The Slave of the Lamp Part 22

He who entered immediately afterwards--with an almost indecent haste--was of middle height, with a certain intrepid carriage of the head which appeals to such as take pleasure in the strength and endurance of men. His face, which was clean shaven, was the face of a hawk, with the contracted myope vision characteristic of that bird. It is probable that from the threshold he took in every occupant of the room.

"Mrs. Carew," he said in a pleasant voice, speaking almost faultless English, "after all these years. What a pleasure!"

He shook hands, turning at the same time to the others.

"And Sid," he said, "and Molly--wicked little Molly. Never mind--your antecedents are safe. I am silent as the grave."

This was not strictly true. He was as deep, and deeper than the resting-place mentioned, but his method was superior to silence.

"And Hilda," he continued, "thoughtful little Hilda, who was always too busy to be naughty. Not like Molly, eh?"

"Heavens! How old it makes one feel!" he exclaimed, turning to Mrs.

Carew.

The lady laughed.

"You are not changed, at all events," she said. "Allow me to introduce Mr. Bodery--the Vicomte d'Audierne."

The two men bowed.

"Much pleasure," said the Frenchman.

Mr. Bodery bowed again in an insular manner, which just escaped awkwardness, and said nothing.

Then Molly offered the new-comer some tea, and the party broke up into groups. But the Vicomte's personality in some subtle manner pervaded the room. Mr. Bodery lapsed into monosyllables and felt ponderous. Monsieur d'Audierne had it in his power to make most men feel ponderous when the spirit moved him in that direction.

As soon as tea was finally disposed of Mrs. Carew proposed an adjournment to the garden. She was desirous of getting Mr. Bodery to herself.

It fell to Hilda's lot to undertake the Frenchman. They had been great friends once, and she was quite ready to renew the pleasant relationship. She led her guest to the prettiest part of the garden--the old overgrown footpath around the moat.

As soon as they had pa.s.sed under the nut-trees into the open s.p.a.ce at the edge of the water, the Vicomte d'Audierne stopped short and looked round him curiously. At the same time he gave a strange little laugh.

"_Hein--hein--c'est drole_," he muttered, and the girl remembered that in the old friendship between the brilliant, middle-aged diplomatist and the little child they had always spoken French. She liked to hear him speak his own language, for in his lips it received full justice: it was the finest tongue spoken on this earth. But she did not feel disposed just then to humour him. She looked at him wonderingly as his deep eyes wandered over the scene.

While they stood there, something--probably a kestrel--disturbed the rooks dwelling in the summits of the still elms across the moat, and they rose simultaneously in the air with long-drawn cries.

"Ah! Ah--h!" said the Vicomte, with a singular smile.

And then Hilda forgot her shyness.

"What is it?" she inquired in the language she had always spoken to this man.

He turned and walked beside her, suiting his steps to hers, for some moments before replying.

"I was not here at all," he said at length, apologetically; "I was far away from you. It was impolite. I am sorry."

He intended that she should laugh, and she did so softly. "Where were you?" she inquired, glancing at him beneath her golden lashes.

Again he paused.

"There is," he said at length, "an old _chateau_ in Morbihan--many miles from a railway--in the heart of a peaceful country. It has a moat like this--there are elms--there are rooks that swing up into the air like that and call--and one does not know why they do it, and what they are calling. Listen, little girl--they are calling something. What is it? I think I was _there_. It was impolite--I am sorry, Miss Carew."

She laughed again sympathetically and without mirth; for she was meant to laugh.

He looked back over his shoulder at times as if the calling of the rooks jarred upon his nerves.

"I do not think I like them--" he said, "now."

He was not apparently disposed to be loquacious as he had been at first.

Possibly the rooks had brought about this change. Hilda also had her thoughts. At times she glanced at the water with a certain shrinking in her heart. She had not yet forgotten the moments she had pa.s.sed at the edge of the moat the night before. They walked right round the moat and down a little pathway through the elm wood without speaking. The rooks had returned to their nests and only called to each other querulously at intervals.

"Has it ever occurred to you, little girl," said the Vicomte d'Audierne suddenly, "to doubt the wisdom of the Creator's arrangements for our comfort, or otherwise, here below?"

"I suppose not," he went on, without waiting for an answer, which she remembered as an old trick of his. "You are a woman--it is different for you."

The girl said nothing. She may have thought differently; one cannot always read a maiden's thoughts.

They walked on together. Suddenly the Vicomte d'Audierne spoke.

"Who is this?" he said.

Hilda followed the direction of his eyes.

"That," she answered, "is Signor Bruno. An old Italian exile. A friend of ours."

Bruno came forward, hat in hand, bowing and smiling in his charming way.

Hilda introduced the two men, speaking in French.

"I did not know," said Signor Bruno, with outspread hands, "that you spoke French like a Frenchwoman."

Hilda laughed.

"Had it," she said, with a sudden inspiration, "been Italian, I should have told you."

There was a singular smile visible, for a moment only, in the eyes of the Vicomte d'Audierne, and then he spoke.

"Mademoiselle," he said, "learnt most of it from me. We are old friends."

Signor Bruno bowed. He did not look too well pleased.

"Ah--but is that so?" he murmured conversationally.

"Yes; I hope she learnt nothing else from me," replied the Vicomte carelessly.

Hilda turned upon him with a questioning smile.

"Why?"