For the second time that night Edwin was left alone for a long period in
the little breakfast-room. Charlie's phrase, `You're another of her
beliefs,' shone like a lamp in his memory, beneficent. And though he
was still jealous of Charlie, with whom Hilda's relations were obviously
very intimate; although he said to himself, `She never made any appeal
to _me_, she would scarcely have _my_ help at any price;' nevertheless he
felt most singularly uplifted and, without any reason, hopeful. So much
so that the fate of the child became with him a matter of secondary
importance. He excused this apparent callousness by making sure in his
own mind that the child was in no real danger. On the other hand he
blamed himself for ever having fancied that Hilda was indifferent to
George. She, indifferent to her own son! What a wretched, stupid
slander! He ought to have known better than that. He ought to have
known that a Hilda would bring to maternity the mightiest passions. All
that Charlie had said confirmed him in his idolisation of her. `One
minute of the grand style.' That was it. Charlie had judged her very
well--damn him! And the one minute was priceless, beyond all
estimation.
The fire sank, with little sounds of decay; and he stared at it,
prevented as if by a spell from stooping to make it up, prevented even
from looking at his watch. At length he shivered slightly, and the
movement broke the trance. He wandered to the door, which Charlie had
left ajar, and listened. No sign of life! He listened intently, but
his ear could catch nothing whatever. What were those two doing
upstairs with the boy? Cautiously he stepped out into the passage, and
went to the foot of the stairs, where a gas jet was burning. He was
reminded of the nights preceding his father's death.
Another gas jet showed along the corridor at the head of the stairs. He
put his foot on the first step; it creaked with a noise comparable to
the report of a pistol in the dead silence. But there was no responsive
sound to show that anyone had been alarmed by this explosion. Impelled
by nervous curiosity, and growing careless, he climbed the
reverberating, complaining stairs, and, entering the corridor, stood
exactly in front of the closed door of the sick-room, and listened
again, and heard naught. His heart was obstreperously beating. Part of
the household slept; the other part watched; and he was between the two,
like a thief, like a spy. Should he knock, discreetly, and ask if he
could be of help? The strange romance of his existence, and of all
existence, flowed around him in mysterious currents, obsessing him.
Suddenly the door opened, and Charlie, barely avoiding a collision,
started back in alarm. Then Charlie recovered his self-possession and
carefully shut the door.
"I was just wondering whether I could be any use," Edwin stammered in a
whisper.
Charlie whispered: "It's all right, but I must run round to Stirling's,
and get a drug I want."
"Is he worse?"
"Yes. That is--yes. You never know with a child. They're up and down
and all over the place inside of an hour."
"Can I go?" Edwin suggested.
"No. I can explain to him quicker than you."
"You'll never find your way in this fog."
"Bosh, man! D'you think I don't know the town as well as you? Besides,
it's lifted considerably."
By a common impulse they tiptoed to the window at the end of the
corridor. Across the lawn could be dimly discerned a gleam through the
trees.
"I'll come with you," said Edwin.
"You'd much better stay here--in case."
"Shall I go into the bedroom?"
"Certainly."
Charlie turned to descend the stairs.
"I say," Edwin called after him in a loud whisper, "when you get to the
gate--you know the house--you go up the side entry. The night bell's
rather high up on the left hand."
"All right! All right!" Charlie replied impatiently. "Just come and
shut the front door after me. I don't want to bang it."
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