A CLUE
When Christian left the drawing-room he walked quickly down the
moss-grown path to the moat. Hilda was standing at the edge of the dark
water, and as he joined her she turned and walked slowly by his side.
“You are a most unsatisfactory person,” she said gravely after a few
moments.
He looked down at her without replying. His eyes softened for a moment
into a smile, but his lips remained grave.
“You deliberately set yourself,” she continued, “to shatter one illusion
after another. You have made me feel quite old and worldly to-night, and
the 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 wrong
altogether.”
She looked slowly round. Her eyes rested on the dark surface of the
water, where the shadows lay deep and still; then she raised them to the
trees, clearly outlined against the sky.
“I suppose that such practical, matter-of-fact people as you are proof
against mere outward influences.”
“So I used to imagine, but I am beginning to find that outward things
are very important after all. In London it seemed only natural that
every one should live in a hurry, with no time for thought, pushing
forward and trying to outstrip their neighbours; but in the country it
seems that things are different. Intellectual people live quiet,
thoughtful, and even dreamy lives. They get through somehow without
seeing the necessity for doing something--trying to be something that
their neighbours cannot be--and no doubt they are happier for it. I am
beginning to see how they are content to go on with their uneventful
lives 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 is
different. I have tasted too deeply of the other life. I should get
restless----”
“You are getting restless already,” she interrupted gravely, “and you
have not been here two days!”
They were interrupted by Sidney's clear whistle, and a moment later
Molly came tripping down the path.
“Come along in,” she said; “the old gentleman is going. I was just
stealing away to join you when Sidney whistled.”
When Signor Bruno reached his home that evening, he threw his hat upon
the table with some considerable force. His aged landlady, having left
the lamp burning, had retired to bed. He sank into an armchair, and
contemplated the square toes of his own boots for some moments. Then he
scratched his head thoughtfully.
“Sacré nom d'un chien!” he muttered; “where have I seen that face
before?”
Signor Bruno spoke French when soliloquising, which was perhaps somewhat
peculiar for an Italian. However proficient a man may be in the mastery
of foreign tongues, he usually dreams and talks to himself in the
language he learnt at his mother's knee. He may count fluently in a
strange tongue, but he invariably works out all mental arithmetic in his
own. Likewise he prays--if he pray at all--in one tongue only. On the
other hand, it appears very easy to swear in an acquired language.
Probably our forefathers borrowed each other's expletives when things
went so lamentably wrong over the Tower of Babel. Still muttering to
himself, Signor Bruno presently retired to rest with the remembrance of
a young face, peculiarly and unpleasantly strong, haunting his dreams.
Shortly after Signor Bruno's departure, Christian happened to be left
alone in the drawing room with Hilda. He promptly produced from his
pocket the leaf he had cut from a book earlier in the evening. Unfolding
the 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 in
profile, and the reproduction of the intelligent features could scarcely
have been more lifelike in a careful portrait. Christian replaced the
paper in his pocket.
“You remember Carl Trevetz, at Paris,” continued he, “his father
belonged 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 the
envelope the name that you will find inside--written by Trevetz.”
For a moment she looked across the table at him with a vague expression
of wonder upon her face.
“Even if you are right,” she said, “will it affect us? Will it make us
cease 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 have
my memory confirmed by Trevetz before telling you what I know--or think
I know--about Bruno!”
Hilda was about to question him further when Molly entered the room, and
the subject was perforce dropped.
The next morning there came a letter for Christian from Mr. Bodery. It
was short, and not very pleasant.
“DEAR VELLACOTT,--Sorry to trouble you with business so early in your
holiday, but there has been another great row in Paris, as you will see
from the papers I send you. It is hinted that the mob are mere tools in
the hands of influential wire-pullers, and the worst of it is that they
were armed with English rifles and bayonets of a pattern just superseded
by 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 present
somewhat strained state of affairs. Several of the 'dailies' refer to
us, as you will see, and express a hope that our 'exceptional knowledge
of 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 that
there is plenty of money in the background somewhere, and that a strong
party has got up the whole affair--perhaps the Church. We must have
something to say (something of importance) next week, and with this in
view I must ask you to hold yourself in readiness to go to Paris on
receipt of a telegram or letter from me.--Yours,
“C. C. BODERY.”
Christian folded the letter, and replaced it in the envelope. Suddenly
his attention was attracted to the latter. Upon the back there was a rim
round the adhesive portion, and within this the glaze was gone from the
paper. The envelope had been tampered with by a skilful manipulator. If
Mr. Bodery had been in the habit of using inferior stationery, no trace
would have been left upon the envelope.
Christian slipped the letter into his pocket, and, glancing round, saw
that 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. I
may have to go over there on receipt of a telegram from the office;” he
stopped, and looked slowly round the table. Hilda's attention was taken
up by her plate, upon which, however, there was nothing. He leant
forward, and handed her the toast-rack. She took a piece, but forgot to
thank him. “I am sorry,” he continued simply, “very sorry that the
disturbances should have taken place just at this time.”
His voice expressed natural and sincere regret, but no surprise. This
seemed 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. I
knew 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 are
plenty 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 I
must 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 other
thoughts from his mind.
“I suppose,” she said conversationally, “that it will in reality be a
good thing for you if the summons does come.”
“Yes,” he replied, without meeting her glance; “it will be a good thing
for me.”
“Is that consolatory view of the matter the outcome of philosophy, or of
virtue?” 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 newspaper
cuttings inclosed in Mr. Bodery's letter. Then he suddenly expressed his
determination 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 be
troubled no more about my affairs.”
“Until a telegram comes,” said Hilda quietly, without looking up from a
letter 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 all
that. 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. Will
you come to the post office with Stanley and me? I am sure there is no
possible household duty to prevent you.”
Together they walked through the peaceful fields. Stanley never lingered
long beside them; something was for ever attracting him aside or ahead,
and he ran restlessly away. Christian could not help noticing the
difference in Hilda's manner when they were alone together. The
semi-sarcastic _badinage_ to which he had been treated lately was
completely dropped, and her earnest nature was allowed to show itself
undisguised. Still she was a mystery to him. He was by habit a close
observer, but her changing moods and humours were to him unaccountable.
At times she would make a remark the direct contradiction of which was
shining in her eyes, and at other times she remained silent when mere
politeness would seem to demand speech. Who knows? Perhaps at all times
and in all things they understood each other. When their lips were
exchanging mere nothings--the very lightest and emptiest of
conversational chaff--despite averted eyes, despite indifferent manner,
their souls may have been drawn together by that silent bond of sympathy
which holds through fair and foul, through laughter and tears, through
life and beyond death.
Christian was not in the habit of allowing himself to become absorbed by
any passing thoughts, however deep they might be. His mind had adapted
itself to the work required of it, as the human mind is ever ready to
do. No deep meditating was required of it, but a quick grasp and a
somewhat superficial treatment. Journalism is superficial, it cannot be
otherwise; it must be universal and immediate, and therefore its touch
is necessarily light. There is nothing permanent about it except the
ceaseless throb of the printing machine and the warm smell of ink. That
which a man writes one day may be rendered useless and worthless the
next, through no carelessness of his, but by the simple course of
events. He must perforce take up his pen again and write against
himself. He may be inditing history, and his words may be forgotten in
twelve hours. There is no time for deep thought, even if such were
required. He who writes for cursory reading is wise if he writes
cursorily.
Mr. Bodery's communication in no manner disturbed Christian. He was
ready enough to talk and laugh, or talk and be grave, as Hilda might
dictate, while they walked side by side that morning, but she was
strangely silent. It thus happened that little passed between them until
they reached the post office. There, he was formally introduced to the
spry little postmistress, who looked at him sharply over her spectacles.
“I wish, Mrs. Chalder,” he said cheerily, as he scribbled off his
message to Mr. Bodery, while Hilda made friendly overtures to the
official cat, “I wish that you would forget to send me the disagreeable
letters, and only forward the pleasant ones. There was one this morning,
for instance, which you might very easily have mislaid. Instead of which
you carefully sent it rather earlier than usual and spoilt my
breakfast.”
His voice unconsciously followed the swing of his pencil. It seemed
certain that he was making conversation with the sole purpose of
entertaining the old woman. With a pleased laugh and a shake of her grey
curls she replied:
“Ah, I wish I could, sir. I wish I could burn the bad letters and send
on only the good ones--but they're all alike on the outside. It's as
hard to say what's inside a letter as it is to tell what's inside a man
by 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 that
Seen'yer Bruno said he was goin' past the Hall, sir, and would just
leave 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 that
Hilda was looking at him, and some instinct told him that she saw the
motive of his conversation, but still he played his part and wore his
mask of carelessness, as men have done before women, knowing the
futility of it, since the world began. She never referred to the
incident, and made no remark whatever with a view to his doing so, but
he knew that it would be remembered, and in after days he learnt to
build up a very castle of hope upon that frail foundation.
Hilda had not been paying much attention to what he was saying until
Signor Bruno's name was mentioned. The old man had hitherto occupied a
very secondary place in her thoughts. He was no one in her circle of
possibly interesting people, beyond the fact of his having passed
through a troubled political phase--a fighter on the losing side. Now he
had, as it were, assumed a more important _rôle_. The mention of his
name possessed a new suggestion: and all this, forsooth, because
Christian Vellacott opined that the benevolent old face was known to
him.
She began to entertain exaggerated ideas concerning the young
journalist's thoughts and motives. Twice had she obtained a glimpse into
the inner chamber of his mind, and on each occasion the result had been
a vague suggestion of some mental conflict, some dark game of
cross-purposes between him and Signor Bruno. Remembering this, she, in
her intelligent simplicity, began to ascribe to Christian's every word
and action an ulterior motive which in reality did not perhaps exist.
She noted Christian's calm and direct way of reaching the end he
desired, and unconsciously she yielded a little to the influence of his
strength--an influence dangerously fascinating for a strong woman. Her
strength is so different from that of a man that there is no real
conflict--it seeks to yield, and glories over its own downfall.
After paying for the telegram, Christian took possession of the bulky
packet of newspapers addressed to him, and they left the post office.