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 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 the _Beacon_ would 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.
“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,” 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?