The Slave of the Lamp Part 17

"I expect he has gone for a stroll, and forgotten the time," suggested Mrs. Carew rea.s.suringly, 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 pa.s.s 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 a.s.sumed; his indifference was a mere habit. The a.s.sumption 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 pa.s.s 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 pa.s.ses, 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 pa.s.sing 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.