The Slave of the Lamp Part 13

"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 pa.s.sing 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 pa.s.sed 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 pa.s.sed through a troubled political phase--a fighter on the losing side. Now he had, as it were, a.s.sumed a more important _role_. 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.

CHAPTER X

ON THE SCENT

It appeared to Stanley, on the way home that morning, that the conversation flagged somewhat. He therefore set to himself the task of reviving it.

"Christian," he began conversationally, "is there any smuggling done now? Real smuggling, I mean."

"No, I think not," replied Christian. He evidently did not look upon smuggling as a fruitful topic at that moment.

"Why do you ask?" interposed Hilda goodnaturedly.

"Well, I was just wondering," replied the boy. "It struck me yesterday that our boat had been moved."

"But," suggested Christian, "it should be very easy to see whether it has been dragged over the sand or not."

"Three strong men could carry it bodily into the water and make no marks whatever on the sand," argued little Stanley, determined not to be cheated out of his smugglers.

"Perhaps some one has been out for a row for his own pleasure and enjoyment," suggested Christian, without thinking much of what he was saying.

"Then how did he get the padlock open?"

"Smugglers, I suppose," said Hilda, smiling down at her small brother, "would be provided with skeleton keys."

"Of course," replied Stanley in an awestruck tone.

"I will tell you what we will do, Stanley," said Christian. "To-morrow morning we will go and have a bathe; at the same time I will look at the boat and tell you whether it has been moved."

"Unless," added Hilda, "a telegram comes today."

Christian laughed.

"Unless," he said gravely, "the world comes to an end this evening."

It happened during the precise moments occupied by this conversation, that Mr. Bodery, seated at his table in the little editor's room, opened the flimsy brown envelope of a telegram. He spread out the pink paper, and Mr. Morgan, seated opposite, raised his head from the closely-written sheets upon which his hand was resting.

"It is from Vellacott," said the editor, and after a moment's thought he read aloud as follows:--

"Letter and papers received; believe I have dropped into the clue of the whole affair. Will write particulars."

Mr. Morgan caressed his heavy moustache with the end of his penholder.

"That young man," he said, "goes about the world with his eyes remarkably wide open, ha-ha!"

Mr. Bodery rolled the telegram out flat with his pencil silently.