A NIGHT WATCH
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, _Beacon_ Office, 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 the _Beacon_, 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.”