THE WORKS OF 
 HENRY SETON MERRIMAN 
 
 VOL. I 
 SLAVE OF THE LAMP 
 
^1 
 
 THE SLAVE OF 
 THE LAMP 
 
 ox 
 
 HENRY SETON MERRLVIAN 
 WITH A PREFACE TO THE SERIES 
 
 LONDON 
 JOHN MURRAY 
 
 ALBEMARLE STREET, W. 
 1916 
 
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 3 
 
 ^1 
 
 K'y^o , 
 
 Primed by Ballantyne, Hanson ^ Co. 
 at the Ballantyne Press. Edinburj;h 
 
PREFACE 
 
 Henry Seton Merriman published his first novel, 
 "Young Mistley," in 1888, when he was twenty-six 
 years old. Messrs. Bentley's reader, in his critique 
 on the book, spoke of its "powerful situations" and 
 unconventionality of treatment : and, while dwelling 
 at much greater length on its failings, declared, in 
 effect, its faults to be the right faults, and added 
 that, if " Young Mistley " was not in itself a good 
 novel, its author was one who might hereafter 
 certainly write good novels. 
 
 "Young Mistley" was followed in quick succes- 
 sion by "The Phantom Future," "Suspense," and 
 "Prisoners and Captives." Some years later, con- 
 siderino- them crude and immature works, the author, 
 at some difficulty and with no Uttle pecuniary loss, 
 withdrew all these four first books from circulation 
 in England. Their republication in America he 
 was powerless to prevent. He therefore revised 
 and abbreviated them, "conscious," as he said 
 himself in a preface, "of a hundred defects which 
 the most careful revision cannot eliminate." He 
 
VI PREFACE. 
 
 was perhaps then, as he was ever, too severe a 
 critic of his own works. But though these four 
 early books have, added to youthful failings, the 
 youthful merits of freshness, vigour and imagina- 
 tion, their author was undoubtedly right to suppress 
 them. By writing them he learnt, it is true, the 
 technique of his art: but no author wishes — or no 
 author should wish — to give his copy-books to the 
 world. It is as well then — it is certainly as he 
 himself desired — that these four books do not form 
 part of the present edition. It may, however, be 
 noted that both " Young Mistley " and " Prisoners 
 and Captives " dealt, as did " The Sowers " hereafter, 
 with Russian subjects: "Suspense" is the story of 
 a war-correspondent in the Russo-Turkish War of 
 1877 : and " The Phantom Future " is the only novel 
 of Merriman's in which the scene is laid entirely 
 in his own country. 
 
 In 1892 he produced "The Slave of the Lamp," 
 which had run serially through the Gomhill Maga- 
 zine, then under the editorship of Mr. James Payn. 
 
 To Mr. Payn, Merriman always felt that he owed 
 a debt of gratitude for jnuch shrewd and kindly 
 advice and encouragement. But one item of that 
 advice he neglected with, as Mr. Payn always 
 generously owned, great advantage. Mr. Payn 
 believed that the insular nature of the ordmary 
 
PREFACE. VU 
 
 Briton made it, as a general rule, highly undesirable 
 that the scene of any novel should be laid outside 
 the British Isles. 
 
 After 1892 all Merriman's books, with the single 
 exception of ''Flotsam," which appeared serially in 
 Longman's Magazine, and was, at first, produced in 
 book form by Messrs. Longman, were published by 
 the firm of Messrs. Smith, Elder, & Co. 
 
 His long and serene connection Avith the great 
 and honourable house which had produced the 
 works of such masters of literature as Thackerpy, 
 Charlotte Bronte, and Robert Browning, was always 
 a source of sincere pleasure to him. He often 
 expressed the opinion that, from the moment when, 
 as an inexperienced and perfectly unknown author, 
 he sent " Young Mistley " to Messrs. Bentley, until 
 the time when, as a very successful one, he was 
 publishing his later novels with Messrs. Smith, 
 Elder, he had invariably received from his pub- 
 lishers an entirely just and upright treatment. 
 
 Also in 1892 he produced "From One Generation 
 
 to Another " : and, two years later, the first of his 
 
 really successful novels, "With Edged Tools." It 
 
 is the only one of his books of which he never 
 
 visited the mise-en-scene — West Africa : but he had 
 
 so completely imbued himself with the scenery and 
 
 the spirit of the country that fcAv, if any, of his 
 
 a2 
 
Vlll PREFACE. 
 
 critics detected that he did not write of it from 
 personal experience. Many of his readers were 
 firmly convinced of the reality of the precious plant, 
 Simiacine, on whose discovery the action of the 
 plot turns. More than one correspondent wrote to 
 express a wish to take shares in the Simiacine 
 Company ! 
 
 "With Edged Tools" was closely followed by 
 *' The Grey Lady." Some practical experience of 
 a seafaring life, a strong love of it, and a great 
 fellow-feeling for all those whose business is in 
 great waters, helped the reality of the characters 
 of the sailor brothers and of the sea-scenes gene- 
 rally. The author was for some years, and at the 
 time " The Grey Lady " was written, an underwriter 
 at Lloyd's, so that on the subject of ship insurance 
 — a subject on which it will be remembered part 
 of the plot hinges — he was en pays de connaissance. 
 For the purpose of this story, he travelled in the 
 Balearic Islands, having, earlier, made the first of 
 many visits to Spain. 
 
 One of the strongest characteristics in his nature, 
 as it is certainly one of the strongest characteristics 
 in his books, was his sympathy with, and, in con- 
 sequence, his understanding of, the mind of the 
 foreigner. For him, indeed, there were no alien 
 countries. He learnt the character of the stranger 
 
PREFACE. IX 
 
 as quickly as he learnt his language. His greatest 
 delight was to merge himself completely in the life 
 and interests of the country he was visiting — to 
 stay at the mean venta, or the aitherge where the 
 tourist was never seen — to sit in the local cafes of 
 an evening and listen to local politics and gossip ; 
 to read for the time nothing but the native news- 
 papers, and no literature but the literature, past 
 and present, of the land where he was sojourning; 
 to follow the native customs, and to see Spain, 
 Poland or Russia Avith the eyes and from the point 
 of view of the Spaniard, the Pole or the Russian. 
 
 The difl&culties — sometimes there were even serious 
 difficulties — of visiting places where there was neither 
 provision nor protection made for the stranger, 
 always acted upon him not as deterrent but incen- 
 tive : he liked something to overcome, and found 
 the safe, comfortable, convenient resting-places as 
 uncongenial to his nature as they were unproductive 
 for the purposes of his work. 
 
 In 1896 "The Sowers" was published. Merri- 
 man's travels in Russia had taken place some years 
 before — before, in fact, the publication of "Young 
 Mistley" — but time had not at all weakened the 
 strong and sombre impression which that great 
 country and its unhappy people had left upon him. 
 The most popular of all his books with his English 
 
X PREFACE. 
 
 public, Merriman himself did not consider it his 
 best. It early received the compliment of being 
 banned by the Kussian censor : very recently, a 
 Russian woman told the present writers that " The 
 Sowers " is still the first book the travelling Russian 
 buys in the Tauchnitz edition, as soon as he is out 
 of his own country — " we like to hear the truth 
 about ourselves." 
 
 In the same year as "The Sowers," Merriman 
 produced " Flotsam." It is not, strictly speaking, 
 a romance : some of its main incidents were taken 
 from the life of a young officer of the 44th Regiment 
 in Early Victorian days. The character of Harry 
 Wylam is, as a whole, faithful to its prototype ; and 
 the last scene in the book, recording Harry's death 
 in the Orange Free State, as he was being taken 
 in a waggon to the missionary station by the Bishop 
 of the State, is literally accurate. Merriman had 
 visited India as a boy ; so here, too, the scenery is 
 from the brush of an eye-witness. 
 
 His next novel, " In Kedar's Tents," was his first 
 Spanish novel — pure and simple : the action of 
 "The Grey Lady" taking place chiefly in Majorca. 
 
 All the country mentioned in " In Kedar's Tents " 
 Merriman visited personally — riding, as did Frederick 
 Conyngham and Concepcion Vara, from Algeciras 
 to Ronda, then a difficult ride through a wild, 
 
PREFACE. XI 
 
 beautiful and not too safe district, the accommoda- 
 tion at Algeciras and Ronda being at that time of 
 an entirely primitive description. Spain had for 
 Merriman ever a peculiar attraction : the character 
 of the Spanish gentleman — proud, courteous, digni- . 
 fied — particularly appealed to him. 
 
 The next country in which he sought inspiration 
 was Holland. " Roden's Corner," published in 1898, 
 broke new ground : its plot, it will be remembered, 
 turns on a commercial enterprise. The title and the 
 main idea of the story were taken from Merriman's 
 earliest literary venture, the beginning of a novel — 
 there Avere only a few chapters of it — which he had 
 written before " Young Mistley," and which he had 
 discarded, dissatisfied. 
 
 The novel " Dross " was produced in America in 
 1899, havmg appeared serially in this country in a 
 well-known newspaper. Written during a period 
 of ill-health, Merriman thought it beneath his best 
 work, and, true to that principle which ruled his life 
 as an author, to give to the public so far as he could 
 of that best, and of that best only, he declined (of 
 course to his own monetary disadvantage) to permit 
 its publication in England in book form. 
 
 Its rtiise-en-scene is Franco and Suffolk ; its period 
 the Second Empire — the period of " The Last Hope." 
 Napoleon III., a character by whom Merriman was 
 
Xll PREFACE. 
 
 always peculiarly attracted, shadows it : in it appears 
 John Turner, the English banker of Paris, of " The 
 Last Hope " ; an admirable and amusing sketch of 
 a young Frenchman; and an excellent description 
 of the magnificent scenery about " Saint Martin 
 Lantosque, in the Maritime Alps. 
 
 For the benefit of " The Isle of Unrest," his next 
 book, Merriman had travelled through Corsica — not 
 the Corsica of fashionable hotels and health-resorts, 
 but the wild and unknown parts of that lawless and 
 magnificent island. For " The Velvet Glove " he 
 visited Pampeluna, Saragossa, and Lerida. The 
 country of " The Vultures " — Warsaw and its neigh- 
 bourhood — he saw in company with his friend, Mr. 
 Stanley Weyman. The pleasure of another trip, the 
 one he took in western France — Angouleme, Cognac, 
 and the country of the Charente — for the scenery of 
 " The Last Hope," was also doubled by Mr. Weyman's 
 presence. In Dantzig — the Dantzig of " Barlasch of 
 the Guard " — Merriman made a stay in a bitter mid- 
 winter, visiting also Vilna and Konigsberg; part of 
 the route of the Great Retreat from Moscow he 
 traced himself. He was inclined to consider — and 
 if an author is not quite the worst judge of his 
 own work he is generally quite the best — that in 
 *' Barlasch" he reached his high-water mark. The 
 short stories, comprised in the volume entitled 
 
PREFACE. Xlll 
 
 " Tomaso's Fortune,"' were published after his death. 
 In every case, the locale they describe was known to 
 Merriman personally. At the Monastery of Mont- 
 serrat — whence the monk in " A Small World " saw 
 the accident to the diligencia — the author had made 
 a stay of some days. The Farlingford of " The Last 
 Hope" is Orford in Suffolk: the French scenes, as 
 has been said, Merriman had visited with Mr. 
 Weyman, whose " Abbess of Vlaye " they also sug- 
 gested. The curious may still find the original of 
 the Hotel Gemosac in Paris — not far from the Palais 
 d'Orsay Hotel — " between the Rue de Lille and the 
 Boulevard St. Germain." 
 
 " The Last Hope " was not, in a sense, Merriman's 
 last novel. He left at his death about a dozen com- 
 pleted chapters, and the whole plot carefully mapped 
 out, of yet another Spanish book, which dealt with 
 the Spain of the Peninsular War of 1808-14. These 
 chapters, which were destroyed by the author's 
 desire, were of excellent promise, and written with 
 great vigour and spirit. His last trip was taken, 
 in connection with this book, to the country 
 of Sir Arthur Wellesley's exploits. The plot of 
 the story was concerned with a case of mistaken 
 identity; the sketch of a Guerilla leader, Pedro 
 — bearing some affinity to the Concepcion Vara 
 of " In Kedar's Tents " — was especially happy. 
 
XIV PREFACE. 
 
 It has been seen that Merriman was not the class 
 of author who " sits in Fleet Street and writes news 
 from the front." He strongly believed in the value 
 of personal impressions, and scarcely less in the 
 value of first impressions. In his own case, the 
 correctness of his first impressions — what he himself 
 called laughingly his ^' cou2') d'oeil " — is in a measure 
 proved by a note-book, now lying before the writers, 
 in which he recorded his views of Bastia and the 
 Corsicans after a very brief acquaintance — that view 
 requiring scarcely any modification when first im- 
 pressions had been exchanged for real knowledge 
 and experience. 
 
 As to his methods of writing, in the case of all 
 his novels, except the four early suppressed ones, 
 he invariably followed the plan of drawing out the 
 Avhole plot and a complete synopsis of every chapter 
 before he began to write the book at all. 
 
 Partly as a result of this plan perhaps, but more 
 as a result of great natural facility in writing, his 
 manuscripts were often without a single erasure for 
 many pages; and a typewriter was really a super- 
 fluity. 
 
 It is certainly true to say that no author ever 
 had more pleasure in his art than Merriman. The 
 fever and the worry which accompany many literary 
 productions he never knew. 
 
PREFACE. XV 
 
 Among the professional critics he had neither 
 personal friends nor personal foes ; and accepted 
 their criticisms — hostile or favourable — with perfect 
 serenity and open-mindedness. He was, perhaps, 
 if anything, only too ready to alter his work in 
 accordance with their advice : he always said that 
 he owed them much ; and admired their perspicuity 
 in detecting a promise in his earliest books, which 
 he denied finding there himself. His invincible 
 modesty made him ready to accept not only profes- 
 sional criticism but — a harder thing — the advice of 
 critics on the hearth. It was out of compliance with 
 such a domestic criticism that the denonertient in 
 " The Sowers " was re- writ ten as it now stands, the 
 scene of the attack on the Castle being at first wholly 
 different. 
 
 The jealousy and bitterness which are supposed 
 to be inseparable from the literary life certainly 
 never affected Merriman's. He had no trace of such 
 feelings in his nature. Of one who is known to the 
 public exclusively through his writings, it may seem 
 strange — but it is not the less true — to say that his 
 natural bent was not to the life of a literary man, 
 but to a life of action, and that it was fate, rather 
 than inclination, which made him express himself in 
 words instead of deeds. A writer's books are gene- 
 rally his best biography : the " strong, quiet man," 
 
XVI PREFACE. 
 
 whose forte was to do much and say nothing ; who, 
 like Marcos Sarrion, loved the free and plain life 
 of the field and the open, was a natural hero for 
 Merriman, "as finding there unconsciously some 
 image of himself." 
 
 To any other biography he was strongly opposed. 
 His dislike of the advertisement and the self-adver- 
 tisement of the interview and the personal paragraph 
 deepened with time. He held strongly and con- 
 sistently, as he held all his opinions, that a writer 
 should be known to the public by his books, and by 
 his books only. One of his last expressed wishes 
 was that there should be no record of his private 
 life. 
 
 It is respect for that wish which here stays the 
 
 present writers' pen. 
 
 E. F. S. 
 
 S. G. T, 
 July 1909. 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 CHAPTER 
 I. 
 
 In the Rue St. Gingolphe 
 
 II. 
 
 Tools ... 
 
 III. 
 
 Without Rest 
 
 IV. 
 
 Burdened 
 
 V. 
 
 A Reunion ... 
 
 VI. 
 
 Broken Threads 
 
 VII. 
 
 Puppets 
 
 VIII. 
 
 False Metal ... 
 
 IX. 
 
 A Clue 
 
 X. 
 
 On the Scent ... 
 
 XI. 
 
 Bury Bluff ... 
 
 XII. 
 
 A Warning Word 
 
 XIII. 
 
 A Night Watch 
 
 XIV. 
 
 Foiled ... 
 
 XV. 
 
 Rooks 
 
 XVI. 
 
 Foes 
 
 XVII. 
 
 A Retreat ... 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 An Empty Nest 
 
 XIX. 
 
 Foul Play ... 
 
 XX. 
 
 Winged 
 
 XXL 
 
 True to His Cloth... 
 
 XXII. 
 
 Greek and Greek 
 
 PAGE 
 1 
 
 11 
 
 21 
 
 35 
 
 49 
 
 58 
 
 68 
 
 78 
 
 93 
 
 105 
 
 116 
 
 128 
 
 143 
 
 150 
 
 162 
 
 174 
 
 184 
 
 194 
 
 202 
 
 214 
 
 228 
 
 243 
 
XVlll 
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 CHAPTER 
 
 XXIII. 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 XXV. 
 
 XXVI. 
 
 XXVIT. 
 
 Stricken Down 
 
 Back to Life ... 
 
 Back to Work 
 
 SiGNOR Bruno ... 
 
 In the Rur St. Gingolphe Again 
 
 XXVIII. The Making of Christian Vellacott 
 
 PAGE 
 
 259 
 
 267 
 281 
 294 
 306 
 317 
 
THE 
 
 SLAYE OF THE LAMP 
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 IN THE RUE ST. GINGOLPHE 
 
 It was, not so many years ago, called the Rue de 
 I'Empire, but republics are proverbially sensitive. 
 Once they are established they become morbidly 
 desirous of obliterating a past wherein no republic 
 flourished. The street is therefore dedicated to St. 
 Gingolphe to-day. To-morrow ? Who can tell ? 
 
 It is presumably safe to take it for granted that 
 you are located in the neighbourhood of the Louvre, 
 on the north side of the river which is so unim- 
 portant a factor to Paris. For all good Englishmen 
 have been, or hope in the near future to be, located 
 near this spot. All good Americans, we are told, 
 relegate the sojourn to a more distant future. 
 
 The bridge to cross is that of the Holy Fathers. 
 So called to-day. Once upon a time — but no matter. 
 Bridges are peculiarly liable to change in troubled 
 times. The Rue St. Gingolphe is situated between 
 the Boulevard St. Germain and Quai Voltaire. One 
 
Z THE SLAVE OF THE LAMP. 
 
 hears with equal facility the low-toned boom of the 
 steamers' whistle upon the river, and the crack of 
 whips in the boulevard. Once across the bridge, 
 turn to the right, and go along the Quay, between 
 the lime-trees and the bookstalls. You will pro- 
 bably go slowly because of the bookstalls. No one 
 worth talking to could help doing so. Then turn 
 to the left, and after a few paces you will find upon 
 your right hand the Rue St. Gingolphe. It is noted 
 in the Directory " Botot " that this street is one hun- 
 dred and forty-five metres long ; and who would care 
 to contradict " Botot," or even to throw the faintest 
 shadow of a doubt upon his statement ? He has 
 probably measured. 
 
 If your fair and economical spouse should think of 
 repairing to the Bon-Marche to secure some of those 
 wonderful linen pillow-cases (at one franc forty) with 
 your august initial embroidered on the centre with 
 a view of impressing the sleeper's cheek, she will 
 pass the end of the Rue St. Gingolphe on her way — 
 provided the cabman be honest. There ! You can- 
 not help finding it now. 
 
 The street itself is a typical Parisian street of one 
 hundred and forty-five metres. There is room for 
 a baker's, a cafe, a bootmaker's, and a tobacconist 
 who sells very few stamps. The Parisians do not 
 write many letters. They say they have not time. 
 But the tobacconist makes up for the meanness of 
 his contribution to the inland revenue of one de- 
 partment by a generous aid to the other. He sells 
 a Vdst number of cigarettes and cigars of the very 
 
IN THE RUE ST. GINGOLPHE. 6 
 
 worst quality. And it is upon the Avorst quality that 
 the Government makes the largest profit. It is in 
 every sense of the word a weed which grows as 
 lustily as any of its compeers in and around Oran, 
 Algiers, and Bonah. 
 
 The Rue St. Gingolphe is within a stone's-throw 
 of the Ecole des Beaux- Arts, and in the very centre 
 of a remarkably cheap and yet respectable quarter. 
 Thus there are many young men occupying apart- 
 ments in close proximity — and young men do not 
 mind much what they smoke, especially provincial 
 young men livmg in Paris. They feel it incumbent 
 upon them to be constantly smoking something — 
 just to show that they are Parisians, true sons of the 
 pavement, knowing how to live. And their brightest 
 hopes are in all truth realised, because theirs is cer- 
 tainly a reckless life, flavoured as it is with " number 
 one " tobacco, and those " little corporal " cigarettes 
 which are enveloped in the blue paper. 
 
 The tobacconist's shop is singularly convenient. 
 It has, namely, an entrance at the back, as well as 
 that giving on to the street of St. Gingolphe. This 
 entrance is through a little courtyard, in which is the 
 stable and coach-house combined, where Madame 
 Perinere, a lady who paints the magic word " Modes " 
 beneath her name on the door-post of number seven- 
 teen, keeps the dapper little cart and pony which 
 carry her bonnets to the farthest corner of Paris. 
 
 The tobacconist is a large man, much given to 
 perspiration. In fact, one may safely make the state- 
 ment that he perspires annually from the middle of 
 
4 THE SLAVE OF THE LAMP. 
 
 April to the second or even third week in October. 
 In consequence of this habit he wears no collar, and 
 a man without a collar does not start fairly on the 
 social race. It is always best to make inquiries before 
 condemnino: a man who wears no collar. There is 
 probably a very good reason, as in the case of Mr. 
 Jacquetot, but it is to be feared that few pause to 
 seek it. One need not seek the reason with much 
 assiduity in this instance, because the tobacconist of 
 the Rue St. Gingolphe is always prepared to explain 
 it at length. French people are thus. They talk of 
 things, and take pleasure in so doing, which we, on 
 this side of the Channel, treat with a larger discretion. 
 Mr. Jacquetot does not even wear a collar on Sun- 
 day, for the simple reason that Sunday is to him as 
 other days. He attends no place of worship, because 
 he acknowledges but one god — the god of most 
 Frenchmen — his inner man. His pleasures are gas- 
 tronomical, his sorrows stomachic. The little shop is 
 open early and late, Sundays, week-days, and holi- 
 days. Moreover, the tobacconist — Mr. Jacquetot 
 himself — is always at his post, on the high chair 
 behind the counter, near the window, where he can 
 see into the street. This constant attention to 
 business is almost phenomenal, because Frenchmen 
 who worship the god of Mr. Jacquetot love to pay 
 tribute on fete-days at one of the little restaurants 
 on the Place at Versailles, at Duval's, or even in the 
 Palais Royal. Mr. Jacquetot would have loved 
 nothing better than a pilgrimage to any one of these 
 shrines, but he was tied to the little tobacco store. 
 
IN THE EUE ST. GINGOLPHE. 5 
 
 Not by the chains of commerce. Oh, no ! When 
 ralKed by his neighbours for such an unenterprising 
 love of his own hearth, he merely shrugged his heavy 
 shoulders. 
 
 " What will you ? " he would say ; " one has one's 
 affairs." 
 
 Now the affairs of Mr. Jacquetot were, in the days 
 with which we have to do, like many things on this 
 earth, inasmuch as they were not what they seemed. 
 
 It would be inexpedient, for reasons closely con- 
 nected with the tobacconist of the Eue St. Gingolphe, 
 as well as with other gentlemen still happily with us 
 in the flesh, to be too exact as to dates. Suffice it, 
 therefore, to say that it was only a few years ago 
 that Mr. Jacquetot sat one evening as usual in his 
 little shop. It happened to be a Tuesday evening, 
 which is fortunate, because it was on Tuesdays and 
 Saturda3^s that the little barber from round the 
 corner called and shaved the vast cheeks of the 
 tobacconist. Mr. Jacquetot was therefore quite 
 presentable — doubly so, indeed, because it was yet 
 March, and he had not yet entered upon his summer 
 season. 
 
 The little street was very quiet. There was no 
 through traffic, and folks living in this quarter of 
 Paris usually carry their own parcels. It was thus 
 quite easy to note the approach of any passenger, 
 when such had once turned the corner. Some one 
 was approaching now, and Mr. Jacquetot threw away 
 the stump of a cheap cigar. One would almost have 
 said that he recognised the step at a considerable 
 
6 THE SLAVE OF THE LAMP. 
 
 distance. Young people are in the habit of consider- 
 ing that Avhen one gets old and stout one loses in 
 intelligence ; but this is not always the case. One is 
 apt to expect little from a fat man ; but that is often 
 a mistake. Mr. Jacquetot weighed seventeen stone, 
 but he was eminently intelligent. He had recognised 
 the footstep while it was yet seventy metres away. 
 
 In a few moments a gentleman of middle height 
 paused in front of the shop, noted that it was a 
 tobacconist's, and entered, carrying an unstamped 
 letter with some ostentation. It must, by the way, 
 be remembered that in France postage-stamps are to 
 be bought at all tobacconists'. 
 
 The new-comer's actions were characterised by 
 a certain carelessness, as if he were going through 
 a formula — perfunctorily — without admitting its 
 necessity. 
 
 He nodded to Mr. Jacquetot, and rather a pleasant 
 smile flickered for a moment across his face. He 
 was a singularly well-made man, of medium height, 
 with straight, square shoulders and small limbs. He 
 wore spectacles, and as he looked at one straight in 
 the face there was a singular contraction of the eyes 
 which hardly amounted to a cast — moreover, it was 
 momentary. It was precisely the look of a hawk 
 when its hood is suddenly removed in full daylight. 
 This resemblance was furthered by the fact that the 
 man's profile was birdlike. He was clean-shaven, 
 and there was in his sleek head and determined little 
 face that smooth, compact self-complacency which is 
 to be noted in the head of a hawk. 
 
IN THE RUE ST. GIXGOLPHE. 7 
 
 The face was small, like that of a Greek bust, but 
 in expression it suggested a yet older people. There 
 was that mystic depth of expression which comes 
 from ancient Egypt. No one feature was obtrusive 
 — all were chiselled with equal delicacy; and yet 
 there was only one point of real beauty in the entire 
 countenance. The mouth was perfect. But the 
 man with a perfect mouth is usually one whom it 
 will be found expedient to avoid. Without a certain 
 allowance of sensuality no man is genial — without a 
 little weakness there is no kind heart. This French- 
 man's mouth was not, however, obtrusively faultless. 
 It was perfect in its design, but, somehow, many 
 people failed to take note of the fact. It is so with 
 the " many," one finds. The human Avorld is so blind 
 that at times it would be almost excusable to harbour 
 the suspicion that animals see more. There may 
 be something in that instinct by which dogs, horses, 
 and cats distinguish between friends and foes, detect 
 sympathy, discover antipathy. It is possible that 
 they see things in the human face to which our eyes 
 are blinded — intentionally and mercifully blinded. 
 If some of us were a little more observant, a few of 
 the human combinations which Ave bring about might 
 perhaps be less egregiously mistaken. 
 
 It was probably the form of the lips that lent 
 pleasantness to the smile with Avhich Mr. Jacquetot 
 was greeted, rather than the expression of the velvety 
 eyes, which had in reality no power of smiling at all. 
 They were sad eyes, like those of the women one sees 
 on the banks of the Upper Nile, Avhich never alter in 
 
^ THE SLAVE OF THE LAMP. 
 
 expression — eyes that do not seem to be busy with 
 this Ufe at all, but fully occupied with something else: 
 something beyond to-morrow or behind yesterday. 
 
 ''Not yet arrived ? " inquired the new-comer in a 
 voice of some distinction. It was a full, rich voice, 
 and the French it spoke was nju the French of Mr. 
 Jacquetot, nor, indeed, of the Rue St. Gingolphe. It 
 was the language one sometimes hears in an old 
 chateau lost in the depths of the country — the vast 
 unexplored rural districts of France — where the 
 bearers of dangerously historical names live out 
 their lives with a singular suppression and patience. 
 They are either biding their time or else they are 
 content with the past and the part played by their 
 ancestors therein. For there is an old French and 
 a new. In Paris the new is spoken — the very newest. 
 Were it anything but French it Avould be intolerably 
 vulgar; as it is, it is merely neat and intensely 
 expressive. 
 
 "Not yet arrived, sir," said the tobacconist, and 
 then he seemed to recollect himself, for he repeated : 
 
 " Not yet arrived," without the respectful addition 
 which had slipped out by accident. 
 
 The new arrival took out his watch — a small one 
 of beautiful workmanship, the watch of a lady — and 
 consulted it. His movements were compact and rapid . 
 He would have made a splendid light-weight boxer. 
 
 "That," he said shortly, "is- the way they faih 
 They do not understand the necessity of exactitude. 
 The people — see you, Mr. Jacquetot, they fail because 
 they have no exactitude." 
 
m THE RUE ST. GINGOLPHE. 9 
 
 " But I am of the people," moving ponderously on 
 his chair. 
 
 "Essentially so. I know it, my friend. But I 
 have taught you something." 
 
 The tobacconist laughed. 
 
 " I suppose so. But is it safe to stand there in the 
 full day ? Will you not pass in ? The room is 
 ready; the lamp is lighted. There is an agent of 
 the police always at the end of the street now." 
 
 " Ah, bah ! " and he shrugged his shoulders con- 
 temptuously. " I am not afraid of them. There is 
 only one thing to be feared, Citizen Jacquetot — the 
 press. The press and the people, Men entendii." 
 
 " If you despise the people why do you use them ? " 
 asked Jacquetot abruptly. 
 
 " In default of better, my friend. If one has not 
 steam one uses the river to turn the mill-wheel. The 
 river is slow ; sometimes it is too weak, sometimes 
 too strong. One never has full control over it, but 
 it turns the wheel — it turns the wheel, brother 
 Jacquetot." 
 
 "And eventually sweeps away the miller," sug- 
 gested the tobacconist lightly. It must be remem- 
 bered that though stout he was intelligent. Had he 
 not been so it is probable that this conversation 
 would never have taken place. The dark-eyed man 
 did not look like one who would have the patience 
 to deal with stupid people. 
 
 Again the pleasant smile flickered like the light of 
 a fire in a dark place. 
 
 " That,'' was the reply, " is the affair of the miller." 
 
10 THE SLAVE OF THE LAMP. 
 
 " But," conceded Jacquetot, meditatively selecting 
 a new cigar from a box which he had reached with- 
 out moving from his chair, "but the people — they 
 are fools, hein ! " 
 
 " Ah ! " with a protesting shrug, as if deprecating 
 the enunciation of such a platitude. 
 
 Then he passed through into a little room behind 
 the shop — a little room where no daylight penetrated, 
 because there was no window to it. It depended for 
 daylight upon the shop, with which it communicated 
 by a door of which the upper half was glass. But 
 this glass was thickly curtained with the material 
 called Turkey-red, threefold. 
 
 And the tobacconist was left alone in his shop, 
 smoking gravely. There are some people like oysters, 
 inasmuch as they leave an after-taste behind them. 
 The man who had just gone into the little room at 
 the rear of the tobacconist's shop of the Rue St. Gin- 
 golphe in Paris was one of these. And the taste he 
 left behind him was rather disquieting. One was apt 
 to feel that there was a mistake somewhere in the 
 ordering of human affairs, and that this man was one 
 of its victims. 
 
 In a few minutes two men passed hastily through 
 the shop into the little room, with scarcely so much 
 as a nod for Mr. Jacquetot. 
 
CHAPTER II 
 
 TOOLS 
 
 The first man to enter the room was clad in a blouse 
 of coarse grey cloth which reached down to his knees. 
 On his head he wore a black silk cap, very much 
 pressed down and exceedingly greasy on the right 
 side. This was to be accounted for by the fact that 
 he used his right shoulder more than the left in that 
 state of life in which he had been placed. It was 
 not what Ave, who do not kill, would consider a 
 pleasant state. He was, in fact, a slayer of beasts — 
 a foreman at the slaughter-house. 
 
 It is, perhaps, fortunate that Antoine Lerac is of 
 no great prominence in this record, and of none in 
 his official capacity at the slaughter-house. But the 
 man is worthy of some small attention, because he 
 was so essentially of the nineteenth century — so dis- 
 tinctly a product of the latter end of what is, for us 
 at least, the most important cycle of years the world 
 has passed through. He was a man wearing the 
 blouse with ostentation, and glorying in the greasy 
 cap: professing his unwillingness to exchange the 
 one for an ermine robe or the other for a crown. As 
 a matter of fact, he invariably purchased the largest 
 ana roughest blouse to be found, and his cap was 
 
12 THE SLAVE OF THE LAMP. 
 
 unnecessarily soaked Avith suet. He was a knight of 
 industry of the very worst description — a braggart, 
 a talker, a windbag. He preached, or rather he 
 shrieked, the doctrine of equality, but the equality 
 he sought was that which would place him on a par 
 with his superiors, while in no way benefiting those 
 beneath him. 
 
 At one time, when he had first come into contact 
 with the dark-eyed man who now sat at the table 
 watching him curiously, there had been a struggle 
 for mastery. 
 
 " I am," he had said with considerable heat, " as 
 good as you. That is all I wish to demonstrate." 
 
 " No," replied the other with that calm and assured 
 air of superiority which the people once tried in vain 
 to stamp out with the guillotine. ' No, it is not* 
 You want to demonstrate that you are superior, and 
 you cannot do it. You say that you have as much 
 right to walk on the pavement as I. I admit it. In 
 your heart jou want to prove that you have 'more, 
 and you cannot do it. I could wear your blouse 
 with comfort, but you could not put on my hat or 
 my gloves without making yourself ridiculous. But 
 — that is not the question. Let us get to business." 
 
 And in time the butcher succumbed, as he was 
 bound to do, to the man whom he shrewdly suspected 
 of being an aristocrat. 
 
 He who entered the room immediately afterwards 
 was of a very different type. His mode of entry was 
 of another description. Whereas the man of blood 
 swaggered in with an air of nervous truculence, as 
 
TOOLS. 13 
 
 if he were afraid that some one was desirous of dis- 
 puting his equaHty, the next comer crept in softly, 
 and closed the door with accuracy. He was the 
 incarnation of benevolence — in the best sense of the 
 word, a sweet old man — looking out upon the world 
 through large tinted spectacles with a beam which 
 could not be otherwise than blind to all motes. In 
 earlier years his face might, perhaps, have been a 
 trifle hard in its contour ; but Time, the lubricator, 
 had eased some of the corners, and it was now the 
 seat of kindness and love. He bowed ceremoniously 
 to the first comer, and his manner seemed rather to 
 breathe of fraternity than equality. As he bowed 
 he mentioned the gentleman's name in such loving 
 tones that no greeting could have been heartier. 
 
 " Citizen Morot," he said. 
 
 The butcher, with more haste than dignity, as- 
 sumed the chair which stood at the opposite end of 
 the table to that occupied by the Citizen Morot. He 
 had evidently hurried in first in order to secure that 
 seat. From his pocket he produced a somewhat 
 soiled paper, which he threw with exaggerated care- 
 lessness across the table. His manner was not en- 
 tirely free from a suggestion of patronage. 
 
 " What have we here ? " inquired the first comer, 
 who had not hitherto opened his lips, with a deep 
 interest which might possibly have been ironical. 
 He was just the sort of man to indulge in irony for 
 his own satisfaction. He unfolded the paper, raised 
 his eyebrows, and read. 
 
 "Ah!" he said, "a receipt for five hundred rifles 
 
 B 
 
14 THE SLAVE OF THE LAMP. 
 
 with bayonets and shoulder-straps complete. 'Re- 
 ceived of the Citizen Morot five hundred rifles with 
 bayonets and shoulder-straps complete. — Antoine 
 Lerac' " 
 
 He folded the paper again and carefully tore it 
 into very small pieces. 
 
 " Thank you," he said gravely. 
 
 Then he turned in his chair and threw the papers 
 into the ash-tray of the little iron stove behind him. 
 
 "I judged it best to be strictly business-like," 
 said the butcher, with moderately well-simulated 
 carelessness. 
 
 "But yes, Monsieur Lerac," with a shrug. "We 
 of the Republic distrust each other so completely." 
 
 The old gentleman looked from one to the other 
 with a soothing smile. 
 
 " The brave Lerac," he said, " is a man of business." 
 
 Citizen Morot ignored this observation. 
 
 " And," he said, turning to Lerac, " you have them 
 stored in a safe place ? There is absolutely no doubt 
 of that ? " 
 
 " Absolutely none." 
 
 " Good." 
 
 " They are under my own eye." 
 
 " Very good. It is not for a short time only, but 
 for some months. One cannot hurry the people. 
 Besides, we are not ready. The rifles we bought, 
 the ammunition we must steal." 
 
 " They are good rifles— they are English," said the 
 butcher. 
 
 " Yes ; the English Government is full of chivalry. 
 
TOOLS. 15 
 
 They are always ready to place it within the power 
 of their enemies to be as well armed as themselves." 
 
 The old gentleman laughed — a pleasant, cooing 
 laugh. He invariably encouraged humour, this genial 
 philanthropist. 
 
 "At last Friday's meeting," Lerac said shortly, 
 " we enrolled forty new members. We now number 
 four hundred and two in our arrondissement alone." 
 
 ''Good," muttered the Citizen Morot, without en- 
 thusiasm. 
 
 " And four hundred hardy companions they are." 
 
 " So I should imagine " (very gravely). 
 
 "Four hundred strong men," broke in the old 
 gentleman rather hastily. " Ah, but that is already 
 a power." 
 
 "It is," opined Lerac sententiously, "the strong 
 man who is the power. Riches are nothing ; birth 
 is nothing. This is the day of force. Force is every- 
 thing." 
 
 " Everything," acquiesced Morot fervently. He 
 was consulting a small note-book, wherein he jotted 
 down some figures. 
 
 " Four hundred and two," he muttered as he wrote, 
 " up to Friday night, in the arrondissement of the 
 citizen — the good citizen — Antoine Lerac." 
 
 The butcher looked up with a doubtful expression 
 upon his coarse face. His great brutal lips twitched, 
 and he was on the point of speaking when the 
 Citizen Morot's velvety eyes met his gaze with a 
 quiet smile in which arrogance and innocence were 
 mingled. 
 
16 THE SLAVE OF THE LAMP. 
 
 " And now," said the last - mentioned, turning 
 afitably to the old gentleman, " let us have the report 
 of the reverend Father." 
 
 " Ah," laughed Lerac, without attempting to con- 
 ceal the contempt that was in his soul, " the Church." 
 
 The old gentleman spread out his hands in mild 
 deprecation. 
 
 " Yes," he admitted, " we are under a shadow. I 
 do not even dare to wear my cassock." 
 
 "You are in a valley of shadow, my reverend 
 friend," said the butcher, with visible exultation, " to 
 which the sun will never penetrate now." 
 
 The Citizen Morot laughed at this pleasantry, while 
 the old man against whom it was directed bowed his 
 head patiently. 
 
 " And yet," said the laugher, with a certain air of 
 patronage, "the Church is of some use still. She 
 paid for those rifles, and she will pay for the ammu- 
 nition — is it not so, my father ? " 
 
 " Without doubt— without doubt." 
 
 " Not to mention," continued the other, " many 
 contributions towards our general fund. The force 
 that is supplied by the strong right arm of the people 
 is, one finds, a force constantly in need of substantial 
 replenishment." 
 
 " But," exclaimed the butcher, emphatically bang- 
 ing his fist down upon the table, " why does she do 
 it ? That is what I want to know ! " 
 
 The old priest glanced furtively towards Morot, 
 and then his face assumed an air of childish be- 
 wilderment. 
 
TOOLS. 17 
 
 '• Ah ! " he said guilelessly, " who can tell ? " 
 
 " Who, indeed ! " chimed in Morot. 
 
 The butcher was pleased with himself. He sat 
 upright, and, banging the table a second time, he 
 looked round defiantly. 
 
 " But," said Morot, in an indifferent way which 
 was frequently characteristic, " I do not see that it 
 matters much. The money is good. It buys rifles, 
 and it places them in the hands of the Citizen Lerac 
 and his hardy companions. And when all is said and 
 done, when the cartridges are burnt and a New Com- 
 mune is raised, what does it matter whose money 
 bought the rifles, and with what object the money 
 was supplied ? " 
 
 The old gentleman looked relieved. He was evi- 
 dently of a timid and conciliatory nature, and would, 
 with slight encouragement, have turned upon that 
 Church of which he was the humble representative, 
 merely for the sake of peace. 
 
 The butcher cleared his throat after the manner 
 of the streets — causing Morot to wince visibly — and 
 acquiesced. 
 
 . " But," he added cunningly, " the Church, see you 
 — Ach ! it is deep — it is treacherous. Never trust 
 the Church!" 
 
 The Citizen Morot, to whom these remarks were 
 addressed, smiled in a singular way and made no 
 reply. Then he turned gravely to the old man and 
 said — 
 
 " Have you nothing to report to us — my father ? " 
 
 " Nothing of great importance," replied he humbly. 
 
18 THE SLAVE OF THE LAMP. 
 
 " All is going on well. We are in treaty for two hun- 
 dred rifles with the Montenegrin Government, and 
 shall no doubt carry the contract through. I go to 
 England next week in order to carry out the — the — 
 what shall I say ? — the loan of the ammunition." 
 
 " Ha, ha ! " laughed the butcher. 
 
 Morot smiled also, as he made an entry in the little 
 note-book. 
 
 " Next week ? " he said interrogatively. 
 
 " Yes — on Tuesday." 
 
 " Thank you." 
 
 The butcher here rose and ostentatiously dragged 
 out a watch from the depths of his blouse. 
 
 " I must go," he said. " I have committee at seven 
 o'clock. And I shall dine first." 
 
 "Yes," said Morot gravely. "Dine first. Take 
 good care of yourself, citizen." 
 
 " Trust me." 
 
 " I do," was the reply, delivered with a little nod 
 in answer to Lerac's curt farewell bow. 
 
 The butcher walked noisily through the shop — 
 heavy with responsibility — weighted with the sense 
 of his own importance to the world in general and to 
 France in particular. Had he walked less noisily 
 he might have overheard the soft laugh of the 
 old priest. 
 
 Citizen Morot did not laugh. He was not a 
 laughing man. But a fine, disdainful smile passed 
 over his face, scarce lighting it up at all. 
 
 " What an utter fool the man is ! " he said 
 impatiently. 
 
TOOLS. 19 
 
 " Yes — sir," replied the old man, " but if he were 
 less so it would be difficult to manage him." 
 
 "I am not sure. I always prefer to deal with 
 knaves than with fools." 
 
 " That is because your Highness knows how to 
 outwit them." 
 
 ''No titles — my father," said the Citizen Morot 
 quietly. " No titles here, if you please. Tell me, 
 are you quite sure of this scum — this Lerac ? " 
 
 "As sure as one can be of anything that comes 
 from the streets. He is an excitable, bumptious, 
 quarrelsome man; but he has a certain influence 
 with those beneath him, although it seems hard 
 to realise that there are such." 
 
 " Ha ! you are right ! But a republic is a social 
 manure-heap — that which is on the top is not 
 pleasant, and the stuff below — ugh ! " 
 
 The manner of the two men had quite changed. 
 He who was called Morot leant back in his seat and 
 stretched his arms out wearily. There is no disguise 
 like animation ; when that is laid aside we see the 
 real man or the real woman. In repose this French- 
 man was not cheerful to look upon. He was not 
 sanguine, and a French pessimist is the worst thing 
 of the kind that is to be found. 
 
 When the door had closed behind the departing 
 Lerac, the old priest seemed to throw off suddenly 
 quite a number of years. His voice, when next he 
 spoke, was less senile, his movements were brisker. 
 He was, in a word, less harmless. 
 
 Mr. Jacquetot had finished his dinner, brought 
 
20 THE SLAVE OF THE LAMP. 
 
 in from a neighbouring restaurant all hot, and was 
 slumberously enjoying a very strong-smelUng cigar, 
 when the door of the little room opened at length,' 
 and the two men went out together into the dimly- 
 lighted street. 
 
CHAPTER III 
 
 WITHOUT REST 
 
 Half-way down Fleet Street, on the left-hand side, 
 stands the church of St. Dunstan-in-the-West. 
 Around its grimy foundations there seethes a 
 struggling, toiling race of men — not only from 
 morning till night, but throughout the twenty-four 
 hours. Within sound of this church bell a hundred 
 printing-presses throb out their odorous broadsheets 
 to be despatched to every part of the world. Day 
 and night, week in week out, the human writing- 
 machines, and those other machines which are 
 almost human (and better than human in some 
 points) hurry through their allotted tasks, and ignore 
 the saintly shadow cast upon them by the spire of 
 St. Dunstan. This is indeed the centre of the world : 
 the hub from whence spring the spokes of the vast 
 wheel of life. For to this point all things over the 
 world converge by a vast web of wire, railroad, coach 
 road, and steamer track. Upon wings that boast of 
 greater speed than the wind can compass come to 
 this point the voices of our kin in farthest lands. 
 News — news — news. News from the East of events 
 occurring in the afternoon — scan it over and flash 
 
 it westward, where it will be read on the morning 
 
 21 B 2 
 
22 THE SLAVE OF THE LAMP. 
 
 of the same day ! NeAvs in every tongue to be 
 translated and brought into shape — while the 
 solemn church clock tells his tale in deep voice, 
 audible above the din and scurry. 
 
 From hurried scribbler to pale compositor, and 
 behold, the news is bawled all over London ! Such 
 work as this goes on for ever around the church of 
 St. Dunstan. Scribblers come and scribblers go ; 
 compositors come to their work young and hopeful, 
 they leave it bent and poisoned, yet the work goes 
 on. Each day the pace grows quicker, each day 
 some neAV means of rapid propagation is discovered, 
 and each day life becomes harder to live. One 
 morning, perhaps, a scribbler is absent from his 
 post — " Brain-fever, complete rest ; a wreck." For 
 years his writings have been read by thousands 
 daily. A new man takes the vacant chair — he has 
 been waiting more or less impatiently for this — 
 and the thousands are none the wiser. One night 
 the head compositor presses his black hand to his 
 sunken chest, and staggers home. "And time too 
 — he's had his turn," mutters the second compositor 
 as he thinks of the extra five shillings a week. 
 No doubt he is right. Every dog his day. 
 
 Nearly opposite to the church stands a tall narrow 
 house of dirty red brick, and it is with this house 
 that we have to do. 
 
 At seven o'clock, one evening some years ago — 
 when heads now grey were brown, Avhen eyes now 
 dim were bright — the Strand was in its usual state 
 of turmoil. Carriage followed carriage. Seedy 
 
WITHOUT REST. 23 
 
 clerks hustled past portly merchants — not their own 
 masters, bien entendio, but those of other seedy 
 clerks. Carriages and foot-passengers were alike 
 going westward. All were leaving behind them the 
 day and the busy city — some after a few hours 
 devoted to the perusal of Times and Gazette ; others 
 fagged and weary from a long day of dusty books. 
 
 Ah ! those were prosperous days in the City. 
 Days when men of but a few years' standing rolled 
 out to Clapham or Highgate behind a pair of horses. 
 Days when books were often represented by a bank- 
 book and a roughly-kept day-book. What need to 
 keep mighty ledgers when profits are great and 
 returns quick in their returning ? 
 
 As the pedestrians made their way along the 
 narrow pavement some of them glanced at the door 
 of the tall red-brick house and read the inscription 
 on a brass plate screwed thereon. This consisted 
 of two mystic words : The Beacon. There was, 
 however, in reality, no mystery about it. The 
 Beacon was a newspaper, published weekly, and the 
 clock of St. Dunstan's striking seven told the end 
 of another week. The publishing day was past; 
 another week with its work and pleasure was to be 
 faced. 
 
 From early morning until six o'clock in the 
 evening this narrow doorway and passage had been 
 crowded by a heaving, swearing, laughing mass of 
 more or less dilapidated humanity interested in the 
 retail sale of newspapers. At six o'clock Ephraim 
 Bander, a retired constable, now on the staff of the 
 
24 THE SLAVE OF THE LAMP. 
 
 Beacon, had taken his station at the door, in order 
 to greet would-be purchasers with the laconic and 
 discouraging Avords : " Sold hout ! " 
 ^ During the last two years ex-constable Bander 
 had announced the selling " hout " of the Beacon 
 every Tuesday evening. 
 
 At seven o'clock Mrs. Bander emerged from her 
 den on the fourth floor, like a portly good-natured 
 spider, and with a broom proceeded to attack the 
 dust shaken from the boots of the journalistic fra- 
 ternity, with noisy energy. After that she polished 
 the door-plate ; and peace reigned within the narroAv 
 house. 
 
 On the second floor there was a small room with 
 windows looking out into a narrow lane behind the 
 house. It was a singularly quiet room ; the door 
 opened and shut without sound or vibration ; double 
 windows insured immunity from the harrowing 
 cries of such enterprising merchants as exercised 
 their lungs and callings in the narrow lane beneath. 
 A certain sense of ease and comfort imperceptibly 
 crept over the senses of persons entering this tiny 
 apartment. It must have been in the atmosphere ; 
 for some rooms more luxuriously furnished are 
 Avithout it. It certainly does not lie in the furni- 
 ture — this imperceptible sense of companionship ; 
 it does not lurk in the curtains. Some mansions 
 know it, and many cottages. It is even to be met 
 with in the tiny cabin of a coasting vessel. 
 
 This diminutive room, despite its lack of sunlight, 
 was such as one might wish to sit in. A broad low 
 
WITHOUT REST. 25 
 
 table stood in the middle of the floor, and on it lay 
 the mellow light of a shaded lamp. At this table 
 two men were seated opposite to each other. One 
 was writing, slowly and easily, the other was 
 idling with the calm restfulness of a man who has 
 never worked very hard. He was rolling his pencil 
 up to the top of his blotting-pad, and allowing it 
 to come down again in accordance with the rules 
 of gravity. 
 
 This was Mr. Bodery's habit when thoughtful; 
 and after all, there was no great harm in it. Mr. 
 Bodery was editor and proprietor of the Beacon. 
 The amusing and somewhat satirical article which 
 appeared weekly under the heading of " Light " was 
 penned by the chubby hand at that moment engaged 
 with the pencil. 
 
 Mr. Morgan, sub-editor, was even stouter than 
 his chief. Laughter was his most prominent charac- 
 teristic. He laughed over "Light" when in its 
 embryo state, he laughed when the Beacon sold out at 
 six o'clock on Tuesday evenings. He laughed when 
 the printing-machine went wrong on Monday after- 
 noon, and — most wonderful of all — he laughed at 
 his own jokes, in which exercise he was usually 
 alone. His jokes were not of the first force, l Mr. 
 Morgan was the author of the slightly laboured 
 and weighty Parliamentary articles on the first 
 page. He never joked on paper, which is a 
 gift apart. 
 
 These two gentlemen were in no way of brilliant 
 intellect. They had their share of sound, practical 
 
26 THE SLAVE OF THE LAMP. 
 
 common-sense, which is in itself a splendid substi- 
 tute. Fortune had come to them (as it comes to 
 most men when it comes at all) without any 
 apparent reason. Mr. Bodery had supplied the 
 capital, and Mr. Morgan's share of the undertaking 
 was added in the form of a bustling, hollow energy. 
 The Beacon was lighted, so to speak. It burnt 
 in a dull and somewhat flickering manner for some 
 years ; then a new hand fed the flame, and its light 
 spread afar. ^ 
 
 It was from pure good nature that Mr. Bodery 
 held out a helping hand to the son of his old 
 friend, Walter Vellacott, when that youth appeared 
 one day at the office of the Beacon, and in an 
 off-hand manner announced that ho was seeking 
 employment. Like many actions performed fi*om 
 a similar motive, Mr. Bodery's kindness of heart 
 met with its rcAvard. Young Christian Vellacott 
 developed a remarkable talent for journalistic 
 literature — in fact, he was fortunate enough to have 
 found, at the age of twenty-two, his avocation in life. 
 
 Gradually, as the years wore on, the influence 
 of the young fellow's superior intellect made itself 
 felt. From the position of a mere supernumerary, 
 he worked his way upwards, taking on to his 
 shoulders one duty after another — bearing the 
 weight, quietly and confidently, of one responsi- 
 bility after another. This exactly suited Mr. 
 Bodery and his sub-editor. There was very little 
 of the slave in the composition of either. They 
 delighted in an easy, luxurious life, with just 
 
WITHOUT REST. 27 
 
 enough work to impart a pleasant feeling of self- 
 satisfaction. It suited Christian Vellacott also. 
 In a few weeks he found his level — in a few months 
 he began rising to higher levels. 
 
 He was an only son ; the only child of a brilliant 
 father whose name was known in every court in 
 Europe as that of a harum-scarum diplomatist, who 
 could have done great things in his short life if 
 he had wished to. It is from only sons that Fortune 
 selects her favourites. Men who have no brothers 
 to share their amusements turn to serious matters 
 early in life. Christian Vellacott soon discovered 
 that a head was required at the office of the 
 Beacon to develop the elements of success un- 
 doubtedly lying within the journal, and that the 
 owner of such a head could in time dictate his 
 own terms to the easy-going proprietor. 
 
 Unsparingly he devoted the whole of his ex- 
 ceptional energies to the work before him. He 
 lived in and for it. Each night he went home 
 fagged and weary; but each morning saw him 
 return to it with undaunted spirit. 
 
 Human nature, however, is exhaustible. The 
 influence of a strong mind over a strong body is 
 great, but it is nevertheless limited. The Beacon 
 had reached a large circulation, but its slave was 
 worn out. Two years without a holiday — two years 
 of hurried, hard brain- work had left their mark. 
 It is often so when a man finds his avocation too 
 early. He is too hurried, works too hard, and 
 collapses ; or he becomes self-satisfied, over-con- 
 
28 THE SLAVE OF THE LAMP. 
 
 fident, and unbearable. Fortunately for Christian 
 Vellacott he was devoid of conceit, which is like 
 the scaffolding round a church-spire, reaching 
 higher and falling first. 
 
 There was also a "home" influence at work. 
 When Christian passed out of the narrow doorway, 
 and turned his face westward, his day's work was 
 by no means over, as will be shoAvn hereafter. 
 
 As Mr. Bodery rolled his pencil up and down his 
 blotting-pad, he was slowly realising the fact that 
 something must be done. Presently he looked up, 
 and his pleasant eyes rested on the bent head of 
 his sub-editor. 
 
 " Morgan," he said, " I have been thinking 
 
 Seems to me Vellacott wants a rest! He's played 
 out ! " 
 
 Mr. Morgan wiped his pen vigorously upon his 
 coat, just beneath the shoulder, and sat back in 
 his chair. 
 
 " Yes," he replied ; " he has not been up to the 
 mark for some time. But you will find difficulty 
 in making him take a holiday. He is a devil for 
 working — ha, ha ! " 
 
 This " ha, ha ! " did not mean very much. There 
 was no mirth in it. It was a species of punctua- 
 tion, and implied that Mr. Morgan had finished his 
 remark. 
 
 "I will ring for him now and see what he says 
 about it." 
 
 Mr. Bodery extended his chubby white hand and 
 touched a small gong. Almost instantaneously the 
 
WITHOUT REST. 29 
 
 silent door opened and a voice from without said, 
 " Yess'r." A small boy with a mobile, wicked mouth 
 stood at attention in the doorway. 
 
 " Has Mr. Vellacott gone ? " 
 
 " No — sir 1 " In a tone which seemed to ask : 
 '■' Now is it likely ? " 
 
 " Where is he ? " 
 
 " In the shop, sir." 
 
 " Ask him to come here, please." 
 
 "Yess'r." 
 
 The small boy closed the door. Once outside he 
 placed his hand upon his heart and made a low bow 
 to the handle, retreating backwards to the head of 
 the stairs. Then he proceeded to slide down the 
 banister, to the trifling detriment of his waistcoat. 
 As he reached the end of his perilous journey a 
 door opened at the foot of the stairs, and a man's 
 form became discernible in the dim light. 
 
 "Is that the way you generally come downstairs, 
 Wilson ? " asked a voice. 
 
 " It is the quickest way, sir ! " 
 
 "Not quite; there is one quicker, which you will 
 discover some day if you overbalance at the top ! " 
 
 " Mr. Bodery wishes to see you, please sir 1 " The 
 small boy's manner was very different from what 
 it had been outside the door upstairs. 
 
 " All right," replied Vellacott, putting on the coat 
 he had been carrying over his arm. A peculiar 
 smooth rapidity characterised all his movements. 
 At school he had been considered a very "clean" 
 fielder. The cleanness was there still. 
 
30 THE SLAVE OF THE LAMP. 
 
 The preternaturally sharp boy — sharp as only 
 London boys are — watched the lithe form vanish 
 up the stairs ; then he wagged his head very wisely 
 and said to himself in a patronising way : 
 
 " He's the right sort, he is — no chalk there ! " 
 
 Subsequently he balanced his diminutive person 
 full length upon the balustrade, and proceeded 
 to haul himself laboriously, hand over hand, to 
 the top. 
 
 In the meantime Christian Vellacott had passed 
 into the editor's room. The light of the lamp was 
 driven downwards upon the table, but the reflection 
 of it rose and illuminated his face. It Avas a fairly 
 handsome face, with eyes just large enough to be 
 keen and quick without being dreamy. The slight 
 fair moustache was not enough to hide the mouth, 
 which was refined, and singularly immobile. He 
 glanced at Mr. Bodery, as he entered, quickly and 
 comprehensively, and then turned his eyes towards 
 Mr. Morgan. His face was very still and un- 
 emotional, but it was pale, and his eyes were deeply 
 sunken. A keen observer would have noticed, in 
 comparing the three men, that there was something 
 about the youngest which was lacking in his elders. 
 It lay in the direct gaze of his eyes, in the carriage 
 of his head, in the small, motionless mouth. It 
 was what is vaguely called " power." 
 
 "Sit down, Vellacott," said Mr. Brodery. "We 
 want to have a consultation." After a short pause 
 he continued : " You know, of course, that it is a 
 dull season just now. People do not seem to read 
 
WITHOUT REST. 31 
 
 the papers in August. Now, we want you to take 
 a holiday. Morgan has been away ; I shall go when 
 you come back. Say three weeks or a month. 
 You've been over-working yourself a bit — burning 
 the candle at both ends, eh ? " 
 
 " Hardly at both ends/' corrected Vellacott, with 
 a ready smile which entirely transformed his face. 
 "Hardly at both ends — at one end in a draught, 
 perhaps." 
 
 " Ha, ha ! Very good," chimed in Mr. Morgan the 
 irrepressible. " At one end in a draught — that is like 
 me, only the draught has got inside my cheeks and 
 blown them out instead of in like yours, eh ? Ha, 
 ha ! " And he patted his cheeks affectionately. 
 
 "I don't think I care for a holiday just now, 
 thanks," he said slowly, without remembering to call 
 up a smile for Mr. Morgan's benefit. Unconsciously 
 he put his hand to his forehead, which was damp 
 with the heat of the printing-office which he had 
 just left. 
 
 "My dear felloAV," said Mr. Bodery gravely, em- 
 phasising his remarks with the pencil, "you have 
 o'ne thing in life to learn yet — no doubt you have 
 many, but this one in particular you must learn. 
 Work is not the only thing we are created for — 
 not the only thing worth living for. It is a necessary 
 evil, that is all. When you have reached my age 
 you will come to look upon it as such. A little 
 enjoyment is good for every one. There are many 
 things to form a brighter side to life. Nature — 
 travelling — riding — rowing " 
 
32 THE SLAVE OF THE LAMP 
 
 " And love," suggested the sub-editor, placing his 
 hand dramatically on the right side of his broad 
 waistcoat instead of the left. He could afford to 
 joke on the subject now that the grass grew high 
 in the little country churchyard where he had 
 laid his young wife fifteen years before. In those 
 days he was a grave, self-contained man, but that 
 sorrow had entirely changed his nature. The true 
 William Morgan only came out on paper now. 
 
 Mr. Bodery Avas right. Christian had yet to 
 learn a great lesson, and unconsciously he was even 
 now beginning to grasp its meaning. His whole 
 mind was full of his work, and out of those earnest 
 grey eyes his soul was looking at the man who was 
 perhaps saving his life. 
 
 " We can easily manage it," said the editor, con- 
 tinuing his advantage. " I will take over the foreign 
 policy article. The reviewing you can do yourself, 
 as we can always send you the books, and there is 
 no pressing hurry about them. The general work 
 we will manage somehow — won't we, Morgan ? " 
 
 " Of course we will ; as well as and perhaps better 
 than he could do it himself, eh ? Ha, ha ! " 
 
 " But seriously, Vellacott," continued Mr. Bodery, 
 "things will go on just as well for a time. When 
 I was young I used to make that mistake too. I 
 thought that no one could manage things like 
 myself, but in time I realised (as you will do some 
 day) that things went on as smoothly when I was 
 away. Depend upon it, my boy, when a man is 
 put on the shelf, worn out and useless, another soon 
 
WITHOUT REST. 33 
 
 fills his place. You are too young to go on the 
 shelf yet. To please me, Vellacott, go away for 
 three weeks." 
 
 "You are very kind, sir — " began the young 
 fellow, but Mr. Bodery interrupted him. 
 
 "Well, then, that is settled. Shall we say this 
 day week ? That will give you time to make your 
 plans." 
 
 With a few words of thanks Christian left the 
 room. Vaguely and mechanically he wandered 
 upstau's to his own particular den. It was a dis- 
 appointing little chamber. The chaos one expects 
 to find on the desk of a literary man was lacking 
 here. No papers lay on the table in artistic dis- 
 order. The presiding genius of the room was method 
 — clear-headed, practical method. The walls were 
 hidden by shelves of books, from the last half- 
 hysterical production of some vain woman to the 
 single-volume work of a man's lifetime. Many of the 
 former were uncut, the latter bore signs of havino- 
 been read and studied. The companionship of these 
 silent friends brought peace and contentment to 
 the young man's spirit. He sat wearily down, and, 
 leaning his chin upon his folded arms, he thought. 
 Gradually there came into his mind pictures of the 
 fair open country, of rolling hills and quiet valleys, 
 of quiet lanes and running waters. A sudden yearn- 
 ing to breathe God's pure air took possession of 
 his faculties. Mr. Bodery had gained the day. In 
 the room below Mr. Morgan wrote on in his easy, 
 comfortable manner. The editor was still thought- 
 
34 THE SLAVE OF THE LAMP. | 
 
 fully playing with his pencil. The sharp little boy 
 was standing on his head in the passage. At last 
 Mr. Bodery rose from his chair and began his 
 preparations for leaving. As he brushed his hat 
 he looked towards his companion and said : 
 
 "That young fellow is worth you and me rolled 
 into one." 
 
 " I recognised that fact some years ago," replied 
 the sub-editor, wiping his pen on his coat. "It 
 is humiliating, but true. Ha, ha ! " 
 
CHAPTER IV 
 
 BURDENED 
 
 Christian Vellacott soon descended the dingy 
 stairs and joined the westward -wending throng in 
 the Strand. In the midst of the crowd he was 
 alone, as townsmen soon learn to be. The passing 
 faces, the roar of traffic, and the thousand human 
 possibilities of interest around him in no way 
 disturbed his thoughts. In his busy brain the 
 traffic of thought, passing and repassing, crossing 
 and recrossing, went on unaffected by outward 
 things. A modern poet has confessed that his 
 muse loves the pavement — a bold confession, but 
 most certainly true. Why does talent gravitate 
 to cities ? Because there it works its best — because 
 friction necessarily produces brilliancy. Nature is 
 a great deceiver ; she draws us on to admire her 
 insinuating charms, and in the contemplation of 
 them we lose our energy. 
 
 Christian had been born and bred in cities. 
 The din and roar of life was to him what the 
 voice of the sea is to the sailor. In the midst 
 of crowded humanity he was in his element, and 
 as he walked rapidly along he made his way 
 dexterously through the narrow places without 
 
 35 
 
36 THE SLAVE OF THE LAMP. 
 
 thinking of it. While meditating deeply he was 
 by no means absorbed. In his active life there 
 had been no time for thoughts beyond the present, 
 no leisure for dreaming. He could not afford to 
 be absent-minded. Numbers of men are so situ- 
 ated. Their minds are required at all moments, 
 in full working order, clear and rapid — ready, 
 shoes on feet and staff in hand, to go whither- 
 soever they may be called. 
 
 Although he was going to the saddest home 
 that ever hung like a mill-stone round a young 
 neck, Christian wasted no time. The glory of 
 the western sky lay ruddily over the river as he 
 emerged from, the- small streets behind Chelsea 
 and faced the broad placid stream. Presently he 
 stopped opposite the door of a small red-brick 
 house, which formed the corner of a little terrace 
 facing the river and a quiet street running inland 
 from it. 
 
 With a latch-key he admitted himself noiselessly 
 — almost surreptitiously. Once inside he closed 
 the door without unnecessary sound and stood for 
 some moments in the dark little entrance-hall, 
 apparently listening. 
 
 Presently a voice broke the silence of the house. 
 A querulous, high-pitched voice, quavering with 
 the palsy of extreme age. The sound of it was no 
 new thing for Christian Vellacott. To-night his 
 lips gave a little twist of pain as he heard it. The 
 door of the room on the ground floor was open, 
 and he could hear the words distinctly enough. 
 
BURDENED. 37 
 
 "You know, Mrs. Strawd, we have a nephew, 
 but he is always gadding about, I am sure ; he 
 has been a terrible affliction to us. A frothy, good- 
 for-nothing boy — that is what he is. We have not 
 set eyes on him for a month or more. Why, I 
 almost forget his name ! " 
 
 "Christian, that is his name — a most inappro- 
 priate one, I am sure," chimed in another voice, 
 almost identical in tone. "Why Walter should 
 have given him such a name I cannot tell. Ah ! 
 sister Judith, things are different from w^hat they 
 used to be when we were younger!" 
 
 The frothy one outside the door seemed in 
 no great degree impressed by these impartial 
 views upon himself, though the pained look was 
 still upon his lips as he turned to hang up his 
 hat. 
 
 " He's coming home to-night, though, Miss Judith," 
 said another voice, in a coaxing, wheedling tone, 
 such as one uses towards petulant children. " He's 
 coming home to-night, sure enough ! " It was a 
 pleasant voice, with a strong, capable ring about it. 
 One instinctively felt that the possessor of it was 
 a woman to be relied upon at a crisis. 
 
 "Is he now — is he now?" said the first speaker 
 reflectively. "Well, I am sure it is time he did. 
 We will just give him a lesson, eh, sister Hester? 
 — we will give him a lesson, shall we not ? " 
 
 At this moment the door opened, and a little 
 woman, quiet though somewhat anxious looking, 
 came out. She evinced no surprise at the sight of 
 
38 THE SLAVE OF THE LAMP. 
 
 the good-for-nothing nephew in the dimly-lighted 
 passage, greeting him in a low voice. 
 
 " How have they been to-day, nurse ? " he asked. 
 
 " Oh, they have been well enough, Master Chris- 
 tian," was the reply, in a cheerful undertone. 
 "Aunt Judith has 'most got rid of her cold. But 
 they've been very trying, sir — -just like children, 
 as wilful as could be — the same question over and 
 over again till I was fit to cry. They are quieter 
 now, but — but it's you they're abusing now, Master 
 Chris!" 
 
 The young fellow looked down into the little 
 woman's face. His eyes were sympathetic enough, 
 but he said nothing. With a little nod and a 
 suppressed sigh he turned away from her. He laid 
 his hand upon the door and then stopped. 
 
 "As soon as you have brought up tea," he said, 
 looking back, " I will take them for the evening, and 
 you can have your rest as usual." 
 
 From the room came, at intervals, the ring of 
 silver, as if some one were moving the spoons and 
 forks from the table. Christian waited until these 
 sounds had ceased before he entered. 
 
 " Good evening. Aunt Judith. Good evening, 
 Aunt Hester," he said cheerily. 
 
 They were exactly alike, these two old ladies ; the 
 same marvellously wrinkled features and silver hair ; 
 voluminous caps and Avhite woollen shawls identical. 
 With exaggerated marks of respect he kissed each 
 by turn on her withered cheek. 
 
 " May I sit down, Aunt Judith ? " he asked, and 
 
BURDENED. 39 
 
 without waiting for an answer drew a chair towards 
 the fireplace, where a small fire burnt though it 
 was the month of August. 
 
 "Yes, Nephew Vellacott, you may take a seat," 
 replied Aunt Judith with chill severity, "and you 
 may also tell us where you have been during the 
 last four weeks." 
 
 Poor old human wreck! Only ten hours earlier 
 her nephcAv had bid her farewell for the day. Chris- 
 tian began an explanation in a weary, mechanical 
 way, like an actor tired of the part assigned to him, 
 but the old ladies would not listen. Aunt Hester 
 interrupted him promptly. 
 
 " Your shallow excuses are wasted on us. Nephew 
 Vellacott. You have doubtless been away, enjoying 
 yourself and leaving us — us who support you and 
 deprive ourselves in order to keep a decent coat 
 upon your back — leaving us to the mercy of all 
 the thieves in London. And tell us, pray — what 
 are we to do for spoons and forks to-night ? " 
 
 " What ? " exclaimed Christian with perfunctory 
 interest, " have the spoons gone — ? " he almost 
 said " again," but checked himself in time. He 
 turned to look at the table, which had been care- 
 fully denuded of every piece of silver. 
 
 " There, you see ! " quavered Aunt Judith trium- 
 phantly ; and the two old ladies rubbed their hands, 
 nodded their palsied old heads at each other, and 
 chuckled in utter delight at their nephew's dis- 
 comfiture, until Aunt Judith was attacked by a 
 violent fit of coughing, which seemed to be tearing 
 
40 THE SLAVE OF THE LAMP. 
 
 her to pieces. Christian watched her with the 
 ready keenness of a sick-nurse. 
 
 " How did it occur ? " he asked, when the old lady 
 had recovered. 
 
 "There, you see," remarked Aunt Hester, with 
 the precise intonation of her accomplice. 
 
 " I a7n sure ! " panted Aunt Judith triumphantly. 
 
 " I am sure ! " echoed Aunt Hester. 
 
 They allowed their nephew's remorse full scope, 
 and then proceeded laboriously to extract the 
 missing articles from the side of Aunt Judith's 
 arm-chair. This farce was rehearsed every night, 
 nearly word for word. A pleasant recreation for 
 an intellectual man, assuredly. The only relief to 
 the monotony was the occasional loss of a spoon in 
 the crevice between the arm and the seat of Aunt 
 Judith's chair. Then followed such a fumbling and 
 a "dear me-ing" until the worthless nephew was 
 perforce called to the rescue, to fish and probe with 
 a paper-knife till the lost treasure was recovered. 
 
 " We only wished, Nephew Vellacott, to show you 
 what might have happened during your unconscion- 
 able absence. Servants are only too ready to talk 
 to the first comer of their mistresses' wealth and 
 position. They have no discrimination," said Aunt 
 Judith in a reproving tone. The old ladies were 
 very fond of boasting of their wealth and position, 
 whereas, in reality, their nephew was the only 
 barrier between them and the workhouse. 
 
 "Well, Aunt Judith," replied Christian patiently, 
 " I will try and stay at home more in future. But 
 
BUEDENED. 41 
 
 you know it is time I was doing something to earn 
 my o^vll livelihood now. I cannot exist on your 
 kindness all my life ! " 
 
 He had learnt to humour these two silly old 
 women. During the two years which had just 
 passed he had gradually recognised the utter futility 
 of endeavouring to make them realise the true state 
 of their affairs. They spoke grandiloquently of the 
 family solicitor : a man who had been in his grave 
 for nearly a quarter of a century. It was simply 
 impossible to instil into their minds any fact what- 
 ever, and such facts as had established themselves 
 there were permanent. They belonged to another 
 generation, and their mode of thought was a rem- 
 nant of a forgotten and unsatisfactory period. To 
 them Napoleon the First was a living man, Queen 
 Victoria unheard of. The decay of their minds 
 had been slow, and it had been Christian Vellacott's 
 painful task to watch its steady progress. Day by 
 day he had followed the gradual failing of each 
 sense and power. 
 
 There is something pathetic about the decay of 
 a mind which has been driven to death by con- 
 stant work, but there is a compensating thought 
 to alleviate the sadness. It may rattle and grow 
 loose, like some worn-out engine, where the friction 
 presses; but it will work till it collapses totally, 
 and some of the work achieved is good and per- 
 manent. It is bound to be so. Infinitely sadder 
 is the sight of a mind which is falling to pieces 
 by reason of the rust that has eaten into its very 
 
42 THE SLAVE OF THE LAMP. 
 
 core. For rust must needs mean idleness — and no 
 human intellect need be idle. So it had been with 
 these two old ladies. Born in a wofuUy unintel- 
 lectual age, they had never left a certain groove 
 in life. When their brother married Christian 
 Vellacott's grandmother, they had left his house 
 in Honiton to go and live in Bodmin upon a limited 
 but sufficient income. These "sufficient incomes" 
 are a curse ; they do not allow of charity and 
 make no call for labour. 
 
 When Christian Vellacott arrived in England, 
 an orphan with no great wealth, he made it his 
 first duty to visit the only living relations he 
 possessed. He was just in time to save them, 
 literally, from starvation. It was obvious that he 
 could not make a literary livelihood in Bodmin, 
 so he made a home for the two old wrecks of 
 humanity in London. Their means, like their 
 minds, were simply exhausted. Aunt Judith was 
 ninety-three ; Aunt Hester ninety-one. During that 
 vast blank (for blank it was, so far as their lives 
 were concerned) stretching away back into a per- 
 spective of time which few around them could 
 gauge — they had never been separated for one day. 
 Like two apples they had grown side by side, until 
 their very contact had engendered disease — a slow, 
 deadly, creeping rot, finding its source at the point 
 of contact, reaching its goal at the heart of each. 
 They had existed thus with terrible longevity — lived 
 a mere animal life of sleeping and eating, such as 
 hundreds of women are living around us now. 
 
BURDENED. 43 
 
 "Of course, you must learn to make your daily 
 bread, Nephew Vellacott ! " answered Aunt Hester. 
 " The desire does you credit ; but you should be 
 careful into what society you go without us. Girls 
 are very designing, and many a one would like to 
 marry a nephew of mine — eh, Judith ? " 
 
 "Yes, that they would," replied the old lady. 
 " The minxes know that they might do worse than 
 catch the nephew of Judith and Hester Vellacott ! " 
 
 " Look at us," continued Aunt Hester, drawing 
 up her shrunken old form with a touch of pride. 
 " Look at us ? We have always avoided marriage, 
 and we are very nice and happy, I am sure ! " 
 
 She waited for a confirmation of this bold state- 
 ment, but Christian was not listening. He was 
 leaning forward with his hands clasped between his 
 knees, gazing into the fire. He was recalling the 
 conversation which had passed in the little room 
 in the Strand. Could he leave these two helpless 
 old creatures. Could he get away from it all for 
 a little time — away from the maddening prattle of 
 unguided tongues, from the dread monotony of 
 hopeless watching ? He knew that he was wasting 
 his manhood, neglecting his intellectual opportu- 
 nities, and endangering his career; but his course 
 of duty was marked out with terrible distinctness. 
 He never saw the pathos of it, as a woman would 
 have seen it, gathering perhaps some slight allevi- 
 ation from the sight. It never entered his thoughts 
 to complain, and he never conceived the idea of 
 drawing comparisons between his position and that 
 
44 THE SLAVE OF THE LAMP. 
 
 of other young men who, instead of being slaves 
 to their relatives, made very good use of them. He 
 merely went on doing his obvious duty and striving 
 not to look forward too eagerly to a release at some 
 future period. 
 
 - Fortunately, Mrs. Strawd was not long in bring- 
 ing in the simple evening meal; and the attention 
 of the old ladies was at once turned to the mystery 
 hidden beneath the dish-cover. What was it, and 
 would there be enough for Nephew Vellacott ? 
 
 Deftly, Christian poured out the tea. Two cups 
 very weak and one stronger. Then two thin slices 
 of crustless bread had to be buttered. This opera- 
 tion required great judgment and impartiality. 
 
 " Excuse me. Nephew Vellacott ! " said Aunt 
 Judith, with dangerous severity. " Is that first 
 slice intended for Aunt Hester ? It appears to me 
 that the butter is very thick — much thicker than 
 on the second, which is doubtless intended for me ! " 
 
 I," Do you think so, Aunt Judith ?" asked Christian 
 in a voice purposely loud in order to dro^vn Aunt 
 Hester's remonstrance. "Then I will take a little 
 off!" He passed the knife harmlessly over the 
 faulty slice, and laid the two side by side upon a 
 plate. Then the old ladies promptly held a survey 
 on them — that declared to be more heavily buttered 
 being awarded to Aunt Judith in recognition of 
 her seniority. 
 
 With similar fruitful topics of conversation the 
 meal was pleasantly despatched. The turn of Dick 
 and Mick followed thereon. Dick, the property of 
 
BURDENED. 45 
 
 Aunt Judith, was a canary of thoughtful tempera- 
 ment. The part he played in the domestic economy 
 of the small household was a contemplative rather 
 than an active one. Mick, Aunt Hester's bird, was 
 of a more lively nature. He had, as a rule, some- 
 thing to say upon all subjects — and said it. 
 
 Now Aunt Hester, in her inmost heart, loved a 
 silent bird, and secretly coveted Dick, but as Mick 
 was her property, and Dick the silent was owned by 
 Aunt Judith, she never lost an opportunity of en- 
 larging upon the stupidity and uselessness of silent 
 birds. Aunt Judith, on the other hand, admired 
 a lively and talkative canary ; consequently she was 
 weighed down with the conviction that her sister's 
 bird was the superior article. Altogether, birds as 
 a topic of conversation were best avoided. Dick 
 and Mick were housed in cages of similar build — 
 indeed, most things were strictly in duplicate in 
 the whole household. Every evening Christian 
 brought the cages, and Aunt Judith and Aunt 
 Hester carefully placed within the wires a small 
 piece of bread-and-butter, which Nurse Strawd as 
 carefully removed, untouched, the next morning. 
 
 When the birds' wants had been attended to, it 
 was Christian's duty to settle the old ladies com- 
 fortably in their respective arm-chairs . This he 
 did tenderly and cleverly as a woman, but it v/as 
 not a pleasant sight to look upon. The man, with 
 his lean, strong face, long jaw, and prominent chin, 
 w^as so obviously out of place. These peaceful 
 duties w^ere never meant for such as he. His some- 
 
 c 
 
46 THE SLAVE OF THE LAMP. 
 
 what closely-set eyes were not such as wax tender 
 over drowning flies, for even in repose they were 
 somewhat direct and stern in their gaze. In fact, 
 Christian Vellacott was so visibly created for strife 
 and the forefront of life's battle, that it was al- 
 most painful to see him fulfilling a more peaceful 
 avocation. 
 
 As a rule he devoted himself to the amusement of 
 his aged relatives for an hour or so ; but this evening- 
 he sat dbwn to the piano at once, with the deliberate 
 intention of playing them off to sleep. Ten o'clock 
 was their hour for retiring, and before that they 
 would not move, although they dozed in their chairs. 
 
 He was no mean musician, this big West-country- 
 man, with a true ear and a touch peculiarly light 
 and tender for a man. He played gently and 
 drowsily for some time, half forgetting that he was 
 not alone in the room. Presently he turned round, 
 letting his fingers rest on the keys. Aunt Judith 
 was asleep, and Aunt Hester made a sign for him 
 to go on playing. Five minutes more, gradually 
 toned down till the very sounds seemed to fall 
 asleep, and Aunt Hester was peacefully slumbering. 
 Silently the player rose, and crossing the room, he 
 resumed his seat at the table from which the white 
 cloth had not yet been removed. Pen, ink, and 
 paper were within reach, and in a few minutes he 
 had written the following note : — 
 
 "Dear Sidney, — May I retract the letter I wrote 
 yesterday and accept your invitation ? I have been 
 
BURDENED. 47 
 
 requested to take a holiday, and, rather than offend 
 the powers that be, have given in. I can think of 
 no happier way of spending it than in seeing you all 
 again and recalling the jolly old Prague days. With 
 kind regards, yours ever, 
 
 " Christian Vellacott." 
 
 He folded the note and slipped it into an envelope, 
 which he addressed to ''Sidney Carew, Esq., St. 
 Mary Western, Dorset." Then he slipped noise- 
 lessly out of the room and upstairs to where Mrs. 
 Strawd had a small sitting-room of her own. The 
 little woman heard his footstep on the old creaking- 
 stairs, and opened the door of her room before he 
 reached it. 
 
 " If I went away for three weeks," he said, " could 
 you do without me ? " 
 
 " Of course I could," replied the little woman 
 readily. ' Just you go away and take a holiday, 
 Master Christian. You need it sorely, that I know. 
 You do indeed. We shall get on splendidly with- 
 out you. I'll just have my sister to come and stay, 
 same as I did when you had to go to the Paris 
 House of Parliament." 
 
 '• I have not had much of a holiday, you see, for 
 two years now ! " 
 
 "Of course you haven't, and you want it. It's 
 only human nature — and you a young man that 
 ought to be in the open air all day. For an old 
 woman like me it's different. We're made differently 
 by the good God on purpose, I think I " 
 
48 THE SLAVE OF THE LAMP. 
 
 ^ " Well, then, if your sister comes it must be 
 understood, nurse, that I make the same arrange- 
 ment with her as exists with you. She must simply 
 be a duplicate of you — you understand ? " 
 
 The little woman laughed, lightly enough. 
 
 "Oh, yes, Master Christian, that is all right. 
 But you need not have troubled about that. She 
 never would have thought of such a thing as wages, 
 I'm sure ! " 
 
 " No," replied he gravely, " I know she would not, 
 but it will be better, I think, to have it understood 
 beforehand. Gratitude is a very nice thing to work 
 for, but some work is worth more than gratitude. 
 If you are going out for your walk, perhaps you will 
 post this letter." 
 
 Before Christian went to bed that night he held 
 a candle close to the mirror and looked long and 
 hard at his own reflection. There were dark streaks 
 under his eyes, his small mouth was drawn and dry, 
 his lips colourless. At each temple the bone stood 
 out rather prominently, and the skin was brilliant in 
 its whiteness and reflected the light of the candle. 
 He felt his own pulse. It was beating, at one 
 moment fast and irregular, at the next it was hardly 
 perceptible. 
 
 " Yes ! " he muttered, with a professional nod 
 — in his training as a journalist he had learnt a 
 little of many sciences — ''yes, old Bodery was 
 right." 
 
CHAPTER V 
 
 A REUNION 
 
 The gentle August night had cooled and soothed 
 the dusty atmosphere. All thmgs looked fair, even 
 in London. The placid Thames glided stealthily 
 down to the sea, as if wishing to speed on un- 
 seen, to cast at last his reeking waters into the 
 cool ocean. The bright brown sails, low hulls, 
 and gaily painted spars of the barges dropping 
 down with the stream added to the beauty of the 
 scene. 
 
 Such was the morning that greeted Christian 
 Vellacott, as he opened the door of his little 
 Chelsea home arid stepped forth a free man. When 
 once he had made up his mind to go, every obstacle 
 Avas thrown aside, and his determination was now 
 as great as had been his previous reluctance. He 
 had no presentiment that he was taking an im- 
 portant step in life — one of those steps which we 
 hardly notice at the time, but upon which w^e look 
 back in after years and note liow clear and definite 
 it was, losing ourselves in vague conjecture as to 
 what might have been had Ave held back. 
 
 Christian being practical in all things, kncAv hoAv 
 to travel comfortably, dispensing Avith rugs and 
 
 49 
 
50 THE SLAVE OF THE LAMP. 
 
 bags and such small packages as are understood 
 to be dear to the elderly smgle female heart. 
 
 The smoky suburbs were soon left behmd, and 
 the smilmg land gave forth such gentle, pastoral 
 odours as only long confinement in cities can teach 
 us to detect. Christian lowered the window, and 
 the warm air played round him as it had not done 
 for two long years. The whizz of the wind past 
 his face brought back the memory of the long, 
 idle, happy days spent Avith his father in the 
 Mediterranean, when they had been half sailors 
 and wholly Bohemians, gliding from port to port, 
 village to city, in their yacht, as free and careless 
 as the wind. The warm breeze almost seemed to 
 be coming to him from some parched Italian plain 
 instead of pastoral Buckinghamshire. 
 
 Then his thoughts travelled still further back 
 to his school-days in Prague, when his father and 
 Mr. Carew were colleagues in a brilliant but un- 
 fortunate embassy. Five years had passed since 
 then. The two fathers were now dead, and the 
 children had dropped apart as men and women 
 do when their own personal interests begin to 
 engross them. Now again, in this late summer 
 time, they were to meet. All, that is, who were 
 left. • The dSrls, as it were. Three voices there 
 were whose tones would never more be heard in 
 the round of merry jest. Mr. Carew, Walter 
 Vcllacott (Uncle Walter, the young ones called 
 him), and little Charlie Carew, the bright-eyed 
 sailor of the family, had all three travelled on. 
 
A REUNION. 61 
 
 The two former, wliose age and work achieved 
 had softened then' departure, were often spoken of 
 with gently lowered voice, but little Charlie's name 
 was never mentioned. It was a fatal mistake — 
 this silence — if you will ; but it was one of those 
 mistakes which are often made in wisdom. In 
 splendid, solitary grandeur he lay awaiting the end 
 of all things — the call of his Creator — in the grey 
 ice-fields of the North. The darling of his ship, 
 he had died with a smile in his blue eyes and a 
 sad little jest upon his lips to cheer the rough 
 fur-clad giants kneeling at his side. Time, the 
 merciful, had healed, as best he could (which is 
 by no means perfectly), the wound in the younger 
 hearts. It is only the old that are quite beyond 
 his powers ; he cannot touch them. Mrs. Carew, 
 a woman with a patient face and a ready smile, 
 was the only representative of the vanishing gene- 
 ration. Her daughters — ay ! and perhaps her sons 
 as well (though boys are not credited with so 
 much tender divination) — knew the meaning of 
 the little droop at the side of their mother s smiling 
 lips. They detected the insincerity of her kindly 
 laugh. 
 
 Shortly after leaving Exeter, Christian's station 
 was reached. This was an old-fashioned seaport 
 town, whose good fortune it was to lie too far west 
 for a London watering-place, and too far east for 
 Plymouth or Bristol. Sidney Carew was on the 
 platform — a sturdy, typical Englishman, with a 
 certain sure slowness of movement handed down 
 
52 THE SLAVE OF THE LAMP. 
 
 to him by seafaring ancestors. The two friends 
 had not met for many years, but with men absence 
 has little effect upon affection. During the space 
 of many years they may never meet and seldom 
 write, but at the end that gulf of time is bridged 
 over by a simple " Halloa, old fellow ! " and a warm 
 grip. Slowly, piece by piece, the history of the 
 past years comes out. Both are probably changed 
 in thought and nature, but the old individuality 
 remains, the old bond of friendship survives. 
 
 "Well, Sidney?" 
 
 " How are you ? " 
 
 Simultaneously — and that was all. The changes 
 were there in both, and noted by both, but not 
 commented upon. 
 
 " Molly is outside with the dog-cart," said Sidney ; 
 " is your luggage forward ? " 
 
 " Yes, that is it being pitched out now." 
 
 It was with womanly foresight that Miss Molly 
 Carew had elected to wait outside with the dog- 
 cart while her brother met Christian on the plat- 
 form. She feared a little natural embarrassment 
 at meeting the old playfellow of the family, and 
 concluded that the first moments would be more 
 easily tided over here than at the train. Her fears 
 were, as it turned out,' unnecessary, but she did 
 not know what Christian might be like after the 
 lapse of years. Of herself she was sure enough, 
 being one of those happy people who have no self- 
 consciousness whatever. 
 
 On seeing her. Christian came forward at once, 
 
A REUNION. 53 
 
 raising his hat and shaking hands as if they had 
 parted the day before. 
 
 She saw at once that it was all rio-ht. This 
 was Christian Vellacott as she had remembered 
 him. She looked down at him as he stood with 
 one hand resting on the splashboard, and he, look- 
 ing up to her, smiled in return. 
 
 "Christian," she said, "do you know I should 
 scarcely have recognised you. You are so big, and 
 — and you look positively ghastly ! " She finished 
 her remark with a little laugh which took away 
 from the spoken meaning of it. 
 
 " Ghastly ? " he repKed. " Thanks : I do not feel 
 like it — only hungry. Hungry, and desperately glad 
 to see a face that does not look overworked." 
 
 " Meaning me." 
 
 " Meaning you." 
 
 She gave a little sarcastic nod, and pursed up a 
 pair of very red lips. 
 
 "Nevertheless I am the only person in the house 
 who does any work at all. Hilda, for instance " 
 
 At this moment Sidney came up and interrupted 
 them. 
 
 " Jump up in front, Chris," he said ; " Molly will 
 drive, while I sit behind. Your luggage will follow 
 in the cart." 
 
 The drive of six miles passed away very pleasantly. 
 Molly's strong little hands were quite accustomed 
 to the reins, and the men were free to talk, which, 
 however, she found time to do as well. The two 
 
 young people on the front seat stole occasional 
 
 c2 
 
54 THE SLAVE OF THE LAMP. 
 
 sidelong glances at each other. The clever, mis- 
 chievous little girl of Christian's recollection was 
 transformed by the kindly hand of time into a 
 fascinating and capable young lady. The uncertain 
 profile had grown clear and regular. The truant 
 hair was somewhat more under control, which, how- 
 ever, was all that could be said upon that subject. 
 Only her eyes were unchanged, the laughing, fear- 
 less eyes of old. Fearless they had been in the 
 times of childish mischief and adventure; fearless 
 they remained in the face of life's graver mis- 
 chances now. 
 
 Christian had been a shy and commonplace- 
 enough boy as she recollected him. Now she found 
 a self-possessed man of the world. Tall and strong 
 of body she saw he was, and she felt that he 
 possessed another strength — a strength of mind 
 and Avill which, reaching out, can grasp and hold 
 anything or everything. 
 
 With practised skill, Molly turned into the narrow 
 gateway at a swinging trot, and then only was the 
 house visible — a low, rambling building of brick 
 and stone uncouthly mixed. Its chief outward 
 characteristic was a promise of inward comfort. 
 The sturdy manner in which its windows faced 
 the scantily-wooded tableland that stretched away 
 unbroken by Avail or hedgerow to the sea, implied 
 a certain thickness of Avail and AvoodAvork. The 
 doorway AA'hich looked inland Avas singularly broad, 
 and bore signs about its stoncAvork of having once 
 been even broader. The house had originally been 
 
A REUNION. 55 
 
 a hollow square, with a roofless courtyard in the 
 centre, into which the sheep and cattle were in 
 olden times driven for safety at night against 
 French marauders. This had later on been roofed 
 in, and transformed into a roomy and comfortable 
 hall, such as might be used as a sitting-room. All 
 around the house, except, indeed, upon the sea- 
 wa.rd side, stood gnarled and twisted trees ; Scotch 
 firs in abundance, here and there a Weymouth 
 pine, and occasionally a knotted dwarf oak with 
 a tendency to run inland. The garden was, how- 
 ever, rich enough in shrubs and undergrowth, and 
 to the landward side was a gleam of still water, 
 being all that remained of a broad, deep moat. 
 
 Mrs. Carew welcomed Christian at the open door. 
 She said very little, but her manner was sufficiently 
 warm and friendly to dispense with words. 
 
 " Where is Hilda ? " asked Molly, as she leapt 
 lightly to the ground. 
 
 " I do not know, dear. She is out, somewhere ; 
 in the garden, I expect. You are before your time 
 a little. The train must have been punctual, for 
 a wonder. Had Hilda known, she w^ould have 
 been here to welcome you, I know, Christian." 
 
 " I expect she is at the moat," said Molly. " Come 
 along. Christian ; we Avill go and look for her. This 
 way." 
 
 In the meantime Sidney had driven the dog- cart 
 round to the stables, kneeling awk^vardly upon the 
 back seat. 
 
 As Christian followed his fair guide down the 
 
56 THE SLAVE OF THE LAMP. 
 
 little path leading to the moat, he began to feel 
 that it was not so difficult after all to throw off 
 the dull weight of anxiety that lay upon his mind. 
 The thoughts about the Beacon were after all 
 not so very absorbing. The anxiety regarding the 
 welfare of the two old ladies was already alleviated 
 by distance. The strong sea air, the change to 
 pleasant and kindly society, were already beginning 
 their work. 
 
 Suddenly Molly stopped, and Christian saw that 
 she was standing at the edge of a long, still sheet 
 of water bounded by solid stonework, which, how- 
 ever, was crumbling away in parts, while everywhere 
 the green moss grew in velvety profusion. 
 
 "Oh, Christian," said Molly lightly, "I suppose 
 Sidney told you a little of our news. Men's letters 
 are not discursive as a rule I know, but no doubt 
 he told you — something." 
 
 He was standing beside her at the edge of the 
 moat, looking down into the deep, clear water. 
 
 "Yes" he replied slowly, "yes, Molly; he told 
 me a little in a scrappy, unsatisfactory Avay." 
 
 A pained expression came into her eyes for a 
 moment, and then she spoke, rather more quickly 
 than was habitual with her, but without raising 
 her voice. 
 
 " He told you — nothing about Hilda ? " she said 
 interrogatively. 
 
 He turned and looked down at her. 
 
 " No — nothing." 
 
 Then he followed the direction of her eyes, and 
 
A REUNION. 57 
 
 saw approaching them a young man and a maiden 
 whose footsteps had been inaudible upon the moss- 
 grown path. The man was of medium height, 
 with an honest brown face. He was dressed for 
 riding, and walked with a slight swagger, which 
 arose less from conceit than from excessive riding 
 on horseback. The maiden was tall and stately, 
 and in her walk there was an old-fashioned grace 
 of movement which harmonised perfectly with the 
 old-world surroundings. She was looking down, 
 and Christian could not see her face ; but as she 
 wore no hat, he saw and recognised her hair. 
 This was of gold — not red, not auburn, not flaxen, 
 but pure and living gold. The sun glinting through 
 the trees shone upon it and gleamed, but in reality 
 the hair gleamed without the aid of sunlight. 
 
CHAPTER VI 
 
 BROKEN THREADS 
 
 They came forward, and suddenly the girl raised 
 her face. She made a little hesitating movement 
 of non-recognition, and then suddenly her face 
 was transformed by a very pleasant smile. There 
 was something peculiar in Hilda Carew's smile, 
 which came from the fact that her eyelashes were 
 golden, while her eyes Avere dark blue. The effect 
 suggested a fascinating kitten. In repose her face 
 was almost severe in its refined beauty, and the 
 set of her lips indicated a certain self-reliance which 
 with years might become more prominent if trouble 
 should arrive. 
 
 " Christian ! " she exclaimed, " I am sorry I did not 
 know you." They shook hands, and Molly hastened 
 to introduce her sister's companion. 
 
 " Mr. Farrar," she said ; '' Mr. VcUacott." 
 
 The two men shook hands, and Christian was 
 disappointed. The grip of Farrar's fingers was 
 limp and almost nerveless, in striking contradic- 
 tion to the promise of his honest face and Avcll-set 
 person. 
 
 " Tea is ready," said Molly somewhat hastily ; 
 "let us go in." 
 
 58 
 
BROKEN THREADS. 59 
 
 Hilda and her companion passed on in front 
 while Molly and Christian followed them. The 
 latter purposely lagged behind, and his companion 
 found herself compelled to wait for him. 
 
 " Look at the effect of the sunlight through the 
 trees upon that water," said he in a conversational 
 way ; " it is quite green, and almost transparent." 
 
 " Yes," replied Molly, moving away tentatively, 
 " we see most peculiar effects over the moat. The 
 water is so very still and deep." 
 
 He raised his quiet eyes to her face, upon which 
 the ready smile still lingered. As she met his 
 gaze she raised her hand and pushed back a few 
 truant wisps of hair which, curling forward like 
 tendrils, tickled her cheek. It was a movement 
 he soon learned to know. 
 
 " Yes," he said absently. He was wondering in 
 an analytical way whether the action was habitual 
 with her, or significant of embarrassment. At 
 length he turned to follow her, but Molly had 
 failed in her object ; the others had passed out of 
 earshot. 
 
 " Tell me," said Christian in a lowered voice, 
 "who is he?" 
 
 *' He is the squire of St. Mary Eastern, six miles 
 from here," she replied ; " very well off; very good 
 to his mother, and in every way nice." 
 
 Christian tore off a small branch which would 
 have touched his forehead had he walked on 
 without stooping. He broke it into small pieces, 
 and continued throwing up at intervals into the 
 
60 THE SLAVE OF THE LAMP. 
 
 air a tiny «tick, hitting it with his hand i^s they 
 walked on. -^ 
 
 "And," he said suggestively, "and " 
 
 "Yes, Christian," she replied decisively "thev 
 are engaged. Come, let ns hurry ; I always pom- 
 out the tea. I told you before, if you remember, 
 that i was the only person m the house who did 
 any work." 
 
 When Christian opened his eyes the following 
 morning, the soft hum of insects fell on his ear 
 instead of the roar of London traffic. Through 
 the open window the southern air blew upon his 
 tace. Above the sound of busy wings the distant 
 sea sang Its low dirge. It was a living perspective 
 of sound. The least rustle near at hand over- 
 powered It, and yet it was always there-.an un- 
 ceasing throb to be felt as much as heard. Some 
 acoustic formation of the land carried the noise 
 lor the sea was eight miles away. It was very 
 peaceful ; for utter stillness is not peace. A room 
 wherein an old clock ticks is infinitely more sooth- 
 ing than a noiseless chamber. 
 
 ^Nevertheless the feeling that forced itself into 
 Christian Vellacott's waking thoughts was not 
 peaceful. It was a sense of discomfort. Town- 
 people expect too much from the country-that is 
 the truth of it. They quite overlook the fact that 
 where human beings are there can be no peace 
 
 Ihis sudden sense of restlessness annoyed him 
 He knew it so well. It had hovered over his 
 waking head almost daily during the last two 
 
BROKEN THREADS. 61 
 
 years, and here, in the depths of the country, he 
 had expected to be without it. Moreover, he was 
 conscious that he had not brought the cause with 
 him. He had found it, waiting. 
 
 There were many things — indeed there Avas 
 ahnost everything — to make his Hfe happy and 
 pleasant at St. Mary Western. But in his mind, 
 as he woke up on this first morning, none of these 
 things found place. He came to his senses think- 
 ino- of the one little item which could be described 
 as untoward — thinking of Hilda, and Hilda engaged 
 to be married to Fred Farrar. It was not that he 
 was in love with Hilda Carew himself. He had 
 scarcely remembered her existence during the last 
 two years. But this engagement jarred, and Farrar 
 jarred. It was something more than the very 
 natural shock which comes with the news that a 
 companion of our youth is about to be married — 
 a shock which seems to shake the memory of that 
 youth ; to confuse the background of our life. It 
 is by means of such shocks as these that Fate 
 endeavours vainly to make us realise that the past 
 is irrevocable — that we are passing on, and that 
 that which has been can never be again. And at 
 the same time we learn something else : namely, 
 that the past is not by any means unchangeable. 
 So potential is To-day that it not only holds To- 
 morrow in the hollow of its hand, but it can alter 
 Yesterday. 
 
 Christian Vellacott lay upon his bed in un- 
 wonted idleness, gazing vaguely at the flymg clouds. 
 
62 THE SLAVE OF THE LAMP. 
 
 The window was open, and the song of the distant 
 sea rose and fell with a rhythm full of peace. But 
 in this man's mind there was no peace. In all 
 probability there never would be complete peace 
 there, because Ambition had set its hold upon him. 
 He wanted to do more than there was time for. 
 Like many of us, he began by thinking that Life 
 is longer than it is. Its whole length is in those 
 " long, long thoughts " of Youth. When those are 
 left behind, we settle down to work, and the rest 
 of the story is nothing but labour. Vellacott 
 resented this engagement because he felt that 
 Hilda Carew had stepped out of that picture 
 which formed what was probably destined to be 
 the happiest time of his life — his Youth. For the 
 unhappiness of Youth is preferable to the resigna- 
 tion of Age. He felt that she had willingly re- 
 signed something which he would on no account 
 have given up. Above all, he felt that it was a 
 mistake. . This was, of course, at the bottom of it. 
 He probably felt that it was a pity. We usually 
 feel so on hearing that a pretty and charming girl 
 is engaged to be married. We think that she 
 might have done so much better for herself, and 
 we grow pensive or possibly sentimental over her 
 lost opportunity when contemplating him in the 
 mirror as he shaves. Like all so-called happy events, 
 an engagement is not usually a matter of universal 
 rejoicing. Some one is, in all probability, left to 
 think twice about it. But Christian Vellacott was not 
 prepared to admit that he was in that position. 
 
BROKEN THREADS. 63 
 
 He was naturally of an observant habit — his father 
 had been one of the keenest-sighted men of his 
 day — and he had graduated at the subtlest school 
 in the world. He unwittingly fell to studying his 
 fellow-men whenever the opportunity presented 
 itself, and the result of this habit was a certain 
 classification of detail. He picked up little scraps 
 of evidence here and there, and these were methodi- 
 cally pigeon-holed away, as a laAvyer stores up the 
 correspondence of his clients. 
 
 With regard to Frederick Farrar, Vellacott had 
 only made one note. The squire of St. Mary Eastern 
 was apparently very similar to his fellows. He was 
 an ordinary young British squire with a knowledge 
 of horses and a highly-developed fancy for smart 
 riding-breeches and long boots. He had probably 
 received a fair education, but this had ceased when 
 he closed his last school-book. The seeds of know- 
 ledge had been sown, but they lacked moisture and 
 had failed to grow. He was good-natured, plucky 
 in a hard-headed British way, and gentlemanly. In 
 all this there was nothmg exceptional — nothing 
 to take note of — and Vellacott only remembered 
 the limpness of Frederick Farrar 's grasp. He 
 thought of this too persistently and magnified it. 
 And this being the only mental note made, was 
 rather hard on the young squire of St. Mary 
 Eastern. 
 
 Vellacott thought of these things while he dressed, 
 he thought of them intermittently during the un- 
 settled, noisy, country breakfast, and when he found 
 
64 THE SLAVE OF THE LAMP. 
 
 himself walking beside the moat with Hilda later on 
 he was still thinking of them. 
 
 They had not yet gathered into their hands the 
 threads which had been broken years before. At 
 times they hit upon a topic of some slight common 
 interest, but something hovered in the air between || 
 them. Hilda was gay, as she had always been, in 
 a gentle, almost purring way ; but a certain con- 
 strained silence made itself felt at times, and they 
 were both intensely conscious of it. 
 
 Vellacott was fully aware that there was some- 
 thing to be got over, and so instead of skipping 
 round it, as a woman might have done, he went 
 blundering on to the top of it. 
 
 "Hilda," he said suddenly, "I have never con- 
 gratulated you." 
 
 She bent her head in a grave little bow which 
 was not quite English ; but she said nothing. 
 , " I can only wish you all happiness," he continued 
 rather vaguely. 
 
 Again she made that mystic little motion of the 
 head, but did not look towards him, and never 
 offered the assistance of smile or word. 
 
 " A long life, a happy one, and your own Avill," 
 he added more lightly, looking down into the green 
 water of the moat. 
 
 " Thank you," she said, standing quite still beside 
 him. 
 
 And then there followed an awkward pause. It 
 was Vellacott who finally broke the silence in 'the 
 only way left to him. 
 
BROKEN THEEADS. 65 
 
 " I like Farrar," he said. " I am sure he Avill 
 make you happy. He — is a hicky fellow." 
 
 At the end of the walk that ran the whole lensfth 
 of that part of the moat which had been allowed 
 to remain intact, she made a little movement as if 
 to turn aside beneath the hazel trees and towards 
 the house. But he would not let her go. He 
 turned deliberately upon his heel and waited for 
 her. There was nothing else to do but acquiesce. 
 They retraced their steps with that slow reflective- 
 ness which comes when one walks backwards and 
 forwards over the same ground. 
 
 There is something eminently conversational in 
 the practice of walking to and fro. For that purpose 
 it is better than an arm-chair and a pipe, or a piece 
 of knitting. 
 
 Occasionally Vellacott dropped a pace behind, 
 apparently with a purpose ; for when he did so 
 he raised his eyes instantly. He seemed to be 
 slowly detailing the maiden, and he frowned a little. 
 She was exactly , what she had promised to be. 
 The singularly golden hair which he had last seen 
 flowing freely over her slight young shoulders had 
 acquired a decorousness of curve, although the hue 
 was unchanged. The shoulders were exactly the 
 same in contour, on a slightly larger scale ; and the 
 manner of carrying her head — a manner peculiarly 
 her own, and suggestive of a certain gentle wilful- 
 ness — was unaltered. 
 
 And yet there was a change : that subtle change 
 which seems to come to girls suddenly, in the space 
 
66 THE SLAVE OF THE LAMP. 
 
 of a week— of one night. And this man was watch- 
 ing her with his analytical eyes, wondering what the 
 change might be. 
 
 He Avas more or less a bookworm, and he possibly 
 thought that this subject — this pleasant young 
 subject walking beside him in a blue cotton dress 
 —was one which might easily be grasped and 
 understood if only one gave one's mind to it. 
 Hence the little frown. It denoted the gift of his 
 mind. It was the frown that settled over his eyes 
 Avhen he cut the pages of a deep book and glanced j 
 at the point of his pencil. 
 
 He had read many books, and he knew a number 
 of things. But there is one subject of which very 
 little can be learnt in books — precisely the subject 
 that walked in a blue cotton dress by Christian 
 Vellacott's side at the edge of the moat. If any 
 one thinks that book-learning can aid this study, 
 let him read the ignorance of Gibbon, comparing 
 it with the learning of that cheery old ignoramus 
 Montaigne. And Vellacott Avas nearer to Gibbon 
 in his learning than to Montaigne in his careless 
 ignorance of those thhigs that are written in books. 
 
 He glanced at her: he frowned and brought his 
 whole attention to bear upon her, and he could not 
 even find out whether she was pleased to listen to 
 his congratulations, or angry, or merely indifierent. 
 It was rather a humiliating position for a clever 
 man — for a critic who knew himself to be capable 
 of understanding most things, of catching the drift 
 of most thoughts, however imperfectly expressed 
 
BROKEN THREADS. 67 
 
 He was vaguely conscious of defeat. He felt that 
 he was nonplussed by a pair of soft round eyes like 
 the eyes of a kitten, and the dignified repose of 
 a pan* of demure red lips. Both eyes and lips, as 
 well as shoulders and golden hair, were strangely 
 familiar and strangely strange by turns. 
 
 With one finger he twisted the left side of his 
 moustache into his mouth, and, dragging at it with 
 his teeth, distorted his face in an unbecoming if 
 reflective manner, which was habitually indicative 
 of the deepest attention. 
 
 While reflecting, he forgot to be conversational, 
 and Hilda seemed to be content with silence. So 
 they walked the length of the moat twice without 
 speaking, and might have accomplished it a third 
 time, had little Stanley Carew not appeared upon 
 the scene with the impulsive energy of his thirteen 
 years, begging Christian to bowl him some really 
 swift overhands. 
 
CHAPTER VII 
 
 PUPPETS 
 
 " Ah ! It goes. It goes already ! " 
 
 The speaker— the Citizen Morot — slowly rubbed 
 his white hands one over the other. 
 
 He was standing at the window of a small house 
 in an insignificant street on the southern side of the 
 Seine. He was remarkably calm— quite the calmest 
 man within the radius of a mile ; for the insignifi- 
 cant little street was in an uproar. There was a 
 barricade at each end of it. Such a barricade as 
 Parisians love. It was composed of a few over- 
 turned omnibuses ; for the true Parisian is a cynic. 
 He likes overturned things, and he loves to see 
 objects of peace converted to purposes of war. He 
 is not content that ploughshares be beaten into 
 swords. He prefers altar-rails. And so this Httle 
 street was blocked at either end by a barricade of 
 overturned omnibuses, of old hampers and empty 
 boxes, of a fcAv loads of second-hand bricks and 
 paving-stones brought from the scene of some drain- 
 age operations round the corner. 
 
 In the street between the barricades, surged, 
 hooted, and yelled that wildest and most dangerous 
 of incomprehensibles — a Paris mob. Half-a-dozen 
 
 68 
 
PUPPETS. 69 
 
 orators were speaking at once, and no one was 
 listening to them. Here and there amidst the 
 rabble a voice was raised at times with suspicious 
 persistence. 
 
 " Vive le Roi!" it cried. "Long live the King !" 
 
 A few took up the refrain, but the general tone 
 was negative. It was not so much a question of 
 upholding anything as of throwing do^Mi that which 
 was already up. 
 
 " Down with the Republic ! " was the favourite 
 cry. " Down with the President 1 Down with 
 everything ! " 
 
 And each man cried down his favourite enemy. 
 
 The Citizen Morot listened, and his contemp- 
 tuous mouth was twisted with a delicate, subtle 
 smile. 
 
 " Ah ! " he muttered. " The voice of the people. 
 The howling of the wolves. Go on, go on, my 
 braves. Cry 'Long live the King,' and soon you 
 will begin to believe that you mean it. They are 
 barking" now. Let them bark. Soon we shall teach 
 them to bite, and then — then, who knows ? " 
 
 His voice dropped almost to a whisper, and he 
 stood there amidst the din and hubbub — dreaming. 
 At last he raised his hand to his forehead — a pro- 
 minent, rounded forehead, flat as the palm of one's 
 hand from eyebrow to eyebrow, and curving at 
 either side, sharply, back to deep-sunken temples. 
 
 " Ah 1 " ho exclaimed, with a little laugh ; and 
 he drew from an inner pocket a delicately scented 
 pocket-handkerchief, with which he wiped his brow. 
 
70 THE SLAVE OF THE LAMP. 
 
 " If I get excited now, what will it be when the; 
 begin — to bite ? " 
 
 All this while the orators were shouting thei 
 loudest, and the voices dispersed throughout th 
 crowd raised at intervals their short, sharp cr 
 of— 
 
 " Long live the King ! " 
 
 And the police ? There were only two agent 
 attached to the immediate neiof-hbourhood, and the" 
 were smoking cigars and drinking absinthe in tW' 
 separate cellars, with the door locked on the outside 
 They were prisoners of war of the most resignet 
 type. The room in which stood the Citizen More 
 was dark, and wisely so. For the Parisian stree 
 politician can make very pretty practice of a lightet 
 petroleum-lamp with an empty bottle or half 
 brick. The window was wide open, and the woodei 
 shutters were hooked back. 
 
 The attitude of the man was interested an* 
 slightly self-satisfied. It suggested that of th 
 manager of a theatre looking down from an upper 
 tier box upon a full house and a faultless stage. A 
 the same time he was keeping what sailors call 
 very " bright look-out " towards either end of th«i 
 street. From his elevated position he was able U 
 see over the barricades, and he watched with intens« 
 interest the movements of two women (or perhap, 
 men disguised as such) who stood in the centre o 
 the street just beyond each obstruction. 
 
 There was something dramatic in the motionles* 
 attitude of these two women, standing guard alom 
 
PUPPETS. 71 
 
 in the deserted street, on the wrong side of the 
 barricades. 
 
 At times Morot leant well out of the window and 
 listened. Then he stood back again and contem- 
 plated the crowd. 
 
 Each orator was illuminated by a naphtha " flare," 
 which, being held in unsteady hands, flickered and 
 wavered, casting strange gleams of light over the 
 evil faces upturned towards it. At times one 
 speaker would succeed in raising a laugh or ex- 
 tractmg a groan, and when he did so those listening 
 to his rivals turned and surged towards him. There 
 was plenty of movement. It was what the news- 
 papers call an animated scene — or a disgraceful 
 scene — accordmg to their political bias. 
 
 The Citizen Morot could not hear the jokes nor 
 distinguish the cause of the groaning. But he did 
 not seem to mind much. The speeches were not 
 of the description to be given in full m the morning 
 papers. There were, fortunately, no reporters present. 
 It was the frank eloquence of the slaughter-house 
 — the unclad humour of the market. 
 
 Suddenly one of the women — she who was posted 
 at the southern end of the street — raised both her 
 arms, and the Citizen leant far out of the window. 
 He was very eager, and his hawk-like eyes blinked 
 perpetually. His hand was raised to his mouth, and 
 the lights of the orators gleamed on something that 
 he held in his fingers — something that looked like 
 silver. 
 
 The woman held her two arms straight up into 
 
72 THE SLAVE OF THE LAMP. 
 
 the air for some moments, then she suddenly crosse 
 them twice, turning at the same moment an 
 scrambling over the barricade. A long shrill whistl 
 rang out over the heads of the mob, and its effec 
 was almost instantaneous. The '' flares " disappeared 
 hke magic. Dark figures swarmed up the lamj: 
 posts and extinguished the feeble lights. The voic 
 of the orator was still. Silence and darkness reigne. 
 over that insignificant little street on the souther; 
 side of the Seine. Then came the clatter of cavalr 
 — the rattle of horses' feet, and the ominous clan^ 
 of empty scabbards against spur and buckle, i 
 word of command, and a scrambling halt. The] 
 silence again, broken only by the shufiling of fee 
 (not too well clad) in the darkness between th 
 barricades. 
 
 The Citizen Morot leant recklessly out of th. 
 window, peering into the gloom. He forgot t< 
 make use of the dehcately scented pocket-handker 
 chief now, and the drops of perspiration tricklec 
 slowly down his face. 
 
 The soldiers shufiied in their saddles. Some o 
 the spirited little Arabs pawed the pavement. Out 
 of them squealed angrily, and there was a slighi 
 commotion somewhere in the rear ranks — an equina 
 difference of opinion. The officers had come for- 
 ward to the barricade and were consulting together 
 The question was— what Avas there behind that 
 barricade? It might be nothing — it might be 
 everything. In Paris one can never tell. At last 
 one of them determined to see for himself H( 
 
PUPPETS. 73 
 
 crambled up, putting his foot through the window 
 >f an omnibus in passing. Against the dim Hght of 
 he street-lamp beyond, his shght, straight figure 
 tood out in bold relief. It was a splendid mark for 
 . man with chalked sights to his rifle. 
 
 •' Ah ! " muttered the Citizen, " you are all right 
 his time — master, the young officer. They are 
 nly barking. Next time perhaps it will be quite 
 inother history." 
 
 The officer turned and disappeared. After the 
 apse of a few moments a dozen words of command 
 veie shouted, and upon them followed the sharp 
 slick of hilt on scabbard as the sabres fell home. 
 
 After a pause it became evident that the barricade 
 v^as being destroyed. And then lights flashed here 
 nd there. In a compact column the cavalry 
 idvanced at a trot. The street was empty. 
 
 Citizen Morot turned away and sat down on a 
 ihair that happened to be placed near the window. 
 Sis finely-drawn eyebrows were raised with a ques- 
 iioning weariness. , 
 
 "Pretty work!" he ejaculated. "Pretty work for 
 —my father's son ! So grand, so open, so noble ! " 
 
 He waited there, in the darkness, until the cavalry 
 lad been withdrawn and the local firemen were 
 it work upon the barricade. Then, when order 
 vvas fully restored, he left the house, walking 
 pietly down the length of the insignificant little 
 street. 
 
 Ten minutes later he entered the tobacco-shop 
 in the Rue St. Gingolphe. Mr. Jacquetot was at 
 
74 THE SLAVE OF THE LAMP. 
 
 his post, behind the counter near the window, 
 with the Httle tin box containing postage-stamps 
 in front of him upon his desk. He was always 
 there — Uke the poor. He laid aside the Petit 
 Journal and wished the new-comer a courteous, 
 though breathless, good evening. 
 
 The salutation was returned gravely and plea- 
 santly. The Citizen Morot lingered a moment 
 and remarked that it was a warm evening. He 
 never seemed to be in a hurry. Then he passed 
 on into the little room behind the shop. 
 
 There he found Lerac, the foreman of the 
 slaughter-house. The butcher was pale with ex- 
 citement. His rough clothing was dishevelled ; 
 his stringy black hair stood up uncouthly in the 
 centre of his head, while over his temples it was 
 plastered down with perspiration and suet pleasingly 
 mingled. 
 
 "Well?" he exclaimed, with triumphant interro- 
 gation. 
 
 " Good," said Morot. *' Very good. It marches, 
 my friend. It marches already." 
 
 " Ah ! But you are right. The People see you 
 — it is a power ! " 
 
 " It is," acquiesced Morot fervently. 
 
 How he hated this man ! 
 
 " And you stayed to the last ? " inquired Lerac. 
 He was rather white about the lips for a brave 
 man. 
 
 " Till the last," echoed Morot, taking up some 
 letters addressed to him which lay on the table. 
 
PUPPETS. 75 
 
 " And the street was quite clear before they broke 
 .hrough the barrier ? " 
 
 " Quite — the People did not wait." He seemed 
 o resign himself to conversation, for he put the 
 etters into his pocket and sat down " Had you," 
 le inquired, " any difficulty in getting them away ? " 
 
 " Oh no," somewhat loftily and quite unsuspicious 
 )f irony. " The passages were narrow, of course ; 
 )ut Ave had allowed for that in our organisation. 
 )rganisation and the People, see you " 
 
 " Yes," replied Morot. " Organisation and the 
 i^eople." Like Lerac, he stopped short, apparently 
 ost in the contemplation of the vast possibilities 
 )resented to his mental vision by the mere thought 
 'f such a combination. 
 
 " Well ! " exclaimed the butcher energetically, " I 
 Qust move on. I have meetings. I merely Avished 
 o hear from you that all was right — that no one 
 (Tas caught." 
 
 He was bubbling over with excitement and the 
 ense of his own huge importance. 
 
 The Citizen Morot raised his secretive eyes. 
 
 "Good-night," he said, with an insolence far too 
 ine for the butcher's comprehension. 
 
 "Well — good-night. We may congratulate our- 
 elves, I think. Citizen ! " 
 
 " I congratulate you," said Morot. " Good-night." 
 
 " Good-night." 
 
 It is probable that, had Lerac looked back, there 
 ;^ou]d have been murder done in the small room 
 »ehind the tobacco-shop. But the contemptuous 
 
76 THE SLAVE OF THE LAMP. i 
 
 smile soon vanished from the face of the Citizen 
 Morot. No smile lingered there long. It was not 
 built upon smiling lines at all. 
 
 Then he took up his letters. There were only 
 two of them: one bearing the postmark of a small 
 town in Morbihan, the other hailing from England. 
 
 He replaced the first in his pocket unread; the 
 second he opened. It was written in French. 
 
 " There are difficulties," it said. " Can you come 
 to me ? Cross from Cherbourg to Southampton — 
 train from thence to this place, and ask for Signer 
 Bruno, an Italian refugee, living at the house of 
 Mrs. Potter, a ci-devant laundress." 
 
 The Citizen Morot rubbed his chin thoughtfully 
 with the back of his hand, making a sharp, grating 
 sound. 
 
 "That old man," he said, "is getting past his 
 work. He is losing nerve ; and nerve is a thing 
 that we cannot afford to lose." 
 
 Then he turned to the letter again. 
 
 " Ah!" he exclaimed suddenly ; " St. Mary Western. 
 He is there — how very strange. What a singular 
 coincidence ! " 
 
 He fell into a reverie with the letter before him. 
 
 " Carew is dead — but still I can manage it. Per- 
 haps it is just as well that he is dead. I was 
 always afraid of Carew." 
 
 Then he wrote a letter, which ho addressed to 
 " Signor Bruno, care of Mrs. Potter, St. Mary Western, 
 Dorset." 
 
 " I shall come," he wrote, " but not in the way 
 
PUPPETS. 
 
 77 
 
 you suggest. I have a better plan. You must 
 not know me when we meet." 
 
 He purchased a twenty-five centime stamp from 
 Mr. Jacquetot, and posted the letter with his own 
 hand in the little wall-box at the corner of the 
 Rue St. Gingolphe. 
 
 D 
 
CHAPTER VIII 
 
 FALSE METAL 
 
 There was, however, no cricket for Stanley Carew 
 that morning. When they came within sight of 
 the house Mrs. Carew emerged from an open 
 window carrying several letters in her hand. She 
 was not hurrying, but walking leisurely, reading 
 a letter as she Avalked. 
 
 " Just think, Hilda dear," she said, with as much 
 surprise as she ever allowed herself. " I have 
 had a letter from the Vicomte d'Audierne. You 
 remember him ? " 
 
 " Yes," said the girl ; " I remember him, of course. 
 He is not the sort of man one forgets." 
 
 "I always liked the Viscount," said Mrs. Carew, 
 pensively looking at the letter she held in her 
 hand. " He was a good friend to us at one time. 
 I never understood him, and I like men whom one 
 does not understand." 
 
 Hilda laughed. 
 
 " Yes," she answered vaguely. 
 
 " Your father admired him tremendously," Mrs. 
 Carew went on to say. " He said that he Avas one 
 of the cleverest men in France, but that he had 
 fallen in a wrong season, and would not adapt 
 
 78 
 
FALSE METAL. 79 
 
 himself. Had France been a monarchy, the 
 Vicomte d'Audierne would have been in a very 
 different position." 
 
 Vellacott did not open his own letters. He 
 seemed to be interested in the conversation of 
 these ladies. He was not a reserved man, but a 
 secretive, which is quite a different thing. Reserve 
 is natural — it comes unbidden, and often unwelcome. 
 Secretiveness is born of circumstances. Some men 
 find it imperative to cultivate it, although their 
 soul revolts within them. In professional or social 
 matters it is often merely an expediency — in some 
 cases it almost feels like a crime. There are some 
 secrets which cannot be divulged ; there are some 
 deceptions which a certain book-keeper will record 
 upon the credit side of our account. 
 
 Like most young men who have got on in their 
 calling, Christian Vellacott held his career in great 
 respect. He felt that any sacrifice made for it 
 carried its own reward. He thought that it levelled 
 scruples and justified deceptions. 
 
 He knew this Vicomte d'Audierne by reputation ; 
 he wished to hear more of him ; and so he feigned 
 ignorance — listening. 
 
 " What has he written about ? " inquired Hilda. 
 
 " To ask if he may come and see us. I suppose 
 he means to come and stay." 
 
 Vellacott looked what the French call "con- 
 traried." 
 
 " When ? " asked the girl. 
 
 " On Monday week." 
 
80 THE SLAVE OF THE LAMP. 
 
 And then Mrs. Carew turned to her other letters. 
 Vellacott took the budget addressed to him, and 
 walked away to where an iron table and some chairs 
 stood in the shade of a deodar. 
 
 In a few minutes he looked still more put out. 
 He had learnt of the disturbances in Paris, and 
 was reading a rather panic-stricken letter from 
 Mr. Bodery. The truth was that there was no one 
 in, the office of the Beacon who knew anything 
 whatever about French home politics but Christian 
 Vellacott. 
 
 A continuance of these disturbances Avould neces- 
 sarily assume political importance, and might even 
 lead to a crisis. This meant an instant recall for 
 Vellacott. In a crisis his presence in London or 
 Paris was absolutely necessary to the Beacon. 
 
 His holiday had barely lasted twenty-four hours, 
 and there Avas already a question of recall. It 
 happened also that within that short space a con- 
 siderable change had come over Vellacott. The 
 subtle influence of a country life, and possibly the 
 low, peaceful song of the distant sea, were already 
 beginning to make themselves felt. He actually 
 detected a desire to sit still and do nothing — a 
 feeling of which he had not hitherto been conscious. 
 He was distinctly averse to leaving St. Mary Western 
 just yet. But there is one task-master Avho knows 
 no mercy and makes no allowances. Some of us 
 who serve him know it to our cost, and yet we 
 would be content to serve no other. That task- 
 master is the Public. 
 
FALSE METAL. 81 
 
 Vellacott was a public servant, and he knew his 
 position. 
 
 Somewhat later in the morning Molly and Hilda 
 found him still seated at the table, writing with that 
 concentrated rapidity which only comes with practice. 
 
 " I am sorry," he said, looking up, " but I must 
 send off a teles^ram. I shall walk in to the station." 
 
 "I was just coming," said Hilda, "to ask if you 
 would drive me in. I want to get some things." 
 
 " And," added Molly, " there are some domestic 
 commissions — butcher, baker, &g." 
 
 Vellacott expressed his entire satisfaction with 
 the arrangement, and by the time he had finished 
 his letter the dog-cart was waiting at the door. 
 
 Several of the family were standing round the 
 vehicle talking in a desultory manner, and Vellacott 
 learnt then for the first time that Frederick Farrar 
 had left home that same morning to attend a mid- 
 land race-meeting. 
 
 It was one of those brilliant summer days when 
 it is quite impossible to be pessimistic and exceed- 
 ingly difficult to compass preoccupation. The light 
 breeze bowling over the upland from the sea had 
 just sufficient strength to blow away all mental 
 cobwebs. Also, Christian Vellacott had suddenly 
 given way to one of those feelings which sometimes 
 come to us without apparent reason. The present 
 was joyous enough without the aid of the ever- 
 to-be-bright future, and Vellacott felt that, after 
 all, French politics and Frederick Farrar did not 
 quite monopolise the world. 
 
82 THE SLAVE OF THE LAMP. 
 
 Hilda was on this occasion more talkative than 
 usual. There was in her manner a new sense of 
 ease, almost of familiarity, Avhich Vcllacott could 
 not understand. He noticed that she spoke invari- 
 ably in generalities, avoiding all personal matters. 
 Of herself she said no word, though she appeared 
 willing enough to answer any question he might 
 ask. She led him on to talk of himself and his 
 work, listening gravely to his account of the little 
 household at Chelsea. He made the best of this 
 topic, and even treated it in a merry vein ; but 
 her smile, though sincere enough, was of short 
 duration and not in itself encouraging. She ap- 
 peared to see the pathos of it instead of the humour. 
 Suddenly, in the middle of a particularly funny 
 story about Aunt Judith, she interrupted him and 
 changed the conversation entirely. She did not 
 aofain refer to his home life. 
 
 As they were returning in the full glare of the 
 midday sun, they descried in front of them the 
 figure of an old man ; he was walking painfully 
 and making poor progress. Carefully dressed in 
 black broadcloth, he wore a soft felt hat of a shape 
 seldom seen in England. 
 
 " I believe," said Hilda, as they approached him, 
 "that is Signer Bruno. Yes, it is. Please pull 
 up, Christian. We must give him a lift ! " 
 
 Christian obeyed her. He thought he detected a 
 shade of annoyance in Hilda's voice, with which he 
 fully sympathised. 
 
 On hearing the sound of the wheels, the old 
 
FALSE METAL. 
 
 83 
 
 man looked up in surprise, as a deaf person might 
 have been expected to do. This movement showed 
 a most charming old face, surrounded by a halo of 
 white hair and beard. The features were almost 
 perfect, and might in former days have been a 
 trifle cold, by reason of their perfection. Now, 
 however, they were softened by the touch of years, 
 and Signer Bruno was the living semblance of 
 guilelessness and benevolence. 
 
 ''How do you do, Signor Bruno?" said Hilda, 
 speaking rather loudly and very distinctly. "You 
 are back from London sooner than you expected, 
 
 are you not ? " 
 
 "Ah; my dear young lady," he replied, cour- 
 teously removing his hat and standing bareheaded. 
 " Ah I now indeed the sun shines upon me. Yes, 
 I am back from London— a most terrible place 
 —terrible— terrible— terrible ! As I walked along 
 just now I said to myself: 'The sun is warm, 
 the skies are blue: yonder is the laughing sea, 
 and yet, Bruno, you sigh for Italy.' This is Italy, 
 Miss Hilda— Italy with a northern fairy walking 
 
 m it I 
 
 Hilda smiled her quick, surprising smile, and 
 hastened to speak before the old gentleman re- 
 covered his breath. 
 
 "Allow me to introduce to you Sidney's friend, 
 Mr. Vellacott, Signor Bruno 1 " 
 
 Sidney's friend, Mr. Vellacott, was by this time 
 behind her. He had alighted, and was employed 
 in arranging the back seat of the dog-cart. When 
 
84 THE SLAVE OF THE LAMP. 
 
 Signer Bruno looked towards him, he found Chris- 
 tian's eyes fixed upon his face with a quiet per- 
 sistence which might have been embarrassing to 
 a younger man. He raised his hat and murmured 
 something unintelhgible in reply to the Italian's 
 extensive salutation. 
 
 " Sidney Carew's friends are, I trust, mine also ! " 
 said Signer Bruno, as he replaced his picturesque hat. 
 
 Christian smiled spasmodically and continued 
 arranging the seat. He then came round to the 
 front of the cart and made a sign to Hilda that 
 she should move into the right-hand seat and drive. 
 Signer Bruno saw the sign, and said urbanely : 
 
 " You will, if you please, resume your seat. I will 
 place myself behind ! " 
 
 " Oh, no ! You must allow me to sit behind ! " 
 said Christian. 
 
 " But why, my dear sir ? That Avould not be 
 correct. You are Mr. Carew's guest, and I — I am 
 only a poor old Italian runaway, who is accustomed 
 to back seats ; all my life I have occupied back 
 seats, I think, Mr. Vell'cott. There is no reason 
 why I should aspire to better things noAv ! " 
 
 The old fellow's voice was strangely balanced 
 between pathos and a peculiar self-abnegating 
 humour. 
 
 " If we were both to take our hats off again, I 
 think it woukl be easy to see why you should 
 sit in front ! " said Christian with a laugh, which 
 although quite genial, somehow closed the dis- 
 cussion. 
 
FALSE METAL. 85 
 
 " Ah ! " replied the old gentleman with outspread 
 hands. "There you have Avorsted me. After that 
 I am silent, and — I obey ! " 
 
 He climbed into the cart with a little senile joke 
 about the stiffness of his aged limbs. He chattered 
 on in his innocent, childish way until the village 
 was reached. Here he was deposited on the dusty 
 road at the gate of a small yellow cottage where 
 he had two rooms. The seat Avas re-arranged, and 
 amidst a volley of thanks and salutations, Hilda 
 and Christian drove away. Presently Hilda looked 
 up and said : 
 
 " Is he not a dear old thing ? I believe, Christian, 
 in all the various local information I have given 
 you, I have never told you about Signer Bruno. 
 I shall reserve him for the next awkward pause 
 that occurs." 
 
 " Yes," replied Christian quietly. " He seems very 
 nice." 
 
 Something in his tone seemed to catch her atten- 
 tion. She half turned as if to hear more, but he 
 said nothing. Then she raised her eyes to his face, 
 which was not expressive of anything in particular. 
 
 "Christian," she said gravely, "you do not like 
 him ? " 
 
 Looked upon as a mere divination of thought, 
 this was very quick ; but he seemed in no way 
 perturbed. He turned and looked down with a 
 smile at her grave face. 
 
 " No," he replied. " Not very much." 
 
 "Why?" 
 
 d2 
 
86 THE SLAVE OF THE LAMP. 
 
 " I do not know. There is something wrong about 
 him, I think ! " 
 
 She laughed and shook her head. 
 
 ''What do you mean?" she asked. "How can 
 there be anything wrong Avith him — anything that 
 woukl affect us, at all events ? " 
 
 He shrugged his shoulders, still smiling. 
 
 " He says he is an Italian ? " 
 
 " Yes," she replied. 
 
 "I say he is a Frenchman," said Christian, sud- 
 denly turning towards her. "Italians do not talk 
 English as he talks it." 
 
 She looked puzzled. 
 
 " Do you know him ? " she asked. 
 
 " No ; not yet. I know his face. I have seen it 
 or a photograph of it somewhere, and at some time. 
 I cannot tell when or where yet, but it will come 
 to me." 
 
 "When it does come," said Hilda, with a smile, 
 " you will find that it is some one else. I can assure 
 you Signer Bruno is an Italian, and beyond that 
 he is the nicest old gentleman imaginable." 
 
 "Well," replied Christian. "In the meantime I 
 vote that we do not trouble ourselves about him." 
 
 The subject was dropped, and not again referred 
 to until after they had reached home, when Hilda 
 informed her mother that Signer Bruno had re- 
 turned. 
 
 "Oh, indeed," Avas the reply. "I am very glad. 
 You must ask him to dinner to-morrow evening. 
 Is he not a nice old man, Christian ^ " 
 
FALSE METAL. 87 
 
 " Very," replied Christian, alraost before the words 
 were out of her Hps. " Yes, very nice." He looked 
 across the table towards Hilda with an absolutely 
 expressionless composure. 
 
 During the following day, which he passed with 
 Sidney and Stanley at sea in a little cutter belonging 
 to the Carews, Christian learnt, without asking many 
 questions, all that Signer Bruno had vouchsafed in 
 the way of information respecting himself. It was 
 a short story and an old one, such as many a white- 
 haired Italian could tell to-day. A life, income, and 
 energy devoted to a cause which never had much 
 promise of reward. Failure, exile, and a life closing 
 in a land where the blue skies of Italy are known 
 only by name, where Maraschino is at a premium, 
 and long black cigars almost unobtainable. 
 
 Hilda was engaged on this day to lunch and 
 spend the afternoon with Mrs. Farrar, at Farrar 
 Court. Molly and Christian were to drive over 
 for her in the evening. This programme was 
 carried out, but the young people lingered rather 
 longer at Farrar Court listening to the quaint, 
 old-world recollections of its white-haired hostess 
 than was allowed for. Consequently they were 
 late, and heard the first dinner-bell ringing as they 
 drove up the lane that led in a casual way to their 
 home. (This lane was characteristic of the house. 
 It turned off unobtrusively from the high road at 
 right angles with the evident intention of leading 
 nowhere.) A race upstairs ensued and a hurried 
 toilet. Molly and Christian met on the stairs a 
 
88 THE SLAVE OF THE LAMP. 
 
 few minutes 'later. Christian had won the race, 
 for he was ready, while Molly struggled with a 
 silver necklace that fitted closely round her throat. 
 Of course he had to help her. While waiting 
 patiently for him to master the intricacies of the 
 old silver clasp, Molly said : 
 
 "Oh, Christian, there is one place you have not 
 seen yet. Quite close at hand too." 
 
 "Ye — es," he replied absently, as he at length 
 fixed the clasp. " There, it is done ! " 
 
 As he held open the drawing-room door, he said : 
 
 " What is the place I have to see ? " 
 
 Signer Bruno, who was seated at the far> end of 
 the room with Mrs. Carew, rose as he heard the 
 door opened, and advanced to meet Molly. 
 
 "Porton Abbey," she said over her shoulder as 
 she advanced into the room. "You must see 
 Porton Abbey." 
 
 The Italian shook hands with the new-comers 
 and made a clever, laughing reference to Christian's 
 politeness of the previous day. At this moment 
 Hilda entered, and as soon as she had returned 
 Signer Bruno's courteous salutation Molly turned 
 towards her. 
 
 " Hilda," she said, " we have never shown Christian 
 Porton Abbey." 
 
 " No," was the reply. " I have been reserving 
 it for some afternoon when we do not feel very 
 energetic. Unfortunately, we cannot get inside the 
 Abbey now, though." 
 
 " Why ? " asked Christian, without looking towards 
 
FALSE METAL. 89 
 
 Hilda. He had discovered that Signer Bruno was 
 attempting to keep up a conversation with his 
 hostess, while he took in that which was passing 
 at the other end of the room. The old man was 
 seated, and his face was within the radius of hght 
 cast by a shaded lamp. Christian, who stood, was 
 in the shade. 
 
 " Because it is a French monastery," replied 
 Molly. '• Here," she added, " is a flower for your 
 coat, as you say the button-hole is warped by con- 
 stant pinning in of stalks." 
 
 "Thanks," he replied, stooping a little in order 
 that she could reach the button-hole of his coat. 
 She was in front of him, directly between him and 
 Signer Bruno ; but he could see over her head. 
 " What sort of monastery is it ? " he continued 
 conversational!}'. " I did not know that there were 
 any establishments of that sort in England." 
 
 Hilda looked up rather sharply from an illus- 
 trated newspaper she happened to be studying. 
 She knew that he was not adhering strictly to 
 the truth. From her point of vantage behind the 
 newspaper she continued to watch Christian, and 
 she realised during the minutes that followed, that 
 this was indeed the brilliant young journalist of 
 whose fame Farrar had spoken as already known 
 in London. 
 
 Signer Bruno's conversation with Mrs. Carew 
 became at this moment somewhat muddled. 
 
 "There, you see," said Molly vivaciously, "we 
 endeavour to interest him by retailing the simple 
 
90 THE SLAVE OF THE LAMP. 
 
 annals of our neighbourhood, and his highness 
 simply disbelieves us ! " 
 
 "Not at all," Christian hastened to add, with a 
 laugh. " It simply happened that I was surprised. 
 It shall not occur again. But tell me, what sort 
 of monastery is it ? Dominican ? Franciscan ? 
 CarmeHte ? " 
 
 " Oh, goodness ! I do not know." 
 
 " Perhaps," said Christian, advancing towards the 
 Italian — " perhaps Signer Bruno can tell us." 
 
 "What is that, Mr. VeH'cott?" asked the old 
 gentleman, making a movement as if about to 
 raise his curved hand to his ear, but restraining 
 himself upon second thoughts. 
 
 Hilda noticed that, instead of raising his voice. 
 Christian spoke in the same tone, or even lower, as 
 he said : 
 
 "A¥e want some details of the establishment at 
 Porton Abbey, Signer Bruno." 
 
 The old gentleman made a little grimace expres- 
 sive of disgust, at the same time spreading out his 
 hands as if to ward off something hurtful. 
 
 " Ach ! " he said, " do not ask me. I know nothing 
 of such people, and wish to learn no more. It is 
 to them that my poor country owes her doAvnfall. 
 No, no ; leave them alone. I always take care of 
 myself against — against — what you say — ces gens-la!" 
 
 Christian awaited the answer in polite silence, 
 and, Avhen Signer Bruno had again turned to Mrs. 
 Carew, he looked across the room towards Hilda 
 with the same expression of vacant composure that 
 
FALSE METAL. 91 
 
 she had noticed on a previous occasion. The 
 accent with which Signer Bruno had spoken the 
 few words of French Avas of the purest Parisian, 
 entirely free from the harshness which an Itahan 
 rarely conquers. 
 
 After dinner Hilda went out of the open window 
 into the garden alone. Christian, who had seated 
 himself at a small table in the drawing-room, did 
 not move. Sidney and his mother were talking 
 with the Italian. 
 
 The young journalist was stooping over a book, 
 a vase of flow^ers stood in front of him, but by the 
 movement of his arm it appeared as if he were 
 drawing instead of reading. Presently a faint, low 
 whistle came from the garden. Though soft, the 
 sound was very clear, and each note distinctly given. 
 It was like the beginning of a refrain which broke 
 off suddenly and was repeated. Signer Bruno gave 
 a little start and a quick upward glance. 
 
 " What is that ? " he asked, with a little laugh, 
 as if at the delicacy of his ow^n nerves. 
 
 " Oh," replied Mrs. Carew, " the whistle, you mean. 
 That is our family signal. The children were in 
 the habit of calling each other by that means in 
 bygone years. I expect they are in the garden 
 now, and wish us to join them." 
 
 Mrs. Carew knew that Molly w^as not in the 
 garden, but in making this intentional mistake 
 she showed the w^isdom of her kind. 
 
 "It seems to me," said Signer Bruno, "that the 
 air — the refrain, one might call it — is familiar." 
 
92 THE SLAVE OF THE LAMP. 
 
 Christian Vellacott smiled suddenly behind his 
 screen of flowers, but did not move or look up. 
 
 " I expect," explained Sidney, " that you have 
 heard the air played upon the bugle. It is the 
 French 'retraite,' played by the patrol in garrison 
 tOAvns at night." 
 
 In the meantime Christian had cut the fly- 
 leaf from the book before him, and, after carefully 
 folding it, he placed the paper in his breast-pocket. 
 Then he rose and passed out of the open window 
 into the garden. 
 
 Immediately Signor Bruno asked his hostess a 
 few polite questions regarding her guest — w^hat was 
 his occupation, how long he was going to stay, and 
 whether she did not agree with him in considering 
 that their young friend had a remarkably in- 
 teresting face. In the course of his remarks the 
 old gentleman rose and crossed to the table w^here 
 Christian had been sitting. There was a flower 
 there which he had not seen in England before. 
 Absently he took up the book which Christian 
 had just been studying, and very naturally turned 
 to the title-page. The fly-leaf was gone ! When 
 he laid the volume down again he replaced it in 
 the identical position in Avhich he had found it. 
 
CHAPTER IX 
 
 A CLUE 
 
 When Christian left the drawing-room he Avalked 
 quickly down the moss-grown path to the moat. 
 Hilda was standing at the edge of the dark water, 
 and as he joined her she turned and walked slowly 
 by his side. 
 
 "You are a most unsatisfactory person," she said 
 gravely after a few moments. 
 
 He looked down at her without replying. His 
 eyes softened for a moment into a smile, but his 
 lips remained grave. 
 
 " You deliberately set yourself," she continued, " to 
 shatter one illusion after another. You have made me 
 feel quite old and worldly to-night, and the worst of it 
 is that you are invariably right. It is most annoying." 
 
 Her voice was only half-playful. There was a 
 shade of sadness in it. Christian must have divined 
 her thoughts, for he said : 
 
 "Do not let us quarrel over Signer Bruno. I 
 dare say I am wrong altogether." 
 
 She looked slowly round. Her eyes rested on 
 the dark surface of the water, where the shadows 
 lay deep and still; then she raised them to the 
 trees, clearly outlined against the sky. 
 
 93 
 
94 THE SLAVE OF THE LAMP. 
 
 " I suppose that such practical, matter-of-fact 
 people as you are proof against mere outward 
 influences." 
 
 " So I used to imagine, but I am beginning to 
 find that outward things are very important aftei 
 all. In London it seemed only natural that every 
 one should live in a hurry, with no time foi 
 thought, pushing forward and trying to outstrip 
 their neighbours ; but in the country it seems that 
 things are different. Intellectual people live quiet 
 thoughtful, and even dreamy lives. They get 
 through somehow without seeing the necessity foi 
 doing something — trying to be something that theii 
 neighbours cannot be — and no doubt they are 
 happier for it. I am beginning to see how the}; 
 are content to go on with their uneventful lives 
 from year to year until the end even comes with- 
 out a shock." 
 
 "But you yourself would never reach that stage 
 Christian." 
 
 "No, no, Hilda. I can understand it in others 
 but for me it is different. I have tasted too dcepl;y 
 of the other life. I should get restless " 
 
 " You are getting restless already," she interrupted 
 gravely, " and you have not been here two days 1 " 
 
 They were interrupted by Sidney's clear whistle, 
 and a moment later Molly came tripping down the^ 
 path. 
 
 "Come along in," she said; "the old gentleman 
 is going. I was just stealing away to join you 
 when Sidney whistled." 
 
A CLUE. 95 
 
 When Signer Bruno reached his home that 
 evening, he threw his hat upon the table with some 
 considerable force. His aged landlady, having left 
 the lamp burning, had retired to bed. He sank 
 into an armchair, and contemplated the square toes 
 of his own boots for some moments. Then he 
 scratched his head thoughtfully. 
 
 " Sacre nom d'un chien ! " he muttered ; " where 
 have I seen that face before ? " 
 
 Signer Bruno spoke French when soliloquising, 
 which was perhaps somewhat peculiar for an Italian. 
 However proficient a man may be in the mastery 
 of foreign tongues, he usually dreams and talks to 
 himself in the language he learnt at his mother's 
 knee. He may count fluently in a strange tongue, 
 but he invariably works out all mental arithmetic 
 in his own. Likewise he prays — if he pray at all — 
 in one tongue only. On the other hand, it appears 
 very easy to swear in an acquired language. Pro- 
 bably our forefathers borrowed each other's ex- 
 pletives when things went so lamentably wrong 
 over the Tower of Babel. Still muttering to him- 
 self, Signor Bruno presently retired to rest with 
 the remembrance of a young face, peculiarly and 
 unpleasantly strong, haunting his dreams. 
 
 Shortly after Signor Bruno's departure, Christian 
 happened to be left alone in the drawing-room 
 with Hilda. He promptly produced from his 
 pocket the leaf he had cut from a book earlier in 
 the evening. Unfolding the paper, he handed it 
 to her, and said : — 
 
96 THE SLAVE OF THE LAMP. 
 
 '•' Do you recognise that ? " 
 
 She looked at it, and answered without hesitation — 
 
 " Signer Bruno ! " 
 
 The drawing was slight, but the likeness was 
 perfect. The face was in profile, and the reproduc- 
 tion of the intelligent features could scarcely have 
 been more lifelike in a careful portrait. Christian 
 replaced the paper in his pocket. 
 
 " You remember Carl Trevetz, at Paris," continued 
 he . " his father belonged to the Austrian Embassy ! " 
 
 " Yes, I remember him 1 " 
 
 ''To-morrow I will send this to him, simply 
 asking who it is." 
 
 " Yes— and then ? " 
 
 "When the answer comes, Hilda, I will write 
 on the outside of the envelope the name that you 
 will find inside — written by Trevetz." 
 
 For a moment she looked across the table at him 
 with a vague expression of wonder upon her face. 
 
 " Even if you are right," she said, " will it affect us ? 
 Will it make us cease to look upon him as a friend ? " 
 
 " I think so." 
 
 " Then," she said slowly, " it has come. You 
 remember now ? " 
 
 " Yes : I remember now — but it may be a mis- 
 take yet. I would rather have my memory con- 
 firmed by Trevetz before telling you Avhat I know 
 — or think I know — about Bruno ! " 
 
 Hilda was about to question him further when 
 Molly entered the room, and the subject was 
 perforce dropped. 
 
A CLUE. 97 
 
 The next morning there came a letter for Chris- 
 iian from Mr. Bodery. It was short, and not very 
 Dleasant. 
 
 "Dear Vellacott, — Sorry to trouble you with 
 business so early in your holiday, but there has 
 been another great row in Paris, as you will see 
 from the papers I send you. It is hinted that 
 the mob are mere tools in the hands of influential 
 wire-pullers, and the worst of it is that they were 
 armed with English rifles and bayonets of a pattern 
 just superseded by the War Office. How these 
 got into their hands is not yet explained, but you 
 will readily see the gravity of the circumstance 
 in the present somewhat strained state of affairs. 
 Several of the ' daihes ' refer to us, as you will 
 see, and express a hope that our 'exceptional 
 knowledge of French affairs' will enable us to 
 thvo^Y some light upon the subject. Trevetz is 
 giving us all the information he can gather; but, 
 of course, he is only able to devote a portion of 
 his time to us. He hints that there is plenty of 
 money in the background somewhere, and that a 
 strono- party has got up the whole affair — perhaps 
 the Church. We must have something to say 
 (something of importance) next week, and Avith this 
 in view I must ask you to hold yourself in readi- 
 ness to go to Paris on receipt of a telegram or 
 
 letter from me. — Yours, 
 
 '' C. C. Bodery." 
 
 Christian folded the letter, and replaced it in 
 
98 THE SLAVE OF THE LAMP. 
 
 the envelope. Suddenly his attention was attracted 
 to the latter. Upon the back there was a rim 
 round the adhesive portion, and within this the 
 glaze was* gone from the naper. The envelope 
 had been tampered with by a skilful manipulator. 
 If Mr. Bodery had been in the habit of using 
 inferior stationery, no trace would have been left 
 upon the envelope. 
 
 Christian slipped the letter into his pocket, and, 
 glancing round, saw that his movements had 
 passed unobserved. 
 
 " Anything new ? " asked Sidney, from the head 
 of the table. 
 
 "Well, yes," was the reply. "There has been 
 a disturbance in Paris. I may have to go over 
 there on receipt of a telegram from the office ; " 
 he stopped, and looked slowly round the table. 
 Hilda's attention was taken up by her plate, upon 
 which, however, there was nothing. He leant for- 
 ward, and handed her the toast-rack. She took 
 a piece, but forgot to thank him. " I am sorry," 
 he continued simply, " very sorry that the disturb- 
 ances should have taken place just at this time." 
 
 His voice expressed natural and sincere regret, 
 but no surprise. This seemed to arouse Molly's 
 curiosity, for she looked up sharply. 
 
 " You do not seem to be at all surprised," she said. 
 
 " No," he replied ; " I am accustomed to this 
 sort of thing, you see. I knew all along that there 
 was the chance of being summoned at any time. 
 This letter only adds to the chance — that is all ! " 
 
A CLUE. 99 
 
 " It is a great shame," said Molly, with a pout. 
 I am sure there are plenty of people who could 
 io it instead of you." 
 Christian laughed readily. 
 
 " I am sure there are," he replied, " and that is 
 :he very reason why I must take the opportunities 
 :hat fortune offers." 
 
 Hilda looked across the table at him, and noted 
 the smile upon his lips, the light of energy in his 
 3yes. The love of action had driven all other 
 thoughts from his mind. 
 
 ' I suppose," she said conversationally, " that it 
 will in reality be a good thing for you if the sum- 
 mons does come." 
 
 " Yes," he replied, without meeting her glance ; 
 ' it will be a good thing for me." 
 
 " Is that consolatory view of the matter the out- 
 come of philosophy, or of virtue ? " inquired Molly 
 mischievously. 
 
 '' Of virtue," replied Christian gravely, and then 
 16 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 
 determmation of walking down to the village post 
 office. 
 
 " I wish," he said, " to send a telegram, and to get 
 some newspapers, Avhich 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, 
 
100 THE SLAVE OF THE LAMP. 
 
 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 dis- 
 cussion at a vague future period." t 
 
 Christian was steadily cheerful that morning, im- 
 perturbably 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 ; some- 
 thing 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 ob- 
 server, 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 
 
A CLUE. 101 
 
 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 passing thoughts, how- 
 ever 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 re- 
 quired 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 dis- 
 turbed Christian. He was ready enough to talk 
 and laugh, or talk and be grave, as Hilda might 
 
102 THE SLAVE OF THE LAMP. 
 
 dictate, while they walked side by side that morn- 
 ing, but she was strangely silent. It thus happened 
 that little passed 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, rea,ding 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 
 
A CLUE. 103 
 
 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 
 journahst, 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, know- 
 ing 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 Signer 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 passed through a 
 troubled political phase — a fighter on the losing 
 side. Now he had, as it were, assumed a more 
 important role. The mention of his name pos- 
 sessed a new suggestion ; and all this, forsooth, 
 because Christian Vellacott opined that the bene- 
 volent old face was known to him. 
 
 She began to entertain exaggerated ideas con- 
 cerning 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 
 
104 THE SLAVE OF THE LAMP. 
 
 result had been a vague suggestion of some mental 
 conflict, some dark game of cross-purposes between 
 him and Signer 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 ad- 
 dressed to him, and they left the post office. 
 
CHAPTER X 
 
 ox THE SCENT 
 
 It appeared to Stanley, on the way home that 
 mornmg, 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 evi- 
 dently did not look upon smuggling as a fruitful 
 topic at that moment. 
 
 " Why do you ask ? " interposed Hilda good- 
 naturedly. 
 
 "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. 
 
 105 
 
106 THE SLAVE OF THE LAMP. 
 
 " 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 wo 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 to- 
 day." 
 
 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 ! " 
 
ON THE SCENT. 107 
 
 Mr. Boclery rolled the telegram out flat Avith his 
 pencil silently. 
 
 • • . • • • 
 
 Stanley Carew was so anxious that the inspec- 
 tion of the boat should not be delayed, that an 
 expedition to the Cove was arranged for the same 
 afternoon. Accordingly the five young people walked 
 across the bleak tableland together. Huge white 
 clouds were rolling up from the south-west, obscuring 
 every now and then the burning sun. A gentle 
 breeze blew gaily across the bleak upland — a very 
 different breath from that which twisted and gnarled 
 the strong Scotch firs in winter-time. 
 
 " You would not care about climbing dovm there, 
 I should think," observed Sidney, when they had 
 reached the Cove. "It is a very different matter 
 getting up." 
 
 He was standing, gazing lazily up at the brown 
 cliffs with his straw hat tilted backwards, his hands 
 in his pockets, and his whole person presenting as 
 fair a picture as one could desire of lazy, quiescent 
 strength — a striking contrast to the nervous, wiry 
 townsman at his side. 
 
 " Hardly," replied Christian, gazing upwards at 
 the dizzy height. " It is rather nasty stuff — slippery 
 in parts and soft." 
 
 He turned and strolled off by Hilda's side. With 
 a climber's love of a rocky height he looked upwards 
 as they walked, and she noted the direction of 
 his gaze. 
 
 Presently they sat on the edge of the boat over 
 
108 THE SLAVE OF THE LAMP. 
 
 which Stanley's sense of proprietorship had been so 
 grievously outraged. 
 
 "What do you know, Christian, or what do you 
 suspect about Signer Bruno ? " asked Hilda suddenly. 
 
 Stanley was running across the sands towards 
 them, and Christian, seeing his approach, avoided 
 the question by a generality. 
 
 "Wait a little longer," he said. "Let me have 
 Trevetz's answer to confirm my suspicions, and then 
 I will tell you. Suspicions are dangerous things to 
 meddle with. In imparting them to other people it 
 is so difficult to remember that they are suspicions 
 and nothing more." 
 
 At this moment Stanley arrived and threw himself 
 down breathlessly on the warm sand. 
 
 " Chris ! " he exclaimed, " come down here and look 
 at these seams in the boat — the damp is there still." 
 
 The boat was clinker-built, and where the planks 
 overlapped a slight appearance of dampness was 
 certainly discernible. Christian lay lazily leaning 
 upon his elbow% sometimes glancing at the boat 
 in obedience to Stanley's accusatory finger, some- 
 times looking towards Hilda, whose eyes were turned 
 seawards. 
 
 Suddenly he caught sight of some words pencilled 
 on the stern-post of the boat, and by the merest chance 
 refrained from calling Stanley's attention to them. 
 Drawing nearer, he could read them easily enough, 
 
 Minuit vingt-six. 
 " It certainly looks," he said rising, " as if the boat 
 
ON THE SCENT. 109 
 
 had been in the water, but it may be that the damp- 
 Qess is merely owing to heavy dew. The boat wants 
 painting, I think." 
 
 He knew well enough that little Stanley's sus- 
 picions were correct. There was no doubt that the 
 Doat had been afloat quite recently ; but Christian 
 knew his duty towards the Beacon and sacrificed 
 his strict sense of truth to it. 
 
 On the way home he was somewhat pre-occupied 
 — as much, that is to say, as he was in the habit of 
 allowing. The pencil scrawl supplied food enough 
 or conjectural thought. The writing was un- 
 ioubtedly fresh, and this was the 26th of the month. 
 Some appointment was made for midnight by the 
 «rords pencilled on the boat, and the journalist 
 determined that he would be there to see. The 
 pestion was, should he go alone ? He Avatched 
 Sidney Carew walking somewhat heavily along in 
 ront of him, and decided that he would not seek 
 lid from that quarter. There was no time to com- 
 oaunicate with Mr. .Bodery, so the only course open 
 o him was to go by himself. 
 
 In a vague manner he had connected the Jesuit 
 party with the disturbances in Paris and the im- 
 portation of the English rifles wherewith the crowd 
 tiad been armed. The gay capital was at that time 
 n the hands of the most "Provisional" and un- 
 jertain Government - imaginable, and the home 
 politics of France were completely disorganised. 
 [t was just the moment for the Church party to 
 attempt a retrieval of their lost power. The fire- 
 
 E 
 
110 THE SLAVE OF THE LAMP. 
 
 arms had been recognised by the EngUsh authorities 
 as some of a pattern lately discarded. They had 
 been stored at Plymouth, awaiting shipment to the 
 colonies, where they Avere to be served out to the 
 auxihary forces, when they had been cleverly re- 
 moved. The robbery was not discovered until the 
 rifles were found in the hands of a Paris mob, still 
 fresh and brutal from the horrors of a long course 
 of military law. Some of the more fiery of the 
 French journals boldly hinted that the English 
 Government had secretly sold the firearms with a 
 view to their ultimate gain by the disorganisation of 
 
 France. 
 
 Christian knew as much about affairs in Paris as 
 most men. He was fully aware that in the pohtica 
 of a disturbed country a deed is either a crime on 
 a heroism according to circumstances, and he was 
 wise enough to await the course of events before 
 thrusting his opinion down the public throat. But 
 now he felt that the crisis had supervened, and 
 unwillmgly he recognised that it was not for him 
 to be idle amidst those rapid events. 
 
 These thoughts occupied his mind as he walked 
 inland from the Cove, and rendered his answers tc 
 Stanley's ceaseless flow of questions upon all con- 
 ceivable subjects somewhat vague and unreUable. 
 Hilda was walking with them, tmd divided with 
 Christian the task of supplying her small brothei 
 with varied information. 
 
 As they were approaching the Hall, Christian dis- 
 cerned two figures upon the smooth lawn, evidently 
 
ON THE SCENT. Ill 
 
 coming- towards them. At the same moment Stanley 
 perceived them. 
 
 "I see Fred Farrar and Mr. Signor Bruno," he 
 exchiimed. n 
 
 Christian could not resist glancing over the little 
 fellow's head towards Hilda, though he knoAv that 
 it Avas hardly a fair action. Hilda felt the glance 
 but betrayed no sign. She was looking straight in 
 front of her with no change of colour, no glad smile 
 of welcome for her stalwart lover. 
 
 "I Avonder why she never told me," thought 
 Christian. 
 
 Presently he said, in an airy, conversational way : 
 "I did not know Farrar was coming back so — so 
 soon." 
 
 He knew that by this early return Farrar was 
 missing an important day of the race-meeting he 
 had been attending, but did not think it necessary 
 to remark upon the fact. 
 
 " Yes," replied Hilda. " He does not like to leave 
 his mother for many days together." The acutest 
 ears could have detected no lowering of the voice, 
 no tenderness of thought. She was simply stating 
 a fact ; but she might have been speaking of Signor 
 Bruno, so cool and unembarrassed was her tone. 
 
 "I am glad he is back," said Christian thought- 
 lessly. It Avas a mere stop-gap. The silence was 
 awkAvard, but he possessed tact enough to have 
 broken it by some better means. Instantly he 
 recognised his mistake, and for a moment he felt 
 as if he Avere stumbling blindfold through an 
 
112 THE SLAVE OF THE LAMP. 
 
 unknown country. He experienced a sudden sense 
 of vacuity as if his mind were a blank and all words 
 futile. It w^as now Stanley's turn to break the 
 silence, and unconsciously he did it very well. 
 
 " I Avonder," he said speculatively, " whether ho 
 has brought any chocolate creams ? " 
 
 Hilda laughed, and the smile was still hovering 
 in her eyes Avhen she greeted the two men. Stanley 
 ran on into the house to open a parcel which Farrar 
 told him was awaiting inspection. It was only 
 natural that Hilda should walk on with the young 
 squire, leaving Bruno ;ind Christian together. The 
 old man lingered obviously, and his companion 
 took the hint readily enough, anticipating some 
 enjoyment. 
 
 "To you, Mr. Vellacott," said the Italian, with 
 senile geniality, "to you whose life is spent in 
 London this must be very charming, very peaceful, 
 and — very disorganising, I may perhaps add." 
 
 Christian looked at his companion with grave 
 attention. 
 
 " It is very enjoyable," he replied simply. 
 
 Signer Bruno mentally trimmed his sails, and 
 started off on another tack. 
 
 "Our young friends," he said, indicating with a 
 wave of his expressive hand Hilda and Farrar, " are 
 admirably suited to each other. Both young, both 
 handsome, and both essentially English." 
 
 "Yes," answered Christian, with a polite display 
 of interest ; " and, nevertheless, the Carews were 
 all brought up and educated in France." 
 
ON THE SCENT. 113 
 
 " Ah ! " observed the old man, stopping to raise 
 the head of a " Souvenir de Malmaison," of which 
 he inhaled the odour with evident pleasure. The 
 little ejaculation, and its accompanying action, were 
 admirably calculated to leave the hearer in doubt 
 as to whether mere surprise was expressed or polite 
 acquiescence in the statement of a known fact. 
 
 " Yes," added Christian, deliberately. He also 
 stooped and raised a white rose to his face, thus 
 meeting Signer Bruno upon his own ground. The 
 Italian looked up, and the two men smiled at each 
 other across the rose bush; then they turned and 
 walked on. 
 
 " You also know France ? " hazarded Signor Bruno. 
 
 "Yes; if I were not an Englishman I should 
 choose to be a Frenchman." 
 
 "Ah!" 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 " Now with me," said Signor Bruno frankly, " it 
 is different. If I were not an Italian (which God 
 forbid !) I think^I think, yes, I am sure, I would 
 by choice have been born an Englishman." 
 
 " Ah ! " observed Christian gravely, and Signor 
 Bruno turned sharply to glance at his face. The 
 young Englishman Avas gazing straight in front of 
 him earnestly, with no suspicion upon his lips of 
 the incredulous smile which seemed somehow to 
 have lurked there Y>rhen he last spoke. The Italian 
 turned away dissatisfied, and they walked on a few 
 paces in silence, until he spoke again, reflectively : — 
 
 " Yes," he said, " there is a quality in the English 
 
114 THE SLAVE OF THE LAMP. 
 
 character which to me is very praiseworthy. It is 
 a certain directness of purpose. You know what 
 you wish to do, and you proceed calmly to do it, 
 without stopping to consider what your neighbours 
 may think of it. Now with the Gallic races — for 
 I take this virtue of straightforwardness as Teutonic 
 — and in my own country especially, men seek to 
 gain their ends by less open means." 
 
 They were now walking up a gentle incline to 
 the house, which was built upon the buried ruins 
 of its ancient predecessor, and Signer Bruno was 
 compelled to pause in order to gain breath. 
 
 " But," interposed Christian softly, " you are now 
 talking not so much of the people as of the Church." 
 
 Again the Italian looked sharply up, and this 
 time he met his companion's eyes fixed quietly on 
 his face. He shrugged his shoulders deprecatingly 
 and spread out his delicate hands. 
 
 "Perhaps you are right," he said, with engaging 
 frankness. " I am afraid you are. But you must 
 excuse a little ill-feeling in a man such as I, with 
 a past such as mine has been, and loving his country 
 as I do." 
 
 " I am afraid," continued Christian, " that foreigners 
 find our bluntness very disagreeable and difficidt 
 to meet ; but I know that they frequently misjudge 
 us on the same account. It is to our benefit, so 
 we cannot complain." 
 
 " In what way do we misjudge you ? " asked Signer 
 Bruno genially. They were almost on the threshold 
 of the drawing-room window, which stood invitingly 
 
ON THE SCENT. H^ 
 
 open, and from whicli came the sounds of cups and 
 saucers being mated. 
 
 "You o-ive us credit for less intelligence than we 
 in reaht/ possess," said Christian with a smile, as 
 he stood aside to let his companion pass m first. 
 
 Whatever influences may have been at work 
 among those congregated at the Hall during the 
 half-hour or so occupied by afternoon tea, no sign 
 appeared upon the surface. Molly as usual led 
 the chorus of laughter. Hilda smiled her sweet 
 " kittenish " smile. Signor Bruno surpassed himselt 
 in the relation of innocent little tales, told with 
 a true southern "verve" and spirit, while Fred 
 Farrar's genial laugh filled in the interstices rehably. 
 Grave and unobtrusive. Christian moved about 
 among them. He saw when Molly wanted the 
 hot water, and was invariably the first to detect 
 an empty cup. He laughed softly at Signor Bruno s 
 stories, and occasionally capped them with a better, 
 related in a oonciser and equally humorous manner. 
 It was to him that Farrar turned for an encouraging 
 acquiescence when one of his latest Newmarket 
 anecdotes threatened to fall flat, and with it all he 
 found time for an occasional spar with Signor Bruno, 
 just by way of keeping that inquiring gentleman 
 upon his guard. 
 
CHAPTER XI 
 
 BURY BLUFF 
 
 As Christian walked rapidly across the uueven turf 
 towards the sea at midnight, his thoughts were 
 divided between a schoolboy delight in the adven- 
 turous nature of his expedition and an uncomfort- 
 able sensation of surreptitiousness. He was not 
 accustomed to this sort of work, and felt remarkably 
 like a thief. If by some mischance his absence 
 was discovered at the Hall, it would be difficult 
 to account for it unless he played the part of a 
 temporary lunatic. Fortunately his window com- 
 municated easily enough with the garden by means 
 of a few stone steps, but visitors are not usually 
 in the habit of leaving their bedrooms in order 
 to take the air at midniofht. Thinkino' over these 
 things in his rapid and rather superficial way, he 
 unconsciously quickened his pace. 
 
 The night was clear and starlit ; the air soft and 
 very pleasant, with a faint breath of freshness from 
 the south-Avest. The moon, being well upon the 
 wane, would not rise for an hour or more, but 
 the heavens were glowing with the gentler light 
 
 of stars, and on earth the darkness was of that 
 
 lie 
 
BURY BLUFF. 117 
 
 transparent description which sailors prefer to the 
 brightest moonhght. 
 
 Christian Vellacott had worked out most pro- 
 blems in life for himself. Taken as a whole, his 
 solutions had been fairly successful— as successful 
 as those of most men. If his views upon things 
 in general were rather photographic— that is to 
 say, hard, with clearly defined shadows— it was 
 owing to his father's somewhat cynical training and 
 to the absence of a mother's influence. Elderly 
 maiden ladies, with sufficient time upon their hands 
 to manage other people's affairs in addition to 
 their own, complained of his want of sympathy, 
 which ^ may be read in the sense of stating that 
 he neither sought theirs nor asked advice upon 
 questions connected with himself. This self- 
 reliance was the inevitable outcome of his life 
 at home and at the office of the Beacon. Admir- 
 able as it may be, independence can undoubtedly 
 be carried to an unpleasant excess— unpleasant 
 that is, for home life. Women love to see their 
 men-folk a trifle dependent upon them. 
 
 Christian was in the midst of a problem as he 
 walked across the tableland that stretched from 
 St. Mary Western to the sea. That problem 
 absorbed more of his attention than the home 
 pohtics of France; it required a more careful 
 study than any article he had ever penned for 
 the Beacon. It gave him greater anxiety than 
 Aunt Judy and Aunt Hester combined. Yet it 
 was comprised in a single word. A single arm 
 
 E 2 
 
118 THE SLAVE OF THE LAMP. 
 
 could encompass the whole of it. The single word 
 —Hilda. 
 
 Leaving the narrow road, he presently struck the 
 little pathway leading to the Cove. Suddenly he 
 stopped, and stood motionless. There — not twenty 
 yards from him — was the still figure of a man. 
 Behind Christian the land rose gradually to some 
 considerable height, so that he stood in darkness, 
 while against the glowing sky the figure of this 
 watcher was clearly defined in hard outline. Instinc- 
 tively crouching down and seeking the covert of a 
 few low bushes, Christian decreased the intervening 
 distance by a few yards. The faint hope that it 
 might prove to be a coastguard was soon dispelled. 
 The heavy clothing and loose thigh-boots were those 
 of a fisherman. The huge "cache-nez" which lay 
 in coils upon his shoulders and completely protected 
 the neck and throat, was such as is worn by the 
 natives of the Cotes-du-Nord. 
 
 The sea boomed forth its melancholy song, far 
 down in the black depths beyond. The tide was 
 high, and the breeze freshening every moment. 
 Christian could have crept up to the man's 
 very feet without being detected. Lying still 
 upon the short, dry grass, he watched for some 
 moments. ■ 
 
 From the man's clumsy attitude it was almost 
 possible to divine his slow, mindless nature — for 
 there is expression in the very turn of a man's 
 leg as he stands — and it was easy to see that he was 
 irnardinix the little path down the cliff to the Cove. 
 
BURY BLUFF. 119 
 
 He had been posted there, and evidently meant to 
 stay till called away. 
 
 There was only one way, now, to the Cove, and 
 that was down the face of the cliff: the way that 
 Christian had that very afternoon pronounced so 
 hazardous. By day it was dangerous enough ; by 
 night it was almost an impossibility. 
 
 He crept noiselessly along to the eastward, so that 
 the watcher stood upon the windward side of him, 
 and reaching the brink he peered over into the 
 darkness. Of course he could discern nothing. The 
 sea rose and fell with a monotonous roar; over- 
 head the stars twinkled as merrily as they have 
 twinkled over the strifes of men from century to 
 century. 
 
 Quietly he knelt upright and buttoned his coat 
 with some care. Then without a moment's hesita- 
 tion he crept to the edge and cautiously disappeared 
 into the grim abyss of darkness. Slowly and labori- 
 ously he worked his Avay down, feeling for each 
 foothold in advance. Occasionally he muttered im- 
 patiently to himself at the slowness of his progress. 
 He knew that the strata of soft sandstone trended 
 downwards at an easy angle, and with consummate 
 skill took full advantage of his knowledge. Occa- 
 sionally he was forced to progress sideways with his 
 face to the rock and hands outstretched till his 
 fingers were cramped, and the feeling known as 
 " pins and needles " assailed his arms. Then he 
 would rest for some moments, peering into the 
 darkness below him all the while. Once or twice 
 
120 THE SLAVE OF THE LAMP. 
 
 he dropped a small stone cautiously, holding it at 
 arm's length. When the tiny messenger touched 
 earth soon after leaving his hand, he continued his 
 downward progress. Once, no sound followed for 
 some seconds, and then it was only a distant con- 
 cussion far down beside the sea. With an involun- 
 tary shudder, the climber turned and made his way 
 upwards and sideways again, before venturing to 
 descend once more. 
 
 For half an hour he continued his perilous 
 struggle, till his strong arms were stiff and his fingers 
 almost powerless. With marvellous tenacity he I 
 held to his purpose. Never since leaving the sum- 
 mit had he been able to rest both hands at once. 
 With a dogged, mechanical endurance which is essen- 
 tially characteristic of climbers and mountaineers, he 
 lowered himself, inch by inch, foot by foot. Louder 
 and louder sang the sea, as if in derision at his petty 
 efforts, but through his head there rushed anothei 
 sound infinitely more terrible : a painful, continuous 
 buzz, which seemed to press upon his temples. A 
 dull pain was sloAvly creeping up the muscles of \m 
 neck towards his head. All these symptoms the 
 climber knew. The buzzing in his ears would nevei 
 cease until he could lie down and breathe freely Avith 
 every muscle relaxed, every sinew slack. The dull 
 ache would creep up until it reached his brain, and 
 then nothing could save him — no strength of will 
 could prevent his fingers from relaxing their hold. 
 
 '«Sish — sish, sish — sish!" laughed the waves 
 below. Placidly the stars held on their stately 
 
BURY BLUFF. 121 
 
 30urse — each perhaps peopled by millions of its 
 3wn — young and old, tame and fiery — all pursuing 
 shadows as we do here. 
 
 " This is getting serious/' muttered Christian, with 
 I pitiful laugh. The perspiration was running down 
 tiis face, burning his eyes, and dripping from his 
 3hin. With straining eyes he peered into the night. 
 Dlose beneath him there was a ledge of some 
 Dreadth. It was not flat, but inclined upwards from 
 ;he face of the cliff, thus forming a shelf of solid 
 ;tone. For some seconds he stared continuously at 
 ;his, so as to reduce to a minimum the chance of 
 )eing mistaken. Then with great caution he slid 
 lown the steep incline of smooth stone and landed 
 lafely. The glissade lasted but a moment, neverthe- 
 ess it recalled to his mind a picture which was 
 ndelibly stamped in his memory. Years before he 
 lad seen a man slide like this, unintentionally, after 
 
 false step. Again that picture came to him — 
 mimpressionable as his life had rendered him. 
 Igain he saw the glittering expanse of snow, and on 
 t the broad, strong figure of the Vaudois guide 
 liding down and down, with madly increasing speed 
 —feet foremost, skilful to the last. Again he felt 
 he thrill which men cannot but experience at the 
 ight of a man, or even of a dumb beast, fighting 
 •ravely for life. Again he saw the dull gleam of 
 he uplifted ice-axe as the man dealt scientific blow 
 fter bloAv on the frozen snow, attempting to arrest 
 is terrible career. And again in his mind's eye 
 he pure expanse of spotless white lay before him, 
 
122 THE SLAVE OF THE LAMP. 
 
 scarred by one straight streak, marking where the 
 taciturn mountaineer had vanished over the edge 
 of the precipice to his certain doom. 
 
 Christian lay like a half-drowned man upon the 
 shelving ledge, slowly realising his position. He 
 calculated that he could not yet be half-way down, 
 and his strength was almost exhausted. Yet, as 
 he lay there, no thought of waiting for daylight, 
 no question of retreat entered his stubborn West- 
 country brain. The exploit still possessed for him 
 the elements of a good joke, to be related there- 
 after in such a manner as would enforce laughter. 
 
 Suddenly — within the softer sound of the sea 
 below — a harsh, grating noise struck his ears. It 
 was to him like the sound made by a nailed boot 
 upon rock. It was as if another were following 
 him down the face of the cliff. In a second he 
 was upon his feet, his weariness a thing forgotten. 
 Overhead, against the starlit sky, he could define 
 the line of rock with its sharp, broken angles and 
 uncouth turns. Not thirty feet above him some- 
 thing was moving. His first feeling was one of 
 intense fear. Every climber knows that it is easieri 
 to pass a difficult corner than to stand idle, watch- 
 ing another do it. Slowly the dark form came 
 downwards, and suddenly, with a quick sense of 
 unutterable relief. Christian saw the black line of 
 a tightened rope. When it was barely ten feet 
 above him he saw that the object was no man, but a | 
 square case. In a flash of thought he divined what 
 the box contained, and unhesitatingly ran along j 
 
BURY BLUFF. 123 
 
 the ledge towards it. As it descended he seized 
 it with both hands and swoing it in towards himself. 
 With pendulum-like motion it descended, and at 
 last touched the rock at his feet. As this took 
 place he grasped the rope with both hands and 
 threw his entire weight upon it, hauling slowly 
 in, hand over hand. So quickly and deftly was 
 this carried out that those lowering overhead were 
 deceived, and continued to pay out the rope slowly. 
 Steadily Christian hauled in, the slack falling in 
 snake-like coils at his feet. Only being able to 
 guess at his position on the cliff, it was no easy 
 matter to calculate how much rope it was neces- 
 sary to take in in order to carry out the deception. 
 
 At length he ceased abruptly, and proceeded to 
 untie the knots round the bale. Then, after the 
 manner of a sailor who is w^orking out of sight 
 Avith a life-line, he jerked the rope, which imme- 
 diately began to ascend rapidly and with irregularity. 
 Coil after coil ran easily away, and at last the 
 frayed end passed into the darkness above Chris- 
 tian's head. He stood there watching it, and when 
 it had disappeared he burst into a low hoarse 
 laugh which suddenly broke off into a sickening 
 gurgle, and he fell sideways and backwards on to 
 the box, clutching at it with his nerveless fingers. 
 
 When he recovered his faculties his first sensa- 
 tion was one of great cold. The breeze had 
 freshened with the approach of dawn, and blowing 
 full upon him as he lay bathed in perspiration, the 
 effect was like that of a refrigerator. He moved 
 
124 THE SLAVE OF THE LAMP. 
 
 uneasily, and found that he was lying on the 
 stone ledge outside the box, from which he had 
 fallen. After a moment, he rose rapidly to his 
 feet as if desirous of dismissing the memory of 
 his own collapse, and turned his attention to the 
 bundle. Beneath the rough covering of canvas, 
 which was not sewn but merely lashed round, it 
 was easy enough to detect the shape of the case. 
 
 " What luck — what wonderful luck," he muttered, 
 as he groped round the surface of the bundle. 
 
 Indeed it seemed as if everything had arranged 
 itself for his special benefit and advantage. 
 
 The three men whose duty it had been to lower 
 the case coiled up their rope and started off on 
 foot inland, after telling the sentinel stationed at 
 the head of the little path to rejoin his boat. This 
 the man was only too willing to do at once. He 
 was a semi-superstitious Breton of no great intel- 
 ligence, who vastly preferred being afloat in his 
 unsavoury yawl to climbing about unknown rocks 
 in the dark. On the beach, he found his two 
 comrades, to whom he gruffly imparted the informa- 
 tion that they were to go on board. 
 
 " Had the ' monsieur ' said nothing else ? " 
 " No, the ' monsieur ' said nothing else." 
 The Breton intellect is not, as a rule, acute. Like 
 sheep the three men proceeded to carry up from 
 the water's edge Stanley's boat, which was required 
 to carry the heavy case, their own dinghy being 
 too small. This done, they rowed off silently to 
 the yawl, which was rolling lazily in the trough 
 
BURY BLUFF. 125 
 
 of the sea, a quarter of a mile from the shore. Once 
 on board they were regaled with some choice French 
 profanity from the lips of a large man in a sealskin 
 cap and a dirty woollen muffler. This gentleman 
 they addressed as the " patron," and, with clumsy awe, 
 informed him that they had waited at the same spot 
 as before, but nothing had come, until at length Hole 
 Grail arrived with instructions from the " monsieur " 
 to go on board. Whereupon further French profanity, 
 followed by unintelligible orders, freely interlarded 
 with embellishments of a forcible tenor. 
 
 As the yawl swung slowly round and stood out 
 to sea, Christian turned to climb up Bury Bluff. 
 He found that he had in reality made very little 
 progress in descending. Before leaving the case, 
 he edged it by degrees nearer to the base of the 
 ledge, which would render it invisible from the 
 beach. The ascent was soon accomplished, and 
 after a cautious search he concluded that no one was 
 about, so set off home at a rapid pace. 
 
 Before he reached the Hall the light of coming 
 day was already creeping up into the eastern sky. 
 All nature was stirring, refreshed with the balmy 
 dew and coolness of the night. Far up in the 
 higher branches of the Weymouth pines, the wrens 
 were awake, calling to each other with tentative 
 twitter, and pluming themselves the while for 
 another day of sunshine and song. 
 
 Like a thief Christian hurried on, and creeping 
 into his bedroom window, was soon sleeping the 
 dreamless, forgetful sleep of youth. 
 
126 THE SLAVE OF THE LAMP. 
 
 By seven o'clock he was awake with all the 
 quick realisation of a Londoner. In the country 
 men wake up slowly, and slowly gather together 
 their senses after an all-sufficing sleep of ten 
 hours. In cities, five, four, or even three are 
 sufficient for the unfatigued body and the restless 
 mind. Men Avake up quickly, and are at once in 
 full possession of their faculties. It is, after all, 
 a mere matter of habit. 
 
 Christian had slept sufficiently. He rose quite 
 fresh and strong, and presently sat down, coatless 
 to write. 
 
 Page after page he wrote, turning each leaf over 
 upon its face as it was completed — never referring 
 back, never hesitating, and only occasionally raising 
 his pen from the paper. Line after line of neat, 
 small writing, quite different from what his friends 
 knew in letters or on envelopes, flowed from his 
 pen. It was his ''press" handw^riting, plain, rapid, 
 and as legible as print. The punctuation was 
 attended to with singular care : the commas broad 
 and heavy, the colons like the kisses in a child's 
 letter, round and black. Once or twice he smiled 
 as he wrote, and occasionally jerked his head to 
 one side critically as he re-read a sentence. 
 
 In less than two hours it was finished. He rose 
 from his seat, and Avalked slowly to the window. 
 Standing there he gazed thoughtfully across the 
 bare, unlovely tableland towards the sea. He had 
 written many hundreds of pages, all more or less 
 masterly; he had read criticisms upon his own 
 
BURY BLUFF. 127 
 
 work saying that it was good ; and yet he knew 
 that the best — the best he had ever written — lay 
 upon the table behind him. Then he turned and 
 shook the loose leaves together symmetrically. 
 Pensively he counted them. He was young and 
 strong ; the world and life lay before him, with 
 their infinite possibilities — their countless oppor- 
 tunities to be seized or left. He looked curiousl}^ 
 at the written pages. The writing was his own; 
 the form of every letter was familiar; the heavy 
 punctuation and clean, closely written lines such 
 as the compositor loved to deal with ; and while 
 he turned the leaves over he wondered if ever he 
 would do better, for he knew that it was good. 
 
CHAPTER XII 
 
 A WARNING WORD 
 
 As the breakfast-bell echoed through the house 
 Christian ran downstairs. He met Hilda entering 
 the open door with the letters in her hand. 
 
 " Down already ? " he exclaimed. 
 
 " Yes," she replied incautiously, " I wished to get 
 the letters early." 
 
 '' And, after all, there is nothing for you ? " 
 
 " No," she replied. " No, but " 
 
 She stopped suddenly and handed him two 
 letters, which he took slowly, and apparently forgot 
 to thank her, saying nothing at all. There was a 
 peculiar expression of dawning surprise upon his 
 face, and he studied the envelopes in his hand 
 without reading a word of the address. Presently 
 he raised his eyes and glanced at Hilda. She was 
 holding a letter daintily betAveen her two fore- 
 lingers, cornerwise, and with little puffs of her 
 pouted lips was spinning it round, evidently en- 
 joying the infantile amusement immensely. 
 
 He dropped his letters into the pocket of his jacket, 
 and stood aside for her to pass into the house ; but 
 she, abruptly ceasing her windmill operations, looked 
 at him with raised eyebrows and stood still. 
 
 128 
 
A WARNING WORD. 129 
 
 '' Well ? " she said interrogatively. 
 
 '^What?" 
 
 " And Mr. Trevctz's answer — I suppose it is one 
 of those letters ? " 
 
 "Oh yes!" he replied. "I had forgotten my 
 promise." 
 
 He took the letters from his pocket, and looked 
 at the addresses again. 
 
 " One is from Trevetz," he said sloAvly, " and the 
 other from Mrs. Strawd," 
 
 "Nothing from Mr. Bodery ? " asked she indif- 
 ferently. 
 
 He had taken a pencil from his pocket, and, 
 turning, he held Trevetz's letter against the wall 
 while he Avrote across it. Without ceasing his 
 occupation, and in a casual way, he replied : — 
 
 " No, nothing from Mr. Bodery ; so I am free 
 as yet." 
 
 '*' I am very glad," she murmured conventionally. 
 
 "And I," he said, turning with a polite smile to 
 hand her the letter. 
 
 She took the envelope, and holding it up in 
 both hands examined it critically. 
 
 '■ M-a-x," she read ; " how badly it is Avritten ! 
 Max— Max Talma— is that it?" 
 
 " Yes," he answered gravely, "' that is it." 
 
 With a little laugh and a shrug of her shoulders 
 she proceeded to open the envelope. It contained 
 nothing but the sketch made upon the fly-leaf of 
 a novel. Christian was watching her face. She 
 continued to smile as she unfolded the paper. 
 
130 THE SLAVE OF THE LAMP. 
 
 Then she suddenly became grave, and handed the 
 open sketch to him. At the foot was written: — 
 
 " Max Talma — look out ! Avoid him as you 
 would the devil ! 
 
 " In haste, C. T." 
 
 Christian read it, laughed carelessly, and thrust 
 the paper into his pocket. " Trevetz writes in a 
 good forcible style," he said, turning to greet Molly, 
 who came, singing, downstairs at this moment. For 
 an instant her merry eyes assumed a scrutinising, 
 almost anxious look as she caught sight of her 
 sister and Christian standing together. 
 
 "Are you just down?" she asked carelessly. 
 
 " Yes," answered Christian, still holding her hand. 
 " I have just come down." 
 
 As usual the day's pleasure was all prearranged. 
 A groom rode to the station at Christian's request 
 with a large envelope on which was printed Mr. 
 Bodery's name and address. This was to be given 
 to the guard, Avho would in his turn hand it to a 
 special messenger at Paddington, and the editor 
 of the Beacon would receive it by four o'clock in 
 the afternoon. 
 
 The day was fine, with a fresh breeze, and the 
 programme of pleasure was satisfactorily carried 
 out. But with sunset the Avind freshened into a 
 brisk gale, and heavy clouds rolled upwards from 
 the western horizon. This was the first suggestion 
 of autumn, the first sigh of dying summer. The 
 
A WARNING WORD. 131 
 
 lamps were lighted a few minutes earlier that night, 
 and the family assembled in the drawing-room soon 
 after dark, although the windows were left open for 
 those who wished to pass in and out. 
 
 Mrs. Carew's grey head was, as usual, bent over 
 some simple needlework, while Molly sat near at 
 hand. According to her wont she also was busy, 
 while around her the work lay strewed in picturesque 
 disorder. Sidney was reading in his own room — 
 reading for a vague law examination which always 
 appeared to have been lately postponed till next 
 October. 
 
 Christian was seated at the piano, playing by 
 snatches and turning over the brown leaves of 
 some very old music, unearthed from a lumber- 
 room by Mrs. Carew for his benefit. He waited 
 for no thanks or comment ; sometimes he read a 
 few bars only, sometimes a page. He appeared to 
 have forgotten that he had an audience. Presently 
 he rose, leaving the music in disorder. Hilda had 
 been called away some time before by an old 
 village woman requiring medicaments for unheard-of 
 symptoms. Christian looked slowly round the 
 room, then raising his hand he dexterously caught 
 a huge moth which had flown past his face. 
 
 As he crossed the room towards the open window, 
 with a view of liberating the moth, a low whistle 
 reached his ear. The refrain was that of the 
 familiar '' retraite." Hilda had evidently gone out 
 to the moat by another door. Bowing his head, 
 he passed between the muslin curtains and dis- 
 
132 THE SLAVE OF THE LAMP. 
 
 appeared in the darkness. The sound of his foot- 
 steps died away almost immediately amidst the 
 rustle of branch and leaf already crisp with 
 approaching change. 
 
 It was Stanley's bed-time. Mechanically, Molly 
 kissed her brother, continuing to work thoughtfully. 
 
 In a few minutes the door opened and Hilda 
 entered the room. She came up to the table, and 
 standing there with her hands resting upon some 
 pieces of Molly's work, she gave a graphic descrip- 
 tion of the old woman's complaints and maladies. 
 She stood quite close to Molly, and told her story 
 to Mrs. Carew merrily, failing to notice that her 
 sister had ceased sewing, and was listening with a 
 surprised look in her eyes. When the symptoms 
 had been detailed and laughed over, Hilda turned 
 quietly and passed out into the garden. With 
 fearless familiarity she ran lightly down the narrow 
 pathway towards the moat, but no signal-whistle 
 greeted her. The leaves rustled and whispered 
 overhead; the water lapped and gurgled at her 
 feet, but there was no sign or sound of life. 
 
 Silent and motionless she stood, a tall fair form 
 clad in white, amidst the universal darkness. So 
 silent and so still that it might have been the 
 shade of some fair maid of bygone years mourning 
 the loss of her true knight, who in all the circum- 
 stances of war had crossed that same moat never 
 to return. 
 
 Presently a sudden feeling of loneliness, a new 
 sense of fear, came over Hilda. All around was so 
 
A WARNING WORD. 133 
 
 forbidding'. The water at her feet was so black 
 and mysterious. She gave a soft low whistle 
 identical with that which had called Christian out 
 twenty minutes before, but it remained unanswered, 
 and through the rustling leaves she sped towards 
 the house. From the open window a glow of rosy 
 light shone forth upon the flowers, imparting to 
 all alike a pallid pink, and dimly defining 'the 
 grey tree-trunks across the lawn. As Hilda stepped 
 between the curtains, the servants entered the 
 drawing-room in solemn Indian file for evening 
 prayers. 
 
 Mrs. Carew looked up from the Bible which lay 
 open before her, and said to Hilda : — 
 
 '' Where is Christian ? " 
 
 " I don't know, mother; he is not in the garden," 
 answered the girl, crossing the room to her own 
 3articular chair. 
 
 Sidney rose from his seat, and going to the 
 
 window, sent his loud clear whistle away into the 
 
 light. His broad figure remained motionless for 
 
 ome minutes, almost filling up the window ; then 
 
 he silently resumed his seat. 
 
 Mrs. Carew smoothed down the silken book- 
 Tiarker, and began reading in a low voice. It is 
 :o be feared that the Psalmist's words of joy were 
 lot heard with understanding ears that night. A 
 ;hort prayer followed ; softly and melodiously Mrs. 
 Jarew asked for blessings upon the bowed heads 
 iround her, and the servants left the room. 
 
 " Have you not seen Christian since you went 
 
134 THE SLAVE OF THE LAMP. 
 
 to see Mrs. Sender, Hilda?" asked Molly, at 
 
 once. 
 
 "No," replied Hilda, arranging the music into 
 something like order upon the piano. 
 
 " He went out about half an hour ago, in answer 
 to your whistle." 
 
 Hilda turned her head as if about to reply hastily, 
 but- checked herself, and resumed her task of setting 
 the music in order. 
 
 " How could I whistle," she asked gently, " when 
 I was in the kitchen doling out medicated cotton- 
 wool to Mrs. Sender ? " 
 
 Molly looked puzzled. 
 
 " Did you whistle, Sidney ? " she asked. 
 
 " I no : I was half-asleep over a law-book in my 
 
 own room." 
 
 " I expect he has gone for a stroll, and forgotten 
 the time," suggested Mrs. Carew reassuringly, as 
 she sat down to work again. 
 
 "But Avhat about the whistle; are you sure yoi 
 heard it, Molly?" asked Hilda, speaking rathei 
 more quickly than was habitual Avith her. Sh( 
 walked towards the window and drew aside th( 
 curtain, keeping her back turned towards the room 
 
 " Yes," answered Molly uneasily. " Yes— I hearc 
 it, and so did he, for he went out at once." 
 ■ Sidney stood awkwardly with his shoulder agains 
 the mantelpiece, listening in a half-hearted way t( 
 his sisters' conversation. With a heavy jerk h« 
 threw himself upright and slowly crossed the room 
 He stood for some moments immediately behmc 
 
A WARNING WORD. 135 
 
 3ilda without touching her. Then he raised his 
 land and with gentle, almost caressing pressure 
 ound her waist, he made her step aside so that 
 le could pass out. He w^as a singularly undemon- 
 strative man, rarely giving way to what he con- 
 sidered the weakness of a caress. Fortunately, 
 lOAvever, for their own happiness, his womenfolk 
 mderstood him, and especially between himself 
 md Hilda there existed a peculiar unspoken 
 ympathy. 
 
 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 
 ike 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 assumed ; 
 his indifference was a mere habit. The assumption 
 of the former saved him infinite worry and re- 
 sponsibility ; 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) 
 
136 THE SLAVE OF THE LAMP. 
 
 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 Avay to the Avishes 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 be-< 
 ginning, 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 pass 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 
 
A WARNING WORD. 137 
 
 ionceits, it is generally to be found at the top when 
 he demand comes, ready for use — for good or evil. 
 
 I dim recollection was resuscitated in Sidney's 
 nind. An unauthenticated nursery tale of a de- 
 )arting guest leaving with a word of joy upon his 
 ips and warm comfort in his heart, turning from 
 he glowing doorway and walking down the little 
 )athway straight into the moat. 
 
 Christian, however, was an excellent swimmer; 
 le knew every inch of the pathway, every stone 
 ound the moat. That he should have been drowned 
 Q ten feet of clear water, with an easy landing 
 srithin ten yards, seemed the wildest impossibility. 
 )f course such things have happened, but Christian 
 /"ellacott was essentially wide awake, and unlikely 
 o come to mishap through his own carelessness. 
 
 Of all these things Sidney thought as he walked 
 apidly towards the moat, and in particular he 
 )ondered over Molly's statement that she had heard 
 iilda whistle. This had met with flat denial from 
 iilda, and Sidney^ with brotherly candour, could 
 >nly arrive at the conclusion that Molly had been 
 aistaken. He would not give Avay to the least 
 uggestion of anxiety even in his own mind. After 
 
 II Christian would probably come in with some 
 imple explanation and a laugh for their fears, 
 t often happens thus, as we must all know. 
 
 rhe moments so long and dreary for the watcher, 
 srhose imagination gains more and more power 
 .s the time passes, slip away unheeded by the 
 Avaited, who treats the matter with a laugh 
 
138 THE SLAVE OF THE LAMP. 
 
 or, at the most, a few conventional words ol 
 sympathy. 
 
 Sidney staod at the edge of the water and thre"wi 
 the beams of Hght 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 hia 
 passing gaze, and he stooped to examine the cause 
 more closely. 
 
 The smooth stonework was wet ; in fact the watei 
 was standing in little pools upon it. Round thesei 
 there were circles of dampness, showing that evaporam 
 tion was taking place. The water had not lain then 
 long. A man falling into the moat would have 
 thrown up splashes such as these ; in no other wa; 
 could they be plausibly accounted for. 
 
 Sidney stood erect. Again he held the lamp ove; 
 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 befor( , 
 he could draw back Hilda was at his side. Sh( ' 
 slipped her hand through his arm, and by th( i 
 slightest pressure drew him away from the moat. ] 
 
 "You know — Sid — he could swim perfectly," sh< 
 said persuasively. 
 
 He made no answer, but walked slowly by he: 
 side, swinging the lamp backwards and forwards a} 
 a schoolboy swings his satchel. Thus he gainec 
 time to moisten his lips and render speech possible 
 
 
A WARNING WORD. 139 
 
 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 
 Avhat 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 be- 
 longed 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 in- 
 stigation 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 ? " 
 
140 THE SLAVE OF THE LAMP. 1 
 
 " No," he replied slowly ; " no, I think not." 
 
 " He has been rather worried over these disturb- 
 ances 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 men- 
 tioned 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 Avill 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 ? " 
 
A WARNING WORD. 141 
 
 Sidney thought of the water at the edge of the 
 raoat. The incident might prove easy enough of 
 explanation, but at the moment it was singularly 
 unreconcilable with Hilda's comforting explana- 
 tion. 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," Avas 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 iiow, may in the future be looked 
 
 F 
 
142 THE SLAVE OF THE LAMP. 
 
 upon as the actions of a hero. Pohtics are im- 
 personal, and Signer 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. Qirew and 
 Molly their explanation was imparted. It wa^ 
 received somewhat doubtfully, especially by Molly 
 However, the farce had to be kept up — and dc 
 we not act in similar comedies every day ? 
 
CHAPTER XIII 
 
 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 con- 
 fidence 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. Occa- 
 sionally she glanced towards Hilda, but contri- 
 buted 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. 
 
 143 
 
144 THE SLAVE OF THE LAMP. 
 
 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 convic- 
 tion 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 Avithout 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 Avax 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. 
 
A NIGHT WATCH. 145 
 
 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 w^as 
 courting sleep in vain, having resolutely blown out 
 her candle. Sidney made no pretence. He w^as 
 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 occu- 
 pied the thoughts of his mother and sisters. What 
 could be the explanation of the whistle heard by 
 Molly ? The w^ant of this alone sufficed to over- 
 throw the most ingenious of consolatory explana- 
 tions. All four looked at it from different points 
 of view, and to each the signal-w^histle calling 
 Christian mto the garden was an insurmountable 
 barrier to every explanation. 
 
146 THE SLAVE OF THE LAMP. 
 
 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, 
 mechanicall}^ 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 sicrn of feelinc: the cold. At 
 
 ' no 
 
 times physical pidn 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 Sidne3^'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 aA^ kward 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 
 
A NIGHT WATCH. 147 
 
 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 some- 
 thing, 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 httle 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 
 
148 THE SLAVE OF THE LAMP. 
 
 shyly, ''as to Avhat 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 sud- 
 denly 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 
 
A NIGHT WATCH. 149 
 
 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 
 chansre it at once." 
 
 f2 
 
CHAPTER XIV 
 
 FOILED 
 
 When Mr. Bodery opened the door of the room 
 upon the second floor of the tall house in the 
 Strand that morning, he found Mr. Morgan seated 
 at the table surrounded by proof-sheets, with his 
 coat off and shirt-sleeves tucked up. The sub- 
 editor of the Beacon was in reality a good hard 
 worker in his comfortable way, and there was 
 little harm in his desire that the world should be 
 aware of his industry. 
 
 "Good morning, Morgan," said the editor, hang- 
 ing up his hat. 
 
 "Morning," replied the other genially, but with- 
 out looking up. Before Mr. Bodery had seated 
 himself, however, the sub-editor laid his hand 
 with heavy approval upon the odoriferous proof- 
 sheet before him, and looked up. 
 
 "This article of Vellacott's is first-rate," he said. 
 " By Jove ! sir, he drops on these holy fathers — 
 lets them have it right and left. The way he has 
 worked out the thing is wonderful, and that method 
 of putting everything upon supposition is a grand 
 idea. It suggests how the thing could be done 
 upon the face of it, while the initiated will see 
 
 150 
 
FOILED. 151 
 
 quickly enough that it means to chow how the 
 trick was in reahty performed — ha, ha ! " 
 
 "Yes," rephed Mr. Bodery absently. He was 
 glancing at the pile of letters that lay upon his 
 desk. There were among them one or two tele- 
 grams, and these he put to one side while he took 
 up each envelope in succession to examine the 
 address, throwing it down again unopened. At 
 length he turned again to the telegrams, and 
 picked up the top one. He was about to tear 
 open the envelope when there was a sharp knock 
 at the door. 
 
 "'M'inl" said Mr. Morgan sharply, and at the 
 same moment the silent door was thrown open. 
 The diminutive form of the boy stood in the 
 aperture. 
 
 " Gentleman to see you, sir," he said, with great 
 solemnity. 
 
 " What name ? " asked Mr. Bodery. 
 
 "Wouldn't give his name, sir — said you didn't 
 know it, sir." 
 
 Even this small office-boy was allowed his quantum 
 of discretionary power. It rested with him whether 
 an unknown visitor was admitted or politely dis- 
 missed to a much greater extent than any one sus- 
 pected. Into his manner of announcing a person 
 he somehow managed to convey his opinion as to 
 whether it was worth the editor's time to admit 
 him or not, and he invariably received Mr. Bodery 's 
 "Tell him I'm engaged" with a little nod of mutual 
 understanding which was intensely comprehensive. 
 
152 THE SLAVE OF THE LAMP. 
 
 On this occasion his manner said, " Have him in 
 — ^have him in, my boy, and you will find it worth 
 your while ! " 
 
 " Show him in," said Mr. Bodery. 
 
 The nameless gentleman must have been at the 
 door upon the boy's heels, for no sooner had the 
 words left Mr. Bodery 's lips than a tall, dark form 
 slid into the room. So noiseless and rapid were 
 this gentleman's movements that there is no other 
 word with which to express his mode of pro- 
 gression. 
 
 He made a low bow, and shot up erect again 
 with startling rapidity. He then stood quietly 
 waiting until the door had closed behind the small 
 boy, who, after having punctiliously expectorated 
 upon a silver coin which had found its Avay into 
 the palm of his hand, proceeded to slide down 
 the balustrade upon his waistcoat. 
 
 It often occurred that strangers addressed them- 
 selves to Mr. Morgan Avhen ushered into the little 
 back room, under the impression that he was the 
 editor of the Beacon. Not so, however, this tall, 
 clean-shaven person. He fixed his peculiar light- 
 blue eyes upon Mr. Bodery, and, with a slight 
 inclination, said suavely — 
 
 " This, sir, is, I believe, your printing day ? " 
 
 " It is, sir, and a busy day with us," replied tho 
 editor, with no great warmth of manner. 
 
 " Would it be possible now," inquired the stranger 
 conversationally, " at this late hour, to remove a 
 printed article and substitute another?" 
 
FOILED. 153 
 
 At these words Mr. Morgan ceased making some 
 pencil notes with, which he was occupied, and looked 
 up. He met the stranger's benign glance and, while 
 still looking at him, deliberately turned over all 
 the proof-sheets before him, leaving no printed 
 matter exposed to the gaze of the curious. 
 
 Mr. Bodery had in the meantime consulted his 
 watch. 
 
 "Yes," he replied, with dangerous politeness. 
 " There would still be time to do so if necessary — 
 at the sacrifice of some hundredweight of paper." 
 
 "How marvellously organised your interesting 
 paper must be ! " 
 
 Dead silence. Most men would have felt embar- 
 rassed, but no sign of such feeling w\as forthcoming 
 from any of the three. It is possible that the dark 
 gentleman with the sky-blue eyes wished to establish 
 a sense of embarrassment with a view to the further- 
 ance of his own ends. If so, his attempt proved 
 lamentably abortive. Mr. Bodery sat with his 
 plump hands resting on the table, and looked 
 contemplatively up into the stranger's face. Mr. 
 Morgan was scribbling pencil notes on a tablet. 
 
 " The truth is," explained the stranger at length, 
 '• that a friend of mine, w^ho is unfortunately ill in 
 bed this morning " 
 
 (Mr. Bodery did not look in the least sympathetic, 
 though he listened attentively.) 
 
 "... has received a telegram from a gentleman 
 who I am told is on the staff of your journal — Mr. 
 Vellacott. This gentleman wishes to withdraw, for 
 
154 THE SLAVE OF THE LAMP. 
 
 correction, an article he has sent to you. He states 
 that he will re-write the article, with certain altera- 
 tions, in time for next week's issue." 
 
 Mr. Bodery's face was pleasantly illegible. 
 
 " May I see the telegram ? " he asked politely. 
 
 " Certainly ! " 
 
 The stranger produced and handed to the editor 
 a pink paper covered with faint black writing. 
 
 "You will see at the foot this — Mr. Vellacott's 
 reason for not wiring to you direct. He wished my 
 friend to be here before the printers got to work 
 this morning ; but owing to this unfortunate ill- 
 ness " 
 
 " I am afraid you are too late, sir," interrupted 
 Mr. Bodery briskly. " The press is at work "' 
 
 " My friend instructed me," interposed the stranger 
 in his turn, " to make you rather a difficult proposi- 
 tion. If a thousand pounds will compensate for 
 the loss incurred by the delay of issue, and defray 
 the expense of paper spoilt — I — I have that amount 
 with me." 
 
 Mr. Bodery did not display the least sign of 
 surprise, merely shaking his head with a quiet 
 smile. Mr. Morgan, however, laid aside his pencil, 
 and placed his elbow upon the proof-sheets before 
 him. 
 
 The stranger then stepped forward with a sudden 
 change of manner. 
 
 " Mr. Bodery," he said, in a low, concentrated voice, 
 " I will give you five hundred pounds for a proof 
 copy of Mr. Vellacott's article." 
 
FOILED. 155 
 
 A dead silence of some moments' duration followed 
 this remark. Mr. Morgan raised his head and 
 looked across the table at his chief. The editor 
 made an almost imperceptible motion with his 
 eyebrows in the direction of the door. 
 
 Then Mr. Morgan rose somewhat heavily from 
 his chair, with a hand upon either arm, after the 
 manner of a man who is beginning to put on weight 
 rapidly. He went to the door, opened it, and, 
 turning towards the stranger, said urbanely : 
 
 " Sir— the door ! " 
 
 This kind invitation was not at once accepted. 
 
 " You refuse my offers ? " said the stranger curtly, 
 without deigning to notice the sub- editor. 
 
 Mr. Bodery had turned his attention to his 
 letters, of which he was cutting open the envelopes, 
 one by one, with a paper-knife, without, however, 
 removing the contents. He looked up. 
 
 " To-morrow morning," he said, " you will be able 
 to procure a copy from any stationer for the trifling 
 sum of sixpence." - 
 
 Then the stranger walked slowly past Mr. Morgan 
 out of the room. 
 
 " A curse on these Englishmen ! " he muttered, as 
 he passed down the narrow staircase. " If I could 
 only see the article I could tell Avhether it is worth 
 resorting to stronger measures or not. However, 
 that is Talma's business to decide, not mine." 
 
 Mr. Morgan closed the door of the small room 
 and resumed his seat. He then laughed aloud, but 
 Mr. Bodery did not respond. 
 
156 THE SLAVE OF THE LAMP. 
 
 " That's one of them/' observed Mr. Morgan com- 
 prehensively. 
 
 " Yes," replied the editor, " a dangerous customer. 
 I do not like a blue-chinned man." 
 
 " I was not much impressed with his diplomatic 
 skill." 
 
 " No ; but you must remember that he had diffi- 
 cult cards to play. No doubt his information was 
 of the scantiest, and — we are not chickens, Morgan." 
 
 "No," said Mr. Morgan, with a little sigh. He 
 turned to the revision of the proof-sheets again, 
 while the editor began opening and reading his 
 telegrams. 
 
 " This is a little strong," exclaimed Mr. Morgan, 
 after a few moments of silence, broken only by the 
 crackle of paper. " Just listen here : — 
 
 " ' It simply comes to this — the General of the 
 Society of Jesus is an autocrat in the worst sense 
 of the word. He holds within his fingers the wires 
 of a vast machine moving with little friction and 
 no noise. No farthest corner of the world is entirely 
 beyond its influence; no political crisis passes that 
 is not hurried on or restrained by its power. Un- 
 recognised, unseen even, and often undreamt of, 
 the vast Society does its work. It is not for us 
 who live in a broad-minded, tolerant age to judge 
 too harshly. It is not for us to say that the Jesuits 
 are unscrupulous and treacherous. Let us be just 
 and give them their due. They are undoubtedly 
 earnest in their work, sincere in their belief, true 
 to their faith. But it is for us to uphold our own 
 
FOILED. 157 
 
 integrity. We are accused — as a nation — of stirring 
 up the seeds of rebellion, of crime and bloodshed 
 in the heart of another country. Our denial is 
 considered insufficient ; our evidence is ignored. 
 There remains yet to us one mode of self-defence. 
 After denying the crime (for crime it is in humane 
 and political sense) we can turn and boldly lay it 
 upon those vvdiom its results would chiefly benefit : 
 the Roman Catholic Church in general — the Society 
 of Jesus in particular. We have endeavoured to 
 show hoAv the followers of Ignatius Loyola could 
 have brought about the present crisis in France ; 
 the extent to which they would benefit by a religious 
 reaction is patent to the most casual observer ; let 
 the Government of England do the rest.' " 
 
 Mr. Bodery was, however, not listening. He was 
 staring vacantly at a telegram which lay spread out 
 upon the table. 
 
 " What is the meaning of this ? " he exclaimed 
 huskily. 
 
 The sub-editor looked up sharply, with his pen 
 poised in the air. Then Mr. Bodery read : 
 
 " Is Vellacott with you ? Fear something wrong. 
 Disappeared from here last night." 
 
 Mr. Morgan moved in his seat, stretching one 
 arm out, while he pensively rubbed his clean-shaven 
 chin and looked critically across the table. 
 
 " Who is it from ? " he asked. 
 
 " Sidney Carew, the man he is staying with." 
 
 They remained thus for some moments ; the 
 editor looking at the telegram with a peculiar 
 
158 THE SLAVE OF THE LAMP. 
 
 blank expression in his eyes; Mr. Morgan staring 
 at him while ho rubbed his chin thoughtfully with 
 outspread finger and thumb. In the lane beneath 
 the window some industrious housekeeper was 
 sweeping her doorstep with aggravating monotony ; 
 otherwise there was no sound. 
 
 At length Mr. Morgan rose from his seat and 
 walked slowly to the window. He stood gazing 
 out upon the smoke-begrimed roofs and crooked 
 chimneys. Between his lips he held his pen, and 
 his hands were thrust deeply into his trouser 
 pockets. It w^as on that spot ^and in that attitude 
 that he usually thought out his carefully written 
 weekly article upon " Home Affairs." He was 
 still there when the editor touched a small gonof 
 which stood on the table at his side. The silent 
 door instantly opened, and the supernaturally sharp 
 boy stood on the threshold grimly awaiting his 
 orders. 
 
 " Bradshaw." 
 
 " Yess'r," replied the boy, closing the door. His 
 inventive mind had conceived a new and improved 
 method of going downstairs. This was to lie flat \ 
 on his back upon the balustrade with a leg dangling 
 on either side. If the balance was correct, he slid 
 down rapidly and shot out some feet from the I 
 bottom, as he had, from an advantageous point of 
 view on Blackfriars Bridge, seen sacks of meal shoot 
 from a Thames warehouse into the barge beneath. 
 If, however, he made a miscalculation, he inevitably 
 rolled off sideways and landed in a heap on the 
 
FOILED. 159 
 
 loor. Either result appeared to afford him intinite 
 enjoyment and exhilaration. On this occasion he 
 Derformed the feat with marked success. 
 
 " Guv'nor's goin' on the loose — wants the railway 
 >-uide," he confided to a small friend in the printing- 
 interest whom he met as he was returning with the 
 required volume. 
 
 "Suppose you'll be sitten' upstairs now, then," 
 [•emarked the black-fingered one with fine sarcasm. 
 Whereupon there followed a feint — a desperate lunge 
 lo one side, a vigorous bob . of the head, and a re- 
 sounding bang with the railway guide in the centre 
 3f the sarcastic youth's waistcoat. 
 
 Having executed a strategic movement, and a 
 masterly retreat up the stairs, the small boy leant 
 over the banisters and delivered himself of the 
 following explanation : 
 
 "I 'it yer one that time. Don't do it agin. 
 Good morning, sir." 
 
 Mr. Bodery turned the flimsy leaves impatiently, 
 stopped, looked rapidly down a column, and, with- 
 out raising his eyes from the railway guide, tore a 
 telegraph form from the handle of a drawer at his 
 side. Then he Avrote in a large clear style: 
 [. "Will be with you at five o'clock. Invent some 
 excuse for V.'s absence. On no account give alarm 
 to authorities." 
 
 The sharp boy took the telegram from the editor's 
 hand with an expression of profound respect upon 
 his wicked features. 
 I "Go down to Banks," said Mr. Bodery, "ask him 
 
160 THE SLAVE OF THE LAMP. 
 
 to let me have two copies of the foreign policy 
 article in ten minutes." 
 
 When the silent door was closed, Mr. Morgan 
 Avheeled round upon his heels, and gazed medi- 
 tatively at his superior. 
 
 " Going down to see these people ? " he asked, 
 with a jerk of his head towards the West. 
 
 " Yes, I am going by the eleven- fifteen." 
 
 "I have been thinking," continued the sub- 
 editor, "we may as well keep the printing-office 
 door locked to-day. That slippery gentleman Avith 
 the watery eyes meant business, or I am very 
 much mistaken. I'll just send upstairs for" Bander 
 to go on duty at the shop door to-day as well as 
 to-morrow ; I think we shall have a big sale this 
 week." 
 
 Mr. Bodery rose from his seat and began brush- 
 ing his faultless hat. 
 
 " Yes," he replied ; " do that. It would be very 
 easy to get at the machinery. Printers are only 
 human ! " 
 
 " Machinery is ready enough to go wrong when 
 nobody wishes it," murmured Mr. Morgan vaguely, 
 as he sat down at the table and began setting the 
 scattered papers in order. 
 
 Mr. Bodery and his colleagues were in the habit 
 of keeping at the office a small bag, containing the 
 luggage necessary for a few nights in case of their 
 being suddenly called away. This expedient was 
 due to Christian Vellacott's forethought. 
 
 The editor now proceeded to stuff into his bag 
 
FOILED. 161 
 
 sundry morning newspapers and a large cigar case. 
 Telegraph forms, pen, ink, and foolscap paper were 
 already there. 
 
 " I say, Bodery," said the sub-editor with grave 
 familiarity, " it seems to me that you are taking 
 much too serious a view of this matter. Vellacott 
 is as wide awake as any man, and it always struck 
 me that he was very well able to take care of 
 himself." 
 
 " I have a wholesome dread of men who use 
 religion as a means of justification. A fanatic is 
 always dangerous." 
 
 "A sincere fanatic," suggested the sub-editor. 
 
 " Exactly so ; and a sincere fanatic in the hands 
 of an agitator is the very devil. That is w^hence 
 these fellows get their power. Half of them are 
 fanatics and the other half hypocrites." 
 
 Mr. Bodery had now completed his preparations, 
 and he held out his plump hand, which the sub- 
 editor grasped. 
 
 " I hope," said the latter, "jthat you will find 
 Vellacott at the staticn to meet you — ha, ha ! " 
 
 " I hope so." 
 
 " If," said Mr. Morgan, following the editor to 
 the door — "if he turns up here, I will wire to 
 Carcw and to you, care of the station-master." 
 
CHAPTER XV 
 
 ROOKS 
 
 The London express rolled with stately delibera- 
 tion into Brayport station. Mr. Bodery folded uj 
 his newspapers, reached down his bag from the 
 netting, and prepared to alight. The editor of the 
 Beacon had enjoyed a very pleasant journey, despite 
 broiling sun and searching dust. He knew the 
 possibilities of a first-class smoking-carriage — hoA\ 
 to regulate the leeward window and chock off the 
 other with a wooden match borrowed from the 
 guard. 
 
 He stepped from the carriage with the laboured 
 sprightliness of a man past the forties, and i}. 
 moment later Sidney Carew Avas at his side. 
 
 "Mr. Bodery?" 
 
 " The same. You are no doubt Mr. Carew ? " 
 
 "Yes. Thanks for coming. Hope it didn't in- 
 convenience you ? " 
 
 "Not at all," replied the editor, breaking his 
 return ticket. 
 
 « D n ! " said Sidney .suddenly. 
 
 He was beginning to rise to the occasion. He 
 was one of those men Avho are usually too slack 
 to burthen their souls with a refreshing expletive. 
 
 162 
 
KOOKS. 163 
 
 "What is the matter?" inqmred Mr. Bodery 
 gravely. 
 
 "There is a man," explained Sidney hurriedly, 
 getting out of the train who is coming to stay 
 with us. I had forgotten his existence. Don't 
 look round ! " 
 
 Mr. Bodery was a Londoner. He did not look 
 round. Nine out of ten country-bred people would 
 have indulged in a stare. 
 
 "Is this all your luggage?" continued Sidney 
 abruptly. He certainly was rising. 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 "Then come along. We'll bolt for it. He'll 
 have to get a fly, and that means ten minutes' 
 tart if the porter is not officious and mulls 
 things." 
 
 They hurried out of the station and clambered 
 into the dog-cart. Sidney gathered up the reins. 
 
 " Hang it," he exclaimed. " What bad luck ! 
 There is a fly waiting. It is never there when 
 you want it." 
 
 Mr. Bodery looked between the shafts. 
 
 " You need not be afraid of that fly," he said. 
 
 " No — come up, you brute 1 " 
 
 Mr. Bodery turned carelessly to put his bag in 
 the back of the cart. 
 
 " Let him have it," he exclaimed in a low voice. 
 " Your friend sees you, but he does not know that 
 you have seen him. He is pointing you out to 
 the station-master." 
 
 As he spoke the cart swung round the gate- 
 
164 THE SLAVE OF THE LAMP. 
 
 post of the station yard, nearly throwing him out, 
 and Sidney's right hand felt for the whip-socket. 
 
 " There," he said, " we are safe. I think I can 
 manage that fly." 
 
 Mr. Bodery settled himself and drew the dust- 
 cloth over his chubby knees. 
 
 " Now," he said, " tell me all about Vellacott." 
 
 Sidney did so. 
 
 He gave a full and minute description of events 
 previous to Christian Vellacott's disappearance, 
 omitting nothing. The relation was somewhat dis- 
 jointed, somewhat vague in parts, and occasionally 
 incoherent. The narrator repeated himself — hesi- 
 tated — blurted out some totally irrelevant fact, and 
 finished up with a vague supposition (possessing 
 a solid basis of truth) expressed in doubtful 
 English. It suited Mr. Bodery admirably. In 
 telling all about Vellacott,. Sidney unconsciously 
 told all about Mrs. Carew, Molly, Hilda, and him- 
 self. When he reached the point in his narratioD 
 telling how Vellacott had been attracted into the 
 garden, he became extremely vague and his style 
 notably colloquial. Tell the story how he would 
 he felt that he could not prevent Mr. Bodery from 
 drawing his own inferences. Young ladies are not 
 in the habit of Avhistling for youthful members oi 
 the opposite sex. Few of them master the labial I 
 art, which perhaps accounts for much. Sidney 
 Carew was conscious that his style lacked grace 
 and finish. 
 
 Mr. Bodery did draw his own inferences, but 
 
ROOKS. 165 
 
 ;he countenance into which Sidney glanced at 
 ntervals was one of intense stolidity. 
 
 "Well, I confess I cannot make it out — at 
 Dresent," he said ; " Vellacott has written to us 
 )nly on business matters. We publish to-morrow 
 
 very good article of his purporting to be the 
 Iream of an overworked attache. It is very cutting 
 ind very incriminating. The Government cannot 
 ivell avoid taking some notice of it. My only hope 
 s that he is m Paris. There is something brewing 
 )ver there. Our Paris aofent wired for Vellacott 
 ,his morning. By the way, Mr. Carew, is there a 
 nonastery somew^here in this part of the country ? " 
 
 '' Down that valley," replied Sidney, pointing Avith 
 lis whip. 
 
 " In Vellacott's article there is mention of a 
 nonastery — not too minutely described, however. 
 There are also some remarkable suppositions re- 
 pecting an old foreigner living in seclusion. Could 
 hat be the man you mentioned just now^ — Signer 
 Bruno ? " 
 
 "Hardly. Bruno is a harmless old soul," replied 
 kidney, pulling up to turn into the narrow gatew^ay. 
 
 There was no time to make further inquiries. 
 
 Sidney led the way into the drawing-room. The 
 adies were there. 
 
 " My mother, Mr. Bodery — my sister ; my sister 
 Hilda," he blurted out awkwardly. 
 
 Mrs. Carew shook hands, and the two young 
 adies bowed. They were all disappointed in Mr. 
 Bodery. He was too calm and comfortable — also 
 
166 THE SLAVE OF THE LAMP. 
 
 there was a suggestion of cigar smoke in his 
 presence, which jarred. 
 
 " I am sorry," said the Londoner, with genial self- 
 possession, " to owe the pleasure of this visit to 
 such an unfortunate incident." 
 
 Molly felt that she hated him. 
 
 " Then you have heard nothing of Christian ? " 
 said Mrs. Carew. 
 
 " Nothing," replied Mr. Bodery, removing his 
 tight gloves. " But it is too soon to think of 
 getting anxious yet. Vellacott is eminently cap- 
 able of taking care of himself — he is, above all 
 things, a journalist. Things are disturbed in Paris, 
 and it is possible that he has run across there." 
 
 Mrs. Carew smiled somewhat incredulously. 
 
 '' It was a singular time to start," observed Hilda 
 quietly. 
 
 Mr. Bodery turned and looked at her. 
 
 " Master mind in this house," he reflected. 
 
 " Yes," he admitted aloud. 
 
 He folded his gloves and placed them in tlie 
 pocket of his coat. The others watched him in 
 silence. 
 
 " Do you take sugar and cream ? " inquired Hilda 
 sweetly, speaking for the second time. 
 
 " Please — both. In moderation." 
 
 " I say," interrupted Sidney at this moment, " the 
 Vicomte d'Audierne is following us in a fly. He 
 will bo here in five minutes." 
 
 Mrs. Carew nodded. She had not forgotten this 
 guest. 
 
EOOKS. 167 
 
 " The Vicomte d'Audierne," said Mr. Bodery, with 
 msiderable interest, turning away from the tea- 
 
 ble, cup in hand. " Is that the man Avho got 
 Lit of my train ? " 
 
 " Yes," replied Sidney ; " do you know him ? " 
 
 " I have heard of him." 
 
 Mr. Bodery turned and took a shoe of bread and 
 atter from a pkate whicli Hilda held. 
 
 At this moment there was a rumble of carriage 
 heels. 
 
 " By the way," said the editor of the Beacon, 
 lisino^ his voice so as to command universal atten- 
 on, " do not tell the Yicomte d'Audierne about 
 ellacott. Do not let him know that Vellacott 
 as been here. Do not tell him of my connec- 
 on with the Beacon." 
 
 The ladies barely had time to reconsider their first 
 npression of Mr. Bodery when the door was thrown 
 Den, and a servant announced M. d'Audierne. 
 
 He who entered immediately afterwards — with 
 n almost indecent haste — was of middle height, 
 dtli a certain intrepid carriage of the head which 
 ppeals to such as take pleasure in the strength 
 nd endurance of men. His face, which was clean 
 haven, was the face of a hawk, with the contracted 
 ayopc vision characteristic of that bird. It is 
 irobable that from the threshold he took in every 
 ccupant of the room. 
 
 " Mrs. Carew," hv said in a pleasant voice, speak- 
 Qg almost faultless English, " after all these years. 
 Vhat a pleasure 1 " 
 
168 THE SLAVE OF THE LAMP. 
 
 He shook hands, turmng at the same time t 
 the others. 
 
 "And Sid," he said, ''and Molly— wicked littl 
 Molly. Never mind — your antecedents are saft 
 I am silent as the grave." 
 
 This was not strictly true. He was as deep, an 
 deeper than the resting-place mentioned, but h 
 method was superior to silence. 
 
 "And Hilda," he continued, "thoughtful littl 
 Hilda, who was always too busy to be naught; 
 Not hkc Molly, eh ? " 
 
 " Heavens ! How old it makes one feel ! " b 
 exclaimed, turning to Mrs. Carew. 
 
 The lady laughed. 
 
 " You are not changed, at all events," she sai( 
 " AUow^ me to introduce Mr. Bodery — the Vicomt 
 d'Audierne." 
 
 The two men bowed. 
 
 " Much pleasure," said the Frenchman. 
 
 Mr. Bodery bowed again in an insular manne 
 which just escaped awkwardness, and said nothing. 
 
 Then Molly offered the new-comer some tea, an 
 the party broke up into groups. But the Vicomte 
 personality in some subtle manner pervaded tb 
 room. Mr. Bodery lapsed into monosyllables an 
 felt ponderous. Monsieur d'Audierne had it i 
 his power to make most men feel ponderous whe 
 the spirit moved him in that direction. 
 
 As soon as tea was finally disposed of Mrs. Care^ 
 proposed an adjournment to the garden. She wa 
 desirous of getting Mr. Bodery to herself. 
 
ROOKS. 169 
 
 It fell to Hilda's lot to undertake the French- 
 
 m. They had been great friends once, and she 
 as quite ready to renew the pleasant relationship, 
 be led her guest to the prettiest part of the 
 xrden — the old overgrown footpath around the 
 
 oat. 
 
 As soon as they had passed under the nut-trees 
 ito the open space at the edge of the water, the 
 icomte d'Audierne stopped short and looked round 
 im curiously. At the same time he gave a strange 
 btle laugh. 
 
 Hein — liein — cest drole'' he muttered, and the 
 irl remembered that in the old friendship between 
 le brilliant, middle-aged diplomatist and the little 
 lild they had always spoken French. She liked 
 ) hear him speak his own language, for in his 
 ps it received full justice : it was the finest tongue 
 Doken on this earth. But she did not feel dis- 
 osed just then to humour him. She looked at 
 im wonderingly as his deep eyes wandered over 
 le scene. 
 
 While they stood there, something — probably 
 
 kestrel — disturbed the rooks dwelling in the 
 iimmits of the still elms across the moat, and 
 [ley rose simultaneously in the air with long-drawn 
 ries. 
 
 " Ah ! Ah — h ! " said the Vicomte, with a singular 
 tnile. 
 
 And then Hilda forgot her shyness. 
 
 " What is- it ? " she inquired in the language she 
 ad always spoken to this man. 
 
170 THE SLAVE OF THE LAMP. 
 
 He turned and walked beside her, suiting hi 
 steps to hers, for some moments before replying. 
 
 " I was not here at all," he said at length, apolo 
 getically ; " I was far away from you. It wa 
 impolite. I am sorry." 
 
 He intended that she should laugh, and she di 
 so softly. " Where were you ? " she inquired, glanc 
 ing at him beneath her golden lashes. 
 
 Again he paused. 
 
 " There is," he said at length, " an old chateau i 
 Morbihan — many miles from a railway — in the heai 
 of a peaceful country. It has a moat like this- 
 there are elms — there are rooks that swing up int 
 the air like that and call — and one does not kno^ 
 why they do it, and what they are calling. Listei 
 little girl — they are calling something. What 
 it ? I think I was there. It was impolite — I ai. 
 sorry. Miss Carew." 
 
 She laughed again sympathetically and withoi 
 mirth ; for she was meant to laugh. 
 
 He looked back over his shoulder at times as 
 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 loquacioi 
 as he had been at first. Possibly the rooks ha^ 
 brought about this change. Hilda also had hi 
 thoughts. At times she glanced at the water wit 
 a certain shrinking in her heart. She had no 
 yet forgotten the moments she had passed at th 
 edge of the moat the night before. They walkoi 
 right round the moat and down a little pathwa 
 
EOOKS. 171 
 
 ;hrough the elm wood without speaking. The rooks 
 lad returned to their nests and only called to each 
 )ther querulously at intervals. 
 
 " Has it ever occurred to you, little girl," said 
 .he Vicomte d'Audierne suddenly, " to doubt the 
 visdoni of the Creator's arrangements for our 
 jomfort, or otherwise, here below ? " 
 
 " I suppose not," he went on, without waiting 
 ■or an answer, which she remembered as an old 
 irick of his. "You are a woman — it is different 
 "or you." 
 
 The girl said nothing. She may have thought 
 iifferently; one cannot always read a maiden's 
 ;houghts. 
 
 They walked on together. Suddenly the Vicomte 
 i'Audierne spoke. 
 
 " Who is this ? " he said. 
 
 Hilda followed the direction of his eyes. 
 
 " That," she answered, " is Signer 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 Signer Bruno, with out- 
 spread 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 
 
172 THE SLAVE OF THE LAMP. 
 
 only, in the eyes of the Vicomte d'Audierne, andi 
 then he spoke. 
 
 " Mademoiselle," he said, " learnt most of it from 
 me. We are old friends." 
 
 Signor Bruno boAved. He did not look too well 
 pleased. 1 
 
 " Ah — but is that so ? " he murmured conver- 
 sationally. 
 
 "Yes; I hope she learnt nothing else from me," 
 replied the Vicomte carelessly. 
 
 Hilda turned upon him with a questioning smile. 
 
 " Why ? " 
 
 " I do not imagine, little girl," replied d'Audierne, 
 " that you could learn very much that is good from 
 me. 
 
 Hilda gave a non-committing little laugh, and' 
 led the way through the nut-trees towards the. 
 house. The Vicomte d'Audierne followed, andl 
 Signer Bruno came last. When they emerged upon 
 the lawn in view of Mrs. Carew and Mr. Bodery^ 
 who were walking together, the Vicomte dropped 
 his handkerchief. Signer Bruno attempted to pick 
 it up, and there was a slight delay caused by the 
 interchange of some Gallic politeness. 
 
 Before the two foreigners came up with Hilda, 
 who had walked on, Signer Bruno found time to 
 say : 
 
 "I must see you to-night, without fail: I am in 
 a very difficult position. I have had to resort to 
 strong measures." 
 
 " Where ? " inquired the Vicomte d'Audierne, with 
 
ROOKS. 173 
 
 that pleasant nonchalance which is so aggravating 
 to the People. 
 
 " In the village, any time after nine ; a yellow 
 cottage near the well/' 
 
 "Good!" 
 
 And they joined Hilda Carew. 
 
 G 
 
CHAPTER XVI 
 
 FOES 
 
 It is only when our feelings are imaginary that we 
 analyse them. When the real thing comes — the 
 thing that only does come to a few of us — we can 
 only feel it, and there is no thought of analysis. 
 Moreover, the action is purely involuntary. We 
 feel strange things — such things as murder — and 
 we cannot help feeling it. We may cringe and 
 shrink ; we may toss in our beds when we wake up 
 with such thoughts living, moving, having their 
 being in our brains — but we cannot toss them oflf. 
 The very attempt to do so is a realisation, and from 
 consciousness we spring to knowledge. We know 
 that in our hearts we are thieves, murderers, slan- 
 derers; we know that if we read of such thoughts 
 in a novel we should hold the thinker in all horror 
 but we are distinctly conscious all the time that 
 these thoughts are our own. This is just tht 
 difference existing between artificial feelings anc 
 real : the one bears analysis, the other cannot. 
 
 Hilda Carew could not have defined her feelingj 
 on the evening of the arrival of Mr. Bodery anc 
 the Vicomte d'Audierne. She was conscious of th( 
 little facts of everyday existence. She dressed foi 
 
 174 
 
FOES. 175 
 
 linner with singular care; during that repast she 
 alked and laughed much as usual, but all the while 
 he felt like any one in all the Avorld but Hilda 
 ^arew. At certain moments she wondered with 
 , throb of apprehension whether the difference 
 v^hich was so glaringly patent to herself could 
 )Ossibly be hidden from others. She caught strange 
 aflections in her own voice which she knew had 
 lever been there before — her own laughter was a 
 lew thing to her. And yet she went on through 
 linner and until bedtime, acting this strange part 
 j/ithout break, without fault — a part which had 
 lever been rehearsed and never learnt : a part which 
 /as utterly artificial and yet totally without art, for 
 : came naturally. 
 
 And through it all she feared the Vicomte 
 'Audierne. Mr. Bodery counted for nothing. He 
 Qade a very good dinner, was genial and even witty 
 n a manner befitting his years and station. Mrs. 
 !)arew was fully engaged with her guests, and Molly 
 ^as on lively terms with the Vicomte ; while Sidney, 
 Id Sidney — no one counted him. It was only the 
 7'icomte who paused at intervals during his frugal 
 aeal, and looked across the table towards the young 
 irl with those deep, impenetrable eyes — shadowless, 
 leamless, like velvet. 
 
 When bedtime at length arrived, she was quite 
 lad to get away from that kind, unobtrusive 
 crutiny of which she alone was aware. She went 
 her room, and sitting wearily on the bed she 
 ealised for the first time in her life the incapacity 
 
176 THE SLAVE OF THE LAMP. 
 
 to think. It is a realisation which usually comes 
 but once or twice in a lifetime, and we are therefore 
 unable to get accustomed to it. She was conscious 
 of intense pressure within her brain, of a hopeless 
 weight upon her heart, but she could define neither 
 She rose at length, and mechanically went to bed 
 like one in a trance. In the same way she fell 
 asleep. 
 
 In the meantime Mr. Bodery, Sidney Carew, anc 
 the Yicomte d'Audierne were smoking in the litth 
 room at the side of the porch. A single lamp witl 
 a red shade hung from the ceiling in the centre o 
 this room, hardly giving enough light to read by 
 There were half-a-dozen deep armchairs, a divan 
 and two or three small tables — beyond that nothing 
 Sidney's father had furnished it thus, Avith a know 
 ledge and appreciation of Oriental ways. It wai 
 not a study, nor a library, nor a den; but merel; 
 a smoking-room. Mr. Bodery had lighted an ex 
 cellent cigar, and through the thin smoke h 
 glanced persistently at the Vicomte d'Audierne 
 The Vicomte did not return this attention ; h 
 glanced at the clock instead. He was thinking c 
 Signer Bruno, but he was too polite and too diplo 
 matic to give way to restlessness. 
 
 At last Mr. Bodery opened fire from, as it weni 
 a masked battery; for he knew that the French, 
 man Avas ignorant of his connection with one c 
 the leading political papers of the day. It was 
 duel between sheer skill and confident foreknow 
 ledge. When Mr. Bodery spoke, Sidney Care^ 
 
FOES. 177 
 
 eant back in his chair and puffed vigorously at 
 lis briar pipe. 
 
 '• Things/' said the Englishman, " seem to be very 
 msettled in France just now." 
 
 The Vicomte was engaged in rolling a cigarette, 
 ind he finished the delicate operation before look- 
 ng up with a grave smile. 
 
 " Yes," he said. " In Paris. But Paris is not 
 i'rance. That fact is hardly realised in England, 
 
 think." 
 
 "What," inquired Mr. Bodery, with that conver- 
 ational heaviness of touch which is essentially 
 British, " is the meaning of this disturbance ? " 
 
 Sidney Carev\r was enveloped in a perfect cloud 
 f smoke. 
 
 For a moment — and a moment only — the 
 ^icomte's profound gaze rested on the English- 
 aan's face. Mr. Bodery was evidently absorbed 
 1 the enjoyment of his cigar. The smile that lay 
 n his genial face like a mask was the smile of a 
 onsciousness that he was making himself intensely 
 leasant, and adapting his conversation to his com- 
 any in a quite phenomenal way. 
 
 ' Ah ! " replied the Frenchman, with a neat little 
 hrug of bewilderment. " Who can tell ? Probably 
 lere is no meaning in it. There is so often no 
 leaning in the action of a Parisian mob." 
 
 " Many things without meaning are not without 
 ssult." 
 
 Again the Vicomte looked at Mr. Bodery, and 
 gain he was baffled. 
 
178 THE SLAVE OF THE LAMP. 
 
 "You only asked me the meaning," he said 
 lightly. " I am glad you did not inquire after the 
 result; because there I should indeed have been 
 at fault. I alwa3^s argue to myself that it is use- 
 less to trouble one's brain about results. I leave 
 such matters to the good God. He will probably 
 do just as well without my assistance." 
 
 "You are a philosopher," said Mr. Bodery, with 
 a pleasant and friendly laugh. 
 
 " Thank Heaven — yes ! Look at my position. 
 Fancy carrying in France to-day a name that is 
 to be found in the most ^abridged history. One 
 needs to be a philosopher, Mr. Bodery." 
 
 " But," suggested the Englishman, " there may 
 be changes. It may all come right." 
 
 The Vicomte sipped his whisky and water wit 
 vicious emphasis. 
 
 " If it began at once," he said, " it would nevei 
 be right in my time. Not as it used to be. An 
 in the meantime we are in the present — in th 
 present France is governed by newspaper men." 
 
 Sidney drew in his feet and coughed. Some o: 
 his smoke had gone astray. 
 
 Mr. Bodery looked sympathetic. 
 
 "Yes," he said calmly, "that really seems to b« 
 the case." 
 
 "And newspaper men," pursued the Vicomte 
 " what are they ? Men of no education, no position 
 no sense of honour. The great aim of politician) 
 in France to-day is the aggrandisement of them- 
 selves." 
 
FOES. 179 
 
 Mr. Bodery yawned. 
 
 " Ah ! " he said, with a glance towards Sidney. 
 
 Perhaps the Frenchman saw the glance, perhaps 
 he was deceived by the yawn. At all events, he 
 rose and expressed a desire to retire to his room. 
 He was tired, he said, having been travelling all 
 the previous night. 
 
 Mr. Bodery had not yet finished his cigar, so he 
 rose and shook hands without displaying any in- 
 tention of following the Vicomte's example. 
 
 Sidney lighted a candle, one of many standing 
 on a side table, and led the way upstairs. They 
 walked through the long, dimly lighted corridors 
 in silence, and it was only when they had arrived 
 in the room set apart for the Vicomte d'Audierne 
 that this gentleman spoke. 
 
 "By the way," he said, "who is this person — this 
 Mr. Bodery ? He was not a friend of your father's." 
 Sidney was lighting the tall candles that stood 
 upon the dressing-table, and the combined illumi- 
 nation showed with remarkable distinctness the 
 reflection of his face in the mirror. From whence 
 he stood the Frenchman could see this reflection. 
 
 " He is the friend of a great friend of mine ; that 
 is how we know him," replied Sidney, prizing up 
 the wick of a candle. He was still rising to the 
 occasion — this dull young Briton. Then he turned. 
 " Christian Vellacott," he said ; " you knew his 
 father ? " 
 
 " Ah, yes : I knew his father." 
 
 Sidney was moving to the door without any 
 
180 THE SLAVE OF THE LAMP. 
 
 hurry, and also without any intention of being 
 deterred. 
 
 "His father," continued the Vicomte, winding 
 his watch meditatively, "was brilliant. Has the 
 son inherited any brain ? " 
 
 " I think so. Good night." 
 
 " Good night." 
 
 When the door was closed the Vicomte looked 
 at his watch. It was almost midnight. 
 
 " The Reverend Father Talma will have to wait 
 till to-morrow morning," he said to himself. " I 
 cannot go to him to-night. It would be too 
 theatrical. That old gentleman is getting too old 
 for his work." 
 
 In the meantime, Sidney returned to the little 
 smoking-room at the side of the porch. There he 
 found Mr. Bodery smoking with his usual composure. 
 The younger man forbore asking any questions. He 
 poured out for himself some whisky, and opened 
 a bottle of soda-water with deliberate care and 
 noiselessness. 
 
 " That man," said Mr. Bodery at length, " knows 
 nothing about Vellacott." 
 
 " You think so ? " 
 
 " I am convinced of it. By the way, who is the 
 old gentleman who came to tea this afternoon ? " 
 
 " Signor Bruno, do you mean ? " 
 
 " I suppose so — that super-innocent old man with 
 the white hair who wears Avindow-glass spectacles." 
 
 " Are they window-glass ? " asked Sidney, with a 
 little laugh. 
 
FOES. 181 
 
 "They struck mo as window-glass — quite fiat. 
 Who is he — beyond his name, I mean ? " 
 
 " He is an Italian refugee — lives in the village." 
 
 Mr. Bodery had taken his silver pencil from his 
 waistcoat pocket, and was rolling it backwards and 
 forwards on the table. This was indicative of the 
 fact that the editor of the Beacon was thinking 
 deeply. 
 
 " Ah ! And how long has he been here ? " 
 
 " Only a few weeks." 
 
 Mr. Bodery looked up sharply. 
 
 " Is that all ? " he inquired, with an eager little 
 laugh. 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 " Then, my dear sir, Vellacott is right. That 
 old man is at the bottom of it. This Vicomte 
 d'Audierne, what do you know of him ? " 
 
 " Personally ? " 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 "He is an old friend of my father's. In fact, 
 he is a friend of the family. He calls the girls 
 by their Christian names, as you have heard 
 to-night." 
 
 " Yes ; I noticed that. And he came here to-day 
 merely on a friendly visit ? " 
 
 " That is all. Why do you ask ? " inquired Sidney, 
 who was getting rather puzzled. 
 
 " I know nothing of him personally — except what 
 
 I have learnt to-day. For my own part, I like 
 
 I him," answered Mr. Bodery. "He is keen and 
 
 clever. Moreover, he is a thorough gentleman. 
 
 g2 
 
182 THE SLAVE OF THE LAMP. 
 
 But, politically speaking, he is one of the most 
 dangerous men in France. He is a Jesuit, an 
 active Royalist, and a staunch worker for the 
 Church party. I don't know much about French 
 politics — that is Yellacott's department. But I 
 know that if he Avere here, and knew of the 
 Vicomte's presence in England, he would be very 
 much on the alert." 
 
 " Then," asked Sidney, "do you connect the presence 
 of the Vicomte here with the absence of Vellacott ? " 
 
 " There can be little question about it, directly 
 or indirectly. Indirectly, I should think, unless the 
 Vicomte d'Audierne is a scoundrel." 
 
 Sidney thought deeply. 
 
 " He may be," he admitted. 
 
 " I do not," pursued Mr. Bodery, with a certain 
 easy deliberation, " think that the Vicomte is aware 
 of Vellacott's existence. That is my opinion." 
 
 " He asked who you were — if you were a friend 
 of my father's." 
 
 " And you said " 
 
 " No ! I said that you were a friend of a friend, 
 and mentioned Yellacott's name. He kncAv his 
 father very well." 
 
 "Were you" — asked Mr. Bodery, throwing away 
 the end of his cigar and rising from his deep chair 
 — " were you looking at the Vicomte when you 
 answered the question ? " 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 " And there was no sign of discomfort — no flicker 
 of the eyelids, for instance ? " 
 
FOES. 183 
 
 "No; nothing." 
 
 Mr. Bodery nodded his head in a businesslike 
 way, indicative of the fact that he was engaged in 
 assimilating a good deal of useful information. 
 
 " There is nothing to be done to-night," he said 
 presently, as he made a movement towards the door, 
 " but to go to bed. To-morrow the Beacon will be 
 published, and the result will probably be rather 
 startling. We shall hear something before to-morrow 
 afternoon." 
 
 Sidney lighted Mr. Bodery's candle and shook 
 hands. 
 
 " By the way," said the editor, turning back and 
 speaking more lightly, " if any one should inquire — 
 your mother or one of your sisters — you can say 
 that I am not in the least anxious about Vellacott. 
 Good night." 
 
CHAPTER XVII 
 
 A RETREAT 
 
 It was quite early the next morning when the 
 Vicomte d'Audierne left his room. As he walked 
 along the still corridor and down the stairs it was 
 noticeable that he made absolutely no sound, with- 
 out, however, indulging in any of those contortions 
 which are peculiar to late arrivals in church. It 
 would seem that Nature had for purposes of her 
 own made his footfall noiseless — if, by the way, 
 Nature can be credited with any purpose whatever 
 in her allotment of human gifts and failings. 
 
 In the hall he found a stout cook armed fori 
 assault upon the front-door step. 
 
 " Good morning," he said. " Can you tell me the 
 breakfast-hour ? I forgot to inquire last night." 
 
 '•'Nine o'clock, sir," replied the servant, rather 
 taken aback at the thought of having this visitor 
 dependent upon her for entertainment during the 
 next hour and a half. 
 
 " Ah — and it is not yet eight. Never mind. I ' 
 will go into the garden. I am fond of fruit before 
 breakfast." 
 
 He took his hat and lounged away towards the 
 kitchen-garden which lay near the moat. 
 
 184 
 
A RETREAT. 185 
 
 "And now," he said to himself, looking round 
 him in a searching way, " where is this pestilential 
 village ? " 
 
 The way was not hard to find, and as the church 
 clock struck eight the Yicomte d'Audierne opened 
 the little green gate of the cottage where Signer 
 Bruno was lodging. 
 
 The old gentleman must have been watching for 
 him: for he opened the door before the Vicomte 
 reached it. 
 
 He turned and led the way into a little room on 
 the right hand of the narrow passage. A little room 
 intensely typical : china dogs, knitted antimacassars 
 of a brilliant tendency, and horse-hair covered furni- 
 ture. There was even the usual stuffy odour as if 
 the windows, half-hidden behind muslin curtains 
 and scarlet geraniums, were never opened from one 
 year's end to another. 
 
 Signer Bruno closed the door before speaking. 
 Then he turned upon his companion with something 
 very like fury glittering in his eyes. 
 
 "Why did you not come last night?" he asked. 
 "I am left alone to contend against one difficulty 
 on the top of another. Kead that I " 
 
 He drew from his pocket a thin and somewhat 
 crumpled sheet of paper, upon which there were 
 two columns of printed matter. 
 
 " That " he said, " cost us two thousand francs." 
 
 The Yicomte d'Audierne read the printed matter 
 carefully from beginning to end. He had approached 
 the window because the light was bad, and when he 
 
186 THE SLAVE OF THE LAMP. ? 
 
 finished he looked up for a few minutes, out of the 
 little casement, upon the quiet village scene. 
 
 "The Beacon" he said, turning round, 'what is 
 that?" 
 
 " A leading weekly newspaper." 
 
 '' Published ? 
 
 " To-day," snapped Signer Bruno. 
 
 The Vicomte d'Audierne made a little grimace. 
 
 " Who Avrote this ? " he inquired. 
 
 " Christian Vellacott, son of the Vellacott, whom 
 you knew in the old days." 
 
 " Ah ! " 
 
 There was something in the Vicomte's expressive 
 voice that made Signer Bruno look at him sharply 
 with some apprehension. 
 
 " Why do you say that ? " 
 
 The Yicomte countered with another question. 
 
 " Who is this Mr. Bodery ? " 
 
 He gave a little jerk with his head in the direction 
 of the house he had just left. 
 
 " I do not know." 
 
 " I was told last night that he was a friend of 
 this Christian Vellacott — a protector." 
 
 The two Frenchmen looked at each other hi 
 silence. Signer Bruno was evidently alarmed — his 
 lips were white and unsteady. There was a smile 
 upon the bird-like face of the younger man, and 
 behind his spectacles his eyes glittered with an 
 excitement in which there was obviously no fear. 
 
 "Do you know," he asked in a disagreeably soft 
 manner, " where Christian Vellacott is ? " 
 
A RETREAT. 187 
 
 Across the benevolent old face of Signor Bruno 
 here came a very evil smile. 
 
 " You will do better not to ask me that question," 
 he replied, " unless you mean to run for it — as I 
 do." 
 
 The Vicomte d'Audierne looked at his companion 
 in a curious way. 
 
 " You had," he said, " at one time no rival as a 
 man of action " 
 
 Sisfnor Bruno shruffqed his shoulders. 
 
 " I am a man of action still." 
 
 The Vicomte folded the proof-sheet carefully, 
 handed it back to his companion, and said : 
 
 " Then I understand that — there will be no more 
 of these very clever articles ? " 
 
 Bruno nodded his head. 
 
 "I ask no questions," continued the other. "It 
 is better so. I shall stay where I am for a few 
 days, unless it grows too hot — unless I think it 
 expedient to vanish." 
 
 " You have courage ? " 
 
 "No; I have impertinence — that is all. There 
 will be a storm — a newspaper storm. The embassies 
 will be busy ; in the English Parliament some pom- 
 pous fool will ask a question, and be snubbed for 
 his pains. In the Cha7)ibre the newspaper men will 
 rant and challenge each other in the corridors ; 
 and it will blow over. In the meantime we have 
 got what we want, and we can hide it till we have 
 need of it. Your Reverence and I have met diffi- 
 culties together before this one." 
 
188 THE SLAVE OF THE LAMP. 
 
 But Signer Bruno was not inclined to fall in with 
 these optimistic views. 
 
 " I am not so sure," he said, " that we have got 
 what we want. There has been no acknowledgment 
 of receipt of the last parcel — in the usual way — the 
 English Standard." 
 
 " What was the last parcel ? " 
 
 " Fifty thousand cartridges." 
 
 " But they were sent ? " 
 
 " Yes ; they were despatched in the usual way ; 
 but, as I say, they have not been acknowledged. 
 There may have been some difficulty on the other 
 side. Our police are not so easy-going as these 
 coastguard gentlemen." 
 
 "Well," said the aristocrat, with that semi- 
 bantering lightness of manner which sometimes 
 aggravated, and always puzzled, his colleagues, 
 " we will not give ourselves trouble over that : the 
 matter is out of our hands. Let us rather think of 
 ourselves. Have you money ? " 
 
 " Yes — I have sufficient." 
 
 "It is now eight o'clock — this newspaper — this 
 precious Beacon is now casting its light into some 
 dark intellects in London. It will take those 
 intellects two hours to assimilate the information, 
 and one more hour to proceed to action. You have, 
 therefore, three hours in which to make yourself 
 scarce." 
 
 "I have arranged that," replied the old man 
 calmly. " There is a small French potato-ship lying at 
 Exmouth. In two hours I shall be one of her crew." 
 
A RETREAT. 189 
 
 " That is well. And the others ? " 
 
 " The others left yesterday afternoon. They cross 
 by this morning's boat from Southampton to Cher- 
 bourg. You see how much I have had to do." 
 
 " I see also, my friend, how well you have 
 done it." 
 
 '•' And now," said Signor Bruno, ignoring the 
 compliment, "I must go. We will walk away by 
 the back garden across the fields. You must re- 
 member that you may have been seen coming 
 here." 
 
 "I have thought of that. One old man saw 
 me, but he did not look at me twice. He will 
 not know me again. And your landlady — where 
 is she?" 
 
 " I have sent her out on a fool's errand." 
 
 As they spoke they left the little cottage by the 
 back door, as Signor Bruno had proposed, through 
 the little garden, and across some low-lying fields. 
 Presently they parted, Signor Bruno turning to 
 the left, while the Vicomte d'Audierne kept to 
 the right. 
 
 " We shall meet, I suppose," were the last words 
 of the younger man, " in the Rue St. Gingolphe ? " 
 
 " Yes— in the Rue St. Gingolphe." 
 
 For so old a man the pace at which Signor Bruno 
 breasted the hill that lay before him was somewhat 
 remarkable. The Vicomte d'Audierne, on the other 
 hand, was evidently blessed with a greater leisure. 
 He looked at his watch and strolled on through 
 the dew-laden meadows, wrapt in thought as in 
 
190 THE SLAVE OF THE LAMP. 
 
 11 cloak that hid the sweet freshness of the flowery 
 hedgerows, that mufHed the broken song of the 
 busy birds, that killed the scent of ripening hay. 
 Thus these two singular men parted — and it 
 happened that they were never to meet again. 
 These little things do happen. We meet with 
 gravity; we part with a smile; perhaps we make 
 an appointment ; possibly we speak of the pleasure 
 that the meeting seems to promise : and the nexti 
 meeting is put off; it belongs to the great post- 
 ponement. 
 
 Often we part with an indifferent nod, as these 
 two men parted amidst the sylvan peace of English i 
 meadow on that summer morning. They belonged 
 to two different stations in life almost as far apart 
 as two social stations could be, even in a republic.; 
 They were not, in any sense of the word, friends: 
 they were merely partners, intensely awake, as part- 
 ners usually are, to each other's shortcomings. 
 
 The Vicomte d'Audierne probably thought nc 
 more of Signer Bruno from the moment that h( 
 raised his hat and turned. A few moments later hit 
 thoughts were evidently far away. 
 
 " The son of Vellacott," he muttered, as he took f 
 cigarette from a neat silver case. " How strange 
 And yet I am sorry. He might have done some- 
 thing in the world. That article was clever — ver} 
 clever — curse it ! He cannot yet be thirty. Bui 
 one would expect something from the son of a mar 
 like Vellacott." 
 
 It was not yet nine o'clock when the Vicomtt 
 
A RETREAT. 191 
 
 sntered the dining-room by the open window. Only 
 Hilda was there, and she was busy with the old 
 eather post-bag. Among the letters there were 
 several newspapers, and the Vicomte d'Audierne's 
 xpression underwent a slight change on perceiving 
 thorn. His thin, mobile lips were closely pressed, 
 and his chin — a very short one — Avas thrust forward. 
 Behind the gentle spectacles his eyes assumed for a 
 moment that singular blinking look which cannot be 
 described in English, for it seemed to change their 
 colour. In his country it would have been called 
 glanqiie. 
 
 " Ah, Hilda 1 " he said, approaching slowly, " do 
 I see newspapers ? I love a newspaper ] " 
 
 She handed him the Times enveloped in a 
 yellow wrapper, upon which was printed her 
 brother's name and address. 
 
 " Ah," he said lightly, '' the Times — estimable, 
 Dut just a trifle opaque. Is that all ? " 
 
 His eyes were fixed upon two packets she held 
 in her hand. 
 
 "These are Mr. Bodery's," she replied, looking 
 at him with some concentration. 
 
 " And what newspaper does Mr. Bodery read ? '' 
 asked the Frenchman, holding out his hand. 
 
 She hesitated for a moment. His position with 
 regard to her was singular, his ascendency over 
 her had never been tried. It was an unknown 
 quantity ; but the Vicomte d'Audierne knew his 
 own power. 
 
 " Let me look, little girl," he said quietly in French. 
 
192 THE SLAVE OF THE LAMP. 
 
 She handed him the newspapers, still watchmg 
 his face. j 
 
 " The Beacon'' he muttered, reading aloud from 
 the ornamented wrapper, "a weekly journal." 
 
 He threw the papers down and returned to the 
 Times, which he unfolded. 
 
 " Tell me, Hilda," he said, « is Mr. Bodery con- 
 nected with this weekly journal, the Beacon ? " 
 
 Her back was turned towards him. She was 
 hanging up the key of the post-bag on a nail 
 beside the fireplace. 
 
 '- Yes," she replied, without looking round. 
 
 " Is he the editor ? " 
 
 "Yes." 
 
 The Vicomte d'Audierne turned the Times care- 
 lessly. 
 
 " Ah ! " he muttered, " the phylloxera has appeared 
 again." 
 
 For some time he appeared to be absorbed in 
 this piece of news, then he spoke again. 
 
 " I knew something of a man who writes for 
 that newspaper — the Beacon. I knew his father 
 very well." 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 The Vicomte glanced at her. 
 
 " Christian Vellacott," he said. 
 
 "We know him also," she answered, moving 
 towards the bell. He made a step forward as if 
 about to offer to ring the bell for her, but she 
 was too quick. 
 
 When the butler entered the room, Hilda re- 
 
A RETEEAT. 193 
 
 minded him of some smjdl omission in setting- 
 out the breakfast-table. The item required was 
 in the room, and the man set it upon the table 
 with some decision and a slightly aggrieved cast 
 of countenance. 
 
 The Vicomte d'Audierne raised his eyes, and 
 then he looked very grave. He was a singular 
 man in many ways, but those who worked with 
 him were aware of one peculiarity which by its 
 Drominence cast others into the shade. He pos- 
 sessed a very useful gift rarely given to men — the 
 ^ift of intuition. It was dangerous to tldnh when 
 he eyes of the Vicomte d'Audierne were upon 
 Dne's face. He had a knack of knowing one's 
 thoughts before they were even formulated. 
 
 He looked grave — almost distressed — on this 
 Dccasion, because he knew something of which 
 Hilda herself was ignorant. He knew that she 
 was engaged to be married to one man while she 
 oved another. 
 
CHAPTER XVIII 
 
 AN EMPTY NEST 
 
 In the middle of breakfast a card was handed to 
 Sidney Carew. He glanced at it, nodded his head 
 as a signal to the servant that he need not wait, 
 and slipped the card into his pocket. Mr. Bodery 
 and the Vicomte d'Audierne were watching him. 
 
 Presently he rose from the table and left the 
 room. Mrs. Carew became suddenly lively, and 
 the meal went on unconcernedly. It was not long 
 before Sidney came back. 
 
 "Do you want," he said to his mother, "some tickets 
 for a concert at Br ay port on the 4th of next month ? " 
 
 " What sort of a concert ? " 
 
 Sidney consulted the tickets. 
 
 " In aid," he read, " of an orphanage — the Police 
 Orphanage." 
 
 " We always take six tickets," put in Miss Molly 
 and her mother began to seek her pocket. 
 
 " Mr. Bodery," said Sidney, at this moment, " yon 
 have nothing to eat. Let me cut you some ham." 
 
 He moved towards the sideboard, but Mr. Boder}? 
 rose from his seat. 
 
 " I prefer to carve it myself," he replied, proceed- 
 iner to do so. 
 
 ^ 194 
 
AN EMPTY NEST. 195 
 
 Sidney held the plate. They were quite close 
 o^L'ther, and Hilda was talking persistently and 
 jnily to the Vicomto d'Audierne. 
 
 " The London police are here already," whispered 
 kidney ; " shall I say anything about Vellacott ? " 
 
 '' No," replied Mr. Bodery, after a moment's re- 
 Itction. 
 
 " I am going to ride over to Porton Abbey with 
 ihem now." 
 
 " Right," replied the editor, returning to the table 
 vith his plate. 
 
 Sidney left the room again, and the Vicomte 
 I'Audierne detected the quick, anxious glance 
 lirected by Hilda at his retreating form. A few 
 ninutes later young Carew rode away from the 
 louse in company with two men, while a fourth 
 lorseman followed closely. 
 
 He who rode on Sidney's left hand was a tall, 
 ^•rizzled man, with the bearing of a soldier, while 
 lis second companion was fair and gentle in 
 nanner. The soldier was Captain Pharland, 
 District Inspector of Police; the civilian was the 
 5:eenest detective in London. 
 
 " Of course," said this man, who sat his hired 
 lorse with perfect confidence. " Of course we are 
 ,00 late, I know that." 
 
 He spoke softly and somewhat slowly ; his manner 
 vas essentially that of a man accustomed to the 
 mtire attention of his hearers. 
 
 "The old Italian," he continued, "who went 
 mder the name of Signor Bruno, disappeared this 
 
196 THE SLAVE OF THE LAMP. 
 
 morning. It is just possible that he will succeed 
 in getting out of the country. It all depends upon 
 who he is." 
 
 " Who do you suppose ho is ? " asked Captain 
 Pharland. He was an upright old British soldier, 
 and felt ill at ease in the society of his celebrated 
 confrere. 
 
 " I don't know," was the frank reply ; " you see 
 this is not a criminal affair, it is entirely political : 
 it is hardly in my line of country." 
 
 They rode on in silence for a space of time, during 
 which Captain Pharland lighted a cigar and offered 
 one to his companions. Sidney accepted, but the 
 gentleman from London refused quietly, and with- 
 out explanation. It was he who spoke first. 
 
 '• Mr. Carew," he said, " can you tell me when thLs 
 monastery was first instituted at Porton Abbey ? " 
 
 " Last autumn." 
 
 The thin flaxen eyebrows went up very high 
 until they were lost to sight beneath the hat brim. 
 
 " Did they — ah — deal with the local tradesmen ? " 
 
 " No," replied Sidney, " I think not. They re- 
 ceived all their stores by train from London." 
 
 " And you have never seen any of the monks ? " 
 
 " No, never." 
 
 The fair-haired gentleman gave a little upward 
 jerk of the head and smiled quietly for his oAvn 
 satisfaction. 
 
 He did not speak again until the cavalcade 
 reached Porton Abbey. The old place looked very 
 peaceful iu the morning light, standing grimly in 
 
AN EMPTY NEST. 197 
 
 the midst of that soft hish grass which only grows 
 over old habitations. 
 
 One side of the long, low building was in good 
 repair, while the other half had been allowed to 
 criynble away. The narroAv Norman windows had 
 been framed with unpamted wood and cheap glass. 
 The broad doorway had been partly filled in with 
 unseasoned deal, and an inexpensive door had been 
 itted up. 
 
 The bell-knob was of brass, new and glaring in 
 the morning sun. The gentleman from London, 
 laving alighted, took gently hold of this and rang. 
 A faint tinkle rewarded him. It was the peculiar 
 sound of a bell ringing in an empty house. After 
 El moment's pause he wrenched the bell nearly out 
 of its socket, and a long peal was the result. At 
 ast this ceased, and there was no sound in the 
 louse. The fair man looked back over his shoulder 
 it Captain Pharland. 
 
 " Gone ! " he said tersely. 
 
 Then he took from his breast pocket a little bar 
 in the shape of a lever. He introduced the bent 
 3nd of this between the door and the post, just 
 ibove the keyhole, and gave a sharp jerk. There 
 kvas a short crack like that made by the snapping 
 )f cast iron, and the door flew open. 
 
 Without a moment's hesitation the man went in, 
 bllowed closely by Sidney and Captain Pharland. 
 
 The birds had flown. As mysteriously as they 
 lad come, the devotees had vanished. Bare walls 
 net the eyes of the searchers. Porton Abbey stood 
 
198 THE SLAVE OF THE LAMP. 
 
 empty again after its brief return to life and 
 warmth, and indeed it scarcely looked habitable. 
 The few personal effects of the simple monks had 
 been removed ; the walls and stone floors were 
 rigidly clean ; the small chapel showed signs of 
 recent repair. There was an altar-cloth, a crucifix, 
 and two brass candlesticks. 5 
 
 The gentleman from London noted these items 
 with a cynical smile. He had instinctively removed 
 his hat ; it is just possible that there was another 
 side to this man's life — a side wherein he dealt with 
 men who were not openly villains. He may have 
 been a churchwarden at home. 
 
 " Clever beggars ! " he ejaculated, " they were 
 ready for every emergency." 
 
 Captain Pharland pointed to the altar with hisi 
 heavy riding- whip. 
 
 " Then," he said, " you think this all humbug ? " 
 
 " I do. They were no more monks than we are." 
 
 The search did not last much longer. Only a 
 few rooms had been inhabited, and there waa 
 absolutely nothing left — no shred of evidence, na 
 clue whatever. j 
 
 "Yes," said the fair-haired man, when they had 
 finished their inspection, " these were exceptional 
 men ; they knew their business." 
 
 As they left the house he paused, and closed the 
 door again, remaining inside. 
 
 " You see," he said, " there is not even a bolt on 
 the door. They knew better than to depend on 
 bolts and bars. They knew a trick worth two of that." 
 
AN EMPTY NEST. 199 
 
 At the gate they met a SDiall, inoffensive man, 
 with a brown beard and a walking-stick. There 
 was nothing else to say about him ; without the 
 beard and the walking-stick there would have been 
 nothing left to know him by. 
 
 " That is my assistant," announced the London 
 detective quietly. " He has been down to the cliff." 
 
 The two men stepped aside together, and con- 
 sulted in an undertone for some time. Then the 
 last speaker returned to Captam Pharland and 
 Sidney, who were standing together. 
 
 " That newspaper," he said, " the Beacon, is word 
 for word right. My assistant has been to the 
 spot. The arms and ammunition have undoubtedly 
 been shipped from this place. The cases of cart- 
 ridges mentioned by the man who wrote the article 
 as having been seen, in a dream, half-way down 
 the cliff, are actually there ; my assistant has seen 
 them." 
 
 Captain Pharland scratched his honest cavalry 
 head. He was beginning to regret that he had 
 accepted the post of district inspector of the police. 
 Sidney Carew puffed at his pipe in silence. 
 
 " Of course," said the detective, " the newspaper 
 man got all this information through the treachery 
 of one of the party. I should like to get hold of 
 that traitor. He would be a useful man to know." 
 
 In this the astute gentleman from London be- 
 trayed his extremely limited knowledge of the 
 Society of Jesus. There are no traitors in that 
 vast corporation. 
 
200 THE SLAVE OF THE LAMP. 
 
 Sidney and Captain Pharland rode home together, 
 leaving the two detectives to find their way to 
 Brayport Station. 
 
 They rode in silence, for the Captain was puzzled, 
 and his companion was intensely anxious. 
 
 Sidney Carew was beginning to realise that the 
 events of the last three days had a graver import 
 than they at first promised to conceal. The now 
 celebrated article in the Beacon opened his eyes, 
 and he knew that the writer of it must have paid 
 very dearly for his daring. It seemed extremely 
 probable that the head and hands which had con- 
 ceived and carried out this singular feat were both 
 still for ever. Vellacott's own written tribute to 
 the vast powers of the Jesuits, and their immov- 
 able habit of forcing a way through all obstacles 
 to the end in view, was scarcely reassuring to his 
 friends. 
 
 Sidney knew and recognised the usual fertility 
 of resource possessed by his friend; but against 
 him were pitted men of greater gifts, of less scruple, 
 and of infinitely superior training in the crooked 
 ways of humanity. That he should have been so 
 long without vouchsafing word or sign was almost 
 proof positive that his absence was involuntary; 
 and men capable of placing fire-arms into the hands 
 of a maddened mob Avere not likely to hesitate in 
 sacrificing a single life that chanced to stand in 
 their path. 
 
 As the young fellow rode along, immersed in 
 meditation, he heard the sound of carriage-wheels, 
 
AN EMPTY NEST. 201 
 
 and, looking up, recognised his own grey horse 
 and dog-cart. Mr. Bodery was driving, and driving 
 hard. On seeing Sidney he pulled up, somewhat 
 recklessly, in a manner which suggested that he had 
 not always been a stout, middle-aged Londoner. 
 
 " Been telegraphed for," he shouted, " by the 
 people at the office. Government is taking it up. 
 Just time to catch the train." 
 
 And the editor of the Beacon disappeared in a 
 cloud of dust. 
 
 The Vicomte d'Audierne was thus left in full 
 possession of the field. 
 
CHAPTER XIX 
 
 FOUL PLAY 
 
 When Christian Vellacott passed out of the draw- 
 ing-room window in answer to what he naturally 
 supposed to be a signal - whistle from Hilda or 
 Sidney, he turned down the narrow, winding path- 
 way that led to the moat. The extreme darkness, 
 contrasting suddenly with the warm light of the 
 room he had just left, caused him to walk slowly 
 with outstretched hands. Floating cobwebs broke 
 across his face, and frequently he stopped to brush 
 the clinging fibre away. The intense darkness was 
 somewhat relieved when he reached the edge of 
 the moat, and the clear sky was overhead instead of 
 interlocked branches. He could just discern that 
 Hilda was not at her usual seat upon the rustic 
 bench farther towards the end of the moat, and he 
 stopped short, with a sudden misgiving, at the spot, 
 where the path met, at right angles, the broader stone 
 walk extending the full length of the water. 
 
 He was on the point of whistling softly thei 
 familiar refrain, when there was a rustle in the 
 bushes behind him. A rush, a sudden shock, and 
 a pair of muscular hands were closed round his 
 throat, dragging him backwards. But Christian 
 
 202 
 
FOUL PLAY. 203 
 
 stood like a rock. Quick as thought he seized the 
 two wrists, which were small and flat, and wrenched 
 them apart. Then, stepping back with one foot in 
 order to obtain surer leverage, he lifted his assailant 
 from the ground, swung him round, and literally let 
 him fly into the moat — with a devout hope that it 
 might be Signer Bruno. The man hurtled through 
 the darkness, without a cry or sound, and fell face 
 foremost into the water, five yards from the edge, 
 throwing into the air a shower of spray. 
 
 Christian Vellacott w^as one of those men whose 
 litheness is greater than their actual muscular force ; 
 but a lithe man possesses greater powers of endur- 
 ance than a powerful fellow whose muscles are 
 more highly developed. The exertion of lifting his 
 assailant and swinging him away into the darkness 
 was great, although the man's weight was nothing 
 very formidable, and Christian staggered back a 
 few paces without, however, actually losing his 
 balance. At this moment two men sprang upon 
 him from behind and dragged him to the ground. 
 He felt at once that this was a very different matter. 
 Either of these two could have overpowered him 
 singly. Their thick arms encompassed him like 
 the coils of a snake, and there was about their heavy 
 woollen clothing a faint odour of salt water. He 
 knew that they were sailors. Recognising that it 
 was of no avail, he still fought on, as Englishmen 
 do. One of the men had wound a large woollen 
 scarf round his mouth, the other was slowly but 
 very surely succeeding in pinioning his arms. Then 
 
204 THE SLAVE OF THE LAMP. 
 
 a third assailant came, and Christian knew by the 
 wet hand (for he used one arm only) that it was 
 the smallest of the three, who had suffered for his 
 temerity. 
 
 " Quick, quick ! " this man whispered in French. 
 With his uninjured hand he twisted the scarf tighter 
 and tighter until Christian gasped for breath. 
 
 Still the Englishman struggled and writhed upon 
 the ground, while the hard breathing of the two 
 sailors testified that it was no mean resistance. 
 Suddenly the one-armed man loosened the scarf 
 but before Christian could recover his breath a 
 handkerchief was pressed over his lips, and a sweet 
 pungent odour tilled his nostrils. 
 
 " Three to one," he gasped, and quite suddenl} 
 his head fell forward, while his clutch relaxed. 
 
 " He is a brave man," said the dripping leader o: 
 the attack, as he stood upright and touched hif 
 damaged shoulder gently and tentatively. "Not^ 
 quick to the carriage with him. You have noi 
 managed this well, my friends, not at all well.'' 
 
 The speaker raised his cold hand to his forehead 
 which was wet, less perhaps from past exertion thai 
 from the agony he was enduring. 
 
 " But, monsieur," grumbled one of the sailors ii 
 humble self-defence, " he is made of steel 1 " 
 
 The pale light of a grey dawn was stealing slowly 
 up into the riven sky, lighting up the clouds whicl 
 were flying eastward on the shoulder of a boisteroui 
 wind. The heavy grey sea, heaving, surging, anc 
 
FOUL PLAY. 205 
 
 hissing, threw itself upwards into broken spray, 
 which flew to leeward at a sharp angle, blown from 
 the summit of the wave like froth from an over- 
 filled tankard. After a night of squally restlessness, 
 accompanied by a driving rain that tasted brackish, 
 things had settled down with the dawn into a steady, 
 roaring gale of wind. In the growing light sea- 
 gulls rose triumphantly with smooth breasts bravely 
 facing the wind. 
 
 In the midst of this a dripping vessel laboured 
 sorely. The green water rushed from side to side 
 over her slippery, filthy deck as she rolled, and 
 carried with it a tangled mass of ropes, a wooden 
 bucket, a capstan bar, and — ominous sign — a soak- 
 ing, ]imp fur cap. The huge boom, reaching nearly 
 the whole length of the little vessel, swung wildly 
 from side to side as the yawl dipped her bulwarks 
 to the receding wave. It was certain death for a 
 man to attempt to stand upright upon the sopping 
 deck, for the huge spar swung shoulder high. The 
 steersman, crouching low by his strong tiller, was 
 doing his best to avoid a clean sweep, but only a 
 small jib and the mizzen were standing with 
 straining clews and gleaming seams. Crouching 
 beneath the weather bulwarks, with their feet 
 wedged against the low combing of the hatch, three 
 men were vainly endeavouring to secure the boom, 
 and to disentangle the clogged ropes. Two were 
 huge fellows with tawny, washed-out beards innocent 
 of brush or comb, their faces were half hidden by 
 rough sou'-westers, and they were enveloped from 
 
206 THE SLAVE OF THE LAMP. 
 
 head to foot in oilskins from which the water ran 
 in little rills. The third was Christian Vellacott, 
 who looked very wet indeed. The Avater was drip- 
 ping from his cuffs and running down his face. 
 His black dress-clothes were clinging to him with 
 a soppy hindrance, while the feet firmly planted 
 against the combing of the hatch were encased in 
 immaculate patent-leather shoes, and the salt water 
 ran off silk socks. It would have been very funny 
 if it were not that Fortune invariably mingles her 
 strokes of humour most heedlessly with sadder 
 things. - Christian Vellacott was apparently uncon- 
 scious of the humour of the situation. He was 
 working patiently and steadily, as men must needs 
 work when fighting Nature, and his half-forgotten 
 sea-craft was already coming back. Beneath his 
 steady hands something akin to order was slowly 
 being achieved ; he was coiling and disentangling 
 the treacherous rope, of which the breaking had 
 cast the boom adrift, laying low a good seaman. 
 
 Farther forward upon the hatch lay the limp 
 body of a very big man. His matted head was 
 bare, and the dead, brown face, turned upward to 
 its Maker, jerked from side to side as the vessel 
 heaved. The stalwart legs were encased in greasy 
 sea-boots, deeply wrinkled, and the coils of a huge 
 scarf of faded purple lay upon his broad breast, 
 where they had been dragged down by a hasty 
 hand in order to see more clearly the still features. 
 
 At the dead man's side knelt upon the deck a 
 small, spare figure clad in black and wearing his 
 
FOUL PLAY. 207 
 
 left arm in a sling. With his right hand he held 
 a crucifix to the blue lij)s that would never breathe 
 a prayer to the Virgin again. The small mouth 
 and refined features of the praying man were 
 strangely out of keeping with his tempestuous sur- 
 roundings. Unmindful, however, of wind and waves 
 alike, he knelt and prayed audibly. Each lurch 
 of the vessel threw him forward, so that, in order 
 to save himself from falling, he was obliged to 
 press heavily upon the dead man's throat and 
 breast; but this he heeded not. His girlish blue 
 eyes were half closed in an ecstasy of religious 
 fervour, and the pale, narrow face wore a light 
 that was not reflected from sea or sky. This was 
 the man who had unhesitatingly attacked Vella- 
 cott, had dared to pit his small strength, more of 
 nerve than of muscle, against the young English- 
 man's hardened sinews. Violence in itself was most 
 abhorrent to him ; it had no part in his nature ; 
 and consequently, by the strange tenets of Ignatius 
 Loyola's disciples, he was condemned to a course 
 of it. Any objectionable duty, such as this removal 
 of Vellacott, was immediately assigned to him in 
 the futile endeavour of subjecting the soul to the 
 brain. A true Jesuit must have no nature of his 
 own and no individuality. He is simply a machine, 
 with likes and dislikes, conscience and soul subject 
 to the will of his superior, whose mind is also 
 under the same arbitrary control; and so on to 
 the top. If at the head there were God, it would 
 be well; but man is there, and consequently the 
 
208 THE SLAVE OF THE LAMP. 
 
 whole society is a gigantic mistake. To be a sin- 
 cere member of it, a man must be a half-witted 
 fool, a religious fixnatic, or a rogue for whom no 
 duplicity is too scurrilous, even though it amount 
 to blasphemy. 
 
 Rene Drucquer, the man kneeling on the slimy 
 deck, was as nearly a religious fanatic as his soft, 
 sweet nature would allow. With greater bodily 
 strength and attendant greater passions, he would 
 have been a simple monomaniac. In him the 
 passion for self-devotion was singularly strong, and 
 contact with men had cooled it dow^n into an un- 
 usually deep sense of duty. 
 
 Personally courageous, his bravery was of a high 
 order, if the spirit of self-devotion called it into 
 existence. In this his courage was more akin to 
 that of Avomen than of men. If duty drove him he 
 would go where the devil drags most people, and 
 Rene Drucquer was not by any means the first 
 man or woman whose life has been wrecked, wasted, 
 and utterly misled by a blind devotion to duty. 
 
 When throwing himself upon Christian Vella- 
 cott, no thought of possible danger to his own 
 person had restrained or caused him a moment's 
 hesitation. His blind faith in the righteousness of 
 his cause Avas, however, on the wane. This disciple 
 of St. Ignatius might have lived a true and manly 
 life three hundred years earlier when his master 
 trod the earth, but the march of intellect had 
 trodden down the "Constitutions" years before Rene 
 Drucquer came to study them. An ignoramus and 
 
FOUL PLAY. 209 
 
 a zealot who lived nearly four centuries ago can be 
 no guide or help to men of the present day, and 
 this young priest was overshadowed by the saddest 
 doubt that comes to men on earth — the doubt of 
 his own Creed. 
 
 While Christian Vellacott was assisting the sailors 
 he glanced occasionally towards the kneeling priest, 
 and on the narrow, intelligent face he read a truth 
 that never was forgotten. He saw that Rene 
 
 Drucquer was unconscious of his surroundings 
 
 unmindful of the fact that he was on board a 
 disabled vessel at the mercy of the wild wind. 
 His whole being was absorbed in prayer: this 
 priest remembered only that the soul of the great, 
 rough, disfigured man was winging its serene way 
 to the land where no clouds are. Christian was 
 not an impressionable man— journalism had killed 
 all that — nor, it is to be feared, did he devote 
 much thought to religion ; but he recognised good- 
 ness Avhen he met it. The young journahst's 
 interest was aroused, and in that trifling incident 
 lay the salvation of the priest. From that small 
 beginning came the gleam of light that was to 
 illuminate gloriously the darkness of a mistaken 
 life. 
 
 Chance had capriciously ruled that the hand that 
 had dislocated the Abbe's arm should set it again, 
 and the dead sailor lying on the sticky, tarred 
 hatch-cover had helped. The " patron " of the boat, 
 for he it was whose head had been smashed by 
 bhe spar, had held the priest's trembling, swollen 
 
210 THE SLAVE OF THE LAMP. 
 
 shoulder while Christian's steady hands gave the 
 painful jerk required to slip the joint back into its 
 socket. The great, coarse lips which had trembled 
 a little, with a true Frenchman's sympathy for 
 suffering, were now blue and drawn ; the stout, 
 tender hands were nerveless. 
 
 The priest prayed on, Avhile the men worked 
 near at hand seeking to restore order, and to 
 repair the damages made by sea and wind. They 
 had got over their sullen, native shyness on find- 
 ing that Christian could speak French like the 
 Abbe and was almost as good a sailor as them- 
 selves. One ofipered him a rough blue jersey, while 
 another placed a gold-embroidered Sunday waist- 
 coat at his disposal, with a visible struggle between 
 kindness of heart and economy. The first was 
 accepted, but the waistcoat was given back with a 
 kind laugh and an assurance that the jersey was 
 sufficient. 
 
 The Englishman knew too well with whom he 
 was dealing to harbour any ill-feeling against the 
 ignorant fishermen or even towards the Abbe 
 Drucquer for the rough treatment he had received. 
 The former were poor, and money never was beaten 
 by a scruple in open combat yet. The latter, he 
 rightly presumed, was only obeying a mandate he 
 dared not dispute. The authority was to him 
 Divine, the command came from one whom he 
 had sworn to look up to and obey as the earthly 
 representative of his Master. 
 
 At length the deck was cleared, and order reigned 
 
FOUL PLAY. 211 
 
 on board, though the mainsail could inot be set 
 until the weather moderated. 
 
 Then Hoel Grail came up to the young English- 
 man and said : 
 
 " Monsieur, let us carry the ' patron ' down below. 
 It is not riofht for the dead to lie there in this 
 wind and storm." 
 
 "I am willing," answered Christian, looking to- 
 wards the spot where the dead man lay. 
 
 " Then, perhaps — Monsieur," began the Breton 
 with some hesitation. 
 
 " Yes," answered Christian encouragingly, " what 
 is it ? " 
 
 " Perhaps Monsieur will speak to — to the Abbe. 
 It is that we do not like to disturb him in prayer." 
 
 The young Englishman bowed his head with 
 characteristic decision. 
 
 " I will do so," he said gravely. Then he crawled 
 across the deck and touched Rene Drucquer's 
 shoulder. The priest did not look up until the 
 touch had been repeated. 
 
 " Yes," he murmured ; " yes. What do you want ? " 
 
 Christian guessed at the words, for in the tumult 
 of the gale he could not hear them. 
 
 " Is it not better to take him below ?" he shouted. 
 
 Then for the first time did the priest appear to 
 remember that this was not one of the sailors. 
 
 " I beg your pardon," he said, rising from his 
 knees. " You are right ; it is better. But I am 
 afraid the men will not assist me. They are afraid 
 of touching the dead when they are afloat." 
 
212 THE SLAVE OF THE LAMP. 
 
 " I will help you," said Christian simply, " and 
 that man also, I think, because he proposed it." 
 
 With a motion of the head he indicated Hoel 
 Grail, upon whom the command of the little vessel 
 had now devolved. The man was better educated 
 than his companions, and spoke French fluently, 
 but in the Breton character superstition is so 
 deeply rooted that generations of education Avill 
 scarcely eradicate it. 
 
 The priest looked into the Englishman's face with 
 a gentle wonder in his eyes, which were shadowy 
 with the fervour of his recent devotions. The two 
 men were crouching low upon the deck, grasping 
 the black rail with their left hands ; the water 
 washed backwards and forwards around their feet. 
 
 It was the first time they had seen each other 
 face to face in open daylight, and their eyes met 
 quietly and searchingly as they swayed from side 
 to side with the heavy lurching of the ship. The 
 Englishman spoke first. 
 
 " You must leave it to us," he said calmly. " You 
 could do nothing in this heavy sea with your one arm ]" 
 
 The gentle blue eyes were again filled with 
 w^onder, and presently the priest's intellectual face 
 relaxed into a shadowy smile, which did not affect 
 his thin red lips. 
 
 " You are very good," he murmured simply. 
 
 Christian did not hear this remark. He had 
 turned away to call Grail towards him, and was 
 about to move towards the body lying on the hatch, 
 when the priest called him back. 
 
FOUL PLAY. 213 
 
 " Monsieur," he said. 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " Tell me, " continued Rene Drucquer quickly, as 
 if in doubt, " are you Christian Vellacott ? " 
 
 " Of course ! " 
 
 The priest looked relieved, and at the same time 
 he appeared to be making an effort to restrain him- 
 self, as if he had been betrayed into a greater show 
 of feeling than was desirable. When he at length 
 spoke in reply to the Englishman's obvious desire 
 for some explanation of the strange question, his 
 voice was singularly cold, and modulated in such 
 a manner as to deprive it of any expression, while 
 his eyes were fixed on the deck. 
 
 " You are not such as I expected," he said. 
 
 Christian looked down at him with straight- 
 forward keenness, and he saw the priest's eyelids 
 move uneasily beneath his gaze. Mixing with 
 many men as he had done, he had acquired a 
 certain mental sureness of touch, like that of an 
 artist with his brush when he has handled many 
 subjects and many effects. He divined that Rene 
 Drucquer had been led to expect a violent, head 
 strong man, and he could not restrain a smile as 
 he turned away. Before going, however, he said : 
 
 " At present it is a matter of saving the ship, 
 and our lives. My own affairs can wait, but when 
 this gale is over you may rest assured they shall 
 have my attention." 
 
 H 2 
 
CHAPTER XX 
 
 WINGED 
 
 Beyond this one allusion to their respective posi- 
 tions, Christian was silent regarding his captivity. 
 After the gale subsided the weather took a turn 
 for the better, and clear skies by day and night 
 rendered navigation an easy matter. 
 
 With characteristic daring the young Englishman 
 had decided to offer no resistance and to seize no 
 opportunities of escape until the termination of 
 the voyage. The scheme half-formed within his 
 mind was to see the voyage through, and effect 
 his escape soon after landing in France. It was 
 not without a certain adventurous fascination, and 
 in the meantime there was much to interest him 
 in his surroundings. If this young Abbe was a 
 typical member of the Society of Jesus, he was 
 worth studying. If this simplicity was an acquired 
 cloak to deeper thought, it was worth penetrating, 
 and if the man's entire individuality had been 
 submerged in the mysterious system followed in 
 the College of Jesuits, it was no waste of time to 
 seek for the real man beneath the cultivated suavity 
 that hid all feeling. 
 
 The more the two young men saw of each other 
 
 214 
 
 I 
 
WINGED. . 215 
 
 the closer grew their intimacy, and with growing 
 intimacy the domination of the stronger individu- 
 ality was more marked in its influence. 
 ^ To the frail and nervous priest this young 
 Englishman was a new experience ; his vitality and 
 calm, straightforward manner of speech were such 
 as the Abbe had never met with before. Such 
 men and better men there were and are in the 
 Society of Jesus, otherwise the power of the great 
 Order would not be what it is ; but Bene Drucquer 
 had never come in contact with them. According 
 to the wonderful code of laws laid down by its 
 great founder (who, in other circumstances, might 
 have prepared the world for the coming of such 
 a man as Napoleon the First), the education of 
 the young is entrusted to such brethren as are of 
 slower parts; and from these honest, but by no 
 means intelligent, men the young Abbe had learnt 
 his views upon mankind m general. The creed 
 they taught without understanding it themselves 
 was that no man must give way to natural im- 
 pulses ;^ that he must restrain and quell and quench 
 himself into a machine, without individuality or 
 impulse, without likes or dislikes ; that he must 
 persistently perform such duties as are abhorrent 
 to him, eat such food as nauseates him, and submit 
 to the dictates of such men as hate him. And 
 these, forsooth, are the teachings of one who, in 
 his zealous shortsightedness, claims to have received 
 his inspiration direct from the lips of the Great 
 Teacher. 
 
216 THE SLAVE OF THE LAMP. 
 
 Rene Drucquer found himself in the intimate 
 society of a man who said what he thought, acted 
 as he conceived best, and held himself responsible, 
 for word or deed, to none on earth. It was his 
 first mission after a long and rigorous training. 
 This was the first enemy of the Holy Church 
 against whom he had been sent to fight, armed 
 with the immeasurable power of the greatest 
 brotherhood the world has ever known, protected 
 by the shadow of its blessing ; and there was creep- 
 ing into the young priest's heart a vague and 
 terrible suspicion that there might be two sides 
 to the question. All the careful years of training, 
 all the invisible meshes 'of the vast net that had 
 been gathering its folds round him since he had 
 first donned the dress of a Probationer of the 
 College of Jesuits, were powerless to restrain the 
 flight of a pure and guileless heart to the height 
 of truth. Despite the countless one-sided and in- 
 genious arguments instilled into his eager young 
 mind in guise of mental armour against the dangers 
 of the world, Rene Drucquer found himself, at the 
 very first contact with the world, unconvinced that 
 he was fighting upon the righteous side. 
 
 Brest had been left behind in a shinmicring blue 
 haze. Ahead lay the grim Pointe de Raz, with its 
 short, thick-set lighthouse facing the vast Atlantic. 
 Out to sea, in the fading glory of sunset, lay the 
 long, low Ile-de-Sein, while here and there black 
 rocks peeped above the water. The man holding 
 the tiller was a sardine fisher, to whom every rock, 
 
WINGED. 217 
 
 every ripple, of these troubled waters was familiar. 
 Fearlessly he guided the yawl close round by the 
 high cliff — the westernmost point of Europe — but 
 with the sunset the wind had dropped and the 
 sails hung loosely, v/hile the broad bows glided 
 onwards with no sound of parted water. 
 
 The long Atlantic roll was swinging lazily in, 
 and the yawl rose to it sleepily, with a long, slow 
 movement. The distant roar of the surf upon 
 the Finisterre coast rose in the peaceful atmos- 
 phere like a lullaby. The holy calm of sunset, 
 the hush of lowering night, and the presence of 
 the only man who had ever drawn him with the 
 strange, unaccountable bond that we call sympathy, 
 moved the heart of the young priest as it had 
 never been moved before by anything but religious 
 fervour. 
 
 For the first time he spoke of himself. The 
 solitary heart suddenly broke through the restrain- 
 ing influence of a mistaken education, and unfolded 
 its sad story of a misread existence. Through no 
 fault of his own, by no relaxation of supervising 
 care on the part of his teachers, the Jesuit had 
 run headlong into the very danger which his 
 Superior had endeavoured to avoid. He had formed 
 a friendship. Fortunately the friend was a ma^i, 
 otherwise Rene Drucquer were lost indeed. 
 
 " I should think," he said musingly, " that no 
 two lives have ever been so widely separated as 
 yours and mine, and yet our paths have met 1 " 
 
 Vellacott took the cigarette from his lips. It 
 
218 THE SLAVE OF THE LAMP. 
 
 was made of a vile tobacco, called "Petit Caporal," 
 but there was nothing better to be had, and he 
 was in the habit of making the best of everything. 
 Therefore he blew into the air a spiral column of 
 thin blue smoke with a certain sense of enjoyment 
 before replying. He also was looking across the 
 glassy expanse of water, but his gaze was steady 
 and thoughtful, while his companion's eyes were 
 dreamy and almost vacant. The light shone full 
 upon his face, and a physician — or a mother — 
 would have noticed, perhaps, that there was be- 
 neath his eyes a dull shadow, while his lips were 
 dry and somewhat drawn. 
 
 " Yes," he said at length, with grave sympathy, 
 " we have drifted together like two logs in a 
 torrent." 
 
 The young priest changed his position, drawing 
 in one leg and clasping his hands round his knee. 
 The movement caused his long black garment to 
 fall aside, displaying the dark purple stockings 
 and rough shoes. The hands clasped round his 
 knee were long and Avhite, with peculiarly flat 
 wrists. 
 
 '• One log," he said vaguely, " was bound for a 
 certain goal, the other was drifting." 
 
 Vellacott turned slowly and glanced at his com- 
 panion's face. The smoke from the bad cigarette 
 drifted past their heads to windward. He was not 
 sure whether the priest was speaking from a pro- 
 fessional point of view, with reference to heresy 
 and the unknown goal to which all heretics are 
 
WINGED. 219 
 
 drifting, or not. Had Rene Drucqiier been a good 
 Jesuit, he would have seen his opportunity of 
 saying a word in season. But this estimable desire 
 found no place in his heart just then. ^ 
 
 " Your life," he continued in a monotone, " is 
 already mapped out — like the voyage of a ship 
 traced across a chart. Is it not so ? I have 
 imagined it like that." 
 
 Vellacott continued to smoke for some moments 
 in silence. He sat with his long legs stretched 
 out in front of him, his back against the rail, and 
 his rough blue jersey wrinkled up so that he 
 could keep one hand in his pocket. The priest 
 turned to look at him with a sudden fear that his 
 motives might be misread. Vellacott interpreted 
 his movement thus, for he spoke at once with a 
 smile on his face. 
 
 " I think it is best," he said, " not to think too 
 much about it. From what experience I have had, 
 I have come to the humiliating conclusion that 
 men have very little to do with the formation of 
 their own lives. A ship- captain may sit down 
 and mark his course across the chart wdth the 
 greatest accuracy, the most profound knowledge 
 of wind and current, and the keenest foresight ; 
 but that will have very little effect upon the actual 
 voyage." 
 
 "But," argued the priest in a low voice, "is it 
 not better to have an end in view — to have a 
 certain aim, and a method, more or less formed, 
 of attaining it ? " 
 
220 THE SLAVE OF THE LAMP. 
 
 " Most men have that," answered Christian, " but 
 do not know that they have it ! " 
 
 " You have ? " 
 
 Christian smoked meditatively. A month ago 
 he Avould have said " Yes " without a moment's 
 hesitation. 
 
 "And you know it, I think," added the priest 
 slowly. He was perfectly innocent of any desire 
 to extract details of his companion's life from un- 
 willing lips, and Christian knew it. He was con- 
 vinced that, whatever part Rene Drucquer had 
 attempted to play in the past, he was sincere at 
 that moment, and he divined that the young 
 Jesuit was weakly giving way to a sudden desire 
 to speak to some fellow-being of his own lifC' — to 
 lay aside the strict reserve demanded by the tenets 
 of the Society to which he was irrevocably bound. 
 In his superficial way, Christian Vellacott had 
 studied men as well as letters, and he was not 
 ignorant of the influence exercised over the human 
 mind by such trifling circumstances as moonshine 
 upon placid water, distant music, the solemn hush 
 of eventide, or the subtle odour of a beloved flower. 
 If Rene Drucquer was on the point of committing 
 a great mistake, he at least would not urge him 
 on towards it, so he smoked in silence, looking 
 practical and unsympathetic. 
 
 The priest laughed a little short, deprecating 
 laugh, in which there was no shadow of mirth. 
 
 " I have not," he said, rubbing his slim hands 
 together, palm to palm, slowly, " and — I know it." 
 
WINGED. 221 
 
 *'It will come," suggested the Englishman, after 
 a pause. 
 
 The priest shook his head with a little smile, 
 which was infinitely sadder than tears. His cold 
 silence was worse than an outburst of grief; it 
 was like the keen frost that comes before snow, 
 harder to bear than the snow itself. Presently he 
 moved slightly towards his companion so that 
 their arms were touching, and in his soft modu- 
 lated voice, trained to conceal emotion, he told 
 his story. 
 
 " My friend," he said, intertwining his fingers, 
 which were very restless, "no man can be the 
 worse for hearing the story of another man's life. 
 Before you judge of me, listen to what my life has 
 been. I have never known a friend or relation. 
 I have never had a boy companion. Since the 
 age of thirteen, when I was placed under the care 
 of the holy fathers, I have never spoken to a 
 woman. I have been taught that life was given 
 us to be spent in prayer; to study, to train our- 
 selves, and to follow in the footsteps of the blessed 
 Saint Ignatius. But how are we who have only 
 lived half a life, to imitate him, whose youth and 
 middle-age were passed in one of the most vicious 
 courts of Europe before he thought of turning to 
 holy things ? How are w^e, who are buried in an 
 atmosphere of mystic religion, to cope with sin of 
 which we -know nothing, and when we are pro- 
 foundly ignorant of its evil results ? These things I 
 know now, but I did not suspect them when I was 
 
222 THE SLAVE OF THE LAMP. 
 
 in the college. There all manliness, and all sense 
 of manly honour, were suppressed and insidiously 
 forbidden. We were taught to be spies upon each 
 other, to cringe servilely to our superiors, and to 
 deal treacherously with such as were beneath us. 
 Hypocrisy — innate, unfathomable hypocrisy — was 
 instilled into our minds so cunningly that we did 
 not recognise it. Every movement of the head or 
 hands, every glance of the eyes, and every word 
 from the lips was to be the outcome — not of our 
 own hearts — but of a law laid down by the General 
 himself. It simply comes to this : we are not men 
 at all, but machines carefully planned and fitted 
 together, so as to render sin almost an impossibility. 
 When tempted to sin we are held back, not by the 
 fear of God, but by the thought that discovery is 
 almost certain, and that the wrath of our Superior 
 is withheld by no scruple of human kindness. . . . 
 But remember, I knew nothing of this before I 
 took my vows. To me it was a glorious career. 
 I became an enthusiast. At last the time came 
 when I was eligible ; I offered myself to the 
 Society, and was accepted. Then followed a period 
 of hard work ; I learned Spanish and Italian, giving 
 myself body and soul to the work. Even the spies 
 set to watch me day and night, waking and sleep 
 ing, feeding and fasting, could but confess that I 
 was sincere. One day the Provincial sent for me — 
 my mission had come. I was at last to go forth 
 into the world to do the work of my Master. 
 Trembling with eagerness, I went to his room ; the 
 
WINGED. 223 
 
 Provincial was a young man with a beautiful face, 
 but it was like the face of the dead. There was 
 Qo colour, no life, no soul, no heart in it. He 
 spoke in a low, measured voice that had neither 
 pity nor love. 
 
 " When that door closed behind me an hour later 
 the scales had fallen from my eyes. I began to 
 uspect that this great edifice, built not of stones 
 but of men's hearts, was nothing less than an un- 
 righteous mockery. With subtle, double-meaning 
 words, the man whom I had been taught to revere 
 as the authorised representative of Our Lord, un- 
 folded to me my duties in the future. The work 
 of God, he called it ; and to do this work he placed 
 in my hands the tools of the devil. What I sus- 
 pected then, I know now." 
 
 The young Englishman sat and listened with 
 increasing interest. His cigarette had gone out 
 long before. 
 
 " And," he said presently, in his quiet, reassuring 
 voice, which seemed to infer that no difficulty in 
 life was quite insurmountable — "And, if you did 
 not know it then, how have you learnt it novf ? " 
 
 " From you, my friend," replied the priest ear- 
 nestly, "from you and from these rough sailors. 
 They, at least, are men. But you have taught me 
 this." 
 
 Christian Vellacott made no answer. He knew 
 that what his companion said was true. Uncon- 
 sciously, and with no desire to do so, he had opened 
 this young zealot's eyes to what a man's life may 
 
224 THE SLAVE OF THE LAMP. 
 
 be. The tale was infinitely sad, but with charac- 
 teristic promptitude the journalist was already 
 seeking a remedy without stopping to think over 
 the pathos of this mistaken career. \ 
 
 Presently Rene Drucquer's quick, painful tones'^ 
 broke the silence again, and he continued his story. 
 
 " He told me," he said, " that in times gone by we 
 had ruled the Roman Catholic world invisibly from 
 the recesses of kings' cabinets and queens' boudoirs. 
 That now the power has left us, but that the Order 
 is as firm as ever, nearly as rich, and quite as 
 intelligent. It lies like a huge mill, perfect but 
 idle, waiting for the grist that will never come to 
 be crushed between its ruthless wheels. He told 
 me that the sway over kings and princes has lapsed 
 with the growth of education, but that we hold still 
 within our hands a lever of greater power, though 
 the danger of wielding it is proportionately greater 
 to those who would use it. This power is the People. 
 Before us lies a course infinitely more perilous than 
 the sinuous paths trodden by the first followers 
 of St. Ignatius as they advanced towards power. 
 It lies on the troubled waters ; it leads over the 
 restless, mobile heads of the people." 
 
 Again the priest ceased speaking. There Avas 
 a strange thrill of foreboding in his voice, which, 
 however, had never been raised above a monotont\ 
 The two men sat side by side, as still as the dead. 
 They gazed vacantly into the golden gates of the 
 west, and each in his own way thought over these 
 things. Assuredly the Angel of Silence hung over 
 
WINGED. 225 
 
 that little vessel then, for no sound from earth or 
 sea or sky came to wake those two thinkers from 
 their reverie. 
 
 At last the Englishman's full, steady tones broke 
 the hush. 
 
 " This/' he said, " has not been learnt in two days. 
 You must have known it before. If you knew it, 
 why are you what you are ? You never have been 
 a real Jesuit, and you never will be." 
 
 " I swore to the Mother of God — I am bound . . ." 
 
 " By an oath forced upon you ] " 
 
 '• No ! By an oath I myself begged to take 1 " 
 
 This was the bitterest drop in the priest's cup. 
 Everything had been done of hi", own free will — at 
 his own desire. During eleven years a network of 
 perfidy had been cunningly woven around him, 
 mesh after mesh, day after day. As he grew older, 
 so grew in strength the warp of the net. Thus, in 
 the fulness of time, everything culminated to the 
 one great end in view. Nothing Avas demanded (for 
 that is an essential rule), everything must be offered 
 freely, to be met by an apparently hesitating accept- 
 ance. Constant dropping wears the hardest stone 
 in time. 
 
 " But," said Vellacott, " you can surely represent 
 to your Provincial that you are not fitted for the 
 work put before you." 
 
 " My friend," interrupted the priest, " we can 
 represent nothing. We are supposed to have no 
 natural inclinations. All work should be welcome, 
 none too difficult, no task irksome." 
 
226 THE SLAVE OF THE LAMP. 
 
 ^ 
 
 "You can volunteer for certain services," said 
 Vellacott. 
 • The priest shrugged his shoulders. 
 
 " What services ? " he asked. 
 
 The Englishman looked at him for some seconds 
 in the fading light. In his quick way he had already 
 found a remedy, and he was wondering Avhether he 
 should propose it or hold his peace. He was not 
 afraid of incurring responsibility. The young Jesuit 
 had appealed to him, and there was a way out of 
 the difficulty. Christian felt that things could not 
 be made worse than they were. In a moment his 
 mind was made up. 
 
 "As you know," he said, "the Society has few 
 friends and a multitude of enemies. I am afraid 
 I am an enemy ; but there is one redeeming point 
 in the Jesuit record which we are all bound to 
 recognise, and I recognise it unhesitatingly. You 
 have done more to convert the heathen than 
 the rest of the Christian Church put together. 
 Whatever the motive has been, whatever the re- 
 sults have proved to be, the missionary work is 
 unrivalled. Why do you not offer yourself for 
 that ? " 
 
 As he asked the question Christian glanced at 
 his companion's face. He saw the sad eyes light 
 up suddenly with a glow that was not of this dull 
 earth at all; he saw the thin, pure face suddenly 
 acquire a great and wondrous peace. The young 
 priest rose to his feet, and, crossing the deck, lie 
 stood holding with one hand to the tarred rigging, 
 
 ■ c 
 
 I 
 
WINGED. 227 
 
 his back turned towards the Englishman, looking 
 over the still waters. 
 
 Presently he returned, and laying his thin hand 
 upon Christian's shoulder, he said, " My friend, you 
 have saved me. In the first shock of my disillusion 
 I never thought of this. I think — I think there is 
 work for me yet." 
 
CHAPTER XXI 
 
 TRUE TO HIS CLOTH 
 
 With the morning tide, the Deitx Freres entered 
 Audierne harbour. The rough sailors crossed them- 
 selves as they looked towards the old wooden cross 
 upon the headland, facing the great Atlantic. They 
 thought of the dead "patron" in the little cabin 
 below, and the joyous young wife, whose snowy 
 head-dress they could almost distinguish upon the 
 pier among the waiters there. 
 
 Both Christian Vellacott and the Abbe were on 
 deck. They had been there the whole night. They 
 had lain motionless side by side upon the old sail. 
 Day vanished, night stole on, and day came again 
 without either having closed his eyes or opened 
 his lips. 
 
 They now stood near the steersman, and looked 
 upon the land with an interest which only comes 
 after heavy weather at sea. To the Englishman 
 this little fishing-port was unknown, and he did 
 not care to ask. The vessel was now dropping up 
 the river, with anchor swinging, and the women on 
 the pier were walking inland slowly, keeping pace 
 and waving a greeting from time to time in answer 
 to a husband's shout. 
 
 228 
 
TRUE TO HIS CLOTH. 229 
 
 ' That is slie, Monsieur L' Abbe/' said Hoel Grail, 
 with a peculiar twitch of his coarse mouth, as if 
 rom pain. " That is she with the little child •" 
 
 Rene Drucquer bowed his head, saying nothing. 
 The Deux Freres slowly edged alongside the old 
 ][uay in her usual berth above the sardine boats. 
 A. board was thrown across from the rail to the 
 pay, and the priest stepped ashore alone. He 
 fvent towards the smiling young wife without any 
 lesitation ; she stood there surrounded by the 
 ,vives of the sailors on board the Deux Freres, 
 ;vith her snowy coiffe and spotless apron, holding 
 ler golden-haired child by the hand. All the 
 vomen curtsied as the priest approached, for in 
 .hese western provinces the Church is still re- 
 ipected 
 
 " My daughter," said the Abbe, " I have bad news 
 or you." 
 
 She smiled still, misunderstanding his calmness. 
 
 "Ah, mon pere," she said, "it is the season of 
 he great winds now. What a long voyage it has 
 )een ! And you say it is a bad one. My husband 
 s no doubt in despair, but another voyage is sure 
 o be better ; is it not so ? I have not seen Loic 
 ipon the deck, but then my sight is not good. 
 
 am not from Audierne, mon pere, but from inland 
 vhere we cannot see so far." 
 
 The priest changed colour; no smile came into 
 ds face in response to hers. He stepped nearer, 
 ,nd placed his hand upon her comely arm. 
 
 " It has been a very bad voyage for your poor 
 
230 THE SLAVE OF THE LAMP 
 
 husband," he said. "The Holy Virgin give you 
 comfort." 
 
 Slowly the colour vanished from the woman's 
 round cheeks. Her soft, short- sighted eyes filled 
 with a terrible, hopeless dismay as she stared at 
 the young priest's bowed head. The women round 
 now began to understand, and they crossed them- 
 selves with a very human prayer of thankful- 
 ness that their husbands and brothers had been 
 spared 
 
 "Loic is dead?" she said, in a rasping voice. 
 For some moments she stood motionless, then, ini 
 obedience to some strange and unaccountable in- 
 stinct, she began turning up the sleeves of hei 
 rough brown dress, as if she were going to begir 
 some kind of manual work. 
 
 "The Holy Virgin comfort you, my daughter 
 and you, my Httle one," said the priest, as hti 
 stooped to lay his hand upon the golden head o: 
 the child. 
 
 "Loic is dead! Loic is dead!" spread fron 
 mouth to mouth. 
 
 "That comes from having ought to do with th(i 
 priests," muttered the customs officer, beneath hij! 
 heavy moustache. He was an old soldier, wh( 
 read the newspapers, and spoke in a loud voic< 
 on Sunday evenings in the Cafe de 1' Quest. 
 
 The Abbe heard the remark, and looked at th< 
 man, but said nothing. He remembered that m 
 Jesuit must defend himself. 
 
 The girl-widow stepped on board the untid] 
 
TRUE TO HIS CLOTH. 231 
 
 vessel in a mechanical, dreamy way. She dragged 
 he Httle trotting child almost roughly after her. 
 Christian Vellacott stood at the low cabin door. 
 ie was in the dress of a Probationer of the Society 
 )f Jesus, which he had assumed at the request, 
 lesitatingly made, of Rene Drucquer, and for the 
 rery practical reason that he had nothing else to 
 vear except a torn dress-coat and Hoel Grail's 
 5unday garments. 
 
 " Bless me, mon pere," lisped the little one, 
 topping in front of him. 
 
 " Much good will a blessing of mine do you, 
 ittle one," he muttered in English. Nevertheless, 
 ae lifted the child up and kissed her rosy cheek. 
 ie kept her by his side, letting the mother go to 
 ler dead husband alone. 
 
 When the woman came from the cabin half-an- 
 lour later, hard-faced, and with dry, stony eyes, 
 he found the child sitting on Christian's knee, 
 prattling away in broken French. Tears came to 
 her aching eyes at the sight of the happy, father- 
 ess child ; the hard Breton heart was touched 
 at last. 
 
 The Abbe's instructions were to keep his prisoner 
 onfined under lock and key in the cabin until 
 nightfall, when he was to be removed inland in a 
 carriage under the surveillance of two lay-brethren. 
 Christian, however, never for a moment doubted 
 lis ability to escape when he wished to do so, 
 and acting upon this conviction he volunteered a 
 promise not to attempt evasion. Dressed as he 
 
232 THE SLAVE OF THE LAMP. 
 
 was, in the garments of a probationer, there was 
 no necessity of awaiting nightfall, as there was 
 nothing unusual about him to attract attention. 
 Accordingly the departure from the Deux Freres 
 was fixed for midday. In the meantime the young 
 Englishman found himself the object of unre- 
 mitting attention on the part of two smooth-faced 
 individuals who looked like domestic servants. 
 These two men had come on board at the same 
 moment that the Abbe stepped ashore, and Chris- 
 tian noticed that no word of greeting or recogni- 
 tion passed between them and Rene Drucquer. 
 This was to him a further proof of the minuteness 
 of organisation which has characterised the Order 
 since Ignatius Loyola wrote down his wonderful 
 " Constitutions," in which no trifle was too small 
 to be unworthy of attention, no petty dramatic 
 effect devoid of significance. Each man appeared 
 to have received his instructions separately, and 
 with no regard to those of his companion. 
 
 In the meantime, however, the journalist had 
 not been wasting his time. Although he still 
 looked upon the Avholc affair as a very good farce, 
 he had not forgotten the fact that his absence 
 must necessarily have been causing endless anxiety 
 in England. During the long night of wakefulness 
 he had turned over in his mind every possible 
 event at St. Mary Western since his sudden dis- 
 appearance. Again and again he found himself 
 wondering how they would all take it, and his 
 conclusions were remarkably near to the truth. 
 
 h 
 
TRUE TO HIS CLOTH. 233 
 
 ie guessed that Mr. Bodery would, sooner or 
 ater, be called in to give his opinion, and he 
 lincerely hoped that the course taken would be 
 he waiting tactics which had actually been pro- 
 Dosed by the editor of the Beacon. 
 
 In this hope he determined to communicate 
 vith Sidney Carew, and having possessed himself 
 )f a blank Customs Declaration Form, he pre- 
 ceded to write a letter upon the reverse side of 
 t. In this he told his friend to have no anxiety, 
 md, above all, to institute no manner of search, 
 )ecause he would return to England as soon as 
 lis investigations were complete. The letter was 
 vritten in guarded language, because Christian had 
 rrived at the conclusion that the only means he 
 lad of despatching it was through the hands of 
 ilene Drucquer. The crew of the Deux Freres 
 YQXQ not now allowed to speak with him. He 
 )ossessed no money, and it would have been folly 
 attempt posting an unstamped letter addressed 
 England in a little place like Audierne. 
 
 Accordingly, as they were preparing to leave the 
 essel (the care of poor Loic having been handed 
 »ver to the village cure). Christian boldly tendered 
 lis request. 
 
 "No, my friend, I cannot do it," replied the 
 Ibbe promptly. 
 
 "Read it yourself," urged Christian. "No harm 
 an possibly come of it. My friend will do exactly 
 .s I tell him. In fact, it will be to your benefit that 
 t should go." 
 
234 THE SLAVE OF THE LAMP. 
 
 Still the Jesuit shook his head. Suddenly, hoAV- 
 ever, in the midst of an argument on the part of the 
 Englishman, he gave in and took the letter. 
 
 " Give it to me," he said ; " I Avill risk it." 
 
 Christian watched him place the letter within 
 the breast of his '' soutane," unread. The two lay- 
 brethren were noting every movement. 
 
 Presently the priest removed his broad-brimmed 
 hat and passed through the little doorway into th^ 
 dimly lighted cabin where the dead sailor lay. H( 
 left the door ajar. After glancing at the dead man'," 
 still face he fell upon his knees by the side of th( 
 low bunk, and remained with bowed head for somt 
 moments. At last he rose to his feet and took th« 
 Englishman's letter from his breast. The envelop 
 was unclosed, and with smooth, deliberate touch h 
 opened the letter and read it by the light of th 
 candle at the dead man's head, of which the ray 
 were to illuminate the wandering soul upon it 
 tortuous way. The priest read each word slowl 
 and carefully, for his knowledge of English wa 
 limited. Then he stood for some seconds motionles; 
 with arms hanging straight, staring at the flame c 
 the candle with weary, wondering eyes. At last h 
 raised his hand and held the flimsy paper in th 
 flame of the candle till it was all burnt away. Th 
 charred remains fluttered to the ground, and on 
 wavering flake of carbonised paper sank gently upo 
 the dead man's throat, laid bare by the hand of h: 
 frenzied wife. 
 
 " He said that I was not a Jesuit," murmured th 
 
TRUE TO HIS CLOTH. 235 
 
 Driest, as he burnt the envelope, and across his pale 
 'ace there flitted an unearthly smile. 
 
 Scarcely had the thin smoke mingled with the 
 ncense-laden air when Christian pushed open the 
 loor. The two men looked their last upon the rigid 
 ■ace dimly illuminated by the light of the wavering 
 3andles, and then turned to leave the ship. 
 
 The carriage was waiting for them on the quay, 
 md Christian noticed that the two men who had 
 3een watching him since his arrival at Audierne 
 svere on the box. Rene Drucquer and himself were 
 nvited to enter the roomy vehicle, and by the way 
 n which the door shut he divined that it was locked 
 by a spring. 
 
 At the village post-oflice the carriage stopped, and, 
 )ne of the servants having opened the door, the 
 Driest descended and passed into the little bureau. 
 He said nothing about the letter addressed to Sidney 
 Oarew, but Christian took for granted that it would 
 DC posted. Instead of this, however, the priest wrote 
 I telegram announcing the arrival of the Deux Freres, 
 which he addressed to " Morel et Fils, Merchants, 
 Quimper." 
 
 " Hoel Grail asked me to despatch this," he said 
 :][uietly, as he handed the paper to the old post- 
 DQaster. 
 
 After this short halt the carriage made its way 
 rapidly inland. Thus they travelled through the 
 fair Breton country together, these two strangely 
 contrasting men brought together by a chain of 
 circumstances of which the links were the merest 
 
236 THE SLAVE OF THE LAMP, | 
 
 coincidences. Christian Vellacott did not appear to 
 chafe against his continement. He took absokitely 
 no notice of the two men whose duty it was to watch 
 his every movement. The spirit of adventure, which 
 is not quite educated out of us Englishmen yet, was 
 very strong in him, and the rapid movement through 
 an unknown Lmd to an unknown goal was not 
 without its healthy fascination. He lay back in the 
 comfortable carriage and sleepily watched the flying 
 landscape. Withal he noticed by the position of the k 
 sun the direction in which he was being taken, and 
 despite many turns and twists he kept his bearings 
 fairly well. The carriage had left the high road soon 
 after crossing the bridge above Audierne, and was 
 now going somewhat heavily over inferior thorough- 
 fares. 
 
 S The sun had set before Vellacott awoke to find 
 that they were still lumbering on. He had, of 
 course, lost all bearing now, but he soon found that 
 they had been journeying eastward since leaving 
 the coast. 
 
 A halt was made for refreshment at a small hill- 
 side village which appeared to be mainly inhabited 
 by women, for the men were all sailors. The 
 accommodation was of the poorest, but bread waS' 
 procurable, and eggs, meat being an unknown luxury 
 in the community. 
 
 In the lowering light they journeyed on again, 
 sometimes on the broad post-road, sometimes through 
 cool and sombre forests. Many times when Chris- 
 tian spoke kindly, or performed some little act of 
 
TRUE TO HIS CLOTH. 237 
 
 consideration, the poor Abbe was on the point of 
 disclosing his own treason. Before his eyes was 
 the vision of that little cabm. He saw again the 
 dancing flame of the paper in his hand, throwing 
 its moving light upon the marble features of that 
 silent witness as the charred fragments fluttered 
 past the still face to the ground. But as the stone 
 is worn by the dropping water, so at last is man's 
 better nature overcome by persistent undermining 
 when the work is carried out by men chosen as 
 possessing "a mind self-possessed and tranquil, 
 delicate in its perceptions, sure in its intuitions, and 
 capable of a wide comprehension of various subjects." 
 What youthful nature could be strong enough to 
 resist the cunning pressure of influences wielded 
 thus ? So Rene Drucquer carried the secret in his 
 heart until circumstances rendered it unimportant. 
 
 Man is, after all, only fallible, and those to whom 
 is given the privilege of accepting or refusing can- 
 didates for admission to the great Society of Jesus 
 had made a fatal error in taking Rene Drucquer. 
 Never was a man more unfitted to do his duty in 
 that station of life in which he was placed. His 
 religious enthusiasm stopped short of fanaticism ; 
 his pliability would not bend so low as duplicity. 
 All this the young journalist learnt as he penetrated 
 further into the sensitive depths of his companion's 
 gentle temperament. The priest was of those men 
 to whom love and brotherly aftection are as neces- 
 sary as the air they breathe. His wavering instincts 
 were capable of being hardened into convictions; 
 
 I 
 
238 THE SLAVE OF THE LAMP. 
 
 
 his natural gifts (and they were many) could be 
 raised into talents ; his life, in fact, could have been 
 made a success by one influence— the love of a 
 woman— the one influence that was forbidden: the| 
 sino-le human acquirement that must for ever be 
 beyond the priest's reach. This Christian Vellacott 
 felt in a vague, uncertain way. He did not know 
 very much about love and its influence upon a man's | 
 character, these questions never having come under j 
 his journalistic field of inquiry; but he had lately! 
 begun to wonder whether man's life was given to 
 him to be influenced by no other thoughts than 
 those in his own brain— whether there is not in our 
 existence a completing area in the development oV 
 
 Looking at the matter from his own personal^ 
 point of°view— from whence even the best of us 
 look upon most things— he was of the opinion that 
 love stands in the path of the majority of men. 
 This had been his view of the matter for many 
 years ; probably it was the reflection of his father's 
 cynically outspoken opinion, and a well-grown idea 
 is hard to uproot. 
 
 Broup-ht up, as he had been, by a pleasure- seek- 
 ing ancf somewhat cynical man, and passing from 
 his care into the busy and practical journalistic 
 world, it was only natural that he should have 
 acquired a certain hardness of judgment which 
 though useful in the world, is not an amiabU 
 quality. He now felt the presence of a dawning 
 charity towards the actions of his fellow-men. i 
 
TRUE TO HIS CLOTH. 239 
 
 month earlier he would have despised Rene Drucquer 
 as a weak and incapable man ; now there was in his 
 heart only pity for the young priest. 
 
 Soon after darkness had settled over the country 
 the carriage descended into a deep and narrow 
 valley through which ran a rapid river of no great 
 breadth. Here the driver stopped, and the two 
 travellers descended from the vehicle. The priest 
 exchanged a few words in a low voice with one of 
 the servants who had leapt down from the box, 
 and then turning to Vellacott he said in a curt 
 manner — 
 
 " Follow me, please." 
 
 The Englishman obeyed, and leaving the road 
 they turned along a broad pathway running at the 
 side of the water. Christian noticed that they were 
 going up-stream. Presently they reached a cottage, 
 and a woman came from the open doorway at 
 their approach. Without any greeting or word of 
 welcome she led the way down some wooden steps 
 to the ferry-boat. As she rowed them across, the 
 journalist took note of everything in his quick, keen 
 way. The depth of the water, rapidity of current, 
 and even the fact that the boat woman was not 
 paid for her services. 
 
 "Are we near our destination?" he asked in 
 English when he saw this. 
 
 " We have five minutes more," replied the priest 
 in the same language. 
 
 On landing, they followed another small path for 
 some distance, down-stream. It was a quiet moss- 
 
240 THE SLAVE OF THE LAMP. 
 
 grown path, with poplar trees on either side, and 
 appeared to be Httle used. Suddenly the young- 
 priest stopped. There was the trunk of an elm- j 
 tree lying on the inside of the path, evidently cut 
 for the purpose of making a rough seat. 
 
 " Let us sit here a few minutes," said Rene. 
 
 Christian obeyed. He sat forward and stretched 
 his long legs out. 
 
 " I am aching all over," he said impatiently ; " I 
 wonder what it means ! " 
 
 The priest ignored the remark entirely. 
 
 "My friend," he said presently, "a few minutes 
 more and my care of you ceases. This journey 
 ^\ill be over. For me it has been very eventful. 
 In these few days I have learnt more than I did 
 during all the long years of my education, and 
 w^hat I have learnt will never be forgotten. With- 
 out breathing one word of religion you have taught 
 me to respect yours; without uttering a single 
 complaint you have made me think with horror 
 and shame of the part I have played in this afiair. 
 I dare . . . scarcely hope that one day you will 
 forgive me ! " 
 
 Christian raised his hand slowly to his forehead. 
 The gleam of the sleek, smooth water flowing past 
 his feet made him giddy. He wondered vaguely 
 if the strange, dull feeling that was creeping over 
 his senses was the result of extreme fatigue. 
 
 "You speak as if we were never going to meet 
 again," he said dreamily. 
 
 The priest did not answer for some moments. 
 
TRUE TO HIS CLOTH. 241 
 
 His slim hands were tightly clasped upon his 
 knees. 
 
 " It is probable," he said at length, " that such 
 will be the case. If our friendship is discovered 
 it is certain ! " 
 
 "Then our friendship must not be discovered," 
 said the practical Englishman. 
 
 " But, my friend, that would be deceit — duplicity ! " 
 
 " A little duplicity, more or less, cannot matter 
 much," replied Christian, in a harder voice. 
 
 The priest looked up sharply, half fearing that 
 his own treachery in the matter of the letter was 
 suspected. But his companion remained silent, and 
 the darkness prevented the expression of his face 
 from being- seen. 
 
 "And," continued the Englishman, after a long 
 pause, " I am to be left here ? " 
 
 There was a peculiar ring of weary indifference 
 in his tone, as if it mattered little where he was left. 
 The priest noticed it and remembered it later. 
 
 " I know nothing, my friend. I have but to 
 obey my orders." 
 
 " And close your mind against thought ? " 
 
 " I cannot prevent the thoughts from coming into 
 my mind," replied the priest gently, "but I can 
 keep them prisoners, when they have entered." 
 
 He rose suddenly, and led the way along the 
 river bank. Had Christian's manner been more 
 encouraging he would have told him then and 
 there iibout the letter. 
 
 As they passed along the narrow footpath, the 
 
242 THE SLAVE OF THE LAMP. 
 
 dim form of a mean rose from behind the log of 
 wood upon which they had been sitting. It was 
 one of the lay brethren who had accompanied 
 them from Audierne. Contrary to Rene Drucquer's 
 whispered instructions, he had followed them after 
 quitting the carriage, and had crept up behind 
 the poplars unheard and unsuspected. He came, 
 however, too late. Unconsciously, Christian had 
 saved his companion. 
 
 
CHAPTER XXII 
 
 GREEK AND GREEK 
 
 When they had walked about a hundred yards 
 farther on, the footpath was brought to a sudden 
 termination by a house built across it to the 
 water's edge. In this lay the explanation of its 
 scanty use and luxuriant growth of moss. 
 
 It was not a dark night, and without difficulty 
 the priest found the handle of a bell, of which, 
 however, no sound reached their ears. The door, 
 cut deep in the stone, was opened after a short 
 delay by a lay brother who showed no signs of 
 rigid fasting. Again Christian noticed that no 
 greeting was exchanged, no word of explanation 
 offered or expected. The lay brother led the way 
 along a dimly lighted corridor, in which there 
 were doors upon each side at regular intervals. 
 There was a chill and stony feeling in the atmos- 
 phere. 
 
 At the end of the corridor a gleam oiP light shone 
 through a half-open door upon the bare stone 
 floor. Into this cell Christian was shown. With- 
 out even noticing whether the priest followed him 
 or not, he entered the tiny room and threw himself 
 wearily upon the bed. Although it was an intensely 
 
 243 
 
1 
 
 244 THE SLAVE OF THE LAMP. 
 
 hot night he shivered a little, and as he lay he 
 clasped his head with either hand. His eyes Avere 
 dull and lifeless, and the colour had entirely left 
 his cheeks, though his lips were red and moist. 
 He took no notice of his surroundings, which, 
 though simple and somewhat bare, were not devoid 
 of comfort. 
 
 In the meantime, Rene Drucquer had followed 
 the door-keeper up a broad flight of stairs to a 
 second corridor which was identical with that 
 below, except that a room took the place of this 
 small entrance-lobby and broad door. Thus the 
 windows of this room were immediately above the 
 river, which rendered them entirely free from over- 
 lookers, as the land on the opposite side was low 
 and devoid of trees. 
 
 The lay brother stopped in front of the door of 
 this apartment, and allowed the young priest to 
 pass him and knock at the door with his own 
 hands. The response from within was uttered in 
 such a low tone that if he had not been listening 
 most attentively Rene would not have heard it. 
 He opened the door, which creaked a little on its 
 hinges, and passed into the room alone. 
 
 In front of him a man dressed in a black soutane 
 was seated at a table placed before the window. The 
 only lamp in the room, which was long and narrow, 
 stood on the table before him, so that the hght of 
 it was reflected from his sleek black head disfigured 
 by a tiny tonsure. As Rene Drucquer advanced 
 up the room, the occupant raised his head slightly, 
 
GREEK AND GREEK. 245 
 
 but made no attempt to turn round. With a 
 quick, unobtrusive movement of his large white 
 hand he moved the papers on the table before him, 
 so that no written matter remained exposed to 
 view. Upon the table were several books, and on 
 the right-hand side of the plain inkstand stood a 
 beautifully carved stone crucifix, while upon the 
 left there was a small mirror no larger than a 
 carte-de-visite. This was placed at a slight angle 
 upon a tiny wire easel, and by raising his eyes any 
 person seated at the table could at once see what 
 was passing in the room behind him — the entire 
 apartment, including the door, being reflected in 
 the mirror. 
 
 Though seated, the occupant of this peculiarly 
 constructed room was evidently tall. His shoulders, 
 though narrow, w^ere very square, and in any other 
 garment than a thin soutane his slightness of build 
 w^ould scarcely have been noticeable. His head 
 w^as of singular and remarkable shape. Very narrow 
 from temple to temple, it was quite level from the 
 summit of the high forehead to the spot where 
 the tonsure gleamed whitely, and the length of 
 the skull from front to back w^as abnormal. The 
 dullest observer could not have failed to recognise 
 that there was something extraordinary in ,such a 
 head, either for good or evil. 
 
 The Abbe Drucquer advanced across the bare 
 stone floor, and took his stand at the left side of 
 the table, . Avithin a yard of his Provincial's elbow\ 
 
 Before taking any notice of him, the Provincial 
 
 i2 
 
246 THE SLAVE OF THE LAMP. 
 
 opened ;i thick book bound in dark morocco leather, 
 of which the leaves were of white unruled paper, 
 interleaved, like a diary, with blotting-paper. The 
 pages were numbered, although there was, appar- 
 ently, no index attached to the volume. After a 
 moment's thought, the tall man turned to a certain 
 folio which was partially covered by a fine hand- 
 writing in short paragraphs. Then for the first 
 time he looked up. 
 
 "Good evening," he said, in full melodious voice. 
 As he raised his face the light of the lamp fell 
 directly upon it. There was evidently no desire to 
 conceal any passing expression by the stale old 
 method of a shaded lamp. The face was worthy 
 of the head. Clean-cut, calm, and dignified ; it 
 was singularly fascinating, not only by reason of 
 its beauty, which was undeniable, but owing to the 
 calm, almost superhuman power that lay in the 
 gaze of the velvety eyes. There was no keenness of 
 expression, no quickness of glance, and no seeking 
 after effect by mobility of lash or lid. When he 
 raised his eyes, the lower lid was elevated simul- 
 taneously, which peculiarity, concealing the white 
 around the pupil, imparted an uncomfortable sense 
 of inscrutability. There was no expression beyond 
 a vague sense of velvety depth, such as is felt upon 
 gazing for some space of time down a deep well. 
 
 " Good evening," replied Rene Drucquer, meeting 
 with some hesitation the slow, kindly glance. 
 
 The Provincial leant forward and took from the 
 tray of the inkstand a quill pen. With the point 
 
GREEK AND GREEK. 247 
 
 of it he followed the lines written in the book 
 before him. 
 
 " I understand," he said, in a modulated and 
 business-like tone, " that you have been entirely 
 successful ? " 
 
 " I believe so." 
 
 The Provincial turned his head slightly, as if 
 about to raise his eyes once more to the young 
 priest's face, but after remaining a moment in the 
 same position with slightly parted lips and the pen 
 poised above the book, he returned to the Avritten 
 notes. 
 
 " You left," he continued, " on Monday week last. 
 On the Wednesday evening you . . . carried out 
 the instructions given to you. This morning jou 
 arrived at Audierne, and came into the harbour 
 at daybreak. Your part has been satisfactorily 
 performed. You have brought your prisoner with 
 all expedition. So — " here the Provincial raised 
 the pen from ihe book with a jerk of his wrist 
 and shrugged his shoulders almost imperceptibly, 
 " so — you have been entirely successful ? " 
 
 Although there was a distinct intention of inter- 
 rogation in the tone in which this last satisfactory 
 statement was made, the young priest stood motion- 
 less and silent. After a pause, the other continued 
 in the same kind, even voice : 
 
 " What has not been satisfactory to you, my son ? " 
 
 " The ' patron ' of the boat, Loic Plufer, was 
 killed by the breaking of a rope, before we were 
 out of sight of the English coast." 
 
248 THE SLAVE OF THE LAMP. 
 
 " Ah ! I am sorry. Had you time — were yon 
 enabled to administer to him the Holy Rites ? " 
 
 " No, my father. He was killed at one bloAv." 
 
 The Provincial laid aside his pen and leant back. 
 His soft eyes rested steadily on the book in front 
 of him. 
 
 " Did the accident have any evil effect upon the 
 crew ! " he asked indifferently. 
 
 " I think not," was the reply. " I endeavoured 
 to prevent such effect arising, and — and in this the 
 Englishman helped me greatly." 
 
 Without moving a muscle the Provincial turned 
 his eyes towards the young priest. He did not 
 look up into his face, but appeared to be watching 
 his slim hands, which were moving nervously upon 
 the surface of his black soutane. 
 
 "My son," he said smoothly. 'As you know, I 
 am a great advocate for frankness. Frankness in 
 word and thought, in subordinate and superior. I 
 have always been frank with you, and from you I 
 expect similar treatment. It appears to me that 
 there is still something unsatisfactory respecting 
 your successfully executed mission. It is in con- 
 nection with this Englishman. Is it not so ? " 
 
 Rene Drucquer moved a little, changing his atti- 
 tude and clasping his hands one over the other. 
 
 " He is not such as I expected," he replied after 
 a pause. • 
 
 " No," said the Provincial meditatively. " They 
 are a strange race. Some of them are strong — 
 very strong indeed. But most of them are foolish ; 
 
GREEK AND GREEK. 249 
 
 and singularly self-satisfied. He is intelligent, this 
 one ; is it not so ? " 
 
 " Yes, I think he is very intelligent." 
 
 " Was he violent or abusive ? " 
 
 " No ; he was calm and almost indifferent." 
 
 For some moments the Provincial thought deeply. 
 Then he waved his hand in the direction of a chair 
 which stood with its back towards the window at 
 the end of the table. 
 
 " Take a seat, my son," he said, " I have yet many 
 questions to ask you. I am afraid I forgot that you 
 might be tired." 
 
 " Now tell me," he continued, when Rene had 
 seated himself, '' do you think this indifference 
 was assumed by way of disarming suspicion and 
 for the purpose of effecting a speedy escape ? " 
 
 "No!" 
 
 " Did you converse together to any extent ? " 
 
 '• We were naturally thrown together a great 
 deal ; especially after the death of the ' patron.' 
 He was of great assistance to me and to Hoel 
 Grail, the second in command, by reason of his 
 knowledge of seamanship." 
 
 " Ah ! He is expert in such matters ? " 
 
 " Yes, my father." 
 
 A further note was here added to the partially- 
 filled page of the manuscript book. 
 
 " Of what subjects did he speak ? Of religion, 
 our Order, politics, himself and his captivity ? " 
 
 " Of none of those." 
 
 The Provincial leant back suddenly in his chair, 
 
250 THE SLAVE OF THE LAMP. 
 
 and for some minutes complete silence reigned in 
 the room. He was evidently thinking deeply, and 
 his eyes were fixed upon the open book with in- 
 scrutable immobility. Once he glanced slowly to- 
 wards Rene Drucquer, who sat with downcast eyes 
 and interlocked fingers. Then he pressed back his 
 elbows and inhaled a deep breath, as if weary of 
 sitting in one position. 
 
 " I have met Englishmen," he said speculatively, 
 " of a type similar — I think — to this man. They 
 never spoke of religion, of themselves or of their 
 own opinion ; and yet they were not silent men. 
 Upon most subjects they could converse intelli- 
 gently, and upon some with brilliancy ; but these 
 subjects were invariably treated in a strictly general 
 sense. Such men never argue, and never appear 
 to be highly interested in that of which they 
 happen to be speaking. . . . They make excellent 
 listeners. ..." Here the speaker stopped for a 
 moment and passed his long hand downwards across 
 his eyes as if the light were troubling his sight ; 
 in doing so he glanced again towards the Abbe's 
 fingers, which were now quite motionless, the 
 knuckles gleaming like ivory. 
 
 "... And one never knoAvs quite how much 
 they remember and how much they forget. Per- 
 haps it is that they hear everything . . . and forget 
 nothing. Is our friend of this type, my son ? " 
 
 ''I think he is." 
 
 " It is such men as he who have made that 
 little island what it is. They are difficult subjects ; 
 
GREEK AND GREEK. 251 
 
 but they are liable to sacrifice their opportunities 
 to a mistaken creed they call honour, and therefore 
 they are not such dangerous enemies as they other- 
 wise might have been." 
 
 The Provincial said these words in a lighter 
 manner, almost amounting to pleasantry, and did 
 not appear to notice that the priest moved uneasily 
 in his seat. 
 
 " Then," he continued, " you have learnt nothing 
 of importance during the few days you have passed 
 with him ? " 
 
 " Nothing, my father." 
 
 " Did he make any attempt to communicate with 
 his friends ? " 
 
 " He wrote a letter which he requested me to post." 
 
 The Provincial leant forward in his chair and 
 took a pen in his right hand, while he extended 
 his left across the table towards his companion. 
 
 " I burnt it," said Rene gently. 
 
 " Ah ! That is a pity. Why did you do that ? " 
 
 " I had discretion ! " replied the young priest, 
 with quiet determination. 
 
 The Provincial examined the point of his pen 
 critically, his perfectly formed lips slightly apart. 
 
 " Yes," he murmured reflectively. " Yes, of 
 course, you had discretion. What was in the 
 letter ? " 
 
 " A few words in English, telling his friends to 
 have no anxiety, and asking them particularly to 
 institute no search, as he would return home as 
 soon as he desired to do so." 
 
252 THE SLAVE OF THE LAMP. 
 
 "Ah! He said that, did he? And the letter 
 was addressed to " 
 
 "Mr. Carew." 
 
 " Thank you." 
 
 The Provincial made another note in the manu- 
 script book. Then he read the whole page over 
 carefully and critically. His attitude was like that, 
 of a physician about to pronounce a diagnosis, 
 
 "And," he said reflectively, without looking up, 
 "was there nothing noticeable about him in any 
 way ? Nothing characteristic of the man, I mean, 
 and peculiar. How Avould you describe him, in fact ? " 
 
 " I should say," replied Eene Drucquer, " that 
 his chief characteristic is energy; but for some 
 reason, during these last tAvo days this seems to 
 have slowly evaporated. His resistance on Wednes- 
 day night was very energetic — he dislocated my 
 arm, and reset it later — and when the vessel was 
 in danger he was full of life. Later this peculiar 
 indifference of manner came over him, and hour 
 by hour it has increased in power. It almost 
 seems as if he were anxious to keep away from 
 England just now." 
 
 The Provincial raised his long white finger to 
 his upper lip. It was the action of a man who is 
 in the habit of tugging gently at his moustache 
 when in thought, and one would almost have said 
 that the smooth-faced priest had at no very distant 
 period worn that manly ornament. His finger 
 passed over the shaded skin with a disagreeable, 
 rasping sound. 
 
GREEK AND GREEK. 253 
 
 " That does not sound very likely," he siiid slowly. 
 " Have you any tangible reason to offer in support 
 of this theory ? " 
 
 " No, my father. But the idea came to me, and 
 so I mention it. It seemed as if this desire came 
 to him upon reflection, after the ship was out of 
 danger, and the indifference was contemporaneous 
 with it." 
 
 The Provincial suddenly closed the book and laid 
 aside his pen. 
 
 " Thank you, my son ! " he said, in smooth, heart- 
 less tones, " I will not trouble you any more to- 
 night. You will need food and rest. Good night, 
 my son. You have done well ! " 
 
 Rene Drucquer rose and gravely passed down the 
 long room. Before he reached the door, however, 
 the clear voice of his superior caused him to pause 
 for a moment. 
 
 "As you go down to the refectory," he said, 
 " kindly make a request that Mr. Vellacott be sent 
 to me as soon as he is refreshed. I do not want 
 3^ou to see him before I do ! " 
 
 When the door had closed behind Rene Drucquer 
 the Provincial rose from his seat and slowly paced 
 backAvards and forwards from the door to the table. 
 Presently he drew aside the curtain which hid a small 
 recess near the door, where a simple bed and a small 
 table Avere concealed. With a brush he smoothed 
 back his sleek hair, and, dipping the ends of his 
 fingers into a basin of w^ater, he wiped them carefully. 
 Thus he prepared to receive Christian Vellacott. 
 
254 THE SLAVE OF THE LAMP. 
 
 He returned to his chair and seated himself 
 somewhat wearily. Although there were but few ^ 
 papers on the table, he had three hours' hard work 1 
 before him yet. He leant back, and again that 
 sino-ular gesture, as if to stroke a moustache that 
 was not there, was noticeable. 
 
 "I have a dull presentiment," he muttered re- 
 flectively, "that we have made a mistake here. 
 We have gone about it in the wrong way, and if 
 there is biame to be attached to any one, Talma 
 is the man. That temper of his is fatal ! " 
 
 After a pause he heaved a weary sigh, and 
 stretched his long arms out on either side, enjoy- 
 ing a free and open yawn. 
 
 " Ah me 1 " he sighed, " what an uphill fight this 
 has become, and day by day it grows harder. Day 
 by day we lose power : one hold after another slips 
 from our grasp. Perhaps it means that this vast 
 organisation is effete— perhaps, after all, we are 
 dying of inanition, and yet— yet it should not be, 
 for we have the people still. ... Ah ! I hear 
 footsteps. This is our journalistie friend, no doubt. 
 I think he will prove interesting." 
 
 A moment later some one knocked softly at the 
 door. There was a shght shuffling of feet, and 
 Christian Vellacott entered the room alone. There 
 was a pecuhar dull expression in his eyes, as if 
 he were suffering pain, mental or physical. After 
 glancing at the mirror, the Provincial rose and 
 bowed formally with his hand upon the back of 
 his chair. As the Englishman came forward the 
 
GREEK AND GREEK. 255 
 
 Jesuit glanced at his face, and with a polite motion 
 of the hand he said : 
 
 " Sir, take the trouble of seating yourself," 
 speaking in French at once, with no apology, as if 
 well aware that his companion knew that language 
 as perfectly as his own. 
 
 " Thank you," replied Christian. He drew the 
 chair slightly forward as he seated himself, and 
 fixed his eyes upon the Jesuit's face. Through 
 the entire interview he never removed his gaze, 
 and he noticed that until the last words were 
 spoken those soft, deep eyes were never raised 
 to his. 
 
 " I suppose," said the Jesuit at length, almost 
 humbly, " that w^e are irreconcilable enemies, Mr. 
 Vellacott ? " 
 
 The manner in which this was spoken did not 
 bear the slightest resemblance to the cold superiority 
 with which Rene Drucquer had been treated. 
 
 The Englishman sat with one lean hand resting 
 on the table and , watched. He knew that some 
 reply was expected, but in face of that knoAvledge 
 le chose to remain silent. It was a case of Greek 
 oaeeting Greek. The inscrutable Provincial had met 
 I foeman worthy of his steel at last. His strange 
 nagnetic influence threw itself vainly against a 
 fv^ill as firm as his own, and he felt that his in- 
 jidental effects, dramatic and conversational, fell 
 lat. Instantly he became interested in Christian 
 Vellacott. 
 
 "I need hardly remind a man of your discrimi- 
 
256 THE SLAVE OF THE LAMP. 
 
 nation, Mr. Vellacott," he continued tentatively, 
 " that there are two sides to every question." 
 
 The Engiishman smiled and moved slightly in 
 his chair, drawing in his feet and leaning forward. 
 
 "Implying, I presume," he said lightly, "that in 
 this particular question you are on one side and I 
 upon the other." 
 
 " Alas ! it seems so." 
 
 Vellacott leant back in his chair again and crossed 
 his legs. 
 
 "In my turn," he said quietly, "I must remind 
 you, monsieur, that I am a journalist." 
 
 The Provincial raised his eyebrows almost im- 
 perceptibly and waited for his companion to con- 
 tinue. His silence and the momentary motion of 
 his eyebrows, which in no way affected the lids, 
 expressed admirably his failure to see the connec- 
 tion of his companion's remark. 
 
 "Which means," Christian went on to explain, 
 "that my place is not upon either side of the 
 question, but in the middle. I belong to no party, 
 and I am the enemy of no man. I do not lead 
 men's opinions. It is my duty to state facts as 
 plainly and as coldly as possible in order that my 
 countrymen may form their own judgment. It 
 may appear that at one time I write upon one 
 side of the question; the next week I may seemi 
 to write upon the other. That is one of the mis- 
 fortunes of my calHng." 
 
 "Then we are not necessarily enemies," said the 
 
 Jesuit softly. 
 
GREEK AND GREEK. 257 
 
 • No — not necessarily. On the other hand," con- 
 tinued Christian, with daring dcHberation, '' it is 
 not at all necessary that Ave should be friends." 
 
 The Jesuit smiled slightly — so slightly that it 
 was the mere ghost of a smile, affecting the lines 
 of his small mouth, but in no way relieving the 
 soft darkness of his eyes. 
 
 " Then we are enemies," he said. " He whose 
 follower I am, said that all who are not w^ith Him 
 are against Him." 
 
 The Englishman's lips closed suddenly, and a 
 peculiar stony look came over his face. There was 
 one subject upon which he had determined not to 
 converse. 
 
 " I am instructed," continued the Provincial, 
 with a sudden change of manner from pleasant 
 to practical, " to ask of you a written promise 
 never to write one word either for or against the 
 Society of Jesus again. In exchange for that pro- 
 mise I am empowered to tender to you the sincere 
 apologies of the Society for the inconvenience to 
 which you may have been put, and to assist you 
 in every way to return home at once." 
 
 A great silence followed this speech. A small 
 clock suspended somewhere in the room ticked 
 monotonously, otherAvise there was no sound audible. 
 The two men sat within a yard of each other, each 
 thinking of the other in his individual way, from 
 his individual point of vicAV, the Jesuit with doAvn- 
 cast eyes, his companion Avatching his immobile 
 features. 
 
THE SLAVE OF THE LAMP. 
 
 At length Christian Vellacott's full and quiet 
 tones broke the spell. 
 
 " Of course," he said simply, " I refuse." 
 
 The Provincial rose from his seat, pushing it back 
 as he did so. 
 
 " Then I will not detain you any longer. You 
 are no doubt fatigued. The lay brother waiting 
 outside will show you the — room assigned to you, 
 and at whatever time of day or night you may wish 
 to see me, remember that I am at your service." 
 
 Christian rose also. He appeared to hesitate, and 
 then to grasp the table with both hands to assist 
 himself. He stood for a moment, and suddenly 
 tottered forward. Had not the Provincial caught 
 him he would have fallen. 
 
 " My head turns," he mumbled incoherently. 
 " What is the matter ? . . . what is the matter ? " 
 
 The Jesuit slipped his arm round him — a slight 
 arm, but as hard and strong as steel. 
 
 " You are tired," he said sympathetically ; " per- 
 haps you have a little touch of fever. Come, I 
 will assist you to your room." 
 
 And the two men passed out together. 
 
CHAPTER XXIII 
 
 STRICKEN DOWN 
 
 In later days Christian Vellacott could bring back 
 to his memory no distinct recollection of that first 
 night spent in the monastery. There was an in- 
 definite remembrance of the steady, monotonous 
 clang of a bell m the first hours, doubtless the 
 tolling of the matins, calling the elect to prayer at 
 midnight. 
 
 After that he must have fallen into a deep, 
 lethargic sleep, for he never heard the distant strains 
 of the organ and the melodious chanting of gruff 
 voices. The strange, unquiet melody hovered over 
 him in the little cell, following him as he glided 
 away from earth upon the blessed wings of sleep, 
 and haunted his restless dreams. 
 
 The monks were early astir next morning, for 
 the sweet smell of drying hay filled the air, and the 
 second crop of the fruitful earth lay waiting to be 
 stacked. With tucked-up goAvns and bared arms 
 the sturdy devotees worked with rake and pitch- 
 fork. No whispered word passed between them ; 
 none raised his head to look around upon the 
 smiling landscape or search in the cloudless sky 
 for the tiny lark whose morning hymn rippled 
 
 259 
 
260 THE vSLAVE OF THE LAMP. 
 
 down to them. Each worked on m silence, tossing 
 the scented hay, his mind being no doubt filled 
 with thoughts above all earthly things. 
 
 Near at hand lay a carefully-kept vegetable 
 garden of large dimensions. Here grew in pro- 
 fusion all nourishing roots and herbs, but there was 
 no sign of more luscious fruits. Small birds hopped 
 and fluttered here and there unheeded and un- 
 molested, calling to each other joyously, and the 
 warming air was alive with the hum of tinier wings. 
 
 In the midst of this walked man — the lord of 
 all — humbly, silently, with bowed head and un- 
 admiring eyes — man whose life was vouchsafed for 
 the enjoyment of all these things. 
 
 A little square patch of sunlight lay on the stone 
 floor of the small cell allotted to Christian Yellacott. 
 The thick oak door deadened the sounds of life in 
 the monastery, such as they were, and the strong, 
 laboured breathing of the young Englishman alone 
 broke the chill silence. 
 
 Christian lay, all dressed, on the narrow bed. 
 His eyes were half closed, and the ruddy brown 
 of his cheeks had faded into an ashy grey. His 
 clenched hands lay numbly at his side. Through 
 his open, swollen lips meaningless words came in 
 a hoarse whisper. 
 
 Presently the door opened with a creakhig sound, 
 but the sleeper moved no limb or feature. Rene 
 Drucquer entered the cell and ran quickly to the 
 bedside. Behind, with more dignity and dehbera- 
 tion, followed the sub-prior of the monastery. The 
 
STRICKEN DOWN. 261 
 
 young priest had obtained permission from his 
 Provincial to see Christian Vellacott for a few 
 moments before his hurried departure for India. 
 Thus Rene had received his mission sooner than he 
 had hoped for. The astute and far-seeing Provin- 
 cial had from the beginning intended that Rene 
 Drucquer should be removed from harm's way 
 without delay once his disagreeable mission to St. 
 Mary Western was performed. 
 
 " My father," exclaimed the young priest in alarm, 
 ' he is dying ! " 
 
 The venerable sub-prior bent his head over the 
 bed. He was a tall, spare man, with very sunken 
 cheeks, and a marvellous expression of placid con- 
 tentment in his eyes such as one never finds in the 
 face of a young monk. He was very learned in 
 medicines, and in the administration of such simple 
 herbs as were required to remedy the illnesses 
 within the monastery walls. Perhaps some of his 
 patients died when they might have lived under 
 more skilled treatment, but it is a short and easy 
 tep from life to death within a comfortless cell, 
 and his bony hands were as tender over his sick 
 brethren as those of a woman. 
 
 He felt the Englishman's pulse and w^atched his 
 a.shen face for some moments, touching the clammy 
 Forehead softly, Avhile Rene Drucquer stood by 
 with a great sickening weight of remorse and fear 
 upon his heart. Then the sub-prior knelt stiffly 
 iown, and placed his clean-shaven lips near to 
 Christian's ear. 
 
262 THE SLAVE OF THE LAMP. 
 
 ^' My son," he said, " do you hear me ? " 
 
 Christian breathed less heavily, as if he were 
 listening to some far-off sound, but never moved 
 a feature. Presently he began to murmur inco- 
 herently, and the sub-prior bent his ear to listen. 
 
 " Much good would a blessing of mine do you, 
 Hilda," observed Christian into the reverend ear. 
 The old gentleman raised his cadaverous head and 
 looked somewhat puzzled. Again he listened. 
 
 "Look after Aunt Judy — she cannot last long," 
 murmured the young Englishman in his native 
 tongue, which was unknown to the monk. 
 
 " It is fever," said the sub-prior presently — " one 
 of those terrible fevers which kill men as the cold 
 kills flies!" 
 
 No thouo'ht seemed to enter the monk's mind 
 of possible infection. He knelt upon the cold floor 
 with one bare and bony arm beneath the sick man's 
 head, while the other lay across his breast. He 
 was looking intently into the veiled eyes, inhaling 
 the very breath of the swollen lips. 
 
 " Will he die, my father ? " asked Rene Drucquer 
 in a whisper ; his face was as pale as Vellacott's. 
 
 "He is in the hands of the good God," was the 
 pious answer. The tall monk rose to his feet and 
 stood before the bed thinking. He rubbed his 
 bony hands together slowly. Through the tiny 
 Avindow a shaft of sunlight poured down upon his 
 grizzled head, and showed up relentlessly the 
 deep furrows that ran diagonally down from his 
 check -bone to his chin. 
 
STRICKEN DOWN. 263 
 
 "You must watch here, my son," he contmued, 
 " while I inform the Father-Provincial of this." 
 
 The venerable sub-prior was no Jesuit, and 
 perhaps he would have been just as well pleased 
 had the Provmcial elected to live elsewhere than 
 in the monastery. But the Prior — an old man of 
 ninety, and incapable of work or thought — was 
 completely in the power of the Society. 
 
 When he found himself alone with the English- 
 man, Rene Drucquer sat w^earily upon a small 
 wooden bench, the only form of seat provided, and 
 leant his narrow face upon his hands. 
 
 The prospect that he saw before him as he sat 
 staring vacantly at the floor of the little cell was 
 black enough. He saw no possible outlet, and he 
 had not the courage to force his way through the 
 barriers erected all round him. It must be re- 
 membered that he was a Roman Catholic, and 
 over a sincere disciple of the Mother Church the 
 power of the Jesuits is greater than man should 
 ever be allowed to exercise. The slavery that 
 England fought against so restlessly is nothing to 
 it, for mental bondage is infinitely heavier than 
 physical service. He had determined to accept 
 the Provincial's offer of missionary w^ork in Asia, 
 but the sudden horror of realising that he was a 
 Jesuit, and could never be anything else than a 
 Jesuit for the rest of his days, was fresh upon him. 
 He was too young yet to find consolation in the 
 thought that he at all events could attempt to 
 steer a clear, unsullied course through the shoals 
 
264 THE SLAVE OF THE LAMP. 
 
 and quicksands that surround a priest's existence, 
 and he was too old to buoy himself up with 
 the false hope that he might, despite his Jesuit's 
 oath, do some good work for his Church. His 
 awakening had been rendered more terrible by 
 the brilliancy of the dreams which it had in- 
 terrupted. 
 
 He had not looked upon Christian Vellacott as 
 a victim hitherto, for the bravest receive the least 
 sympathy, and the young Englishman's cool way 
 of treating his reverse of fortune had repelled pity 
 or commiseration. But now all that was changed. 
 Whatever this sickness might prove to be, Rene 
 Drucquer felt that the blame of it lay at his own 
 door. If Christian Vellacott were to die, he, Rene 
 Drucquer, was in the eyes of God a murderer, for 
 he had forcibly brought him to his death. This 
 was an unpleasant reflection for a young devotee 
 whose inward soul was full of human kindness ; 
 and the presence of the strong man who lay 
 gasping for breath upon the narrow, comfortless 
 bed was not reassuring. 
 
 It was only natural that these thoughts, coupled 
 Avith the realisation of the aimlessness of his own 
 existence, should have bred in the young Jesuit's 
 heart a dull fire of antagonism against the man 
 who was in immediate authority over him, and 
 when the Provincial noiselessly entered the cell 
 a few minutes later, he felt a sudden thrill of 
 misgiving at the thought that his feelings were 
 sacred to none — that this man with his deep, 
 
STRICKEN DOWN. 265 
 
 iiscrutable eyes could read the face of his very 
 boul hke an open book. 
 
 In this, Rene Drucquer was right. The Provincial 
 was fully aware of the presence of this spirit of 
 antagonism, and, moreover, he knew that it ex- 
 tended to the taciturn sub-prior who accompanied 
 him. But this knowledge in no way disturbed 
 him. The spirit of antagonism had met him in 
 every turn of life. It Avas so familiar that he had 
 learnt to despise it. Hitherto he had never failed 
 in any undertaking, and he had never been turned 
 aside from the execution of his purpose by the fear 
 of incurring the enmity of men. Such minds as 
 this make their mark in the line of life which 
 they take up, and if they do not happen to win 
 the love of their fellow-beings, they get on remark- 
 ably well without it. 
 
 The Provincial came into the cell with a singular 
 noiselessness of motion. His pale face expressed 
 neither surprise nor annoyance, and his eyes rested 
 upon the form of the sick man with no sign of 
 apprehension. He approached, and with his long 
 white finger touched Christian's wrist. For a few 
 moments he watched the uneasy movements of his 
 dushed face, and then he turned aside, without, 
 bowever, leaving the bedside. Here again there 
 seemed to be no fear or thought of infection. 
 
 The sub-prior stood behind him with clasped 
 hands, while Rene, who had risen from his seat, was 
 Qear at hand. 
 
 " This man, my father," said the Provincial coldly. 
 
266 THE SLAVE OF THE LAMP. 
 
 "must not die. You must take every care, and 
 spare no expense or trouble. If it is necessary 
 you can have doctors from Nantes. I will bear 
 every expense, and I shall be grieved to hear of 
 his death!" 
 
 Then he turned to leave the cell. He was a busy 
 man, and his visit had already lasted nearly three 
 minutes. 
 
 Rene Drucquer stepped forward hurriedly. He 
 was betAveen his superior and the door, so that he 
 was in a position to command attention. 
 
 " My father," he pleaded, " may I nurse him ? " 
 
 The Provincial raised his eyebrows almost imper- 
 ceptibly ; then he waved his hand, commanding the 
 young priest to stand aside. 
 
 " No," he said softly, " you must leave for Nantes 
 in half-an-hour," and he passed out into the noise- 
 less corridor. 
 
CHAPTER XXIV 
 
 BACK TO LIFE 
 
 One mellow autumnal evening, when the sunlight 
 reflected from the white monastery walls upon the 
 fruit-trees climbing there was still warm and full of 
 ripening glow, the Provincial was taking his post- 
 prandial promenade. 
 
 It is, perhaps, needless to observe that he was 
 alone. No one ever walked with the Provincial. 
 No footstep ever crushed the gravel in harmony 
 with his gliding tread. Perhaps, indeed, no one 
 had ever walked with him thus, in the twilight, 
 since a fairy, dancing form had moved in the shadow 
 of his tall person, and footsteps lighter than his 
 own had vainly endeavoured to keep time with his 
 longer limbs. But that was in no monastery garden; 
 and the useful, vegetable-producing enclosure bore 
 little resemblance to the chateau terrace. In those 
 days it may be that there was a gleam of life in 
 the man's deep, velvety eyes — perhaps, indeed, a 
 moustache adorned the short, twisted lip where the 
 white fingers rasped so frequently now. 
 
 The pious monks were busy with their evening 
 meal, and the Provincial was quite alone in the 
 garden. All around him the leaves glowed ruddily 
 
 267 
 
268 THE SLAVE OF THE LAMP. 
 
 in the warm light. Everywhere the fruits of earth 
 were ripe and full with mature beauty ; but the 
 solitary walker noted none of these. He paced 
 backwards and forwards with downcast eyes, turning 
 slowly and indifferently as if it mattered little where 
 he walked. The merry blackbirds in the hay-field ; 
 adjoining the garden called to each other continu- 
 ously, and from a hidden rookery came the voice 
 of the dusky settlers, which is, perhaps, the saddest 
 sound in all nature's harmonies. But the Jesuit 
 resolutely refused to listen. Once, however, he 
 stopped and stood motionless for some seconds, with 
 his head turned slightly to meet the distant cry ; 
 but he never raised his eyes, which were deep and 
 lifeless in their gaze. It may be that there was 
 a rookery near that southern chc\teau, where he 
 once had walked in the solemn evening hour, or 
 perhaps he did not hear that sound at all though 
 his ear was turned towards it. f 
 
 It would be hard indeed to read from the priest's 
 still features the thoughts that might be passing 
 through his powerful brain ; but the strange in- 
 fluence of his being was such as makes itself felt 
 without any spoken word. As he walked there 
 Avith his long hands clasped behind his back, his 
 peculiarly shaped head bent slightly forward, 
 and his perfect lips closely pressed, no one could 
 have looked at him without feeling instinctively 
 that no ordinary mind was busy beneath the tiny 
 tonsure — that no ordinary soul breathed there for 
 weal or woe, seeking after higher things in the 
 
BACK TO LIFE 269 
 
 right way or the wrong. The man's cultivated 
 repose of manner, his evident intellectuahty, and 
 his subtle strength of purpose visible in every 
 glance of his eyes, betrayed that although his life 
 might be passed in the calm retreat of a monastery, 
 his soul was not there. The man was never created 
 to pass his existence in prayerful meditation; his 
 mission was one of strife and contention amidst the 
 strong minds of the age. One felt that he was 
 living in this quiet Breton valley for a purpose ; that 
 from this peaceful spot he was dexterously handling 
 wires that caused puppets — aye, puppets with golden 
 crowns — to dance, and smirk, and bow in the farthest 
 corners of the earth. 
 
 Presently the Jesuit heard footsteps upon the 
 gravel at the far side of the garden, but he did 
 not raise his head. His interest in the trivial 
 incidents of everyday life appeared to be quite 
 dead. 
 
 " Softly, softly ! " said a deep, rough voice, w^hich 
 the Provincial recognised as that of the sub-prior; 
 then he raised his eyes slightly and looked across 
 the garden, without, however, altering his pace. 
 
 He saw there Christian Vellacott walking by 
 |the side of the hard-faced old monk with long, 
 jhesitating strides, like a man who had forgotten 
 how to use his legs. It was exactly six weeks 
 ince the young journalist had passed through 
 ;hat garden with Rene Drucquer, and those weeks 
 lad been to him a strange and not unpleasant 
 iream. It seemed as if the man lying upon that 
 
270 THE SLAVE OF THE LAMP. 
 
 little bed was in no wiiy connected with the wiry, 
 energetic Christian Vellacott of old. As he lay 
 there semi-somnolent and lazily comfortable from 
 sheer weakness, his interest in life was of a specu- 
 lative description, as if he looked on things from 
 afar off. Nothing seemed to matter much. There 
 was an all-pervading sense of restful indifference 
 as to whether it might be night or day, morning, 
 noon, or evening. All responsibility in existence 
 seemed to have left him ; his ready pride of self- 
 dependence had given way to a gentle obedience, 
 and the passage from Avakefulness to sleep was 
 very sweet. 
 
 Through all those dreamy hours he heard the 
 soft rustle of woollen garments and the suppressed 
 shuffle of sandalled feet. Whenever he opened 
 his heavy eyes he discerned vaguely in the dim 
 light a grey, still form seated upon the plain wooden 
 bench at his bedside. Whenever he tried to change 
 his position upon the hard bed and his weary 
 bones refused their function, strong, hard hands 
 were slipped beneath him and kind assistance freely 
 given. As a rule, it was the tall sub-prior who 
 ministered to the sick man, fighting the dread 
 fever with all his simple knowledge ; his hands 
 smoothed oftenest the tossed pillow ; but many 
 clean-shaven, strong, and weary faces were bowed 
 over the bed during those six weeks, for there 
 was a competition for the post of sick-nurse. The 
 monks loved to feel that they Avere performing 
 some tangible good, and not spending their hours 
 
BACK TO LIFE. 271 
 
 over make-believe tasks like a man-of-warsman 
 ill fine weather. 
 
 One frequent visitor, however, Christian Vellacott 
 ' lover saw beneath his lazy lashes. The Provincial 
 never entered that little cell unless he was posi- 
 tively informed that its inmate was asleep. The 
 inscrutable Jesuit seemed almost to be ashamed 
 of the anxiety that he undoubtedly felt respecting 
 the sick man thus thrown upon his hands by a 
 peculiar chain of incidents. He spoke coldly and 
 sarcastically to the sub-prior whenever he con- 
 descended to mention the subject at all; but no 
 day passed in which he failed to pay at least one 
 visit to the little cell at the end of the long, silent 
 corridor. 
 
 " Softly, softly ! " said the old sub-prior, holding 
 out his bony hand to stay his companion's progress, 
 "you are too ambitious, my son." 
 
 Christian laughed in a low, weak voice, and raised 
 his head to look round him. The laugh ceased 
 suddenly as he caught sight of the Provincial, and 
 across the potato-bed the two strong men looked 
 speculatively into each other's eyes in the peaceful 
 twihght. The Jesuit's gaze fell first, and with a 
 dignified bow he moved gently away. 
 
 "I am stronger than I look, my father," said 
 Christian, turning to his companion. Then they 
 walked slowly on, and presently rested upon a 
 wooden bench built against the monastery wall. 
 
 The young Englishman leant back and watched 
 the Provincial, who was pacing backwards and for- 
 
272 THE SLAVE OF THE LAMP. 
 
 wards where they had first seen him. The old 
 monk sat with chxsped hands, and gravely con- 
 templated the gravel beneath his feet. Thus they 
 Avaited together within the high, whitCAvashed walls, 
 while the light faded from the western sky. Three 
 types, as strangely contrasted as the student of 
 human kind could wish to see : the old monk with 
 his placid bloodless face and strong useless arms 
 — a wasted energy, a mere monument to mistaken 
 zeal; and the younger men so Avidely severed by 
 social circumstances, and yet resembling each other 
 somewhat in heart and soul. Each had a strong 
 individuality — each a great and far-reaching vitality. 
 Each was, in his way, a power in the world, as all 
 strong minds are ; for in face of what may be said 
 (and with apparent justice) respecting chance and 
 mere good fortune, good men must come to the 
 top among their fellows. They must — and most 
 assuredly they do. As in olden days the doughtiest 
 knights sought each other in the battlefield to 
 measure steel, so in these later times the ruling 
 intellects of the day meet and clear a circle round 
 them. The Provincial Avas a poAver in the Society 
 of Jesus ; perhaps he was destined one day to be 
 General of it ; and Christian Vellacott had suddenly 
 appeared upon the field of politic strife, heralding 
 his arrival Avith tAvo most deadly bloAvs dealt in 
 masterly succession. From the first they Avere 
 sure to come together, sooner or later; and now, 
 Avhen they Avere separated by nothing more for- 
 midable than a bed of potatoes, they Avere glancing 
 
BACK TO LIFE. 273 
 
 askance and longing to be at each other. But it 
 could not be. Had the sub-prior left the garden 
 it would have made no difterence. It was morally 
 impossible that those tAvo men could speak what 
 they were thinking, for one of them was a Jesuit. 
 
 The Provincial, however, made the first move 
 and the Englishman often wondered in later days 
 what his intention might have been. He walked 
 on to the northern end of the garden, where a few 
 thick-stemmed pear trees were trained against the 
 wall. The fruit was hanging in profusion, for it 
 was not consumed in the monastery but given to 
 the poor at harvest-time. The Provincial selected 
 a brown, ripe pear, and broke it delicately from the 
 tree without allowing his fingers to come in contact 
 with the fruit itself. Then he turned and walked 
 with the same lazy precision towards the two other 
 occupants of the garden. At his approach the sub- 
 prior rose from his seat and stood motionless with 
 clasped hands ; there was a faint suggestion of 
 antagonism in his attitude, which was quite devoid 
 of servility. Christian, however, remained seated, 
 raising his keen grey eyes to the Provincial's face 
 with a quiet self-assertion which the Jesuit ignored. 
 
 "I am glad, Monsieur, to see you restored to 
 health," he said coldly to Christian, meeting his 
 gaze for a moment. 
 
 The Englishman bowed very slightly, and there 
 was a peculiar expressiveness in the action which 
 betrayed his foreign education, but the cool silence 
 with which he waited for the Provincial to speak 
 
274 THE SLAVE OE THE LAMP. 
 
 again was essentially British. The Jesuit moved 
 and glanced slowly beneath his lowered eyelids to- 
 wards the motionless figure of the sub-prior. He 
 was too highly bred to allow himself to be betrayed 
 into any sign of embarrassment, and too clever 
 to let the Englishman see that he Avas hesitating. 
 After a momentary pause he turned gravely to the 
 sub-prior, and said : 
 
 " Will you allow your patient, my brother, to taste 
 of our fruit ? it is ripe and wholesome." 
 
 Then, without awaiting a reply, he presented the 
 pear to Vellacott. It was a strange action, and no 
 doubt there was some deep intention in it. The 
 Jesuit must have known, however, from Rene 
 Drucquer's report, and from his own observations, 
 that Christian Vellacott was of too firm a mould 
 to allow his feelings to be influenced by a petty 
 action of this description, however sincere and con- 
 ciliatory might have been the spirit in which it was 
 conceived. Perhaps he read the Englishman's char- 
 acter totally wrong, although his experience of men 
 must have been very great; or perhaps he really 
 wished to conciliate him, and took this first step 
 with the graceful delicacy of his nation, with a view 
 to following it up. 
 
 With a conventional word of thanks, Vellacott 
 took the pear and set it down upon the bench at 
 his side. Whatever the Jesuit's intention might 
 have been, it was frustrated by his quiet action. 
 It would have been so easy to have said a few words 
 of praise regarding the fruit, and it was only natural 
 
BACK TO LIFE. 275 
 
 to have begun eating it at once ; but Vellacott read 
 a' deeper meaning in all this, and he chose a more 
 difficult course. It was assuredly harder to keep 
 silence then than to talk, and a weaker-minded 
 man would have thanked the Provincial with effu- 
 sion. The manner in which Vellacott laid the fruit 
 upon the bench, his quiet and deliberate silence, 
 conveyed unmistakably and intentionally that the 
 ProvinciaFs society was as unwelcome as it was un- 
 necessary. There was nothing to be done but take 
 the hint; and in the lowering twilight the solitary, 
 miserable man moved reluctantly away. With 
 contemplative hardness of heart the Englishman 
 watched him go ; there was no feeling of triumph 
 in his soul — neither, however, was there pity. The 
 Jesuit had chosen his own path, he had reached his 
 goal, and that most terrible thirst — the thirst for 
 power — was nearly slaked. If at times — at the end 
 of a long day of hard mental work, when men's 
 hearts are softened by weariness and lowering peace 
 — he desired something else than power, some little 
 touch of human sympathy perhaps, his was the 
 blame if no heart responded to his own. Christian 
 Vellacott sat and wondered dreamily, with the non- 
 chalance of a man who has been at the very gates 
 of death, if power were worth this purchase-money. 
 
 The sub-prior had seated himself again, and with 
 his strong hands meekly clasped he waited. He 
 knew that something was passing which he could 
 not understand : his dull instincts told him vaguely 
 that between these two strong men there was war- 
 
276 THE SLAVE OF THE LAMP. 
 
 fare, dumb, sullen, and merciless ; but unused as he 
 was to the ways of men, unlearned in the intricacies 
 of human thoughts, he could not read more. 
 
 " You have not told me yet, my father," said 
 Vellacott, "how long I have been ill." 
 
 " Six weeks, my son," replied the taciturn monk. 
 
 " And it was very bad ? " 
 
 " Yes, very bad." 
 
 Christian slowly rubbed his thin hands together. 
 His fingers were moist and singularly .vhite, with 
 a bleached appearance about the knuckles. His 
 face was thin, but not emaciated, his long jaw and 
 somewhat pronounced chin were not more bony 
 than of old, but the expression of his mouth was 
 quite changed; his lips were no longer thrust up- 
 ward with a determined curve, and a smile seemed 
 nearer at hand. 
 
 " I have a faint recollection of being very tenderly 
 nursed and cared for; generally by you, I think. 
 No doubt you saved my life." 
 
 The sub-prior moved a little, and drew in his 
 
 feet. 
 
 " The matter was not in my hands," he said 
 
 quietly. 
 
 The Ensflishman, with some tact, allowed this 
 remark to pass in acquiescent silence. 
 
 "Did you ever think that ... I was not . . . 
 going back to England ? " he asked presently, in a 
 lighter tone, though the thought of returning home 
 brought no smile to his face. 
 
 The sub-prior did not reply at once. He ap- 
 
 I 
 
BACK TO LIFE. 277 
 
 peared to be thinking deeply, for he leant forward 
 in an iinmonastic attitude with his knees apart, 
 his elbows resting upon them, and his hands clasped. 
 He gazed across the prosaic potato-bed with his 
 colourless lips slightly apart. 
 
 " One night," he began meditatively, " I went to 
 sit with you after the bell for matins had been 
 I'ung. From midnight till three o'clock you never 
 moved. Then I gave you some cordial, and as I 
 stooped over you the candle flickered a little ; there 
 were strange shadows upon your face, but around 
 your lips there was a deeper shade. I had seen it 
 once before, on my brother's face when he lay upon 
 the hard Paris pavement with a bullet in his lungs, 
 and his breath whistling through the orifice as the 
 wind whistles round our walls in winter. I held 
 the candle closer to your face, and as I did so, a 
 hand came over my shoulder and took it from my 
 fingers. The Father Provincial had come to help 
 me. He said no word, but set the candle down 
 upon the bed, and I held you up while he ad- 
 ministered the cordial drop by drop, as a man oils 
 a cart-wheel." 
 
 " Ah ! " said Christian slowly and suggestively, 
 '' he was there ! " 
 
 The monk made no reply. He sat motionless, 
 with a calm, acquired silence, which might have 
 meant much or nothing. 
 
 " Did he come often ? " inquired the Englishman. 
 
 "Very often." 
 
 " I never saw him." 
 
 k2 
 
278 THE SLAVE OF THE LAISIP. 
 
 This, again, was met with silence. Presently the 
 sub- prior continued his narrative. 
 
 " When daylight came at last," he said, " the 
 shadow had left your lips. I think that night was 
 the worst ; it was then that you were nearer . . . 
 nearer than at any other time." 
 
 Christian Vellacott was strong enough now to 
 take his usual interest in outward things. With 
 the writer's instinct he went through the world 
 looking round him, always studying men and 
 things, watching, listening, and storing up experi- 
 ence. The Provincial interested him greatly, but 
 he did not dare to show his curiosity ; he hesitated 
 to penetrate the darkness that surrounded the 
 man's life, past, present, and future. In a minor 
 degree the taciturn sub-prior arrested his attention. 
 The old monk was in a communicative humour, 
 and the Englishman led him on a little without 
 thinking much about the fairness of it. 
 
 " Did your brother die ? " he asked sympatheti- 
 cally. 
 
 " He died," was the reply. " Yes, my son, he 
 died — died cursing the tyrant's bullet in his lungs. 
 He threw away his life in a vain attempt to alter 
 human nature, to set straight that which is crooked 
 and cannot be set straight. He sought to bring 
 about at once that which cometh not until the 
 lion shall eat straAV like an ox. See, my son, that 
 you do not attempt the same." 
 
 " I think," said Christian, after a pause, " that wo 
 all try a Uttle, and perhaps some day a great ac- 
 
BACK TO LIFE. 279 
 
 cumulation of little efforts will take place. You, 
 my father, have tried as well!" 
 
 The monk slowly shook his head, without, how- 
 ever, any great display of conviction. 
 
 " I was not always a monk," he said, as if seek- 
 ing to excuse a bygone folly. 
 
 It was nearly dark now. The birds were silent, 
 and only the whispering of the crisp, withering 
 leaves broke the solemn hush of eventide. The 
 two men sat side by side without speaking. They 
 had learnt to know each other fairly well during 
 the last weeks — so well that between them silence 
 was entirely restful. At length Christian moved 
 restlessly. He had reached that stage of con- 
 valescence where a position becomes irksome after 
 a short time. It was merely a sign of returning 
 strength. 
 
 " Where is the Abbe Drucquer," he asked abruptly. 
 
 " He left us some time ago," was the guarded 
 reply. 
 
 ''He spoke of going abroad," said Christian, 
 deliberately ignoring the sub-prior's tone. 
 
 "The Father Provincial told me that the Abbe 
 had gone abroad — to India — to spread there the 
 Holy Light to such as are still in darkness." 
 
 The young journalist thought that he detected 
 again a faint suggestion of antagonism in the sub- 
 prior's voice. The manner in which the informa- 
 tion was imparted was almost an insult to the 
 Provincial. It was a repetition of his words, given 
 in such a manner that had the speaker been a 
 
280 THE SLAVE OF THE LAMP. 
 
 man of subtle tongue it would have implied grave 
 doubt. 
 
 Christian was somewhat surprised that Rene 
 Drucquer should have attained his object so quickly. 
 He never suspected that he himself might have 
 had much to do with it, that it had been deemed 
 expedient to remove the young priest beyond the 
 possible reach of his influence, because he was quite 
 unconscious of this influence. He did not know that 
 its power had affected Rene Drucquer, and that 
 some reflection of it had even touched the self- 
 contained Provincial — that it was even now making 
 this old sub-prior talk more openly than was 
 prudent or wise. He happened to be taking the 
 question from a very different point of view. 
 
CHAPTER XXV 
 
 BACK TO WORK 
 
 Day by day Christian Vellacott recovered strength. 
 The enforced rest, and perhaps also the monastic 
 peacefulness of his surroundings, contributed greatly 
 towards this. In mental matters as in physical we 
 are subject to contagion, and from the placid 
 recluses, vegetating unheeded in the heart of 
 Brittany, their prisoner acquired a certain restful- 
 ness of mind which was eminently beneficial to 
 his body. Life inside those white walls was so 
 sleepy and withal so pleasant that it was physically 
 and mentally impossible to think and worry over 
 events that might be passing in the outer world. 
 
 Presently, however, Christian began to feel idle, 
 which is a good sign in invalids ; and soon the 
 days became long and irksome. He began to take 
 an increased interest in his surroundings, and 
 realised at once how little he knew of the existence 
 going on about him. Though he frequently passed, 
 in the dim corridors and cloisters, a silent, grey- 
 clad figure, exchanging perhaps with him a scarcely 
 perceptible salutation, he had never spoken with 
 any other inmates of the monastery than the 
 Provincial and the sub-prior. 
 
 281 
 
282 THE SLAVE OF THE LAMP. 
 
 He noticed also that the watchful care of the 
 nurse had imperceptibly glided into that of a 
 warder. He was never allowed out of his cell 
 unless accompanied by the sub- prior — in fact, he 
 was a state prisoner. His daily walks never ex- 
 tended beyond the one path near the potato bed, 
 or backwards and forwards at the sunny end of 
 the garden, where the huge pears hung ripely. 
 From neither point was any portion of the sur- 
 rounding country visible, but the Provincial could 
 not veil the sun, and Christian knew where lay 
 the west and where the east. 
 
 No possible opportunity for escape presented 
 itself, but the Englishman was storing up strength 
 and knowledge all the while. He knew that things 
 would not go on for long like this, and felt that 
 the Provincial would sooner or later summon him 
 to the long room at the end of the corridor upon 
 the upper floor. 
 
 This call came to him three weeks after the day 
 when the two men had met in the garden — nine 
 weeks after the Englishman's captivity had com- 
 menced. 
 
 " My son," said the sub-prior one afternoon, *' the 
 Father Provincial wishes to speak with you to-day 
 at three." 
 
 Christian glanced up at the great monastery clock, 
 which declared the time to be a quarter to three. 
 
 " I am ready," he said quietly. There was no 
 tremor in his voice or light in his eyes, and he 
 continued walking leisurely by the side of the old 
 
BACK TO WORK. 283 
 
 monk; but a sudden thrill of pleasant anticipation 
 warmed his heart. 
 
 A little later they entered the monastery and 
 mounted the stone stairs together. As they walked 
 along the corridor the clock in the tower overhead 
 struck three. 
 
 "I will wait for you at the foot of the stairs," 
 said the monk slowly, as if with some compunc- 
 tion. Then he led the way to the end of the 
 corridor and knocked at the door. He stood back, 
 as if the Provincial were in the habit of keeping 
 knockers waiting. Such Avas, at all events, the 
 case noAV, and some minutes elapsed before a clear, 
 low voice bade him enter. 
 
 The monk opened the door and stood back against 
 the wall for Christian to pass in. The Provincial 
 was seated at the table near the window, which 
 was open, the afternoon being sultry although the 
 autumn was nearly over. At his left hand stood 
 the small Venetian mirror which enabled him to 
 see who was behind him without turning round. 
 
 As Christian crossed the room the Provincial rose 
 and bowed slightly, with one of his slow, soft glances. 
 Then he indicated the chair at the left-hand side 
 of the table, and said, without looking up : 
 
 "Be good enough Mr. Vellacott." 
 
 When they were both seated the Provincial 
 suddenly raised his eyes and fixed them upon 
 the Englishman's face. The action was slightly 
 dramatic, but very effective, and clearl}^ showed 
 that he was accustomed to find the eyes of others 
 
284 THE SLAVE OF THE LAMP. 
 
 quail before his. Christian met the gaze with a 
 calmness more difficult to meet than open defiance. 
 After a moment they turned away simultaneously. 
 
 "I need scarcely," said the Provincial, with 
 singular sweetness of manner, which, however, was 
 quite devoid of servility, " apologise to you, Monsieur, 
 for speaking in French, as it is almost your native 
 language." 
 
 Christian bowed, at the same time edging some- 
 what nearer to the table. 
 
 " There are one or two matters," continued the 
 Jesuit, speaking faster, "upon which I have been 
 instructed to treat with you; but first I must 
 congratulate you upon your restoration to health. 
 Your illness has been very serious ... I trust 
 that you have had nothing to complain of . . . in 
 the treatment which you have received at our 
 hands." 
 
 Christian, while sitting quite motionless, was 
 making an exhaustive survey of the room. 
 
 " On the contrary," he said, in a conventional 
 tone which, in comparison to his companion's 
 manner, was almost brutal, " it is probably owing 
 to the care of the sub-prior that I am alive at the 
 present moment, and " 
 
 He stopped suddenly; an almost imperceptible 
 motion of the Jesuit's straight eyebrows warned 
 him. 
 
 " And . . . ? " repeated the Provincial, interroga- 
 tively. He leant back in his chair with an obvious 
 air of interest. 
 
BACK TO WOEK. 285 
 
 "And I am very grateful to him." 
 
 " The reverend father is a great doctor," said the 
 Jesuit hghtly. " Excuse me," he continued, rising 
 and leaning across the table, " I will close the 
 window ; the air from the river begins to grow cool." 
 
 The journalist moved slightly, looking over his 
 shoulder towards the window ; at the same moment 
 he altered, with his elbow, the position of the 
 small mirror standing upon the table. Instead of 
 reflecting the whole room, including the door at 
 the end, it now reproduced the blank wall at the 
 side opposed to the curtained recess where the bed 
 was placed. 
 
 "And now, Mr. Vellacott," continued the Jesuit, 
 reseating himself, " I must beg your attention. I 
 think there can be no harm in a little mutual 
 frankness, and — and it seems to me that a certain 
 allowance for respective circumstances can well be 
 demanded." 
 
 He paused, and, opening the leather-bound manu- 
 script book, became absorbed for a moment in the 
 perusal of one of its pages. 
 
 'From your pen," he then said, in a business- 
 like monotone, " there has emanated a serious and 
 hitherto unproved charge against the Holy Society 
 of Jesus. It came at a critical moment in the 
 political strife then raging in France ; and, in 
 proportion to the attention it attracted, harm and 
 calumny accrued to the Societ3^ ^ ^^ ^^^^ that 
 your motives were purely patriotic, and your desire 
 was nothing beyond a most laudable one of keeping 
 
286 THE SLAVE OF THE LAMP. 
 
 your countrymen out of difficulties. Before I had 
 the pleasure of seeing you I said, ' This is a young 
 journalist who, at any expense, and even at the 
 sacrifice of truth, wishes to make a name in the 
 world and force himself into public attention.' Since 
 then I have withdrawn that opinion." 
 
 During these remarks the Provincial had not 
 raised his eyes from the table. He now leant back 
 in the chair and contemplated his own clasped 
 hands. Christian had listened attentively. His 
 long, grave face was turned slightly towards the 
 Provincial, and his eyes were perhaps a little softer 
 in their gaze. 
 
 " I endeavoured," he said, " some weeks ago, to 
 explain my position." 
 
 The Jesuit inclined his head. Then he raised his 
 long white finger to his upper lip, stroking the blue 
 skin pensively. 
 
 Presently he raised his eyes to the Englishman's 
 face, and in their velvety depths Christian thought 
 he detected an expression which was almost pleading. 
 It seemed to express a desire for help, for some slight 
 assistance in the performance of a difficult task. He 
 never again looked into those eyes in all his life. 
 but the remembrance of them remained in his heart 
 for many years after the surrounding incidents had 
 passed away from memory and interest. He knew 
 that the Soul looking forth from that pale and 
 heartless face was of no ordinary mould or strength. 
 In later years, when they were both grey-haired men 
 whose Yea or No was of some weight in the world — 
 
 I 
 
BACK TO WORK. 287 
 
 one speaking with the great and open voice of the 
 Press, the other working subtly, dumbly, secretly — 
 their motives may have clashed once more, their 
 souls may have met and touched, as it were, over 
 the heads of the People, but they never looked into 
 each other's eyes again. 
 
 The Provincial moved uneasily. 
 
 " It has been a most unfortunate business," he 
 said gently, and after a pause continued more 
 rapidly, with his eyes upon the book. "I' am 
 instructed to lay before you the apologies of the 
 Society for the inconvenience to which you have 
 been put. Your own sense of justice will tell you 
 that we were bound to defend ourselves in every 
 way. You have done us a great injury, and, as is 
 our custom, we have contradicted nothing. The 
 Society of Jesus does not defend itself in the vain 
 hope of receiving justice at the hands of men. I 
 am now in a position to inform you again that you 
 are at liberty — free to go where you will, when 
 you will — and that any sum you may require is 
 at your disposal to convey you home to England . . . 
 on your signing a promise never to write another 
 word for private or public circulation on the subject 
 of the Holy Order of Jesus, or to dictate to the 
 writing of another." 
 
 " I must refuse," said Christian laconically, almost 
 before the words had left the Jesuit's lips. "As I 
 explained before, I am simply a public servant ; 
 what I happen to know must ever be at the public 
 disposal or I am useless." 
 
288 THE SLAVE OF THE LAMP. 
 
 A short silence followed this remark. When at 
 length the Provincial spoke his tone was cold and 
 reserved. 
 
 " Of course," he said, " I expected a refusal — at 
 first. I am instructed to ask you to reconsider your 
 refusal and to oblige me, at the end of a week, with 
 the result of your meditations. If it remains a 
 refusal, another week will be accorded, and so on." 
 
 -Until ?" 
 
 The Jesuit closed the book upon the table in 
 front of him and with great care altered its position 
 so that it lay quite squarely. He raised his eyebrows 
 slightly and glanced sideways towards the English- 
 man. At that moment the bell began summoning 
 the devotees to their evening meal, its deep tone 
 vibrating weirdly through the bare corridors. 
 
 " Until you accept," suggested he softl}^ 
 
 Christian looked at him speculatively. The 
 faintest suspicion of a smile hovered for a moment 
 in his eyes, and then he turned and looked out of 
 the window. 
 
 " I hope. Monsieur," continued the Jesuit, " that 
 when I have the pleasure of seeing you — a week 
 hence — your health will be quite re-established ! " 
 
 " Thank you ! " 
 
 "And in the meantime I shall feel honoured by 
 your asking for anything you may require." 
 
 "Thank you!" answered Christian again. He 
 was still looking over his shoulder, doAvn at the 
 brown river which ran immediately below the 
 window. 
 
BACK TO WORK. 289 
 
 " Please excuse my rising to open the door for 
 you/' said the Provincial, with cool audacity, " but 
 I have a few words to write before joining our 
 brethren at their evening repast." 
 
 Christian turned and looked at him vaguely. 
 There was a peculiar gleam in his eyes, and he was 
 breathing heavily. Then he rose and, as he passed 
 the Jesuit, bowed slightly in acknowledgment of 
 his grave salutation. He walked quickly down the 
 length of the room, which was not carpeted, and 
 opened the door, closing it again with some noise 
 immediately. But he never crossed the threshold. 
 To the man sitting at the table it was as if the 
 Ensrlishman had left the room, closing' the door 
 after him. 
 
 Presently the Provincial glanced at the mirror, 
 from mere habit, and found that it was displaced. 
 He re-arranged it thoughtfully, so that the entire 
 room was included in its field of reflection. 
 
 " 1 wonder," he said aloud, " when and why he 
 did that!" 
 
 Then he returned to his writing. In a few 
 minutes, however, he rose and pushed back his 
 chair. With his hands clasped behind his back 
 he stood and gazed fixedly out of the window. 
 Beneath him the brown water glided past with 
 curling eddy and gleaming ripple, while its soft 
 murmur was the only sound that broke the pathetic 
 silence surrounding this lonely man. His small 
 and perfectly formed face was quite expressionless ; 
 the curve of his thin lips meant nothing; all the 
 
290 THE SLAVE OF THE LAMP. 
 
 suppressed vitality of his being lay in those deep, 
 soft eyes over which there seemed to be a veil. 
 Presently he turned, and with lithe, smooth steps 
 passed down the long room and out of the door. 
 
 Instantly Christian Vellacott came from his 
 hiding-place within the recess. He ran to the 
 window and opened it noiselessly. A moment later 
 he was standing upon the stone sill. The after- 
 noon sun shone full upon his face as he stood there, 
 and showed a deep red flush on either cheek. 
 Slowly he stooped forward, holding with one hand 
 to the woodwork of the window while he examined 
 critically the surface of the water. Suddenly he 
 threw his arms forward and like a black shadow 
 dived noiselessly, passing into the depth without 
 a splash. When he rose to the surface he turned 
 to look at the monastery. The Provincial's window 
 was the only outlet directly on to the river. 
 
 The stream was rapid, and after swimming with 
 it for. a short time he left the water and lay down 
 to recover his breath under the friendly cover of 
 some bushes. There he remained for some time, 
 while the short October twilight closed over the 
 land. A man just dragged from the jaws of death, 
 he lay in his wet clothes where he first found shelter 
 without even troubling to move his limbs from the 
 pools of water slowly accumulating. Already the 
 monastery was a thing of the past. With the rapid 
 forethought of his generation he was already looking 
 to the future. He knew too well the spirit of the 
 people in France to fear pursuit. The monks never 
 
BACK TO WORK. 291 
 
 ventured beyond their own walls except on ostenta- 
 tious missions of charity. The machinations of the 
 Society of Jesus were less to be feared in France 
 than in England, and he had only to take his story 
 to the nearest sub-prefecture to raise a storm of 
 popular opinion in his favour. But this was not 
 his project. With him, as in all human plans, his 
 own personal feelings came before the possible duty 
 he owed to the public. He lay beneath the bramble 
 undergrowth, and speculated as to what might have 
 taken place subsequent to his disappearance. At 
 that moment the fortunes of the Beacon gave him 
 no food for thought. What Mr. Bodery and his 
 subordinate might, or might not, think found no 
 interest in his mind. All his speculations w^ere 
 confined to events at St. Mary Western, and the 
 outcome of his meditations was that when the 
 friendly cover of darkness lay on the land he rose 
 and started to walk briskly across the well-tilled 
 country towards the north. 
 
 That portion of Brittany which lies along the 
 northern coast is a pastoral land where sleep 
 occupies the larger half of man's life. Although 
 it was only evening, an hour when Paris and 
 London recover, as it were, from the previous 
 night's vigil and brighten up into vigour, the 
 solitary Englishman passed unheeded through the 
 squalid villages, unmolested along the winding 
 roads. Mile after mile of scanty forest land and 
 rich meadow were left behind, while, except for a 
 few heavily-breathing cattle, he met no sign of life. 
 
292 THE SLAVE OF THE LAMP. 
 
 At last he came upon a broader road which bore 
 unmistakable signs of military workmanship in its 
 construction, and here he met, and passed with 
 laconic greeting, a few peasant women returning 
 with empty baskets from some neighbouring 
 market ; or perhaps a " cantonnier " here and there, 
 plodding home with " sabots " swinging heavily and 
 round shoulders bent beneath the burden of his 
 weighty stone-breaking implements. 
 
 Following the direction of this road his course 
 was now towards the north-east, with more tendency 
 to the eastward than he desired, but there was no 
 choice. About eight o'clock he passed through a 
 small village, which appeared to be already wrapped 
 in stupid slumber such as attends the peasant's 
 pillow. A cock crowed loudly, and in reply a dog- 
 barked with some alarm, but Christian was already 
 beyond the village upon the deserted high road 
 again. 
 
 He now began to feel the weakening effect of his 
 illness ; his legs became cramped, and he frequently 
 rested at the roadside. The highway was running 
 still more to the eastward now, and Christian was 
 just beginning to consider the advisability of taking 
 to the country again, when it joined a broader road 
 cut east and west. Here he stopped short, and, 
 raising his head, stood quite still for some moments, jj 
 
 " Ah ! " he muttered. " The sea. I smell the sea." 
 
 He now turned to the left, and advanced along 
 the newly-discovered road towards the west. As 
 he progressed the pungent odour of seaweed re- 
 
BACK TO WORK. 293 
 
 freshed him and grew stronger every moment. 
 Suddenly he became aware that although high 
 land lay upon his left hand there was to his right 
 a hollow darkness without shadow or depth. No 
 merry plash of waves came to explain this ; the 
 smell of the sea was there, but the joyous tumble 
 of its waters was not to be heard. The traveller 
 stooped low and peered into the darkness. Gradu- 
 ally he discerned a distant line of horizon, and to 
 that point there seemed to stretch a vast dead sheet 
 of water without light or motion. Upon his ears 
 there stole a soft bubbling sound, varied occasion- 
 ally by a tiny ripple. Suddenly a flash of recol- 
 lection appeared to pass through the watcher's 
 mind, and he muttered an exclamation of surprise 
 as he turned towards the east and endeavoured to 
 pierce ths gloom. He was right. Upon the distant 
 line of horizon a jagged outline cut the sky. It 
 was like the form of a huge tooth jutting out from 
 the softer earth. Such is Mont St. Michel standing 
 grandly alone in the midst of a shallow, sullen sea. 
 The only firm thing among the quaking sands, the 
 only stone for miles around. 
 
 '•' The Bay of Cancale ! " reflected Christian. " If 
 I keep to the westward I shall reach St. Malo 
 before ten o'clock ! " 
 
 And he set off with renewed vigour. From his 
 feet there stretched away to the north a great 
 dead level of quicksand, seething, bubbling, and 
 heaving in the darkness. The sea, and yet no sea. 
 Neither honest land nor rolling water. 
 
CHAPTER XXVI 
 
 SIGNOR BRUNO 
 
 Silas Lebrun, captain and part-owner of the brig 
 Agnes and Mary of Jersey, was an early riser. 
 Moreover, the old gentleman entertained peculiar 
 views as to the homage due to Morpheus. He 
 made no elaborate toilet before entering the pres- 
 ence of that most lovable god. Indeed he always 
 slept in his boots, and the cabin-boy had on several 
 occasions invited the forecastle hands to believe 
 that he neither removed the ancient sealskin cap from 
 his head nor the wooden pipe from his lips when 
 slumber soothed his senses ; but this statement was 
 always set aside as unauthenticated. 
 
 In person the ancient sailor was almost square, 
 with short legs and a body worthy of promotion to 
 somethinsr hic^her. His face Avas wrinkled and broAvn, 
 like the exterior of that incomprehensible fruit the 
 medlar, which is never ripe till it is bad, and then 
 it is to be avoided. A yellow-grey beard clustered 
 closely round a short chin, and when perchance 
 the sealskin cap was absent yellow-grey hair of a 
 similar hue completed the circle, standing up as 
 high from his brow* as fell the beard downward 
 from his chin. A pair of intensely blue eyes, 
 
SIGNOR BRUNO. 295 
 
 liquid always with the milk of human kindness, 
 rendered the hirsute medlar a pleasant thing to 
 look at. 
 
 The Agnes and Mary was ready for sea, her 
 cargo of potatoes, with a little light Aveight in the 
 way of French beans and eggs, comfortably stowed, 
 and as Captain Lebrun emerged from what he was 
 pleased to call his " state-room " with the first 
 breath of a clear morning he performed his 
 matutinal toilet with a certain sense of satisfaction. 
 This operation was simple, consisting merely in the 
 passage of four very brown fingers through the 
 yellow-grey hair, and a hurried dispersal of the 
 tobacco ash secreted in his beard. 
 
 The first object that met the mariner's astonished 
 gaze was the long black form of a man stretched 
 comfortably upon the cabin locker. The green 
 mud adhering to the sleeper's thin shoes showed 
 that he had climbed on board at low tide when 
 the harbour was dry. 
 
 Captain Lebrun gazed meditatively at the intruder 
 for some moments. Then he produced a powerfully- 
 scented pipe of venerable appearance, which had 
 been, at various stages of its existence, bound in 
 a seaman-like manner with pieces of tarred yarn. 
 He slowly filled this object, and proceeded to 
 inform it in a husky voice that he was " blowed." 
 The pipe was, apparently, in a similar condition, 
 as it refused absolutely to answer to the powerful 
 suction applied to it. 
 
 He then seated himself with some difficulty upon 
 
296 THE SLAVE OF THE LAMP. 
 
 the corner of the low table, and examined the sleeper 
 critically. 
 
 " Poor devil," he again said, addressing himself 
 to his pipe. " He's one of them priest fellows. — Hi, 
 mister ! " he observed, raising his voice. 
 
 Christian Vellacott woke up at once, and took lin 
 the situation without delay. He was not of those 
 who must go through terrible contortions before 
 regaining their senses after sleep. 
 
 " Good morning, Captain !" he observed pleasantly. 
 
 " Oh — yourn't a parlee voo, then 1 " 
 
 " No, I'm an Enoiishman." 
 
 '' Indeed. Then you'll excuse me, but what in 
 the name of glory are you doing here ? " 
 
 Christian sat up and looked at his muddy shoes 
 with some interest. 
 
 " Well, the truth is that I am bolting. I want 
 to get across to England. I saw where you hailed 
 from by your rig, and clambered on board last night. 
 It seemed to me that when an Englishman is in 
 a hole he cannot do better than go to a fellow- 
 countryman for help." 
 
 Captain Lebrun made a mighty effort to force a 
 passage through his pipe, and was rewarded by a 
 very high-pitched squeak. 
 
 " Ay ! " he said doubtfully. " But what sort of hole 
 is it? Nothing dirty, I'm hopin'. Whoareyer? Why 
 are ye runnin' away, and who are ye runnin' from ? ' 
 
 Thouofh a trifle blunt the sailor's manner was not 
 unfriendly, and Christian laughed before replying. 
 
 " Well," he said, " to tell you the whole story 
 
SIGNOR BRUNO. 297 
 
 would take a long time. You remember perhaps 
 there was a row, about two months ago, respecting 
 some English rifles found in Paris ? " 
 
 " Of course I remember that ; we had a lot o' 
 trouble with the Customs just then. The thing was 
 ferreted out by a young noAvspaper fellow 1 " 
 
 Christian rubbed his hands slowly together. He 
 was terribly anxious to hear the sequel. 
 
 " I am that newspaper fellow," he said, with a 
 quick smile. 
 
 Captain Lebrun slowly stood up. He contem- 
 plated his pipe thoughtfully, then laying it upon 
 the table he turned solemnly towards Christian, and 
 held out a broad brown hand which was covered 
 with scales in lieu of skin. 
 
 " Shake hands, mister ? " he said. 
 
 Christian obliged him. 
 
 " And now," he said quickly, " I want to know 
 what has happened since — since I left England. 
 Has there been a great row ? Has . . . has any- 
 body wondered where I was ? " 
 
 The old sailor may have had his suspicions. He 
 may have guessed that Christian Vellacott had not 
 left England at the dictates of his own free will, 
 for he looked at him very kindly with his liquid 
 blue eyes, and replied slowly : — 
 
 " I couldn't say that nobody hasn't been wonderin' 
 where ye was, but — but there's been nothing in the 
 papers ! " 
 
 " That is all right ! And now will you give me 
 a passage. Captain ? '' 
 
298 THE SLAVE OF THE LAMP. 
 
 " Course I will ! We sail about eleven this morn- 
 ing. I'm loaded and cleared out. But I should 
 like you to have a change o' clothes. Can't bear 
 to see ye in them black things. It makes me feel 
 as if I was talkin' to a priest." 
 
 " I should like nothing better," replied Chris- 
 tian, as he rose and contemplated his own person 
 reflectively. 
 
 '' Come into my state-room then. I've got a few 
 things of my own, and a bit of a slop-chest ; jerseys 
 and things as I sell to the men." 
 
 The Captain's wardrobe was of a marine character 
 and somewhat rough in texture. He had, however, 
 a coat" and waistcoat of thick blue pilot-cloth which 
 fitted Christian remarkably well, but the continua- 
 tions thereof were so absurdly out of keeping with 
 the young fellow's long limbs as to precipitate the 
 skipper on to the verge of apoplexy. When he 
 recovered, and his pipe was re-lighted, he left the 
 cabin and went forward to borrow a pair of the 
 required articles from Tom Slake, an ordinary sea- 
 man of tall and slim proportions. In a short time 
 Christian Vellacott bore the outward semblance of 
 a very fair specimen of the British tar, except that 
 his cheeks were bleached and sunken, which dis- 
 crepancy was promptly commented upon by the 
 blunt old sailor. 
 
 Secrecy was absolutely necessary, so Tom, of the 
 long legs, was the only person to whom Christian's 
 presence was made known ; and he it was who 
 (in view of a possible berth as steward later on) 
 
SIGNOR BRUNO. 299 
 
 was entrusted with the simple cuhnary duties of 
 the vessel. 
 
 Breakfast, as served up by Tom, was of a noble 
 simplicity. A long shiny loaf of yesterday's bread, 
 some butter in a saucer — which vessel was deemed 
 entirely superfluous in connection with cups — brown 
 sugar in an old mustard- tin, with portions of yellow 
 paper adhering to it, and solid slices of bacon 
 brought from the galley in their native frying-pan. 
 Such slight drawbacks, hov/ever, as there might 
 have been in the matter of table-ware disappeared 
 before the sense of kindly hospitality with which 
 Captain Lebrun poured the tea into a cracked cup 
 and a borrowed pannikin, dropping in the sugar 
 with careful judgment from his brown fingers. Such 
 defects as there might have lurked in the culinary 
 art as carried on in the galley vanished before the 
 friendly solicitude with which Tom tilted the frying- 
 pan to pour into Christian's plate a bright flow of 
 bacon-fat cunningly mingled with cinders. 
 
 When the meal had been duly despatched Captain 
 Lebrun produced his pipe and proceeded to fill it, 
 after having extracted from its inward parts the 
 usual high-toned squeak. 
 
 Christian leant back against the bulkhead with 
 his hands buried deeply in Tom's borrowed pockets. 
 He felt much more at home in pilot cloth than in 
 cashmere. 
 
 "There is one more thing I should like to borrow," 
 he said. 
 
 " Ay ? " repeated the captain interrogatively, as 
 
300 THE SLAVE OF THE LAMP. 
 
 he searched in his Wciistcoat-pocket for a match. 
 " Ay, what is it ? " 
 
 '• A pipe. I have not had a smoke for two 
 months." 
 
 The Captain struciv a Hght upon his leg. 
 
 " I've got one somcw^here," he replied reassuringly ; 
 " carried it for many years now, just in case this one 
 fell overboard or Gfot broke." 
 
 Tom, who happened to be present, smiled audibly 
 behind a hand which was hardly a recommendation 
 for the coveted berth of steward, but Christian looked 
 at the battered pipe with sympathetic gravity. 
 
 At ten o'clock the Agnes and Mary warped out 
 of harbour and dropped lazily down the Ranee, 
 setting sail as she went. Christian had spent most 
 of the morning in the little cabin smoking Captain 
 Lebrun's reserve pipe, and seeking to establish 
 order among the accounts of the ship. The accounts 
 were the hete noire of the old sailor's existence. 
 Upon his own confession he " wasn't no arith- 
 metician," and Christian found, upon inspecting 
 his accounts, no cause to contradict this ambiguous 
 statement. 
 
 When the Agnes and Mary was clear of the 
 harbour he went on deck, where activity and 
 maritime language reigned supreme. The channel 
 was narrow and the wind light, consequently the 
 little brig drifted more or less at her own sweet 
 will. This would have been well enough had the 
 Avaterway been clear of other vessels, but the 
 Jersey steamer was coming in, Avith her yellow 
 
SIGNOPv BRUNO. 301 
 
 funnel gleaming in the sunlight, her mail-flag 
 fluttering at her foremast, and her captain swearing 
 on the bridge, with the whistle-pull in his hand. 
 
 Seeing that the Agnes and Mary had no steerage 
 way, the captain stopped his engines for a few 
 minutes, and then went ahead again at half-speed. 
 This brought the vessels close together, and, as 
 is the invariable custom in such circumstances, 
 the two crews stared stonily at each other. On 
 the deck were one or two 'passengers enjoying the 
 morning air after a cramped and uncomfortable 
 night. Among these was an old man with a 
 singularly benign expression ; he was standing near 
 the after- wheel, gazing with senile placidity towards 
 St. Malo. As the vessels neared each other, how- 
 ever, he walked towards the rail, and stood there 
 with a pleasant smile upon his face, as if ready to 
 exchange a greeting with any kindred soul upon 
 the Agnes and Mary. 
 
 Christian Vellacott, seated upon the rail of the 
 after-deck, saw the old man and watched him with 
 some interest — not, however, altering his position 
 or changing countenance. The vessels moved 
 slowly on, and, in due course, the two men were 
 opposite to each other, each at the extreme stern 
 of his ship. 
 
 Then the young journalist removed Captain 
 Lebrun's spare pipe from his lips, and leaning side- 
 ways over the water, called out : 
 
 " Good morning, Signer Bruno ! " 
 
 The effect of this friendly greeting upon the 
 
 L 
 
302 THE SLAVE OF THE LAMP. 
 
 benevolent old gentleman was peculiar. He grasped 
 the rail before him with both hands, and stared at 
 the yomig Englishman. Then he stamped upon 
 the deck with a sudden access of fury. 
 
 " Ah ! " he exclaimed fiercely, while a tiger-like 
 gleam shone out from beneath his smooth white 
 brows. " Ah ! it is you ! " 
 
 Christian swung his legs idly, and smiled with 
 some amusement across the little strip of water. 
 
 Suddenly the old man plunged his hand into 
 the breast-pocket of his coat. He appeared to be 
 tugging wildly at some article which was caught 
 in the lining of his clothes, when a remarkable 
 change came over his face. A dull red colour flew to 
 his cheeks, and his eyes gleamed ruddily, as if shot 
 with blood. Then without a word he fell forward 
 with his breast against the painted rail, remained 
 there a second, and as the two ships passed away 
 from each other, rolled over upon his back on the 
 clean deck, grasping a pistol in his right hand. 
 
 Christian Vellacott sat still upon the rail, swing- 
 ing one leg, and smiling reflectively. He saw the 
 old man fall and the other passengers crowd round 
 him, but the Agnes and Mary had now caught 
 the breeze and was moving rapidly out to sea, 
 where the sunlight danced upon the water in little 
 golden bars. 
 
 " Apperlexy !" said a voice in the journalist's ear. 
 He turned and found Captain Lebrun standing at 
 his side looking after the steamer. " Apperlexy ! " 
 
 *' Do you think so ? " asked Christian. 
 
SIGNOK BRUNO. 303 
 
 " I do," was the reply, given with some conviction. 
 " I seen a man fall just like that ; he was a broad- 
 built man wi' a thick neck, and in a moment of 
 excitement he fell just like that, and died a most 
 at once. Apperlexy they said it was." 
 
 " It seemed to come over him very suddenly, did 
 it not ? " said Christian absently. 
 
 " Ay, it did," said the captain. " Ye seemed to 
 know him ! " 
 
 Christian turned and looked his companion full 
 in the face. " I have met him twice," he said 
 quietly. " He was in England for some years, I 
 believe ; a political refugee, he called himself." 
 
 By sea and land Captain Lebrun had learnt to 
 devote an exclusive attention to his own affairs, 
 allowing other men to manage theirs, well or ill, 
 according to their fancy. He knew that Christian 
 Vellacott wished to tell him no more, and he was 
 content that it should be so, but he had noticed 
 a circumstance which, from the young journalist's 
 position, was probably invisible. He turned to give 
 an order to the man at the wheel, and then walked 
 slowly and with some difficulty (for Captain Lebrun 
 suffered, in a quiet way, agonies from rheuma- 
 tism) back towards his passenger. 
 
 " Seemed to me," he said reflectively, as he looked 
 upwards to see if the Ubretopsail was shivering, 
 " as if he had something in his hand when a' 
 fell." 
 
 Christian followed the Captain's gaze. The sails 
 were now filling well, and there was an exhilarating 
 
304 THE SLAVE OF THE LAMP. 
 
 sound of straining cordage in the air while the 
 vessel glided on. The young journalist was not an 
 impressionable man, but he felt all these things. 
 The sense of open freedom, the gentle rise and fall 
 of the vessel, the whirring breeze, and the distant 
 line of high land up the Ranee towards Dinant 
 — all these were surely worth hearing, feeling, and 
 seeing; assuredly, they added to the joy of living. 
 
 " Something in his hand," he repeated gravely ; 
 " what was it ? " 
 
 Captain Lebrun turned sideways towards the 
 steersman, and made a little gesture with his left 
 hand. A wrinkle had appeared in one corner of 
 the foretopsail. Then he looked round the horizon 
 with a sailor's far-seeing gaze, before replying. 
 
 " Seemed to me," he mumbled, without taking 
 his pipe from his lips, " that it was a revolver." 
 
 Then the two men smoked in silence for some 
 time. The little vessel moved steadily out towards 
 the blue water, passing a lighthouse built upon a 
 solitary rock, and later a lightship, with its clean 
 red hull gleaming in the sunlight as it rose and 
 fell lazily. So close were they to the latter that 
 the man watching on deck waved his hand in 
 salutation. 
 
 Still Vellacott had vouchsafed no reply to Captain 
 Lebrun's strange statement. He sat on the low rail, 
 swinging one log monotonously, while the square 
 little sailor stood at his side with that patient mari- 
 time reflectiveness which is being slowly killed by 
 the quicker ways of steam. 
 
SIGNOR BRUNO. 305 
 
 " My calling brings me into contact with a rum 
 lot of people," said the young fellow at last, " and I 
 suppose all of us make enemies without knowing 
 it." 
 
 With this vague elucidation the little skipper 
 was forced to content himself. He gave a grunt 
 of acquiescence, and walked forward to superintend 
 the catheading of the anchor. 
 
CHAPTER XXVII 
 
 IN THE RUE ST. GINGOLPHE AGAIN 
 
 One would almost have said that the good citizen 
 Jacquetot was restless and disturbed. It was not 
 that the little tobacco shop left aught to be desired 
 in the w^ay of order, neither had the tobacconist 
 quitted his seat at the AvindoAv-end of the counter. 
 But he was not smoking, and at short intervals he 
 drew aside the little red curtain and looked out 
 into the quiet Rue St. Gingolphe with a certain 
 eagerness. 
 
 The tobacconist was not in the habit of going to 
 meet things. He usually waited for them to come 
 to him. But on this particular evening of September 
 in a year which it is not expedient to name, he 
 seemed to be looking out into the street in order 
 that he might not be taken by surprise in the event 
 of an arrival. Moreover he mopped his vast fore- 
 head at unnecessarily frequent intervals, just as 
 one may note a snufF-taker have recourse to that 
 solace more frequently when he is agitated than 
 when a Avarm calm reisrns within his breast. 
 
 " So quiet — so quiet," he muttered, " in our little 
 street — and in the others — Avho knows ? It Avould 
 appear that they have their shutters lowered there." 
 
 306 
 
IN THE RUE ST. GINGOLPHE AGAIN. 307 
 
 He listened intently, but there was no sound 
 except the clatter of an occasional cart or the distant 
 whistle of a Seine steamer. 
 
 Then the tobacconist returned to the perusal of 
 the Petit Journal. Before he had skimmed over 
 many lines, ho looked up sharply and drew aside 
 the red curtain. Yes ! It was some one at last. 
 The footsteps were hurried and yet hesitating — the 
 gait of a person not knowing his Avhereabouts. And 
 yet the man who entered the shop a moment later 
 was evidently the same who had come to the 
 citizen Jacquetot when last we met him. 
 
 " Ah ! " exclaimed the tobacconist. " It is you ! " 
 
 " No," replied the other. " It is not. I am not 
 the citizen . . . Morot 1 think you call it." 
 
 ''• But, yes ! " exclaimed the fat man in amaze- 
 ment. " You are that citizen, and you are also the 
 Vicomte d'Audierne." 
 
 The new-comer w^as looking round him curiously ; 
 he stepped towards the curtained door, and turned 
 the handle. 
 
 " I am," he said, " his brother. We are twins. 
 There is a resemblance. Is this the room ? Yes ! " 
 
 " Yes, monsieur. It is ! But never was there 
 such a resemblance." 
 
 The tobacconist mopped his head breathlessly. 
 
 " Go," said the other, " and get a mattress. Bring 
 it and lay it on this table. My brother is wounded. 
 He has been hit." 
 
 Jacquetot rose laboriously from his seat. He 
 knew now that this was not the Vicomte d'Audierne. 
 
308 THE SLAVE OF THE LAMP. 
 
 This man's method was quite different. He spoke 
 with a quiet air of command, not doubting that his 
 orders would be obeyed. He was obviously not in 
 the habit of dealing with the People. The Vicomte 
 d'Audierne had a different manner of speaking to 
 different people — this man, who resembled him so 
 strangely, gave his orders without heeding the 
 reception of them. 
 
 The tobacconist was essentially a man of peace. 
 He passed out of a small door in the corner of the 
 shop, obeying without a murmur, and leaving the 
 new-comer alone. 
 
 A moment later the sound of wheels awoke the 
 peaceful stillness of the Rue St. Gingolphe. The 
 vehicle stopped, and at the same instant the man 
 passed through the little curtained doorway into 
 the room at the back of the shop, closing the door 
 after him. 
 
 The gas was turned very low, and in the semi- 
 darkness he stood quite still, waiting. He had not 
 long to wait ; he had scarcely closed the door when 
 it was opened again, and some one entered rapidly, 
 closing it behind him. Then the first comer raised 
 his arm and turned up the gas. 
 
 Across the little table, in the sudden flood of light, 
 two men stood looking at each other curiously. 
 They were so startlingly alike, in height and carriage 
 and every feature, that there was something weird 
 and unpleasant in their action — in their silence. 
 
 " Ah ! " said the last comer. " It is thou. I 
 almost fired ! " 
 
IN THE RUE ST. GINGOLPHE AGAIN. 309 
 
 And he threw down on the table a small revolver. 
 
 " Why have you done this ? " continued the 
 Vicomte d'Audierne. " I thought we agreed sixteen 
 years ago that the world was big enough to contain 
 us both without meeting, if we exercised a little 
 care." 
 
 " She is dead," replied the brother. " She died 
 two years ago — the wife of Prangius — what does it 
 matter now ? " 
 
 " I know that — but why did you come ? " 
 
 " I was ordered to Paris by the General. I was 
 near you at the barricade, and I heard the bullet 
 hit you. Where is it ? " 
 
 The Vicomte looked down at his hand, which was 
 pressed to his breast ; the light of the gas flickered, 
 and gleamed on his spectacles as he did so. 
 
 " In my chest," he replied. " I am simply drip- 
 ping with blood. It has trickled down my legs into 
 my boots. Very hot at first — and then very cold." 
 
 The other looked at him curiously, and across 
 his velvety eyes there passed that strange contrac- 
 tion which has been noted in the glance of the 
 Vicomte d'Audierne. 
 
 '• I have sent for a mattress," he said. " That 
 bullet must come out. A doctor is following me ; 
 he will be here on the instant." 
 
 " One of your Jesuits ? " 
 
 " Yes — one of my Jesuits." 
 
 The Vicomte d'Audierne smiled and winced. He 
 staggered a little, and clutched at the back of a 
 chair. The other watched him without emotion. 
 
 l2 
 
310 THE SLAVE OF THE LAMP. 
 
 "Why do you not sit down?" he suggested 
 coldly. " There are none of your — People — here to 
 be impressed." 
 
 Again the Vicomte smiled. 
 
 "Yes," he said smoothly, ''we work on different 
 lines, do we not ? I wonder which of us has dirtied 
 his hands the most. Which of the two — the two 
 fools who quarrelled about a Avoman. Ha? And 
 she married a third— a dolt. Thus are they made— 
 these women ! " 
 
 "And yet," said the Jesuit, "you have not for- 
 gotten." 
 
 The Vicomte looked up slowly. It seemed that 
 his eyelids w^ere heavy, requirhig an effort to lift 
 them. 
 
 " I do not like to hear the rooks call — that is all," 
 
 he said. 
 
 The other turned away his soft, slow glance, the 
 glance that had failed to overcome Christian Vella- 
 cott's quiet defiance — 
 
 " Nor I," he said. " It makes one remember." 
 
 There Avas a short silence, and then the Jesuit 
 spoke — sharply and suddenly. 
 
 "Sit down, you fool!" he said. "You are 
 fainting." 
 
 The Vicomte obeyed, and at the same moment 
 the door opened and the tobacconist appeared, 
 pushing before him a mattress. 
 
 The Jesuit laid aside his hat, revealing the ton- 
 sure gleaming whitely amidst his jetty hair, and 
 helped to lay the mattress upon the table. Then 
 
IN THE RUE ST. GINGOLPHE AGAIN. 311 
 
 the two men, the Provincial and the tobacconist of 
 the Rue St. Gingolphe, lifted the wounded aris- 
 tocrat J^ently and placed him upon the improvised 
 bed. True to his blood, the Vicomte d'Audierno 
 uttered no sound of agony, but as his brother began 
 to unbutton the butcher's blouse in which he was 
 disguised he fainted quietly. Presently the doctor 
 arrived. He was quite a young man, with shifting 
 grey eyes, and he saluted the Provincial with a 
 nervous obsequity which was unpleasant to look 
 upon. The deftness with which he completed the 
 task of laying bare the Avound was notable. His* 
 lingers were too clever to be quite honest. When, 
 however, he was face to face with the little blue- 
 rimmed orifice that disfigured the Vicomte's mus- 
 cular chest, the expression of his face — indeed his 
 whole manner — changed. His eyes lost their shifti- 
 ness — he seemed to forget the presence of the great 
 man standing at the other side of the table. 
 
 While he was selecting a probe from his case of 
 instruments the Vicomte d'Audierne opened his eyes. 
 
 " Ah ! " said the doctor, noting this at once. " You 
 got this on the Boulevard ? " 
 
 " Yes." 
 
 " How did you get here ? " He was feeling the 
 wounded man's pulse now. 
 
 "Cab." 
 
 "All the way?" 
 
 " Of course." 
 
 " Who carried you into this room ? " asked the 
 doctor, returning to his case of instruments. 
 
312 THE SLAVE OF THE LAMP. 
 
 "No one! I walked." The doctor's manner, 
 quick and nonchalant, evidently aggravated his 
 jDatient. 
 
 ''Why did you do that?" 
 
 He was making his preparations while he spoke, 
 and never looked at the Vicornte. 
 
 " In order to avoid attracting attention." 
 
 This brought the doctor's glance to his face, and 
 the result was instantaneous. The young man 
 started, and into his eyes there came again the 
 shifty expression, as he looked from the face of the 
 patient to that of the Provincial standing motion- 
 less at the other side of the table. He said nothing, 
 however, and returned with a peculiar restraint to 
 his preparations. It is probable that his silence 
 was brought about by the persistent gaze of two 
 pairs of deep velvety eyes which never left his face 
 
 " Will Monsieur take chloroform," he asked, un- 
 folding a clean pocket-handkerchief, and taking 
 from his waistcoat pocket a small phial. 
 
 "No!" 
 
 " But — I beg of you " 
 
 " It is not necessary," persisted the Vicomte 
 calmly. 
 
 The doctor looked across to the Provincial and 
 made a hopeless little movement of the shoulders, 
 accompanied by an almost imperceptible elevation 
 of the eyebrows. 
 
 The Jesuit replied by looking meaningly at the 
 small glass-stoppered bottle. 
 
 Then the doctor muttered: 
 
IN THE RUE ST. GINGOLPHE AGAIN. 313 
 
 " As you will ! " 
 
 He had laid his instruments out upon the 
 mattress — the gas was turned up as high as it 
 would go. Everything was ready. Then he turned 
 his back a moment and took off his coat, which 
 he laid upon a chair, returning towards the bed 
 with one hand behind his back. 
 
 Quick as thought, he suddenly darted forward and 
 pressed the clean handkerchief over the wounded 
 man's mouth and nose. The Vicomte d'Audierne 
 gave a little smothered exclamation of rage, and 
 raised his arms; but the Jesuit was too quick for 
 him, and pinned him down upon the mattress. 
 
 After a moment the doctor removed the hand- 
 kerchief, and the Vicomte lay unconscious and 
 motionless, his delicate lips drawn back in anger, so 
 that the short white teeth gleamed dangerously. 
 
 " It is possible," said the surgeon, feeling his 
 pulse again, ^'that Monsieur has killed himself by 
 walking into this room." 
 
 Like a cat over its prey, the young doctor leant 
 across the mattress. Without looking round he 
 took up the instruments he wanted, knowing the 
 order in which they lay. He had been excellently 
 taught. The noiseless movements of his white 
 fingers were marvellously dexterous — neat, rapid, 
 and finished. The evil-looking instruments gleamed 
 and flashed beneath the gaslight. He had a 
 peculiar little habit of wiping each one on his 
 shirt-sleeve before and after use, leaving a series 
 of thin red stripes there. 
 
314 THE SLAVE OF THE LAMP. 
 
 After the lapse of a minute he raised his head, 
 wiped something which he held in his fingers, and 
 passed it across to the Provincial. 
 
 " That is the bullet, my father," he said, without 
 ceasing his occupation, and without raising his eyes 
 from the wounded nian. 
 
 " Will he live ? " asked the Jesuit casually, while 
 he examined the bullet. 
 
 " If he tries, my father," Avas the meaning reply. 
 
 The young doctor was bandaging now, skilfully 
 and rapidly. 
 
 ''This would be the death of a dog," said the 
 Provincial, as if musing aloud; for the surgeon 
 was busy at his trade, and the tobacconist had 
 withdrawn some time before. 
 
 "Better than the life of a dog," replied the 
 Vicomte, in his smoothly mocking way, without 
 opening his eyes. 
 
 It was very easy to blame one woman, and to 
 cast reflections upon the entire sex. If these 
 brothers had not quarrelled about that woman, 
 they would have fallen out over something else. 
 Some men are so : they are like a strong spirit — 
 light and yet potent — that floats upon the top of 
 all other liquids and will mingle with none. 
 
 It would seem that these two could not be in 
 the same room without quarrelling. It was only 
 with care that (as the Jesuit had coldly observed) 
 they could exist in the same world without clash- 
 ing. Never was the Vicomte d'Audierne so cynical, 
 so sceptical, as in the presence of his brother. 
 
IN THE RUE ST. GINGOLPHE AGAIN. 315 
 
 Never was Raoul d'Audierne so cold, so heart- 
 less, so Jesuitical, as when meeting his brother's 
 scepticism. 
 
 Sixteen years of their life had made no difference. 
 They were as far apart now as on one grey morning 
 sixteen years ago, when the Vicomte d'Audierne had 
 hurried away from the deserted shore of the Cote du 
 Nord, leaving his brother lying upon the sand with 
 an ugly slit in his neck. That slit had healed now, 
 but the scar was always at his throat, and in both 
 their hearts. 
 
 True to his training, the Provincial had not spoken 
 the truth when he said that he had been ordered to 
 Paris. There was only one man in the world who 
 could order him to do anything, and that man was 
 too wise to test his authority. Raoul d'Audierne had 
 come to Paris for the purpose of seeing his brother — 
 senior by an hour. There were many things of which 
 he wished to speak, some belonging to the distant 
 past, some to a more recent date. He wished to 
 speak of Christian Vellacott — one of the few men 
 who had succeeded in outwitting him — of Signer 
 Bruno, or Max Talma, who had died within pistol 
 range of that same Englishman, a sudden, voiceless 
 death, the result of a terrible access of passion at the 
 sight of his face. 
 
 But this man was a Jesuit and a d'Audierne, 
 which latter statement is full of import to those who, 
 having studied heredity, know that wonderful inner 
 history of France which is the most romantic story 
 of human kind. And so Raoul d'Audierne — the 
 
316 THE SLAVE OF THE LAMP. 
 
 man whose power in the world is like that of the 
 fires burning within the crust of the earth, unseen, 
 immeasurable — and so he took his hat, and left the 
 little room behind the tobacconist's shop in the Rue 
 St. Gingolphe — beaten, frustrated. 
 
CHAPTER XXYIII 
 
 THE MAKING OF CHRISTIAN VELLACOTT 
 
 " Money," Captain Lebrun was saying emphatically, 
 as the Agnes and Mary drifted slowly past Gravesend 
 pier on the rising tide. " Hang money ! Now, I 
 should think that you make as much of it in a month 
 as I do in a ^^ear. You're a young man, and as far 
 as I know ye, ye're a successful one. Life spreads 
 out before you like a clean chart. I'm an old 'un — 
 my time is nearly up. I've lived what landsmen call 
 a hard life, and now I'm slowly goin' home. Ay, 
 Mr. Yellacott, goin' home ! And you think that 
 with all your manifold advantages you're a happier 
 man than me. Not a bit of it ! And why ? 'Cause 
 you belong to a generation that looks so far ahead 
 that it's afraid of bein' happy, just for fear there's 
 sorrow a comin'. Money, and lookin' ahead, that's 
 what spoils yer lives nowadays." 
 
 The skipper emphasised these weighty observations 
 by expectorating decisively into the water, and walked 
 away, leaving Christian Yellacott with a vaguely 
 amused smile upon his face. It is just possible that 
 Silas Lebrun, master and owner of the Agnes and 
 Mary, was nearer the mark than he thought. 
 
 An hour later, Yellacott was walking along the 
 
 317 
 
318 THE SLAVE OF THE LAMP. 
 
 deserted embankment above Westminster, on the 
 Chelsea side of the river. It was nine o'clock, for 
 Avhich fact Big Ben solemnly gave his word, far up 
 in the fog. The morning was very dark, and the 
 street lamps were still alight, while every window 
 sent forth a gleam suggestive of early autumnal fires. 
 
 Turning up his own street he increased his pace, 
 realising suddenly that he had not been within his 
 own doors for more than four months. Much might 
 have happened in that time — to change his life, per- 
 haps. As he approached the house he sa^v a strange 
 servant, an elderly woman, on her knees at the steps, 
 and somehow the sight conveyed to his mind the 
 thought that there was something waiting for him 
 within that peaceful little house. He almost ran 
 those last few yards, and sprang up the steps past 
 the astonished woman without a Avord of explana- 
 tion. 
 
 The gas in the narrow entrance-hall was lighted, 
 and as he threw aside his cap he perceived a warm 
 gleam of firelight through the half-open door of the 
 dining-room. He crossed the carpeted hall, and 
 pushed open that door. 
 
 Near the little breakfast- table, just under the gas, 
 stood Hilda Carew. In his room, standing among 
 his multifarious possessions, in the act of pouring 
 from Jiis coffee-pot. She was dressed in black — he 
 noticed that. Instead of being arranged high upon 
 her head, her marvellous hair hung in one massive 
 plait down her back. She looked like a tall and 
 beautiful school-girl. He had not seen her hair like 
 
THE MAKING OF CHRISTIAN VELLACOTT. 319 
 
 that since the old days when he had been as one of 
 the Carews. 
 
 As he pushed open the door, she looked up ; and 
 for a moment they stood thus. She set down the 
 coffee-pot, carefully and symmetrically, in the centre 
 of the china stand provided for its reception — and 
 the colour slowly left her face. 
 
 " You have come back at last ! " she said quite 
 monotonously. It sounded like a remark made for 
 the purpose of filling up an awkward silence. 
 
 Then he entered the room, and mechanically 
 closed the door behind him. She noticed the action, 
 but did not move. He passed round the table, 
 behind Aunt Judy's chair, and they shook hands 
 conventionally. 
 
 " Yes," he said almost breathlessly ; *•' I am back ; 
 you do not seem elated by the fact." 
 
 Suddenly she smiled — the smile that suggested, 
 in some subtle way, a kitten. 
 
 " Of course — I am glad ... to see you." 
 
 In a peculiar dreamy way she began to add milk 
 to the coffee. It seemed as if this were mere play- 
 acting, and not real life at all. 
 
 " How is it that you are here ? " he asked, with 
 a broken, disjointed laugh. "You cannot imagine 
 how strange an effect it was . . . for me ... to 
 come in and see you . . . here — of all people." 
 
 She looked at him gravely, and moved a step 
 towards him. 
 
 " Aunt Judy is dead ! " she explained ; " and Aunt 
 Hester is very ill. Mother is upstairs with them — 
 
320 THE SLAVE OF THE LAMP. 
 
 her — now. I have just come from the room, where 
 I have been since midnight." 
 
 She stopped, raised her hand to her hair as if 
 recollecting something, and stood looking sideways 
 out of the window. 
 
 "There is something about you this morning," 
 he said, with a concentrated deliberation, " that 
 brings back the old Prague days. I suppose it is 
 that I have not seen your hair as you have it to-day 
 — since then." 
 
 She turned quite away from his hungry gaze, 
 looking out of the window. 
 
 After a pause she broke the silence — with infinite 
 tact — not speaking too hurriedly. 
 
 " It has been a terrible week," she said. " Mother 
 heard from Mr. Bodery that they were very ill ; so 
 we came. I never dreamt that it was so bad when 
 you spoke of them. Five years it has been going 
 on? 
 
 " Yes ; five years. Thank you for coming, but I 
 am sorry you should have seen it." 
 
 " Why ? " 
 
 "Every one should keep guard over his own 
 skeleton." 
 
 She was looldno- at him now. 
 
 o 
 
 "You look very ill," she said curtly. "Where 
 have you been ? " 
 
 "I was kidnapped," he said, with a short laugh, 
 " and then I got typhoid. The monks nursed me." 
 
 " You were in a monastery ? " 
 
 "Yes; in Brittany." 
 
THE MAKING OF CHRISTIAN VELLACOTT. 321 
 
 She was idly arranging the cups and saucers with 
 her left hand, which -she seemed desirous of bringing 
 under his notice ; but he could look at nothing but 
 her face. 
 
 "Then," she said, "it would have been impossible 
 to find you ? " 
 
 " Quite," he replied, and after a pause he added, 
 in a singularly easy manner, " Tell me what hap- 
 pened after I disappeared." 
 
 She did not seem to like the task. 
 
 " Well — we searched — oh 1 Christian, it was 
 horrid I " 
 
 "I wondered," he said, in a deep, soft voice, 
 " whether you would find it so." 
 
 " Yes, of course, we all did." 
 
 This did not appear to satisfy him. 
 
 "But you," he persisted, "you, yourself — what did 
 you think ? " 
 
 " I do not know," she answered, with painful 
 hesitation. " I don't think I thought at all." 
 
 " Then what, did you do, Hilda ? " 
 
 *' I — oh, we searched. We telegraphed for Mr. 
 Bodery, who came down at once. Then Fred rode 
 over, and placed himself at Mr. Bodery 's disposal. 
 First he went to Paris, then to Brest. He did every- 
 thing that could be done, but of course it was of no 
 avail. By Mr. Bodery 's advice everything was kept 
 secret. There was nothing in the newspapers." 
 
 She stopped suddenly, and there was a silence 
 in the room. He was lookino- at her curiously, still 
 ignoring that little left hand. Only one word of 
 
322 THE SLAVE OF THE LAMP. 
 
 her speech seemed to have attached itself to his 
 understanding. 
 
 " Fred ? " he said. " Fred Farrar ? " 
 
 " Yes — my husband ! " 
 
 He turned away — walked towards the door, and 
 then returned to the hearthrug, where he stood 
 quite still. 
 
 " I suppose it was a quiet wedding," he said in a 
 hard voice, " on my account ; eh ? " 
 
 " Yes," she whispered. 
 
 He waited, but she added nothing. 
 
 Then suddenly he laughed. 
 
 " I have made a most extraordinary mistake ! " he 
 said, and again laughed. 
 
 " Oh, don't 1 " she exclaimed. 
 
 "Don't what?" 
 
 " Laugh." 
 
 He came nearer to her — quite near, until his 
 sleeve almost touched her boAved head. 
 
 " I thought — at St. Mary Western — that you 
 loved 97ie." 
 
 She seemed to shrink away from him. 
 
 " What made me think so, Hilda ? " 
 
 She raised her head, and her eyes flashed one 
 momentary appeal for mercy — like the eyes of a 
 whipped dog. 
 
 " Tell me," he said sternly. 
 
 " It was," she whispered, " because / thought so 
 myself." 
 
 "And when I was gone you found out that you 
 had made a mistake ? " 
 
THE MAKING OF CHRISTIAN VELLACOTT. 323 
 
 " Yes ; he was so kind, so brave, Christian — because 
 he knew of my mistake." 
 
 Christian Vellacott turned away, and looked 
 thoughtfully out of the window. 
 
 " Well," he said, after a pause, " so long as you 
 do not suffer by it " 
 
 " Oh — h," she gasped, as if he were whipping her. 
 She did not quite know what he meant. She does 
 not know now. 
 
 At last he spoke again, slowly, deliberately, and 
 without emotion. 
 
 " Some day," he said, " when you are older, when 
 you have more experience of the world, you will 
 probably fall into the habit of thanking God, in 
 your prayers, that I am what I am. It is not 
 because I am good . . . perhaps it is because I am 
 ambitious — my father, you may remember, Avas 
 considered heartless ; it may be that. But if I 
 were different — if I were passionate instead of being 
 what the world calls cold and calculating — you 
 would be . . . your life would be — " he stopped, 
 and turning away he sat down wearily in Aunt 
 Judy's armchair. " You will know some day ! " he 
 said. 
 
 It is probable that she does know now. She 
 knows, in all likelihood, that her husband would 
 have been powerless to save her from Christian 
 Vellacott — from herself — from that Love w^herein 
 there are no roses but only thorns. 
 
 And in the room above them Aunt Hester was 
 dying. So wags the world. There is no attention 
 
324 THE SLAVE OF THE LAMP. 
 
 paid to the laws of dramatic effect upon the stage 
 of life. The scenes are produced without sequence, 
 without apparent rhyme or reason; and Chance, 
 the scene-shifter, is very careless, for comedies are 
 enacted amid scenic effects calculated to show off" 
 to perfection the deepest tragedy, while tragedies are 
 spoilt by their surroundings. 
 
 The doctor and Mrs. Carew stood at the bedside, 
 and listened to the old woman's broken murmurings. 
 Into her mind there had perhaps strayed a gleam 
 of that Light which is not on the earth, for she was 
 not abusing her great-nephew. 
 
 " Ah, Christian," she was murmuring, " I wish 
 you would come. I want to thank you for your 
 kindness, more especially to Aunt Judy. She is 
 old, and we must make allowances. I know she 
 is aggravating. It happened long ago, when your 
 father was a little boy — but it altered her whole 
 life. I think women are like that. There is some- 
 thing that only comes to them once. I am feeling 
 far from well, nephew Vellacott. I think I should 
 like to see a doctor. What does Aunt Judy think ? 
 Is she asleep ? " 
 
 She turned her head to where she expected to 
 find her sister, and in the act of turning her eyes 
 closed. She slumbered peacefully. The two sisters 
 had slept together for seventy years — seventy long, 
 monotonous years, in Avhich there had been no 
 incident, no great joy, no deep sorrow — years lost. 
 Except for the natural growth and slow decay of 
 their frames, they had remained stationary, while 
 
THE MAKING OF CHEISTIAN VELLACOTT. 325 
 
 around them children had grown into men and 
 women and had passed away. 
 
 Presently Aunt Hester opened her eyes, and they 
 rested on the vacant pillow at her side. After a 
 pause she slowly turned her head, and fixed her 
 gaze upon the doctor's face. He thought that 
 the power of speech had left her, but suddenly she 
 spoke, quite clearly. 
 
 " Where is my sister Judith ? " she asked. 
 
 There are times when the truth must be spoken, 
 though it kill. 
 
 " Your sister died yesterday," replied the doctor. 
 
 Aunt Hester lay quite still, staring at the ceiling. 
 Her shrivelled fingers were picking at the counter- 
 pane. Then a gleam of intelligence passed across 
 her face. 
 
 " And now," she said, " I shall have a bed to my- 
 self. I have waited long enough." 
 
 Aunt Hester was very human, although the 
 shadow of an angel's wing lay across her bed. 
 
 It w^as many years later that Christian Vellacott 
 found himself in the presence of the Angel of Death 
 again. A telegram from Havre was one day handed 
 to him in the room at the back of the tall house 
 in the Strand, and the result was that he crossed 
 from Southampton to Havre that same night. 
 
 As the sun rose over the sea the next morning, 
 its earliest rays glanced gaily through the open 
 port-hole of a cabin in a large ocean steamer, still 
 panting from her struggle through tepid Eastern seas. 
 
326 THE SLAVE OF THE LAMP. 
 
 In this little cabin lay the Jesuit missionary, 
 Rene Drucquer, watching the moving reflections of 
 the water, which played ceaselessly on the painted 
 ceiling overhead. He had been sent home from 
 India by a kind-hearted army surgeon ; a doomed 
 man, stricken by a climatic disease in which there 
 was neither hope nor hurry. When the steamer 
 arrived in the Seine it was found expedient to let 
 the young missionary die where he lay. The local 
 agent of the Society of Jesus was a kind-hearted 
 man, and therefore a faithless servant. He acceded 
 to Rene Drucquer's prayer to telegraph for Christian 
 Vellacott. 
 
 And now Vellacott was actually coming down 
 the cabin stairs. He entered the cabin and stood 
 by the sick man's bed. 
 
 " Ah, you have come," said the Frenchman, with 
 that peculiar tone of pathetic humour which can 
 only be rendered in the language that he spoke. 
 " But how old 1 Do I look as old as that, I wonder ? 
 And hard — yes, hard as steel." 
 
 " Oh no," replied Vellacott. " It may be that the 
 hardness that was once there shows now upon my 
 face — that is all." 
 
 The Frenchman looked lovingly at him, with eyes 
 like the eyes of a woman. 
 
 " And now you are a great man, they tell me." 
 
 Vellacott shrugged his shoulders. 
 
 " In my way," he admitted. " And you ? " 
 
 " I — I have taught." 
 
 " Ah ! and has it been a success ? " 
 
THE MAKING OF CHRISTIAN VELLACOTT. 327 
 
 " In teaching I have learnt." 
 
 Vellacott merely nodded his head. 
 
 " Do you know why I sent for you ? " continued 
 the missionary. 
 
 " No." 
 
 " I sent for you in order to tell you that I burnt 
 that letter at Audierne." 
 
 " I came to that conclusion, for it never arrived." 
 
 " I want you to forgive me." 
 
 Vellacott laughed. 
 
 " I never thought of it again," he replied heartily. 
 
 The priest was looking keenly at him. 
 
 " I did not say 'thou,' but ' you''' he persisted gently. 
 
 Vellacott's glance wavered ; he raised his head, 
 and looked out of the open port-hole across the 
 glassy waters of the river. 
 
 " What do you mean ? " he inquired. 
 
 " I thought," said Rene Drucquer, '' there might be 
 some one else — some woman — who was waiting for 
 news." 
 
 After a little pause the journalist replied. 
 
 " My dear Abbe," he said, '' there is no woman in 
 the whole world who wants news of me. And the 
 result is, as you kindly say, I am a great man now 
 — in my way." 
 
 But he knew that he might have been a greater. 
 
 Printed by Ballanttne, Hanson &= Co. 
 Edinburgh 6^ London 
 
^hin Taper Edition of 
 
 Henry Seton Merriman's 
 
 Novels, in 14 Volumes 
 
 wan an Introduction in the First Volume by 
 
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 In clear type and handy sire. Fcap. S'* 
 
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 4. With Edged Tools 
 
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 8. Roden's Corner 
 
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