stood quitestill, waiting. He had not long to wait; he had scarcely closed the doorwhen it was opened again, and some one entered rapidly, closing itbehind him. Then the first comer raised his arm and turned up the gas. 

Across the little table, in the sudden flood of light, two men stoodlooking at each other curiously. They were so startlingly alike, inheight and carriage and every feature, that there was something weirdand unpleasant in their action--in their silence. 

"Ah!" said the last comer. "It is thou. I almost fired!"

And he threw down on the table a small revolver. 

"Why have you done this?" continued the Vicomte d'Audierne. "I thoughtwe agreed sixteen years ago that the world was big enough to contain usboth without meeting, if we exercised a little care. "

"She is dead, " replied the brother. "She died two years ago--the wife ofPrangius--what does it matter now?"

"I know that--but why did you come?"

"I was ordered to Paris by the General. I was near you at the barricade, and I heard the bullet hit you. Where is it?"

The Vicomte looked down at his hand, which was pressed to his breast;the light of the gas flickered, and gleamed on his spectacles as he didso. 

"In my chest, " he replied. "I am simply dripping with blood. It hastrickled down my legs into my boots. Very hot at first--and then verycold. "

The other looked at him curiously, and across his velvety eyes therepassed that strange contraction which has been noted in the glance ofthe Vicomte d'Audierne. 

"I have sent for a mattress, " he said. "That bullet must come out. Adoctor is following me; he will be here on the instant. "

"One of your Jesuits?"

"Yes--one of my Jesuits. "

The Vicomte d'Audierne smiled and winced. He staggered a little, andclutched at the back of a chair. The other watched him without emotion. 

"Why do you not sit down?" he suggested coldly. "There are none ofyour--_People_--here to be impressed. "

Again the Vicomte smiled. 

"Yes, " he said smoothly, "we work on different lines, do we not? Iwonder which of us has dirtied his hands the most. Which of the two--thetwo fools who quarrelled about a woman. Ha? And she married a third--adolt. Thus are they made--these women!"

"And yet, " said the Jesuit, "you have not forgotten. "

The Vicomte looked up slowly. It seemed that his eyelids were heavy, requiring an effort to lift them. 

"I do not like to hear the rooks call--that is all, " he said. 

The other turned away his soft, slow glance, the glance that had failedto overcome Christian Vellacott's quiet defiance--

"Nor I, " he said. "It makes one remember. "

There was a short silence, and then the Jesuit spoke--sharply andsuddenly. 

"Sit down, you fool!" he said. "You are fainting. "

The Vicomte obeyed, and at the same moment the door opened and thetobacconist appeared, pushing before him a mattress. 

The Jesuit laid aside his hat, revealing the tonsure gleaming whitelyamidst his jetty hair, and helped to lay the mattress upon the table. Then the two men, the Provincial and the tobacconist of the Rue St. Gingolphe, lifted the wounded aristocrat gently and placed him upon theimprovised bed. True to his blood, the Vicomte d'Audierne uttered nosound of agony, but as his brother began to unbutton the butcher'sblouse in which he was disguised he fainted quietly. Presently thedoctor arrived. He was quite a young man, with shifting grey eyes, andhe saluted the Provincial with a nervous obsequity which was unpleasantto look upon. The deftness with which he completed the task of layingbare the wound was notable. His fingers were too clever to be quitehonest. When, however, he was face to face with the little blue-rimmedorifice that disfigured the Vicomte's muscular chest, the expression ofhis face--indeed his whole manner--changed. His eyes lost theirshiftiness--he seemed to forget the presence of the great man standingat the other side of the table. 

While he was selecting a probe from his case of instruments the Vicomted'Audierne opened his eyes. 

"Ah!" said the doctor, noting this at once. "You got this on theBoulevard?"

"Yes. "

"How did you get here?" He was feeling the wounded man's pulse now. 

"Cab. "

"All the way?"

"Of course. "

"Who carried you into this room?" asked the doctor, returning to hiscase of instruments. 

"No one! I walked. " The doctor's manner, quick and nonchalant, evidentlyaggravated his patient. 

"Why did you do that?"

He was making his preparations while he spoke, and never looked at theVicomte. 

"In order to avoid attracting attention. "

This brought the doctor's glance to his face, and the result wasinstantaneous. The young man started, and into his eyes there came againthe shifty expression, as he looked from the face of the patient to thatof the Provincial standing motionless at the other side of the table. Hesaid nothing, however, and returned with a peculiar restraint to hispreparations. It is probable that his silence was brought about by thepersistent gaze of two pairs of deep velvety eyes which never left hisface. 

"Will Monsieur take chloroform, " he asked, unfolding a cleanpocket-handkerchief, and taking from his waistcoat pocket a small phial. 

"No!"

"But--I beg of you------"

"It is not necessary, " persisted the Vicomte calmly. 

The doctor looked across to the Provincial and made a hopeless littlemovement of the shoulders, accompanied by an almost imperceptibleelevation of the eyebrows. 

The Jesuit replied by looking meaningly at the small glass-stopperedbottle. 

Then the doctor muttered:

"As you will!"

He had laid his instruments out upon the mattress--the gas was turned upas high as it would go. Everything was ready. Then he turned his back amoment and took off his coat, which he laid upon a chair, returningtowards the bed with one hand behind his back. 

Quick as thought, he suddenly darted forward and pressed the cleanhandkerchief over the wounded man's mouth and nose. The Vicomted'Audierne gave a little smothered exclamation of rage, and raised hisarms; but the Jesuit was too quick for him, and pinned him down upon themattress. 

After a moment the doctor removed the handkerchief, and the Vicomte layunconscious and motionless, his delicate lips drawn back in anger, sothat the short white teeth gleamed dangerously. 

"It is possible, " said the surgeon, feeling his pulse again, "thatMonsieur has killed himself by walking into this room. "

Like a cat over its prey, the young doctor leant across the mattress. Without looking round he took up the instruments he wanted, knowing theorder in which they lay. He had been excellently taught. The noiselessmovements of his white fingers were marvellously dexterous--neat, rapid, and finished. The evil-looking instruments gleamed and flashed beneaththe gaslight. He had a peculiar little habit of wiping each one on hisshirt-sleeve before and after use, leaving a series of thin red stripesthere. 

After the lapse of a minute he raised his head, wiped something which heheld in his fingers, and passed it across to the Provincial. 

"That is the bullet, my father, " he said, without ceasing hisoccupation, and without raising his eyes from the wounded man. 

"Will he live?" asked the Jesuit casually, while he examined the bullet. 

"If he tries, my father, " was the meaning reply. 

The young doctor was bandaging now, skilfully and rapidly. 

"This would be the death of a dog, " said the Provincial, as if musingaloud; for the surgeon was busy at his trade, and the tobacconist hadwithdrawn some time before. 

"Better than the life of a dog, " replied the Vicomte, in his smoothlymocking way, without opening his eyes. 

It was very easy to blame one woman, and to cast reflections upon theentire sex. If these brothers had not quarrelled about that woman, theywould have fallen out over something else. Some men are so: they arelike a strong spirit--light and yet potent--that floats upon the top ofall other liquids and will mingle with none. 

It would seem that these two could not be in the same room withoutquarrelling. It was only with care that (as the Jesuit had coldlyobserved) they could exist in the same world without clashing. Neverwas the Vicomte d'Audierne so cynical, so sceptical, as in the presenceof his brother. Never was Raoul d'Audierne so cold, so heartless, soJesuitical, as when meeting his brother's scepticism. 

Sixteen years of their life had made no difference. They were as farapart now as on one grey morning sixteen years ago, when the Vicomted'Audierne had hurried away from the deserted shore of the Côte du Nord, leaving his brother lying upon the sand with an ugly slit in his neck. That slit had healed now, but the scar was always at his throat, and inboth their hearts. 

True to his training, the Provincial had not spoken the truth when hesaid that he had been ordered to Paris. There was only one man in theworld who could order him to do anything, and that man was too wise totest his authority. Raoul d'Audierne had come to Paris for the purposeof seeing his brother--senior by an hour. There were many things ofwhich he wished to speak, some belonging to the distant past, some to amore recent date. He wished to speak of Christian Vellacott--one of thefew men who had succeeded in outwitting him--of Signor Bruno, or MaxTalma, who had died within pistol range of that same Englishman, asudden, voiceless death, the result of a terrible access of passion atthe sight of his face. 

But this man was a Jesuit and a d'Audierne, which latter statement isfull of import to those who, having studied heredity, know thatwonderful _inner_ history of France which is the most romanticstory of human kind. And so Raoul d'Audierne--the man whose power in theworld is like that of the fires burning within the crust of the earth, unseen, immeasurable--and so he took his hat, and left the little roombehind the tobacconist's shop in the Rue St. Gingolphe--beaten, frustrated. 

CHAPTER XXVIII

THE MAKING OF CHRISTIAN VELLACOTT

"Money, " Captain Lebrun was saying emphatically, as the _Agnes andMary_ drifted slowly past Gravesend pier on the rising tide. "Hangmoney! Now, I should think that you make as much of it in a month as Ido in a year. You're a young man, and as far as I know ye, ye're asuccessful one. Life spreads out before you like a clean chart. I'm anold 'un--my time is nearly up. I've lived what landsmen call a hardlife, and now I'm slowly goin' home. Ay, Mr. Vellacott, goin' home! Andyou think that with all your manifold advantages you're a happier manthan me. Not a bit of it! And why? 'Cause you belong to a generationthat looks so far ahead that it's afraid of bein' happy, just for fearthere's sorrow a comin'. Money, and lookin' ahead, that's what spoilsyer lives nowadays. "

The skipper emphasised these weighty observations by expectoratingdecisively into the water, and walked away, leaving Christian Vellacottwith a vaguely amused smile upon his face. It is just possible thatSilas Lebrun, master and owner of the _Agnes and Mary_, was nearerthe mark than he thought. 

An hour later, Vellacott was walking along the deserted embankment aboveWestminster, on the Chelsea side of the river. It was nine o'clock, forwhich fact Big Ben solemnly gave his word, far up in the fog. Themorning was very dark, and the street lamps were still alight, whileevery window sent forth a gleam suggestive of early autumnal fires. 

Turning up his own street he increased his pace, realising suddenly thathe had not been within his own doors for more than four months. Muchmight have happened in that time--to change his life, perhaps. As heapproached the house he saw a strange servant, an elderly woman, on herknees at the steps, and somehow the sight conveyed to his mind thethought that there was something waiting for him within that peacefullittle house. He almost ran those last few yards, and sprang up thesteps past the astonished woman without a word of explanation. 

The gas in the narrow entrance-hall was lighted, and as he threw asidehis cap he perceived a warm gleam of firelight through the half-opendoor of the dining-room. He crossed the carpeted hall, and pushed openthat door. 

Near the little breakfast-table, just under the gas, stood Hilda Carew. In _his_ room, standing among _his_ multifarious possessions, in the act of pouring from _his_ coffee-pot. She was dressed inblack--he noticed that. Instead of being arranged high upon her head, her marvellous hair hung in one massive plait down her back. She lookedlike a tall and beautiful school-girl. He had not seen her hair likethat since the old days when he had been as one of the Carews. 

As he pushed open the door, she looked up; and for a moment they stoodthus. She set down the coffee-pot, carefully and symmetrically, in thecentre of the china stand provided for its reception--and the colourslowly left her face. 

"You have come back at last!" she said quite monotonously. It soundedlike a remark made for the purpose of filling up an awkward silence. 

Then he entered the room, and mechanically closed the door behind him. She noticed the action, but did not move. He passed round the table, behind Aunt Judy's chair, and they shook hands conventionally. 

"Yes, " he said almost breathlessly; "I am back; you do not seem elatedby the fact. "

Suddenly she smiled--the smile that suggested, in some subtle way, akitten. 

"Of course--I am glad ... To see you. "

In a peculiar dreamy way she began to add milk to the coffee. It seemedas if this were mere play-acting, and not real life at all. 

"How is it that you are here?" he asked, with a broken, disjointedlaugh. "You cannot imagine how strange an effect it was ... For me ... To come in and see you ... Here--of all people. "

She looked at him gravely, and moved a step towards him. 

"Aunt Judy is dead!" she explained; "and Aunt Hester is very ill. Motheris upstairs with them--_her_--now. I have just come from the room, where I have been since midnight. "

She stopped, raised her hand to her hair as if recollecting something, and stood looking sideways out of the window. 

"There is something about you this morning, " he said, with aconcentrated deliberation, "that brings back the old Prague days. Isuppose it is that I have not seen your hair as you have itto-day--since then. "

She turned quite away from his hungry gaze, looking out of the window. 

After a pause she broke the silence--with infinite tact--not speakingtoo hurriedly. 

"It has been a terrible week, " she said. "Mother heard from Mr. Boderythat they were very ill; so we came. I never dreamt that it was so badwhen you spoke of them. Five years it has been going on?"

"Yes; five years. Thank you for coming, but I am sorry you should haveseen it. "

"Why?"

"Every one should keep guard over his own skeleton. "

She was looking at him now. 

"You look very ill, " she said curtly. "Where have you been?"

"I was kidnapped, " he said, with a short laugh, "and then I got typhoid. The monks nursed me. "

"You were in a monastery?"

"Yes; in Brittany. "

She was idly arranging the cups and saucers with her left hand, whichshe seemed desirous of bringing under his notice; but he could look atnothing but her face. 

"Then, " she said, "it would have been impossible to find you?"

"Quite, " he replied, and after a pause he added, in a singularly easymanner, "Tell me what happened after I disappeared. "

She did not seem to like the task. 

"Well--we searched--oh! Christian, it was horrid!"

"I wondered, " he said, in a deep, soft voice, "whether you would find itso. "

"Yes, of course, we _all_ did. "

This did not appear to satisfy him. 

"But you, " he persisted, "you, yourself--what did you think?"

"I do not know, " she answered, with painful hesitation. "I don't think Ithought at all. "

"Then what did you do, Hilda?"

"I--oh, we searched. We telegraphed for Mr. Bodery, who came down atonce. Then Fred rode over, and placed himself at Mr. Bodery's disposal. First he went to Paris, then to Brest. He did everything that could bedone, but of course it was of no avail. By Mr. Bodery's adviceeverything was kept secret. There was nothing in the newspapers. "

She stopped suddenly, and there was a silence in the room. He waslooking at her curiously, still ignoring that little left hand. Only oneword of her speech seemed to have attached itself to his understanding. 

"Fred?" he said. "Fred Farrar?"

"Yes--my husband!"

He turned away--walked towards the door, and then returned to thehearthrug, where he stood quite still. 

"I suppose it was a quiet wedding, " he said in a hard voice, "on myaccount; eh?"

"Yes, " she whispered. He waited, but she added nothing. 

Then suddenly he laughed. 

"I have made a most extraordinary mistake!" he said, and again laughed. 

"Oh, don't" she exclaimed. 

"Don't what?"

"Laugh. "

He came nearer to her--quite near, until his sleeve almost touched herbowed head. 

"I thought--at St. Mary Western--that you loved _me_. "

She seemed to shrink away from him. 

"What made me think so, Hilda?"

She raised her head, and her eyes flashed one momentary appeal formercy--like the eyes of a whipped dog. 

"Tell me, " he said sternly. 

"It was, " she whispered, "because _I_ thought so myself. "

"And when I was gone you found out that you had made a mistake?"

"Yes; he was so kind, so _brave_, Christian--because he knew of mymistake. "

Christian Vellacott turned away, and looked thoughtfully out of thewindow. 

"Well, " he said, after a pause, "so long as you do not suffer by it--"

"Oh--h, " she gasped, as if he were whipping her. She did not quite knowwhat he meant. She does not know now. 

At last he spoke again, slowly, deliberately, and without emotion. 

"Some day, " he said, "when you are older, when you have more experienceof the world, you will probably fall into the habit of thanking God, inyour prayers, that I am what I am. It is not because I am good ... Perhaps it is because I am ambitious--my father, you may remember, wasconsidered heartless; it may be _that_. But if I were different--ifI were passionate instead of being what the world calls cold andcalculating--you would be ... Your life would be--" he stopped, andturning away he sat down wearily in Aunt Judy's armchair. "You willknow some day!" he said. 

It is probable that she does know now. She knows, in all likelihood, that her husband would have been powerless to save her from ChristianVellacott--from herself--from that Love wherein there are no roses butonly thorns. 

And in the room above them Aunt Hester was dying. So wags the world. There is no attention paid to the laws of dramatic effect upon the stageof life. The scenes are produced without sequence, without apparentrhyme or reason; and Chance, the scene-shifter, is very careless, forcomedies are enacted amid scenic effects calculated to show off toperfection the deepest tragedy, while tragedies are spoilt by theirsurroundings. 

The doctor and Mrs. Carew stood at the bedside, and listened to the oldwoman's broken murmurings. Into her mind there had perhaps strayed agleam of that Light which is not on the earth, for she was not abusingher great-nephew. 

"Ah, Christian, " she was murmuring, "I wish you would come. I want tothank you for your kindness, more especially to Aunt Judy. She is old, and we must make allowances. I know she is aggravating. It happened longago, when your father was a little boy--but it altered her whole life. Ithink women are like that. There is something that only comes to themonce. I am feeling far from well, nephew Vellacott. I think I shouldlike to see a doctor. What does Aunt Judy think? Is she asleep?"

She turned her head to where she expected to find her sister, and in theact of turning her eyes closed. She slumbered peacefully. The twosisters had slept together for seventy years--seventy long, monotonousyears, in which there had been no incident, no great joy, no deepsorrow--years lost. Except for the natural growth and slow decay oftheir frames, they had remained stationary, while around them childrenhad grown into men and women and had passed away. 

Presently Aunt Hester opened her eyes, and they rested on the vacantpillow at her side. After a pause she slowly turned her head, and fixedher gaze upon the doctor's face. He thought that the power of speech hadleft her, but suddenly she spoke, quite clearly. 

"Where is my sister Judith?" she asked. 

There are times when the truth must be spoken, though it kill. 

"Your sister died yesterday, " replied the doctor. 

Aunt Hester lay quite still, staring at the ceiling. Her shrivelledfingers were picking at the counter-pane. Then a gleam of intelligencepassed across her face. 

"And now, " she said, "I shall have a bed to myself. I have waited longenough. "

Aunt Hester was very human, although the shadow of an angel's wing layacross her bed. 

 * * * * *

It was many years later that Christian Vellacott found himself in thepresence of the Angel of Death again. A telegram from Havre was one dayhanded to him in the room at the back of the tall house in the Strand, and the result was that he crossed from Southampton to Havre that samenight. 

As the sun rose over the sea the next morning, its earliest rays glancedgaily through the open port-hole of a cabin in a large ocean steamer, still panting from her struggle through tepid Eastern seas. 

In this little cabin lay the Jesuit missionary, René Drucquer, watchingthe moving reflections of the water, which played ceaselessly on thepainted ceiling overhead. He had been sent home from India by akind-hearted army surgeon; a doomed man, stricken by a climatic diseasein which there was neither hope nor hurry. When the steamer arrived inthe Seine it was found expedient to let the young missionary die wherehe lay. The local agent of the Society of Jesus was a kind-hearted man, and therefore a faithless servant. He acceded to René Drucquer's prayerto telegraph for Christian Vellacott. 

And now Vellacott was actually coming down the cabin stairs. He enteredthe cabin and stood by the sick man's bed. 

"Ah, you have come, " said the Frenchman, with that peculiar tone ofpathetic humour which can only be rendered in the language that hespoke. 

"But how old! Do I look as old as that, I wonder? And hard--yes, hard assteel. "

"Oh no, " replied Vellacott. "It may be that the hardness that was oncethere shows now upon my face--that is all. "

The Frenchman looked lovingly at him, with eyes like the eyes of awoman. 

"And now you are a great man, they tell me. "

Vellacott shrugged his shoulders. 

"In my way, " he admitted. "And you?"

"I--I have taught. "

"Ah! and has it been a success?"

"In teaching I have learnt. "

Vellacott merely nodded his head. 

"Do you know why I sent for you?" continued the missionary. 

"No. "

"I sent for you in order to tell you that I burnt that letter atAudierne. "

"I came to that conclusion, for it never arrived. "

"I want you to forgive me. "

Vellacott laughed. 

"I never thought of it again, " he replied heartily. 

The priest was looking keenly at him. 

"I did not say 'thou, ' but '_you_, '" he persisted gently. 

Vellacott's glance wavered; he raised his head, and looked out of theopen port-hole across the glassy waters of the river. 

"What do you mean?" he inquired. 

"I thought, " said René Drucquer, "there might be some one else--somewoman--who was waiting for news. "

After a little pause the journalist replied. 

"My dear Abbé, " he said, "there is no woman in the whole world who wantsnews of me. And the result is, as you kindly say, I am a great mannow--in my way. "

But he knew that he might have been a greater.