He was scarcely more wary in his dealings with Lady Malleson than with
Nan, not that he underestimated her intelligence, but because she awoke
all his boastfulness, pandered to it, stimulated him as nobody had in
the whole of his highly experimental life. The comparative frequency of
his interviews with her was kept strictly secret. It was now no longer
Nan who led him to Malleson Place, as on the first occasion, but
Hambley, whom Silas had terrorised into discretion. Nor did those
meetings invariably take place in the house, but sometimes in a
summer-house, away from the gossip of the servants, while Hambley was
sent to skulk about the park, with orders not to return before an hour,
or two hours; and even once, when Sir Robert was in London, Hambley was
dismissed until midnight. He offered no objection; the employment was
after his own heart, and Lady Malleson, unknown to Silas, made it well
worth his while. He knew that he was safe enough over this. When the
lady brought Silas to the garden gate, and gave him over to Hambley,
Silas could not see what passed between her hand and Hambley’s. He could
not see Hambley’s grin of thanks, or his lifted cap, or Lady Malleson’s
nod of smiling complicity that enjoined silence. He could only stand by,
waiting to be led away, during the little farce that was never
neglected:
“Well, good-night, Dene; so glad you’re getting on well.”
“Good-night, my lady; thank you.”
“Good-night, Hambley. Take care of Dene going through the park.”
“Yes, my lady; good-night, my lady.”
Then they would turn and go, Hambley leading Silas with care, while
Christine Malleson re-locked the garden gate and watched them, always
reluctantly, out of sight.