FALSE METAL
There was, however, no cricket for Stanley Carew that morning. When
they came within sight of the house Mrs. Carew emerged from an open
window carrying several letters in her hand. She was not hurrying, but
walking leisurely, reading a letter as she walked.
“Just think, Hilda dear,” she said, with as much surprise as she ever
allowed herself. “I have had a letter from the Vicomte d'Audierne. You
remember him?”
“Yes,” said the girl; “I remember him, of course. He is not the sort of
man one forgets.”
“I always liked the Viscount,” said Mrs. Carew, pensively looking at the
letter she held in her hand. “He was a good friend to us at one time. I
never 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. “He
said that he was one of the cleverest men in France, but that he had
fallen in a wrong season, and would not adapt himself. Had France been a
monarchy, the Vicomte d'Audierne would have been in a very different
position.”
Vellacott did not open his own letters. He seemed to be interested in
the conversation of these ladies. He was not a reserved man, but a
secretive, which is quite a different thing. Reserve is natural--it
comes unbidden, and often unwelcome. Secretiveness is born of
circumstances. Some men find it imperative to cultivate it, although
their soul revolts within them. In professional or social matters it is
often merely an expediency--in some cases it almost feels like a crime.
There are some secrets which cannot be divulged; there are some
deceptions which a certain book-keeper will record upon the credit side
of our account.
Like most young men who have got on in their calling, Christian
Vellacott held his career in great respect. He felt that any sacrifice
made for it carried its own reward. He thought that it levelled scruples
and justified deceptions.
He knew this Vicomte d'Audierne by reputation; he wished to hear more of
him; 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 the
budget addressed to him, and walked away to where an iron table and some
chairs stood in the shade of a deodar.
In a few minutes he looked still more put out. He had learnt of the
disturbances in Paris, and was reading a rather panic-stricken letter
from Mr. Bodery. The truth was that there was no one in the office of
the _Beacon_ who knew anything whatever about French home politics
but Christian Vellacott.
A continuance of these disturbances would necessarily assume political
importance, and might even lead to a crisis. This meant an instant
recall for Vellacott. In a crisis his presence in London or Paris was
absolutely necessary to the _Beacon_.
His holiday had barely lasted twenty-four hours, and there was already a
question of recall. It happened also that within that short space a
considerable change had come over Vellacott. The subtle influence of a
country life, and possibly the low, peaceful song of the distant sea,
were already beginning to make themselves felt. He actually detected a
desire to sit still and do nothing--a feeling of which he had not
hitherto been conscious. He was distinctly averse to leaving St. Mary
Western just yet. But there is one task-master who knows no mercy and
makes no allowances. Some of us who serve him know it to our cost, and
yet we would be content to serve no other. That task-master is the
Public.
Vellacott was a public servant, and he knew his position.
Somewhat later in the morning Molly and Hilda found him still seated at
the table, writing with that concentrated rapidity which only comes with
practice.
“I am sorry,” he said, looking up, “but I must send off a telegram. I
shall walk in to the station.”
“I was just coming,” said Hilda, “to ask if you would drive me in. I
want to get some things.”
“And,” added Molly, “there are some domestic commissions--butcher,
baker, &c.”
Vellacott expressed his entire satisfaction with the arrangement, and by
the time he had finished his letter the dog-cart was waiting at the
door.
Several of the family were standing round the vehicle talking in a
desultory manner, and Vellacott learnt then for the first time that
Frederick Farrar had left home that same morning to attend a midland
race-meeting.
It was one of those brilliant summer days when it is quite impossible to
be pessimistic and exceedingly difficult to compass preoccupation. The
light breeze bowling over the upland from the sea had just sufficient
strength to blow away all mental cobwebs. Also, Christian Vellacott had
suddenly given way to one of those feelings which sometimes come to us
without apparent reason. The present was joyous enough without the aid
of 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 her
manner a new sense of ease, almost of familiarity, which Vellacott could
not understand. He noticed that she spoke invariably in generalities,
avoiding all personal matters. Of herself she said no word, though she
appeared willing enough to answer any question he might ask. She led him
on to talk of himself and his work, listening gravely to his account of
the little household at Chelsea. He made the best of this topic, and
even treated it in a merry vein; but her smile, though sincere enough,
was of short duration and not in itself encouraging. She appeared to see
the pathos of it instead of the humour. Suddenly, in the middle of a
particularly funny story about Aunt Judith, she interrupted him and
changed the conversation entirely. She did not again refer to his home
life.
As they were returning in the full glare of the midday sun, they
descried in front of them the figure of an old man; he was walking
painfully and making poor progress. Carefully dressed in black
broadcloth, 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 in
Hilda'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 a
most charming old face, surrounded by a halo of white hair and beard.
The features were almost perfect, and might in former days have been a
trifle cold, by reason of their perfection. Now, however, they were
softened by the touch of years, and Signor Bruno was the living
semblance of guilelessness and benevolence.
“How do you do, Signor Bruno?” said Hilda, speaking rather loudly and
very distinctly. “You are back from London sooner than you expected, are
you not?”
“Ah! my dear young lady,” he replied, courteously removing his hat and
standing bareheaded.
“Ah! now indeed the sun shines upon me. Yes, I am back from London--a
most terrible place--terrible--terrible--terrible! As I walked along
just now I said to myself: 'The sun is warm, the skies are blue; yonder
is 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 before
the old gentleman recovered his breath.
“Allow me to introduce to you Sidney's friend, Mr. Vellacott, Signor
Bruno!”
Sidney's friend, Mr. Vellacott, was by this time behind her. He had
alighted, and was employed in arranging the back seat of the dog-cart.
When Signor Bruno looked towards him, he found Christian's eyes fixed
upon his face with a quiet persistence which might have been
embarrassing to a younger man. He raised his hat and murmured something
unintelligible in reply to the Italian's extensive salutation.
“Sidney Carew's friends are, I trust, mine also!” said Signor Bruno, as
he replaced his picturesque hat.
Christian smiled spasmodically and continued arranging the seat. He then
came round to the front of the cart and made a sign to Hilda that she
should move into the right-hand seat and drive. Signor Bruno saw the
sign, 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's
guest, and I--I am only a poor old Italian runaway, who is accustomed to
back 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 a
peculiar self-abnegating humour.
“If we were both to take our hats off again, I think it would be easy to
see why you should sit in front!” said Christian with a laugh, which
although quite genial, somehow closed the discussion.
“Ah!” replied the old gentleman with outspread hands. “There you have
worsted me. After that I am silent, and--I obey!”
He climbed into the cart with a little senile joke about the stiffness
of his aged limbs. He chattered on in his innocent, childish way until
the village was reached. Here he was deposited on the dusty road at the
gate of a small yellow cottage where he had two rooms. The seat was
re-arranged, and amidst a volley of thanks and salutations, Hilda and
Christian drove away. Presently Hilda looked up and said:
“Is he not a dear old thing? I believe, Christian, in all the various
local information I have given you, I have never told you about Signor
Bruno. 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 as
if to hear more, but he said nothing. Then she raised her eyes to his
face, 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 he
seemed in no way perturbed. He turned and looked down with a smile at
her 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 with
him--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 it
somewhere, and at some time. I cannot tell when or where yet, but it
will come to me.”
“When it does come,” said Hilda, with a smile, “you will find that it is
some one else. I can assure you Signor Bruno is an Italian, and beyond
that he is the nicest old gentleman imaginable.”
“Well,” replied Christian. “In the meantime I vote that we do not
trouble ourselves about him.”
The subject was dropped, and not again referred to until after they had
reached home, when Hilda informed her mother that Signor Bruno had
returned.
“Oh, indeed,” was the reply. “I am very glad. You must ask
him 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 an
absolutely expressionless composure.
During the following day, which he passed with Sidney and Stanley at sea
in a little cutter belonging to the Carews, Christian learnt, without
asking many questions, all that Signor Bruno had vouchsafed in the way
of 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 of
Italy are known only by name, where Maraschino is at a premium, and long
black 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 her
in the evening. This programme was carried out, but the young people
lingered rather longer at Farrar Court listening to the quaint,
old-world recollections of its white-haired hostess than was allowed
for. Consequently they were late, and heard the first dinner-bell
ringing as they drove up the lane that led in a casual way to their
home. (This lane was characteristic of the house. It turned off
unobtrusively from the high road at right angles with the evident
intention of leading nowhere.) A race upstairs ensued and a hurried
toilet. Molly and Christian met on the stairs a few minutes later.
Christian had won the race, for he was ready, while Molly struggled with
a silver necklace that fitted closely round her throat. Of course he had
to help her. While waiting patiently for him to master the intricacies
of the old silver clasp, Molly said:
“Oh, Christian, there is one place you have not seen yet. Quite close at
hand 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 I
have 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 the
room. “You must see Porton Abbey.”
The Italian shook hands with the new-comers and made a clever, laughing
reference to Christian's politeness of the previous day. At this moment
Hilda entered, and as soon as she had returned Signor Bruno's courteous
salutation 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 when
we do not feel very energetic. Unfortunately, we cannot get inside the
Abbey now, though.”
“Why?” asked Christian, without looking towards Hilda. He had discovered
that Signor Bruno was attempting to keep up a conversation with his
hostess, while he took in that which was passing at the other end of the
room. The old man was seated, and his face was within the radius of
light 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 by
constant pinning in of stalks.”
“Thanks,” he replied, stooping a little in order that she could reach
the button-hole of his coat. She was in front of him, directly between
him and Signor Bruno; but he could see over her head. “What sort of
monastery is it?” he continued conversationally. “I did not know that
there were any establishments of that sort in England.”
Hilda looked up rather sharply from an illustrated newspaper she
happened to be studying. She knew that he was not adhering strictly to
the truth. From her point of vantage behind the newspaper she continued
to watch Christian, and she realised during the minutes that followed,
that this was indeed the brilliant young journalist of whose fame Farrar
had spoken as already known in London.
Signor Bruno's conversation with Mrs. Carew became at this moment
somewhat muddled.
“There, you see,” said Molly vivaciously, “we endeavour to interest him
by retailing the simple annals of our neighbourhood, and his highness
simply disbelieves us!”
“Not at all,” Christian hastened to add, with a laugh. “It simply
happened 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--“perhaps
Signor Bruno can tell us.”
“What is that, Mr. Vell'cott?” asked the old gentleman, making a
movement as if about to raise his curved hand to his ear, but
restraining himself upon second thoughts.
Hilda noticed that, instead of raising his voice, Christian spoke in the
same tone, or even lower, as he said:
“We want some details of the establishment at Porton Abbey, Signor
Bruno.”
The old gentleman made a little grimace expressive of disgust, at the
same 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 wish
to 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 Bruno
had again turned to Mrs. Carew, he looked across the room towards Hilda
with the same expression of vacant composure that she had noticed on a
previous occasion. The accent with which Signor Bruno had spoken the few
words of French was of the purest Parisian, entirely free from the
harshness 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 stood
in front of him, but by the movement of his arm it appeared as if he
were drawing instead of reading. Presently a faint, low whistle came
from the garden. Though soft, the sound was very clear, and each note
distinctly given. It was like the beginning of a refrain which broke off
suddenly and was repeated. Signor Bruno gave a little start and a quick
upward glance.
“What is that?” he asked, with a little laugh, as if at the delicacy of
his own nerves.
“Oh,” replied Mrs. Carew, “the whistle, you mean. That is our family
signal. The children were in the habit of calling each other by that
means in bygone years. I expect they are in the garden now, and wish us
to join them.”
Mrs. Carew knew that Molly was not in the garden, but in making this
intentional mistake she showed the wisdom of her kind.
“It seems to me,” said Signor Bruno, “that the air--the refrain, one
might call it--is familiar.”
Christian Vellacott smiled suddenly behind his screen of flowers, but
did not move or look up.
“I expect,” explained Sidney, “that you have heard the air played upon
the bugle. It is the French 'retraite,' played by the patrol in garrison
towns 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 his
breast-pocket. Then he rose and passed out of the open window into the
garden.
Immediately Signor Bruno asked his hostess a few polite questions
regarding her guest--what was his occupation, how long he was going to
stay, and whether she did not agree with him in considering that their
young friend had a remarkably interesting face. In the course of his
remarks the old gentleman rose and crossed to the table where Christian
had been sitting. There was a flower there which he had not seen in
England before. Absently he took up the book which Christian had just
been studying, and very naturally turned to the title-page. The fly-leaf
was gone! When he laid the volume down again he replaced it in the
identical position in which he had found it.