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 a peculiar expression of dawning surprise upon his face, and he studied the envelopes in his hand without reading a word of the address. Presently he raised his eyes and glanced at Hilda. She was holding a letter daintily between her two forefingers, cornerwise, and with little puffs of her pouted lips was spinning it round, evidently enjoying the infantile amusement immensely.
He dropped his letters into the pocket of his jacket, and stood aside for her to pass into the house; but she, abruptly ceasing her windmill operations, 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's letter against the wall while he wrote across it. Without ceasing his occupation, 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 it critically.
“M-a-x,” she read; “how badly it is written! Max—Max Talma—is that it?”
“Yes,” he answered gravely, “that is it.”
With a little laugh and a shrug of her shoulders she proceeded to open the envelope. It contained nothing but the sketch made upon the fly-leaf of a novel. Christian was watching her face. She continued to smile as she unfolded the paper. Then she suddenly became grave, and handed the open 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 his pocket. “Trevetz writes in a good forcible style,” he said, turning to greet Molly, who came, singing, downstairs at this moment. For an instant her merry eyes assumed a scrutinising, almost anxious look as she 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 the station at Christian's request with a large envelope on which was printed Mr. Bodery's name and address. This was to be given to the guard, who would in his turn hand it to a special messenger at Paddington, and the editor of theBeaconwould receive it by four o'clock in the afternoon.
The day was fine, with a fresh breeze, and the programme of pleasure was satisfactorily carried out. But with sunset the wind freshened into a brisk 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 family assembled in the drawing-room soon after dark, although the windows were left 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. Sidney was reading in his own room—reading for a vague law examination which always appeared to have been lately postponed till next October.
Christian was seated at the piano, playing by snatches and turning over the brown leaves of some very old music, unearthed from a lumber-room by Mrs. Carew for his benefit. He waited for no thanks or comment; sometimes he read a few bars only, sometimes a page. He appeared to have forgotten that he had an audience. Presently he rose, leaving the music in disorder. Hilda had been called away some time before by an old village woman requiring medicaments for unheard-of symptoms. Christian looked slowly round the room, then raising his hand he dexterously caught a huge moth which had flown past his face.
As he crossed the room towards the open window, with a view of liberating the moth, a low whistle reached his ear. The refrain was that of the familiar “retraite.” Hilda had evidently gone out to the moat by another door. Bowing his head, he passed between the muslin curtains and disappeared in the darkness. The sound of his footsteps died away almost immediately amidst the rustle of branch and leaf already crisp with approaching 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 up to the table, and standing there with her hands resting upon some pieces of Molly's work, she gave a graphic description of the old woman's complaints and maladies. She stood quite close to Molly, and told her story to Mrs. Carew merrily, failing to notice that her sister had ceased sewing, and was listening with a surprised look in her eyes. When the symptoms had been detailed and laughed over, Hilda turned quietly and passed out into the garden. With fearless familiarity she ran lightly down the narrow pathway towards the moat, but no signal-whistle greeted her. The leaves rustled and whispered overhead; the water lapped and 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, amidst the universal, darkness. So silent and so still that it might have been the shade of some fair maid of bygone years mourning the loss of her true knight, who in all the circumstances of war had crossed that same moat never to return.
Presently a sudden feeling of loneliness, a new sense of fear, came over Hilda. All around was so forbidding. The water at her feet was so black and mysterious. She gave a soft low whistle identical with that which had called Christian out twenty minutes before, but it remained unanswered, 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 grey tree-trunks across the lawn. As Hilda stepped between the curtains, the servants entered the drawing-room in solemn Indian file for evening prayers.
Mrs. Carew looked up from the Bible which lay open before her, and said to 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 clear whistle away into the night. His broad figure remained motionless for some minutes, almost filling up the window; then he silently resumed his seat.
Mrs. Carew smoothed down the silken book-marker, and began reading in a low voice. It is to be feared that the Psalmist's words of joy were not heard with understanding ears that night. A short prayer followed; softly and melodiously Mrs. Carew asked for blessings upon the bowed heads 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 upon the 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 kitchen doling out medicated cotton-wool to Mrs. Sender?”
Molly looked puzzled.
“Didyouwhistle, 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,” suggested Mrs. Carew reassuringly, as she sat down to work again.
“But what about the whistle; are you sure you heard it, Molly?” asked Hilda, speaking rather more quickly than was habitual with her. She walked towards the window and drew aside the curtain, keeping her back turned towards the room.
“Yes,” answered Molly uneasily. “Yes—I heard it, and so did he, for he went out at once.”
Sidney stood awkwardly with his shoulder against the mantelpiece, listening in a half-hearted way to his sisters' conversation. With a heavy jerk he threw himself upright and slowly crossed the room. He stood for some moments immediately behind Hilda without touching her. Then he raised his hand and with gentle, almost caressing pressure round her waist, he made her step aside so that he could pass out. He was a singularly undemonstrative man, rarely giving way to what he considered the weakness of a caress. Fortunately, however, for their own happiness, his womenfolk understood him, and especially between himself and Hilda there 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 almost startled her. It seemed like a confession that he shared the vague anxiety which she concealed so well.
With the charity of maternal love, which is by no means so blind as is generally supposed, Mrs. Carew often said of Sidney that he invariably rose to the occasion; and Mrs. Carew's statements were as a rule correct. His slowness was partly assumed; his indifference was a mere habit. The assumption of the former saved him infinite worry and responsibility; the habit of indifference did away with the necessity of coming to a decision upon general questions. This state of mind may, to townsmen, be incomprehensible. Certain it is that such as are in that condition are not found among the foremost dwellers in cities. But in the country it is a different matter. Such cases are only too common, and (without breath of disparagement) they are usually to be found in households where one man finds himself among several women—be the latter mother and sisters, or wife and sisters-in-law.
The man may be a thorough sportsman, he may be an excellent landlord and a popular squire, but within his own doors he is overwhelmed. Chivalry bids him give way to the wishes and desires of some woman or other, and if he be a sportsman he is necessarily chivalrous. When one is tired after a long day in the saddle or with a gun, it is so much easier to acquiesce and philosophically persuade oneself that the matter is not worth airing an adverse opinion over. This is the beginning, and if any beginning 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 once outside the window he changed to a different being. The lazy slouch vanished from his movements, his eyes lost their droop, and he held his head erect.
He made his way rapidly to the stable, and there, without the knowledge of the grooms, he obtained a large hurricane-lamp, lighted it, and returned towards the house. From the window Hilda saw him pass down a little path towards the moat, with the lamp swinging at his side, while the shadows waved backwards and forwards across the lawn.
The mind is a strange storehouse. However long a memory may have been warehoused there, deep down beneath piles of other remembrances and conceits, 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 in Sidney's mind. An unauthenticated nursery tale of a departing guest leaving with a word of joy upon his lips and warm comfort in his heart, turning from the glowing doorway and walking down the little pathway straight into the moat.
Christian, however, was an excellent swimmer; he knew every inch of the pathway, every stone round the moat. That he should have been drowned in ten feet of clear water, with an easy landing within ten yards, seemed the wildest impossibility. Of course such things have happened, but Christian Vellacott was essentially wide awake, and unlikely to come to mishap through his own carelessness. Of all these things Sidney thought as he walked rapidly towards the moat, and in particular he pondered over Molly's statement that she had heard Hilda whistle. This had met with flat denial from Hilda, and Sidney, with brotherly candour, could only arrive at the conclusion that Molly had been mistaken. He would not give way to the least suggestion of anxiety even in his own mind. After all Christian would probably come in with some simple explanation and a laugh for their fears. It often happens thus, as we must all know. The moments so long and dreary for the watcher, whose imagination gains more and 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 conventional words of sympathy.
Sidney stood at the edge of the water and threw the beams of light across the rippling surface. Mechanically he followed the ray as it swept from end to end of the moat, and presently, without heeding, he turned his attention to the stones at his feet. A gleam of reflected light caught his passing gaze, and he stooped to examine the cause more closely.
The smooth stonework was wet; in fact the water was standing in little pools upon it. Round these there were circles of dampness, showing that evaporation was taking place. The water had not lain there long. A man falling into the moat would have thrown up splashes such as these; in no other way could they be plausibly accounted for. Sidney stood erect. Again he held the lamp over the gleaming water, half fearing to see something. His lips had quite suddenly become dry and parched, and there was an uncomfortable throb in his throat. Suddenly he heard a rustle behind him, and before he could draw back Hilda was at his side. She slipped her hand through his arm, and by the slightest pressure drew him away 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 lamp backwards and forwards as a schoolboy swings his satchel. Thus he gained time to moisten his lips and render speech possible.
Together they went round the grounds, but no sign or vestige of Christian did they discover. A pang of remorse came to Hilda as she touched her brother's strong arm. Ever since Christian's arrival she remembered that Sidney had been somewhat neglected, or only remembered when his services were required. Christian had indeed been attentive to him, but Hilda felt that their friendship was not what it used to be. The young journalist in his upward progress had left the slow-thinking country squire behind him. All they had in common belonged to the past; and, for Christian, the past was of small importance compared to the present. She recollected that during the last fortnight everything had been arranged with a view to giving pleasure to herself, Molly, and Christian, without heed to Sidney's inclinations. By word or sign he had never shown his knowledge of this; he had never implied that his existence or opinion was of any great consequence. She remembered even that such pleasures as Christian had shared with Sidney—pleasures after his own heart, sailing, shooting, and fishing—had been undertaken at Christian's instigation or suggestion, and eagerly welcomed by Sidney.
And now, at the first suspicion of trouble, she turned instinctively to her brother for the help and counsel which were so willingly and modestly 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 Signor Bruno?”
“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 her brother had no thought of posing as a martyr.
“Christian,” she continued softly, “distrusted him for some reason. He knows something of his former life, and told me a short time ago that Bruno was not his name at all. This morning Christian received a letter from Carl Trevetz, whom we knew in Paris, you will remember, saying that Signor Bruno's real name was Max Talma, also warning Christian to avoid him.”
“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—that this may have something to do with Signor Bruno. I mean—is it not probable that Christian may have discovered something which caused him to go away suddenly without letting Bruno know of his departure?”
Sidney thought of the water at the edge of the moat. The incident might prove easy enough of explanation, but at the moment it was singularly unreconcilable with Hilda's comforting explanation. And again, the recollection 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 away from him a little; but he was, perhaps, surer than she.
“I am convinced, Sidney,” she continued, “that Christian connects Signor Bruno in some manner with the disturbances in France. It seems very strange that an old man buried alive in a small village should have it in 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 that Christian is essentially a politician. He does not suspect Bruno of anything criminal; his suspicions are merely political; and it may be that Bruno's doings, whatever they appear to be now, may in the future be looked upon as the actions of a hero. Politics are impersonal, and Signor Bruno is only known to us socially.”
Hilda could not see the matter in this light. No woman could have been expected to do so.
“I suppose,” she said presently, “that Signor Bruno is a political intriguer.”
“I expect so,” replied her brother.
They were walking slowly up the broad path towards the house, having given up the idea of searching for Christian or calling him.
“Then,” continued Sidney, “you think it is likely that he has gone off to see Bruno, or to watch him?”
“I think so.”
“That is the only reasonable explanation I can think of,” he said gravely and doubtfully, for he was still thinking of the moat.
They entered the house, and to Mrs. Carew and Molly their explanation was imparted. It was received somewhat doubtfully, especially by Molly. However, the farce had to be kept up—and do we not act in similar comedies every day?
Cheerfulness is, thank goodness, infectious. The watchers at the Hall that night made a great show of light-heartedness. Sidney had risen to the occasion. He laughed at the idea of anything serious having happened to Christian, and his confidence gradually spread and gained new strength. Molly, however, was apparently beyond its influence. With her perpetual needle-work in her hands she sat beneath the lamp and worked rapidly. Occasionally she glanced towards Hilda, but contributed nothing to the explanations forthcoming from all quarters.
Hilda was also working; slowly, however, and with marvellous care. She was engaged upon a more artistic production than ever came from Molly's work-basket. Once she consulted Mrs. Carew about the colour of a skein of wool, but otherwise showed no inclination to avoid topics in any manner connected with Christian, despite the fact that these were obviously distasteful to her family. In all that she said, indifference was blended in a singular way with imperturbable cheerfulness.
Thus they waited until after midnight, pretending bravely to work and read 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 letters to write, and would not be ready for hours. If Christian did not appear by the time that she was sleepy, she would wake Sidney. After all, she acted her part better than they. She was old at it—they were new. She was 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, assuring each other of their conviction that they would find Christian at the breakfast table next morning. Molly's room was at the head of the stairs. With a smile and a nod she closed her door while Hilda and Sidney walked slowly down the long passage together. Arrived at the end, Sidney kissed his sister. She turned the handle of her door and stood with her back to him for a few moments without entering the room, as if to give him an opportunity of speaking if he had aught to say. He stood awkwardly behind her, gazing mechanically at her hair, which reflected the light from the candle that he was holding all awry, while the wax dripped 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 he walked on with loudly-creaking shoes.
Hilda crossed her room and set the candle upon the dressing-table. She waited there till Sidney's footsteps had ceased, and then she turned and walked uprightly to the door, which she closed. She looked round the room with a strange, vacant look in her eyes, and then she made her way unsteadily towards the bed, where she lay staring at the wavering candle and its reflection in the mirror behind until daylight came to make its flame grow pale and yellow.
There were four watchers in the house that night. Downstairs, Mrs. Carew sat by the shaded lamp in her upright armchair. She was not writing, but had re-opened the large black Bible. Molly was courting sleep in vain, having resolutely blown out her candle. Sidney made no pretence. He was fully dressed, and seated at his rarely-used writing-table. Before him lay a telegraph-form bearing nothing but the address—
C.C. BODERY,BeaconOffice, 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 that occupied the thoughts of his mother and sisters. What could be the explanation of the whistle heard by Molly? The want of this alone sufficed to overthrow the most ingenious of consolatory explanations. All four looked at it from different points of view, and to each the signal-whistle calling Christian into the garden was an insurmountable barrier to every explanation.
Before it was wholly light Hilda moved wearily to the window. She threw it open, and sat with arms resting on the sill and her chin upon her hands, mechanically noting the wonders of the sunrise. A soft white mist was rising from the thick pasture, wholly obscuring the sea and filling the atmosphere with a damp chill. Seated there in her thin evening dress, she showed no sign of feeling the cold. At times physical pain is almost a pleasure. The glistening damp rested on every blade of grass, on every leaf and twig, while the many webs stood whitely against the shadows, some hanging like festoons from tree to tree, others floating out in mid-air without apparent reason or support. In and among the branches lingered little secret deposits of mist waiting the sun's warmth to melt them all away.
The suppressed creak of Sidney's door attracted Hilda's attention, but she did not move, merely turning to look at her own door as her brother passed it with awkward caution. A dull instinct told her that he was going to the moat again. Presently he passed beneath her window and across the dewy lawn, leaving a trailing mark upon the grass. The whole picture seemed suddenly to be familiar to her. She had lived through it all 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 as Sidney unmoored the old punt, rarely used except by the gardener to clean the moat when the weeds died down in autumn. The quiet was rendered more remarkable by the suddenness of its advent. All night it had been blowing a wild gale, which dropped at dawn, and from the soft land the mist rose instantly.
Prompted by a vague desire to be doing something, Hilda presently turned from the window, and, after a moment's indecision, chose from the shelf a novel fresh from the brain of the king of writers. With it she returned to her low chair and listlessly turned over the leaves for some moments. She raised her head and sought in vain the tiny form of a lark trilling out his morning hymn far up in the blue sky. Then she resolutely commenced to read uninterruptedly.
She read on until Sidney's firm step upon the gravel beneath the window roused her. A minute later he knocked softly at her door. The water was glistening on his rough shooting-boots as he entered the room, and upon the brown leather gaiters there was a deeper shade showing where the wet grass had brushed against his legs. His honest, immobile face showed but little surprise at the sight of Hilda still in evening dress, but she saw that he noticed it.
She rose from her low chair and laid aside the book, but no sort of greeting passed between them.
“I have been all round again,” he said quietly, “by daylight, and—and of 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 to be done. First of all, no one must be told. Mother, Molly, you, and I know it, and we must keep it to ourselves. We will tell Stanley that Christian has gone off suddenly in connection with his work, and the same excuse will do for the neighbours and servants. I will telegraph this morning to Mr. Bodery, the editor of theBeacon, and await his instructions. 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 upon the closed volume of “Vanity Fair,” but instead of looking at her brother she was gazing calmly out of the window.
“Yes,” she murmured, “I think that is all that we can do in the meantime.”
Sidney moved awkwardly as if about to leave the room, but hesitated still.
“Have you nothing to suggest?” he asked. “Do you think I am acting rightly?”
She was still looking out of the window—still standing motionless near the 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 to say nothing—nothing that may betray our anxiety?”
“Yes, I will see them.”
Sidney walked heavily to the door. Grasping the handle, he turned round once more.
“It is nearly half-past seven,” he said, with more confidence in his tone, “and Mary will soon be coming to awake you. It would not do for her 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.”
When Mr. Bodery opened the door of the room upon the second floor of the tall house in the Strand that morning, he found Mr. Morgan seated at the table surrounded by proof-sheets, with his coat off and shirt-sleeves tucked up. The subeditor of theBeaconwas in reality a good hard worker in his comfortable way, and there was little harm in his desire that 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. Before Mr. Bodery had seated himself, however, the sub-editor laid his hand with heavy approval upon the odoriferous proof-sheet before him, and looked up.
“This article of Vellacott's is first-rate,” he said. “By Jove! sir, he drops on these holy fathers—lets them have it right and left. The way he has worked out the thing is wonderful, and that method of putting everything upon supposition is a grand idea. It suggests how the thingcouldbe done upon the face of it, while the initiated will see quickly enough that it means to show how the trick was in reality performed—ha, ha!”
“Yes,” replied Mr. Bodery absently. He was glancing at the pile of letters that lay upon his desk. There were among them one or two telegrams, and these he put to one side while he took up each envelope in 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 at the door.
“'M'in!” said Mr. Morgan sharply, and at the same moment the silent door was 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 discretionary power. It rested with him whether an unknown visitor was admitted or politely dismissed to a much greater extent than any one suspected. Into his manner of announcing a person he somehow managed to convey his opinion as to whether it was worth the editor's time to admit him or not, and he invariably received Mr. Bodery's “Tell him I'm engaged” with a little nod of mutual understanding which was intensely comprehensive.
On this occasion, his manner said, “Have him in, have him in my boy, and you 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, dark form slid into the room. So noiseless and rapid were this gentleman's movements that there is no other word with which to express his mode of progression.
He made a low bow, and shot up erect again with startling rapidity. He then stood quietly waiting until the door had closed behind the small boy, who, after having punctiliously expectorated upon a silver coin which had found its way into the palm of his hand, proceeded to slide down the balustrade upon his waistcoat.
It often occurred that strangers addressed themselves to Mr. Morgan when ushered into the little back room, under the impression that he was the editor of theBeacon. Not so, however, this tall, clean-shaven person. He fixed his peculiar light-blue eyes upon Mr. Bodery, and, with a slight 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 great warmth of manner.
“Would it be possible now,” inquired the stranger conversationally, “at this late hour, to remove a printed article and substitute another?”
At these words Mr. Morgan ceased making some pencil notes with which he was occupied, and looked up. He met the stranger's benign glance and, while still looking at him, deliberately turned over all the proof-sheets before him, leaving no printed matter exposed to the gaze of the curious.
Mr. Bodery had in the meantime consulted his watch.
“Yes,” he replied, with dangerous politeness. “There would still be time to 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 such feeling was forthcoming from any of the three. It is possible that the dark gentleman with the sky-blue eyes wished to establish a sense of embarrassment with a view to the furtherance of his own ends. If so, his attempt proved lamentably abortive. Mr. Bodery sat with his plump hands resting on the table, and looked contemplatively up into the stranger's face. Mr. Morgan was scribbling pencil notes on a tablet.
“The truth is,” explained the stranger at length, “that a friend of mine, who is unfortunately ill in bed this morning—”
(Mr. Bodery did not look in the least sympathetic, though he listened attentively.)
“... has received a telegram from a gentleman who I am told is on the staff of your journal—Mr. Vellacott. This gentleman wishes to withdraw, for correction, an article he has sent to you. He states that he will re-write the article, with certain alterations, in time for next week's issue.”
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 with faint black writing.
“You will see at the foot this—Mr. Vellacott's reason for not wiring to you direct. He wished my friend to be here before the printers got to work 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 make you rather a difficult proposition. If a thousand pounds will compensate for the loss incurred by the delay of issue, and defray the expense of paper spoilt—I—I have that amount with me.”
Mr. Bodery did not display the least sign of surprise, merely shaking his 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 you five 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. The editor made an almost imperceptible motion with his eyebrows in the direction of the door.
Then Mr. Morgan rose somewhat heavily from his chair, with a hand upon either arm, after the manner of a man who is beginning to put on weight rapidly. He went to the door, opened it, and, turning towards the stranger, said urbanely:
“Sir—the door!”
This kind invitation was not at once accepted.
“You refuse my offers?” said the stranger curtly, without deigning to notice the sub-editor.
Mr. Bodery had turned his attention to his letters, of which he was cutting 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 from any 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 narrow staircase. “If I could only see the article I could tell whether it is worth resorting to stronger measures or not. However, that is Talma's business to decide, not mine.”
Mr. Morgan closed the door of the small room and resumed his seat. He then 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 a blue-chinned man.”
“I was not much impressed with his diplomatic skill.”
“No; but you must remember that he had difficult cards to play. No doubt his information was of the scantiest, and—we are not chickens, Morgan.”
“No,” said Mr. Morgan, with a little sigh. He turned to the revision of the proof-sheets again, while the editor began opening and reading his telegrams.
“This is a little strong,” exclaimed Mr. Morgan, after a few moments of silence, broken only by the crackle of paper. “Just listen here:—
“'It simply comes to this—the General of the Society of Jesus is an autocrat in the worst sense of the word. He holds within his fingers the wires of a vast machine moving with little friction and no noise. No farthest corner of the world is entirely beyond its influence; no political crisis passes that is not hurried on or restrained by its power. Unrecognised, unseen even, and often undreamt of, the vast Society 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 the Jesuits are unscrupulous and treacherous. Let us be just and give them their due. They are undoubtedly earnest in their work, sincere in their belief, true to their faith. But it is for us to uphold our own integrity. We are accused—as a nation—of stirring up the seeds of rebellion, of crime and bloodshed in the heart of another country. Our denial is considered insufficient; our evidence is ignored. There remains yet to us one mode of self-defence. After denying the crime (for crime it is in humane and political sense) we can turn and boldly lay it upon those whom its results would chiefly benefit: the Roman Catholic Church in general—the Society of Jesus in particular. We have endeavoured to show how the followers of Ignatius Loyola could have brought about the present crisis in France; the extent to which they would benefit by a religious reaction is patent to the most casual observer; let the Government of England do the rest.'”
Mr. Bodery was, however, not listening. He was staring vacantly at a telegram 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. Then Mr. Bodery read:
“Is Vellacott with you? Fear something wrong. Disappeared from here last night.”
Mr. Morgan moved in his seat, stretching one arm out, while he pensively rubbed 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 telegram with a peculiar blank expression in his eyes; Mr. Morgan staring at him while he rubbed his chin thoughtfully with outspread finger and thumb. In the lane beneath the window some industrious housekeeper was sweeping her 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 into his trouser pockets. It was on that spot and in that attitude that he usually thought out his carefully written weekly article upon “Home Affairs.” He was still there when the editor touched a small gong which stood on the table at his side. The silent door instantly opened, and the supernaturally sharp boy stood on the threshold grimly awaiting his orders.
“Bradshaw.”
“Yess'r,” replied the boy, closing the door. His inventive mind had conceived a new and improved method of going downstairs. This was to lie flat 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 feet from the bottom, as he had, from an advantageous point of view on Blackfriars Bridge, seen sacks of meal shoot from a Thames warehouse into the barge beneath. If, however, he made a miscalculation, he inevitably rolled off sideways and landed in a heap on the floor. Either result appeared to afford him infinite enjoyment and exhilaration. On this occasion he performed the feat with marked success.
“Guv'nor's goin' on the loose—wants the railway guide,” he confided to a small friend in the printing interest whom he met as he was returning with the required volume.
“Suppose you'll be sitten' upstairs now, then,” remarked the black-fingered one with fine sarcasm. Whereupon there followed a feint—a desperate lunge to one side, a vigorous bob of the head, and a resounding bang with the railway guide in the centre of the sarcastic youth's waistcoat.
Having executed a strategic movement, and a masterly retreat up the stairs, the small boy leant over the banisters and delivered himself of the following explanation:
“I 'it yer one that time. Don't do it agin.Goodmorning, sir.”
Mr. Bodery turned the flimsy leaves impatiently, stopped, looked rapidly down 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 he wrote 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 an expression of profound respect upon his wicked features.
“Go down to Banks,” said Mr. Bodery, “ask him to let me have two copies of the foreign policy article in ten minutes.”
When the silent door was closed, Mr. Morgan wheeled round upon his heels, and gazed meditatively at his superior.
“Going down to see these people?” he asked, with a jerk of his head towards the West.
“Yes, I am going by the eleven-fifteen.”
“I have been thinking,” continued the sub-editor, “we may as well keep the printing-office door locked to-day. That slippery gentleman with the watery eyes meant business, or I am very much mistaken. I'll just send upstairs for Bander to go on duty at the shop door to-day as well as to-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 the machinery. Printers are only human!”
“Machinery is ready enough to go wrong when nobody wishes it,” murmured Mr. Morgan vaguely, as he sat down at the table and began setting the scattered papers in order.
Mr. Bodery and his colleagues were in the habit of keeping at the office a small bag, containing the luggage necessary for a few nights in case of their being suddenly called away. This expedient was due to Christian Vellacott's forethought.
The editor now proceeded to stuff into his bag sundry morning newspapers and a large cigar case. Telegraph forms, pen, ink, and foolscap paper were already there.
“I say, Bodery,” said the sub-editor with grave familiarity, “it seems to 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 he was very well able to take care of himself.”
“I have a wholesome dread of men who use religion as a means of justification. 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 the very devil. That is whence these fellows got their power. Half of them are fanatics and the other half hypocrites.”
Mr. Bodery had now completed his preparations, and he held out his plump hand, which the subeditor grasped.
“I hope,” said the latter, “that you will find Vellacott at the station to meet you—ha, ha!”
“I hope so.”
“If,” said Mr. Morgan, following the editor to the door—“if he turns up here, I will wire to Carew and to you, care of the station-master.”