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 THE SLAVE OF THE LAMP 
 
 VOL. I.
 
 THE SLAVE OF THE LAMP 
 
 BY 
 
 HENBY SETON MEREIMAN 
 
 AUTHOR OF 'YOUXG MISTLEY ' 
 
 IN TWO VOLUMES 
 
 VOL. T. 
 
 LONDON 
 
 SMITH, ELDER, & CO., 15 WATERLOO PLACE 
 
 1892 
 
 [All rights reserved]
 
 
 J 
 
 
 CONTENTS 
 
 THE FIRST VOLUME 
 
 CHAPTER PAGE 
 
 I. Ix THE Rue St. Gingolphe . . .1 
 
 II. Tools . . . . . . 19 
 
 III. Without Rest . . . . .30 
 
 IV. B^JEDE^ED . . . . . . 60 
 
 V. A Re-tjnion . . . . .85 
 
 VI. Beokex Theeads . . . . . 100 
 
 VII. Puppets . . . . . .117 
 
 VIII. False Metal . . . . . 133 
 
 IX. A Clue . . . . . .159 
 
 X. On the Scent . . . . . 180 
 
 XL BuEY Bluff . . . . .199 
 
 • XII. A Waening Woed . . . . 219 
 
 XIII. A Night Watch . . . .245 
 
 XIV. Foiled . . . . . . 256
 
 THE 
 
 SLAVE 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 
 
 VOL. I. B
 
 Z THE SLAVE OF THE LAMP 
 
 which is so unimportant 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 
 Eue St. Gingolphe is situated between the 
 Boulevard St. Germain and Quai Yoltain^ 
 One hears with equal facility the low-toned 
 boom of the steamers' whistle upon the river, 
 and the crack of wdiips 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 probably 
 do slowly because of the bookstalls. JSTo one 
 worth talking to could help doing so. Then 
 turn to the left, and after a few paces you
 
 IN THE RUE ST. GINGOLPHE 3 
 
 will find upon your right hand the Eue 
 St. Gingolphe. It is noted in the Directory 
 ' Botot ' that this street is one hundred and 
 forty-five metres long ; and who would care 
 to contradict ' Botot,' or even to throw the 
 faintest shadow of a doubt upon his state- 
 ment? 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 Eue St. Gingolphe on 
 her w^ay — provided the cabman be honest. 
 There ! You cannot 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 boot- 
 maker's, and a tobacconist who sells very few
 
 4 THE SLAVE OF THE LAMP 
 
 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 
 department by a generous aid to the other. 
 He sells a vast number of cigarettes and 
 cigars of the very worst quality. And it is 
 upon the worst 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 Eue St. Gingolphe is within a stone's- 
 tbrow 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 apartments in close 
 ])roximity — and young men do not mind 
 much what tliey smoke, especially provincial 
 young men Hving in Paris. They feel it
 
 IN THE RUE ST. GINGOLPIIE 
 
 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 certainly 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 con- 
 venient. 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 seventeen, keeps the dapper little 
 cart and pony which carry her bonnets to the 
 farthest corner of Paris.
 
 b THE SLAVE OF THE LAMP 
 
 The tobacconist is a large man, much 
 given to perspiration. In fact, one may safely 
 make the statement that he perspires annually 
 from the middle of 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 con- 
 demning 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 al- 
 ways 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
 
 IX THE RUE ST. GIXGOLPHE i 
 
 on Sunday, 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 gastronomical, his 
 sorrows stomachic. Tlie little shop is open 
 early and late, Sundays, week-days, and holi- 
 days. Moreover, the tobacconist — Mr. Jacque- 
 tot himself — is always at his post, on the 
 high chair behind the counter, near the win- 
 dow, where he can see into the street. This 
 constant attention to business is almost pheno- 
 menal, 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 Eoyal. 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. Not by the chains of com-
 
 8 THE SLAVE OF THE LAMP 
 
 inerce. Oh, no ! When ralhed by his neigh- 
 bours for such an unenterprising love of his 
 own hearth, he merely shrugged liis 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 
 connected 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 Tues 
 days and Saturdays that the little barber from
 
 IX THE RUE ST. GIXGOLPHE 9 
 
 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 ap- 
 proach of any passenger, when such had once 
 turned the corner. Someone was approach- 
 ing now, and Mr. Jacquetot threw away the 
 stump of a cheap cigar. One would almost 
 have said that he recognised the step at a con- 
 siderable distance. Young people are in the 
 habit of considering that when 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.
 
 10 THE SLAVE OF THE LAMP 
 
 Mr. Jacquetot weighed seventeen stone, but he 
 was eminently intelhgent. He had recognised 
 the footstep wdiile 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 charac- 
 terised 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 spec-
 
 IX THE RUE ST. GIXGOLPHE 11 
 
 tacles, and as he looked at one straight in the 
 face there was a singular contraction of the 
 eyes which hardly amounted to a cast — more- 
 over^ it was momentary. It was precisely the 
 look of a hawk wdien its hood is suddenly re- 
 moved 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. 
 
 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 ex- 
 pression 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
 
 12 THE SLAVE OF THE LAMP 
 
 found expedient to avoid. Without a certain 
 allowance of sensuality no man is genial — 
 without a little weakness there is no kind 
 heart. This Frenchman'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 world 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 — inten- 
 tionally and mercifully blinded. If some of 
 us were a little more observant, a few of the 
 human combinations which we bring about 
 might perhaps be less egregiously mistaken.
 
 IN THE RUE ST. GmGOLPHE 13 
 
 It was probably the form of the hps that 
 lent pleasantness to the smile with which 
 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 Xile, which never 
 alter in expression — eyes that do not seem to 
 be busy with tliis life at all, but fully occu- 
 pied with something else : something beyond 
 to-morrow or behind yesterday. 
 
 ' Xot yet arrived ? ' inquired the new- 
 comer in a voice of some distinction. It was 
 a full, rich voice, and the French it spoke was 
 not the French of Mr. Jacquetot, nor, indeed, 
 of the Eue St. Gingolphe. It was the lan- 
 guage 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
 
 14 THE SLAVE OF THE LAMP 
 
 live out their lives with a singular suppres- 
 sion 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 
 would 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 shpped 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.
 
 IN THE KUE ST. GIiVGOLPHE 15 
 
 ' 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.' 
 
 ' But I am of the people,' moving ponder- 
 ously 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 P 
 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 
 contemptuously. ' I am not afraid of them. 
 There is only one thing to be feared. Citizen 
 Jacquetot — the press. The press and the 
 people, bie?i entendii.'
 
 16 THE SLAVE OF THE LAMP 
 
 ' 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,' 
 suggested the tobacconist lightly. It must be 
 remembered that though stout he was intelli- 
 gent. 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 
 hght of a fire in a dark place. 
 
 ' That,' was the reply, ' is the affair of the 
 miller.'
 
 IX THE RUE ST. GIXGOLPHE 17 
 
 ' But,' conceded Jacquetot, meditatively 
 selecting a new cigar from a box which he 
 had reached without moving from his chair, 
 ' but the people — they are fools, hein ! ' 
 
 ' Ah ! ' with a protesting shrug, as if 
 deprecating the enunciation of such a plati- 
 tude. 
 
 Then he passed through into a little room 
 behind the shop — a little room where no day- 
 light penetrated, because there was no win- 
 dow 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 
 
 VOL. I. C
 
 18 THE SLAVE OF THE LAMP 
 
 of the tobacconist's shop of the Eue St. Gin- 
 golphe in Paris was one of these. And the 
 taste he left behind him was rather disquiet- 
 ing. 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.
 
 19 
 
 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 wliat we, 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 
 
 c2
 
 20 THE SLAVE OF THE LAMP 
 
 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 and roughest blouse to be found, and 
 his cap was unnecessarily soaked with 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
 
 TOOLS 21 
 
 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 you 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
 
 22 THE SLAVE OF THE LAMP 
 
 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 witli. 
 an air of nervous truculence, as if he were 
 afraid that someone was desirous of disputing 
 liis equality, 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 tlian blind to all motes. In earlier 
 years his face might, perhaps, have been a
 
 TOOLS 2:: 
 
 trifle hard in its contour ; but Time, tlie 
 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 dig- 
 nity, assumed the chair which stood at tlie 
 opposite end of the table to that occupied by 
 the Citizen Morot. He had evidently hurried 
 in first in order to secure that seat. Fronr 
 his pocket he produced a somewhat soiled 
 paper, which he threw with exaggerated 
 carelessness across the table. His manner 
 was not entirely free from a suggestion of 
 patronage.
 
 24 THE SLAVE OF THE LAMP 
 
 ' What have we here?' inquired the first 
 comer, who had not hitlierto opened his hps, 
 witli a deep interest which might possibly 
 have been ironicaL He was just the sort of 
 man to indulge in irony for his own satis- 
 faction. He unfolded the paper, raised his 
 eyebrows, and read. 
 
 ' Ah ! ' he said, ' a receipt for five hundred 
 rifles with bayonets and shoulder-straps com- 
 plete. " Eeceived 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 tlie ash-tray of the little iron stove 
 behind him. 
 
 ' I judged it best to be strictly business-
 
 TOOLS 25 
 
 like/ said the buteiier, witii moderately ^eV.- 
 
 simvJated carelessness. 
 
 • Bur yes. Mc'iisieur Lerac' w::li a slirug. 
 * We of the Eepubhc dis:: :s: ea 1 :: :: so 
 completely.' 
 
 The old gentleman looked from one to the 
 :::e: with a soothiLg smile. 
 
 'The brave Lerac." he saia. -is a man of 
 
 Oil iz e n Morot ignored : " : : s •: : s e r t :. : i : :: . 
 •A-d." he said. tnr::i::j :c Lerac. • ycu 
 have them srcred in a safe place : There :s 
 is 1: ly :: i nbtofthat?' 
 
 • Ahsc'luiely none.' 
 •Good.' 
 
 • They are under n:v own eve/ 
 
 • Verv LC'jh. L is no: for a short time 
 
 onlT. bn: for S'Cn:e monihs. One 
 
 L -: ^- . 
 
 hurrv n.e Orcr'-c, Besides, vre are no: read
 
 26 THE SLAVE OF THE LAMP 
 
 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. 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, with- 
 out enthusiasm. 
 
 'And four hundred hardy companions 
 they are.' 
 
 ' So I should imagine ' (very gravely).
 
 TOOLS 27 
 
 * Four hundred strou"^ 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. Eiches are 
 nothing ; birth is nothing. This is the day of 
 force. Force is everything.' 
 
 ' 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 tw^itched, and he w^as on the point 
 of speaking wdien the Citizen Morot's velvety 
 eyes met his gaze with a quiet smile in which 
 arrogance and innocence were mingled.
 
 28 THE SLAVE OF THE LAMP 
 
 'And now,' said the last-mentioned, turn- 
 ing affably to the old gentleman, ' let us have 
 the report of the reverend Father.' 
 
 'Ah,' laughed Lerac, without attempting 
 to conceal 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 plea- 
 santry, 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
 
 TOOLS 29 
 
 still. She paid for those rifles, and she will 
 pay for the ammunition — 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 replenish- 
 ment.' 
 
 ' But,' exclaimed the butcher, emphatically 
 banging 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 bewilderment. 
 
 ' Ah ! ' he said guilelessly, ' who can tell ? ' 
 
 ' Who, indeed ! ' chimed in Morot. 
 
 The butcher was pleased with himself.
 
 30 THE SLAVE OF THE LAMP 
 
 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 
 Commune 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 evidently of a timid and conciliatory 
 nature, and would, with slight encourage- 
 ment, 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
 
 TOOLS 31 
 
 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 re- 
 marks 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. ' All is going on well. We are in 
 treaty for two hundred rifles w^ith the Monte- 
 negrin 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.
 
 32 THE SLAVE OF THE LAMP 
 
 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.
 
 TOOLS 66 
 
 Had he walked less noisily he might have 
 overheard the soft laugli 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. 
 
 ' 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 
 
 VOL. L D
 
 34 THE SLAVE OF THE LAMP 
 
 that comes from the streets. He is an ex- 
 citable, 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 Frenchman 
 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 tlie 
 departing Lerac, the old priest seemed to 
 throw off suddenly quite a number of years.
 
 TOOLS 35 
 
 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 in from a neighbouring restaurant all 
 hot, and was slumberously enjoying a very 
 strong-smelHng cigar, when the door of the 
 little room opened at length, and the two 
 men went out together into the dimly-lighted 
 street. 
 
 D 2
 
 3G THE SLAVE OF THE LAMP 
 
 CHAPTER III 
 
 WITHOUT REST 
 
 Halfway 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 through- 
 out 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 
 luiman in some points) hurry through their
 
 WITHOUT KEST 37 
 
 allotted tasks, and ignore the saintly shadow 
 cast upon them by the spire of St. Dimstan. 
 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 of the 
 
 »_■ 
 
 same day ! News in ever}^ 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 composi-
 
 o 
 
 8 THE SLAVE OF THE LAMP 
 
 tor, 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 new 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, com- 
 plete 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 tlie 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
 
 WITHOUT REST 39 
 
 extra five shillings a week. Xo doubt lie 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, 
 when eyes now dim were bright — the Strand 
 was in its usual state of turmoil. Carriage 
 followed carriage. Seedy clerks hustled past 
 portly merchants — not their own masters, 
 bien enteiidu, but those of other seedy clerks. 
 Carriages and foot-passengers were alike going 
 westward. All w^ere leaving behind them the 
 day and tlie busy cit}^ — 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 w^ere prospei'ous days in tlie 
 City. Days when men of but a few years'
 
 40 THE SLAVE OF THE LAMP 
 
 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, how^ever, 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 evenino; this narrow doorway and passage
 
 WITHOUT REST 41 
 
 had been crowded by a heaving, swearing, 
 laughing mass of more or less dilapidated 
 humanity interested in the retail sale of news- 
 papers. At six o'clock Ephraim Bander, a 
 retired constable, now on the staff of the 
 ' Beacon,' had taken his station at the door, 
 in order to greet would-be purchasers with 
 the laconic and discouraging words : ' 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 pro- 
 ceeded to attack the dust shaken from the 
 boots of the journahstic fraternity, with noisy 
 energy. After that she polished the door- 
 plate ; and peace reigned within the narrow 
 house.
 
 42 THE SLAVE OF THE LAMP 
 
 On the second floor there was a small 
 room with wmdows looking out into a narrow 
 lane behind the house. It was a singularly 
 quiet room ; the door opened and shut with- 
 out sound or vibration ; double windows 
 ensured 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 com- 
 fort 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 without 
 it. It certainly does not lie in the furniture — 
 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
 
 WITHOUT REST 40 
 
 sunlight, was such as one might wish to sit 
 in. A broad low 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 idhng 
 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 thought- 
 ful ; 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 
 cliubby hand at that moment engaged with 
 the pencil. 
 
 Mr. Morgan, sub-editor, was even stouter
 
 44 THE SLAVE OF THE LAMP 
 
 than his chief. Laughter was his most pro- 
 minent characteristic. 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 
 afternoon, 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. Mr. Morgan was the author 
 of the slightly laboured and weighty Parlia- 
 mentary articles on the first page. He never 
 joked on paper, which is a gift apart. 
 
 These two gentlemen were in no way of 
 brilHant intellect. They had their share of 
 sound, practical common-sense, which is in 
 itself a splendid substitute. Fortune had 
 come to them (as it conies to most men when 
 it comes at all) without any apparent reason. 
 Mr. Bodery had supplied the capital, and
 
 WITHOUT EEST 45 
 
 Mr. Morgan's share of the undertaking was 
 added in the form of a bustHng, 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 ofiice of the 
 ' Beacon,' and in an ofl'-hand manner an- 
 nounced that he was seeking employment. 
 Like many actions performed from a similar 
 motive, Mr. Bodery's kindness of heart met 
 with its reward. 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.
 
 46 THE SLAVE OF THE LAMP 
 
 Gradually, as the years wore on, the in- 
 fluence 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 con- 
 fidently, of one responsibility after another. 
 This exactly suited Mr. Bodery and his sub- 
 editor. There was very little of the slave in 
 the composition of either. They dehghted in 
 an easy, luxurious life, with just enough work 
 to impart a pleasant feehng 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 
 ixreat thino^s in his short life if he had wished
 
 WITHOUT REST 47 
 
 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 Yellacott soon 
 discovered that a head was required at the 
 office of the ' Beacon ' to develop the elements 
 of success undoubtedly 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 wliole of his 
 exceptional 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 stronc^ 
 body is great, but it is nevertheless limited. 
 The ' Beacon ' had reached a large circula- 
 tion, but its slave was worn out. Two years
 
 48 THE SLAVE OF THE LAilP 
 
 without a holiday — two years of hurried liard 
 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 col- 
 lapses ; or he becomes self-satisfied, over- 
 confident, and unbearable. Fortunately for 
 Christian Yellacott he was devoid of conceit, 
 which is like the scaffolding round a church- 
 spire, reaching higher and faUing first. 
 
 There was also a 'home' influence at work. 
 When Christian passed out of the narrow door- 
 way, and turned his face westward, his day's 
 work was by no means over, as will be shown 
 hereafter. 
 
 As Mr. Bodery rolled his pencil up and 
 down his blotting pad, he was slowly real- 
 ising the fact that something must be done. 
 Presently he looked up, and his pleasant 
 eves rested on the bent head of his sub- 
 editor.
 
 WITHOUT EEST 49 
 
 'Morgan,' he said, 'I have been think- 
 ing Seems to me Yellacott 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 workingr — ha, ha ! ' 
 
 This ' ha, ha ! ' did not mean very much. 
 There was no mirth in it. It was a species of 
 punctuation, and implied that Mr. Morgan had 
 fmished his remark. 
 
 ' I will ring for him now and see what he 
 ays about it.' 
 
 Mr. Bodery extended his chubby wdiite 
 hand and touched a small gong. Almost in- 
 >tantaneously the silent door opened and a 
 voice from without said, '- Yess'r.' A small 
 
 VOL. I. E
 
 50 THE SLAVE OF THE LAMP 
 
 boy with a mobile wicked mouth stood at 
 attention in the doorway. 
 
 ' Has Mr. Vellacott gone ? ' 
 
 ' No — sir ! ' 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 out- 
 side he placed his hand upon his heart and 
 made a low bow to the handle, retreating 
 l)ackwards to the head of the stairs. Then 
 he proceeded to slide down the banister, to 
 the trifling detriment of his waistcoat. As 
 lie 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
 
 WITHOUT REST 51 
 
 ' Is that the way you generally come down- 
 stairs, 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 ! ' 
 The small boy's manner was very different 
 from what it had been outside the door up- 
 stairs. 
 
 'All right,' replied Yellacott, putting on 
 the coat he had been (tarrying over his arm. 
 A peculiar smooth rapidity characterised all 
 his movements. At school he had been con- 
 sidered a very ' clean ' fielder. Tlie cleanness 
 was there still. 
 
 The preternaturally sharp boy — sharp as 
 only London boys are — watched the lithe 
 form vanish up the stairs ; then he wagged 
 
 E 2 
 
 *i.OFfU.L,a.
 
 52 THE SLAVE OF THE LAMP 
 
 his head very wisely and said to liimself 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 Yellacott 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 illu- 
 minated his face. It was a fairly handsome 
 face, with eyes just large enough to be keen 
 and quick without being dreamy. The shght 
 fair moustache was not enough to hide the 
 mouth, which was retined, and singularly 
 immobile. He glanced at Mr. Bodery, as he 
 entered, quickly and comprehensively, and 
 then turned his eves towards Mr. Morgan.
 
 WITHOUT REST b-j 
 
 His face was very still and unemotional, but 
 it was pale, and his eyes were deeply sunken. 
 A keen observer w^ould have noticed, in com- 
 paring the three men, that there w^as some- 
 thing about the youngest which was lackini^- 
 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, Yellacott,' said Mr. Bodery. 
 ' We want to have a consultation.' After a 
 short pause lie continued : ' You know, of 
 course, that it is a dull season just now. 
 People do not seem to read the papers in 
 August. Xow, we want you to take a holi- 
 day. Morgan has been away ; I shall go 
 when you come back. Say three weeks or a 
 month. You've been overworking yourself 
 a bit — burning the candle at both ends, 
 eh ? '
 
 54 THE SLAVE OF THE LAMP 
 
 ' Hardly at both ends,' corrected Yellacott, 
 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 remem- 
 bering 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 fellow,' said Mr. Bodery gravely, 
 emphasising his remarks with the pencil, 'you 
 have one thing in life to learn yet — no doubt 
 you have many, but this one in particular you
 
 WITHOUT REST 65 
 
 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 enjoy- 
 ment is good for everyone. There are many 
 things to form a brighter side to life. Nature 
 — travelling — riding — rowing ' 
 
 ' 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 was right. Christian had yet
 
 56 THE SLAVE OF THE LAMP 
 
 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 look- 
 ing at the man who was perhaps saving his 
 life. 
 
 ' We can easily manage it,' said the editor, 
 continuing 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, Yellacott,' 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
 
 WITHOUT REST -J « 
 
 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 a-way. 
 Depend upon it, my boy, when a man is put 
 on the shelf, worn out and useless, another 
 soon fills his place. You are too young to go 
 on the shelf yet. To please me, Yellacott, 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. Yaguely and mechanically he 
 wandered upstairs to his own particular den. 
 It was a disappointing little chamber. The 
 chaos one expects to find on the desk of a 
 literary man was lacking here. Xo papers
 
 58 THE SLAVE OF THE LAMP 
 
 lay on the table in artistic disorder. The 
 presiding genius of the room was method — 
 clear-headed, practical method. The walls 
 were hidden by shelves of books, from tlie 
 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 having 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 yearning 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
 
 WITHOUT REST 59 
 
 thoughtfully 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 ! '
 
 GO THE SLAVE OF THE LAMP 
 
 CHAPTEE lY 
 
 BURDENED 
 
 Christl\x 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 possibiUties of in- 
 terest around him in no way disturbed his 
 thoughts. In his busy brain the traffic of 
 thought, passing and repassing, crossing and 
 recrossiug, went on unaffected by outward 
 things. A modern poet has confessed that 
 his muse loves the pavement — a bold con- 
 fession, but most certainly true. Why does
 
 BURDf:NED 61 
 
 talent gravitate to cities? Because there it 
 works its best — because friction necessarily 
 produces brilliancy. Nature is a great de- 
 ceiver ; 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 lie 
 made his way dexterously through the narrow 
 places without thinking of it. While medi- 
 tating deepl}^ 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 situated. 
 Their minds are required at all moments, in 
 full working order, clear and rapid — ready,
 
 62 THE SLAVE OF THE LAMP 
 
 shoes on feet and staff in hand, to go 
 whithersoever 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 in- 
 side, he closed the door without unnecessary 
 sound and stood for some moments in the 
 dark little entrance-hall, apparently listen- 
 
 
 Presently a voice broke the silence of
 
 BURDENED 63 
 
 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. 
 
 ' 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 and more. Why, I almost forget his 
 name ! ' 
 
 ' Christian, that is his name — a most 
 inappropriate 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
 
 64 THE SLAVE OF THE LAMP 
 
 are different from what they used to be when 
 we were younger ! ' 
 
 The frothy one outside the door seemed 
 in no great degree impressed by these im- 
 partial 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, 
 wheedlincr tone, such as one uses towards 
 petulant children. ' He's coming home to- 
 night, sure enough ! ' It was a pleasant 
 voice, wnth 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 lie now — is he now ? ' said the first 
 speaker reflectively. ' Well, I am sure it is 
 time he did. We willjust give him a lesson, 
 eh, sister Hester? — we will give him a lesson, 
 shall we not? '
 
 BURDENED 65 
 
 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 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 
 Christian,' was the reply, in a cheerful under- 
 tone. ' Aunt Judith has most got rid of her 
 cold. But they've been very trying, sir — 
 just hke 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 sympa- 
 thetic enough, but he said nothing. With a 
 little nod and a suppressed sigh he turned 
 
 VOL. I. F
 
 66 THE SLAVE OF THE LAMP 
 
 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 someone 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 fea- 
 tures and silver hair ; voluminous caps and 
 white woollen shawls identical. With ex- 
 aggerated marks of respect he kissed eacli by 
 turn on her withered cheek. 
 
 ' May I sit down, Aunt Judith ? ' he asked,
 
 BURDENED 67 
 
 and without waiting for an answer drew a 
 chair towards the fireplace, w^iere a small 
 fire burnt though it was the month of 
 August. 
 
 ' Yes, Xephew Yellacott, you may take a 
 seat,' replied Aunt Judith w^ith chill severity, 
 ' and you may also tell us where you have 
 been during the last four weeks.' 
 
 Poor old human wreck ! Only ten hours 
 earher her nephew had bid her farewell for 
 the day. Christian began an explanation in 
 a weary, mechanical way, hke 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 Yellacott. 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 
 
 F 2
 
 68 THE SLAVE OF THE LAMP 
 
 — 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 per- 
 functory interest, 'have the spoons gone ?' 
 
 he almost said ' again,' but checked himself in 
 time. He turned to look at the table, which 
 had been carefully denuded of every piece of 
 silver. 
 
 ' There, you see ! ' quavered Aunt Judith 
 triumphantly ; 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 discomfiture, until Aunt 
 Judith was attacked by a violent fit of cough- 
 ing, which seemed to be tearing her to pieces. 
 Christian watched her with the ready keen- 
 ness of a sick-nurse. 
 
 ' How did it occur ? ' he asked, wdien the 
 old lady had recovered.
 
 BURDEXED 69 
 
 ' There, you see,' remarked Aunt Hester, 
 with the precise intonation of her accompUce. 
 
 ' I am sure ! ' panted Aunt Judith tri- 
 umphantly. 
 
 '1 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, Xephew Yellacott, to
 
 70 THE SLAVE OF THE LAMP 
 
 show you what might have happened during 
 your unconscionable absence. Servants are 
 only too ready to talk to tlie first comer of 
 their mistresses' wealth and position. They 
 liave 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 work- 
 house. 
 
 'Well, Aunt Judith,' replied Christian 
 patiently, ' I will try and stay at home more 
 in future. But you know it is time I was 
 doing something to earn my own livelihood 
 now. I cannot exist on your kindness all my 
 hfe ! ' 
 
 He had learnt to humour these two silly 
 old women. During tlie two years which 
 had just passed he had gradually recognised 
 the utter futility of endeavouring to make
 
 BURDENED 71 
 
 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 whatever, and such facts as had 
 estabUshed themselves there were permanent. 
 They belonged to another generation, and 
 their mode of thought was a remnant 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 fol- 
 lowed the gradual faihng of each sense and 
 power. 
 
 There is something pathetic about the 
 decay of a mind which has been driven to 
 death by constant w^ork, but there is a com-
 
 72 THE SLAVE OF THE LAMP 
 
 pensating 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 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 wofully unintellectual 
 age they had never left a certain groove in 
 life. When their brother married Christian 
 Yellacott'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.
 
 BURDENED 7o 
 
 When Christian Yellacott arrived in Encr- 
 
 o 
 
 land, 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 lite- 
 rary 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. Dur- 
 ing that vast blank (for blank it was, so far 
 as their lives were concerned) stretching 
 away back into a perspective 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
 
 < 4 THE SLAVE OP THE LAMP 
 
 goal at the heart of each. They had existed 
 thus with terrible longevity — lived a raere 
 animal life of sleeping and eating, such as 
 hundreds of women are livino^ around us 
 now. 
 
 ' Of course, you must learn to make your 
 daily bread. Nephew Yellacott ! ' answered 
 Aunt Hester. ' The desire does you credit ; 
 but you should be carefid into what society 
 you go without us. Girls are very design- 
 ing, and many a one would like to marry a 
 nephew of mine — eh, Judith F ' 
 
 'Yes, that they would,' replied the old 
 lady. ' The minxes know that they might 
 do worse than catch the nephew of Judith 
 and Hester Yellacott ! ' 
 
 ' Look at us,' continued Aunt Hester, 
 drawing up her shrunken old form with a 
 touch of pride. ' Look at us ! We have
 
 BURDENED 75 
 
 always avoided marriage, and we are very 
 
 nice and happy, I am sure ! ' 
 
 She waited for a confirmation of this bold 
 statement, but Christian was not listening. 
 He was leaning forward with his hands 
 clasped bet^v€en his knees, gazing into the 
 fire. He was recalling the conversation 
 which had passed in the httle 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 mad- 
 dening prattle of unguided tongues, from the 
 dread monotony of hopeless watching? He 
 knew that he was wasting his manhood, 
 neglecting his intellectual opportunities, and 
 endangering his career ; but his course of 
 duty was marked out with terrible distinct- 
 ness. He never saw the pathos of it, as a 
 woman would have seen it, gathering per-
 
 ib THE SLAVE OF THE LAMP 
 
 haps some slight alleviation from the sight. 
 It never entered his thoughts to complain, 
 and he never conceived tlie idea of drawing 
 comparisons between his position and that 
 of other young men who, instead of being 
 slaves to their relatives, made very good use 
 of them. He merely went on doing his ob- 
 vious duty and striving not to look forward 
 too eagerly to a release at some future period. 
 
 Fortunately, Mrs. Straw^d was not long 
 in bringing 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 w^as it, and would there 
 be enough for Nephew Yellacott ? 
 
 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 operation required great 
 judgment and impartiality.
 
 BURDENED i / 
 
 ' Excuse me, Xephew Yellacott ! ' said 
 Aunt Judith, with dangerous severity. ' Is 
 that first shce intended for Aunt Hester ? It 
 appears to ine that the butter is very thick 
 — much thicker than on the second, which is 
 doubtless intended for me ! ' 
 
 ' Do you think so, Aunt Judith ? ' asked 
 Christian in a voice purposely loud in order 
 tu drown 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 mor heavily 
 battered being awarded to Aunt Judith in 
 recognition of her seniority. 
 
 With similar fruitful topics of conversa- 
 tion the meal was pleasantly despatched. 
 The turn of Dick and Mick followed thereon. 
 Dick, the property of Aunt Judith, was a
 
 75 THE SLAVE OF THE LAMP 
 
 canary of thouglitful temperament. 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, something to say upon all 
 subjects — and said it. 
 
 Xow 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 enlarging upon the 
 stupidity and uselessness of silent birds. 
 Aunt Judith, on the other hand, admired 
 a lively and talkative canary ; cousequeutly 
 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 IMick were 
 housed in cages of similar build — indeed,
 
 BURDENED 79 
 
 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 comfortably in their respective arm- 
 chairs. This he did tenderly and cleverly as 
 a woman, but it was not a pleasant sight to 
 look upon. The man, with his lean strong 
 face, long jaw, and prominent chin, was so 
 obviously out of place. These peaceful duties 
 were never meant for such as he. His some- 
 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
 
 80 THE SLAVE OF THE LAMP 
 
 visibly created for strife and the forefront of 
 life's battle, that it was almost 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 down 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- 
 countryman, 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 liim 
 to go on playing. Five minutes more.
 
 BURDENED 81 
 
 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 
 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 
 VOL. I. a
 
 b2 THE SLAVE OF THE LAMP 
 
 envelope, which he addressed to ' Sidney 
 Carew, Esq., St. Mary Western, Dorset.' 
 Then he sUpped noiselessly 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 hohday, Master Christian. You need it 
 sorely, that I know. You do indeed. We 
 shall get on splendidly without you. I'll just 
 have my sister to come and stay, same as 
 1 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 ! '
 
 BURDENED bo 
 
 ' Of course you hav'n'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 ! ' 
 
 ' Well, then, if your sister comes it must 
 be understood, nurse, that I make the same 
 arrangement with her as exists with you. 
 She must simply be a duplicate of you — you 
 understand ? ' 
 
 The little woman laughed, hghtly 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 
 
 6 2
 
 84 THE SLAVE OF THE LAMP 
 
 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 hps 
 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 irregu- 
 lar, 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.'
 
 85 
 
 CHAPTEE Y 
 
 A RE-U^^IOX 
 
 The gentle August night had cooled and 
 soothed the dusty atmosphere. All things 
 looked fair, even in London. The placid 
 Thames glided stealthily down to the sea, as if 
 wishing to speed on unseen, 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 Chris- 
 tian Yellacott, as he opened the door of his 
 little Chelsea home and stepped forth a free 
 man. When once he had made up his mind to
 
 86 THE SLAVE OF THE LAMP 
 
 go, every obstacle was thrown aside and his 
 determination was now as great as had been 
 his previous rekictance. He had no presenti- 
 ment that he was taking an important step in 
 life — one of those steps which we hardly notice 
 at the time, but upon which we look back in 
 after years and note how clear and definite it 
 was, losing ourselves in vague conjecture as to 
 what might have been had we held back. 
 
 Christian, being practical in all things, 
 knew how to travel comfortably, dispensing 
 with rugs and bags and such small packages 
 as are understood to be dear to the elderly 
 single female heart. 
 
 The smoky suburbs were soon left behind, 
 and the smiling 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.
 
 A RE-UNION 87 
 
 The whizz of the wind past his face brought 
 back the memory of the long, idle, happy days 
 spent with 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 unfortunate 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 debris^ as it w^ere. Three voices
 
 88 THE SLAVE OF THE LAMP 
 
 there were whose tones would never more 
 be heard in the round of merry jest. Mr. 
 Carew, Walter Yellacott (Uncle Walter, the 
 young ones called him), and little Charlie 
 Carew, the bright-eyed sailor of the family, 
 had all three travelled on. The two former, 
 whose age and work achieved had softened 
 their 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 wis- 
 dom. 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 merci- 
 ful, had healed, as best he could {which is by
 
 A RE-UXIOK 89 
 
 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 witli a patient face and 
 a ready smile, was the only representative of 
 the vanishing generation. 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 water- 
 ing-place, and too far east for Plymouth or 
 Bristol. Sidney Carew Avas on the platform 
 — a sturdy, typical Englishman, with a certain 
 sure slowness of movement handed down to
 
 90 THE SLAVE OF THE LAMP 
 
 him by seafaring ancestors. The two friends 
 liad 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 3^ou .^ ' 
 
 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.'
 
 A KE-UXIOX 91 
 
 It was with womanly foresight that 
 Miss Molly Carew had elected to wait outside 
 with the doer-cart while her brother met 
 Christian on the platform. 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 mioiit 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, raising his hat and shaking hands as if 
 they had parted the day before. 
 
 She saw at once that it was all right. 
 This was Christian Yellacott as she had re- 
 membered him. She looked down at him as 
 he stood with one hand resting on the splash-
 
 92 THE SLAVE OF THE LAMP 
 
 board, and he, looking 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 replied. ' Thanks ; I do 
 not feel like it — only hungry. Hungry, and 
 desperately glad to see a face which 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 '
 
 A RE UNIO^ 93 
 
 At this moment Sidney came up and 
 interrupted them. 
 
 ' Jump up in front, Chris,' he said ; 
 ' Molly will drive, while I sit behind. Your 
 luof^^ao^e 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 sideloncr 
 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, however, was all 
 that could be said upon that subject. Only 
 her eyes were unchanged, the laughing fear-
 
 94 THE SLAVE OF THE LAMP 
 
 less eyes of old. Fearless they had been in 
 the times of childish mischief and adventure ; 
 fearless they remained in face of life's graver 
 mischances now. 
 
 Christian had been a shy and common- 
 place-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 will which, 
 reaching out, can grasp and hold anything or 
 everj' thing. 
 
 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
 
 A EE-UNION 95 
 
 wall or hedgerow to the sea, implied a cer- 
 tain thickness of wall and woodwork. The 
 doorway which looked inland was singularly 
 broad, and bore signs about its stonework of 
 having once been even broader. The house 
 had originally been 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 com- 
 fortable hall, such as might be used as a 
 sitting-room. All around the house, except, 
 indeed, upon the seaward side, stood gnarled 
 and twisted trees ; Scotch firs in abundance, 
 here and there a Weymouth pine, and occa- 
 sionally a knotted dwarf oak with a tendency 
 to run inland. The garden was^ however, 
 rich enough in shrubs and undergrowth, and 
 to the landward side was a gleam of still water.
 
 96 THE SLAVE OF THE LAMP 
 
 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, some- 
 where ; 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 would have been here to 
 welcome you, I know, Christian.' 
 
 ' I expect she is at the moat,' said Molly. 
 ' Come along, Christian ; we will go and look 
 for her. This way.' 
 
 In the meantime Sidney had driven the 
 dog-cart round to the stables, kneeling awk- 
 wardly upon the back seat.
 
 A KE-UXION 97 
 
 As Christian followed his fair guide down 
 the 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 absorb- 
 ing. 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 loner 
 still sheet of water bounded by solid stone- 
 work, which, however, was crumbling away 
 in parts, while everywhere the green moss 
 grew in velvety profusion. 
 
 ' Oh, Christian,' said Molly lightly, ' I sup- 
 pose Sidney told you a little of our news. 
 Men's letters are not discursive as a rule I 
 
 VOL. I. H
 
 98 THE SLAVE OF THE LAMP 
 
 know, but no doubt he told you — some- 
 thing.' 
 
 He was standino^ beside her at the edfje 
 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 
 way.' 
 
 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 saw approaching them a young 
 man and a maiden whose footsteps had been 
 inaudible upon the moss-grown path. The
 
 A RE'UXION ,99, 
 
 man was of medium height, with an honest 
 brown face. He was dressed for riding, and 
 walked with a shght swagger, which arose 
 less from conceit than from excessive riding 
 on horseback. The maiden was taU and 
 stately, and in her walk there was an old- 
 fashioned grace of movement which har- 
 monised perfectly with the old-world sur- 
 roundings. 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. 
 
 H 2
 
 100 THE SLAVE OF THE LAMP 
 
 CHAPTER YI 
 
 BROKEN THREADS 
 
 They came forward, and suddenly the girl 
 raised her face. She made a little hesi- 
 tating 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, 
 w4iile her eyes were 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
 
 BEOKEX THREADS 101 
 
 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. Vellacott.' 
 
 The two men shook hands, and Christian 
 was disappointed. The grip of Farrar 's 
 fingers was limp and almost nerveless, in 
 striking contradiction to the promise of his 
 honest face and well-set person. 
 
 ' Tea is ready,' said Molly somewhat 
 hastily, ' let us go in.' 
 
 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 sunhght through;
 
 l02 THE SLAVE OF THE LAMP 
 
 ihe trees upon that water,' said he, in a con- 
 versational way ; ' it is quite green, and 
 ^hnost transparent.' 
 
 ' Yes,' repUed Molly, moving away ten- 
 tatively, ' 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 
 tnet his gaze she raised her hand and pushed 
 back a few truant wisps of hair which, curl- 
 ing forward like tendrils, tickled her cheek. 
 It was a movement he soon learned to 
 know. 
 
 ' Yes,' he said absently. He was wonder- 
 ing in an analytical way whether the action 
 was habitual with her, or significant of 
 embarrassment. At length he turned to fol- 
 low her, but Molly had failed in her object ; 
 the others had passed out of earshot.
 
 BROKEN THREADS 103 
 
 ' Tell me,' said Christian in a lowered 
 voice, ' who is he ? ' 
 
 ' He is the squire of St. Mary Eastern, 
 six miles from here,' she rephed ; ' 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 air a tiny stick, 
 hitting it with his hand as they walked 
 on. 
 
 ' And,' he said suggestively, ' and ' 
 
 ' Yes, Christian,' she replied decisively, 
 ' they are engaged. Come, let us hurry ; I 
 always pour out the tea. I told you before, 
 if you remember, that I was the only person 
 in the house who did any work.' 
 
 When Christian opened his eyes the
 
 104 THE SLAVE OF THE LAMP 
 
 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 face. 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 
 unceasing throb to be felt as much as heard. 
 Some acoustic formation of the land carried 
 the noise, for 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 soothing than a noise- 
 less chamber. 
 
 Nevertheless the feeling that forced itself 
 into Christian Yellacott's waking thoughts 
 was not peaceful. It was a sense of discom- 
 fort. Town-people expect too much from the 
 country — that is the truth of it. They quite
 
 BROKEN THREADS 105 
 
 overlook the fact that where human beings 
 are there can be no peace. 
 
 This sudden sense of restlessness annoyed 
 him. He knew it so well. It had hovered 
 over his waking head almost daily during the 
 last two 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 
 was almost everything — to make his life 
 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 thinking of the one 
 little item which could be described as un- 
 toward — thinking of Hilda, and Hilda en- 
 gaged to be married to Fred Farrar. It was 
 not that he was in love with Hilda Carew
 
 106 THE SLAVE OF THE LAMP 
 
 himself. He had scarcely remembered her 
 existence during the last twc 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 back- 
 ground 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 
 unwonted idleness, gazing vaguely at the flying
 
 BROKEN THREADS 107 
 
 clouds. The window was open, and tlie 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 probabihty there never 
 would be complete peace there, because Ambi- 
 tion 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. Yel- 
 lacott 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 resignation of Age. He felt 
 that she had willingly resigned something 
 which he would on no account have given up.
 
 108 THE SLAVE OF THE LAMP 
 
 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 
 airl is eno'aofed to be married. We think 
 that she mio-ht 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 engage- 
 ment is not usually a matter of universal 
 rejoicing. Someone is, in all probability, 
 left to think twice about it. But Christian 
 Vellacott was not prepared to admit that he 
 was in that position. 
 
 He was naturally of an observant habit 
 — his father had been one of the keenest- 
 sighted men of his day — and he had gradu- 
 ated at the subtlest school in the world. He 
 unwittingly fell to studying his fellow-men
 
 BROKEN THREADS 109 
 
 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 methodically pigeon-holed away, as a 
 lawyer stores up the correspondence of his 
 clients. 
 
 With reofard to Frederick Farrar, Yellacott 
 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 knowledge 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.
 
 110 THE SLAVE OF THE LAMP 
 
 In all this there was nothing 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 unsettled, noisy, country break- 
 fast, and when he found 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
 
 BROKEN THREADS 111 
 
 constrained silence made itself felt at times, 
 and they were both intensely conscious of 
 it. 
 
 Yellacott was fully aware that there was 
 something 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 
 congratulated you.' 
 
 She bent her head in a grave little bow 
 which was not quit^ 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
 
 112 THE SLAVE OF THE LAMP 
 
 will,' 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. 
 
 ' I like Farrar,' he said. ' I am sure 
 he will make you happy. He — is a lucky 
 fellow.' 
 
 At the end of the walk that ran the 
 whole length 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 de- 
 liberately upon his heel and waited for her. 
 There was nothing else to do but acquiesce. 
 They retraced their steps with that slow 
 reflectiveness which comes when one walks
 
 BROKEN THREADS 113 
 
 backwards and forwards over the same 
 ground. 
 
 There is something eminently conver- 
 sational 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 knit- 
 ting. 
 
 Occasionally Yellacott 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 
 Avhat 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 
 
 VOL. I. I
 
 114 THE SLAVE OF THE LAMP 
 
 suggestive of a certain gentle wilfulness — 
 Avas unaltered. 
 
 And yet there v^as a change : that subtle 
 change which seems to come to girls suddenly, 
 in the space of a week — of one night. And 
 this man was watching her with his analytical 
 eyes, wondering what the change might be. 
 
 He was more or less a bookworm, and 
 lie 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 when he cut 
 the pages of a deep book and glanced 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 —
 
 BROKEX THREADS 115 
 
 precisely the subject that walked in a blue 
 cotton dress by Christian Vellacott's side at 
 the edge of the moat. If anyone 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 Yellacott was nearer to 
 Gibbon in his learning than to Montaigne 
 in his careless ignorance of those things 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 indifferent. It was rather 
 a humiliating position for a clever man — for 
 a critic who knew himself to be capable of 
 understandinsf most thm^s, of catching tlie 
 drift of most thoughts, however imperfectly 
 expressed. He was vaguely conscious of 
 
 I 2
 
 116 THE SLAVE OF THE LAMP 
 
 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 pair 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 conver- 
 sational, and Hilda seemed to be content with 
 silence. So they walked the length of the 
 moat twice without speaking, and might have 
 accomphshed 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 over- 
 hands.
 
 117 
 
 CHAPTEE YE 
 
 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 insignificant httle 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 overturned omni- 
 buses ; for the true Parisian is a cynic. He 
 likes overturned things, and he loves to see
 
 118 THE SLAVE OF THE LAMP 
 
 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 little street was blocked at either 
 end by a barricade of overturned omnibuses, 
 of old hampers and empty boxes, of a few 
 loads of second-hand bricks and paving-stones 
 brought from the scene of some drainage 
 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 orators were speak- 
 ing 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 Roil' it cried. 'Long live the 
 King ! ' 
 
 A few took up the refrain, but the general 
 tone was negative. It was not so much a
 
 PUPPETS 119 
 
 question of iipholding anything as of throwing 
 down that which was already up. 
 
 ' Down with the EepubHc ! ' was the 
 favourite cry. ' Down with the President ! 
 Down with everything ! ' 
 
 And each man cried down his favourite 
 enemy* 
 
 The Citizen Morot listened, and his con- 
 temptuous mouth was twisted with a dehcate, 
 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
 
 120 THE SLAVE OF THE LAMP 
 
 his forehead — a prominent 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 ! ' he exclaimed, with a httle laugh ; 
 and he drew from an inner pocket a delicately 
 scented pocket-handkerchief, with which he 
 wiped his brow. ' If I get excited now, what 
 will it be when they begin — to bite ? ' 
 
 All this while the orators were shout- 
 ing their loudest, and the voices dispersed 
 throughout the crowd raised at intervals 
 their short sharp cry of — 
 
 ' Long live the King ! ' 
 
 And the poHce? There were only two 
 agents attached to the immediate neighbour- 
 hood, and they were smoking cigars and 
 drinking absinthe in two separate cellars, 
 with the door locked on the outside. They 
 cwere prisoners of war of the most resigned
 
 PUPPETS 121 
 
 type. The room in which stood the Citizen 
 Morot was dark, and wisely so. For the 
 Parisian street pohtician can make very 
 pretty practice of a lighted petroleum-lamp 
 with an empty bottle or half a brick. The 
 window was wide open, and the wooden 
 shutters were hooked back. 
 
 The attitude of the man was interested 
 and shghtly self-satisfied. It suggested that 
 of the manager of a theatre lookinf]^ down 
 from an upper-tier box upon a full house and 
 a faultless stage. At the same time he was 
 keeping what sailors call a very ' bright look- 
 out ' towards either end of the street. From 
 his elevated position he was able to see over 
 the barricades, and he watched with intense 
 interest the movements of two women (or 
 perhaps men disguised as such) who stood 
 in the centre of the street just beyond each 
 obstruction.
 
 122 THE SLAVE OF THE LAMP 
 
 There was something dramatic in the 
 motionless attitude of these two women, 
 standing guard alone 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 contemplated 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 extracting a groan, and when he 
 did so those listening to his rivals turned and 
 surged towards him. There w^as plenty of 
 movement. It was what the newspapers call 
 an animated scene — or a disgraceful scene — 
 according to their political bias. 
 
 The Citizen Morot could not hear the 
 jokes nor distinguish the cause of the groan-
 
 PUPPETS 123 
 
 ing. But he did not seem to mind much. 
 The speeches were not of the description to 
 be given in full in 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 the air for some moments, then she 
 suddenly crossed them twice, turning at the 
 same moment and scrambling over the 
 barricade. A long shrill whistle rang out
 
 124 THE SLAVE OF THE LAMP 
 
 over the heads of the mob, and its effect was 
 almost instantaneous. The ' flares ' disap- 
 peared Hke magic. Dark figures swarmed 
 up the lamp -posts and extinguished the feeble 
 lic^hts. The voice of the orator was still. 
 Silence and darkness reigned over that in- 
 significant little street on the southern side 
 of the Seine. Then came the clatter of 
 cavalry — the rattle of horses' feet, and the 
 ominous clank of empty scabbards against 
 spur and buckle. A word of command, 
 and a scrambling halt. Then silence again, 
 broken only by the shuffling of feet (not too 
 well clad) in the darkness between the barri- 
 cades. 
 
 The Citizen Morot leant recklessly out 
 of the window, peering into the gloom. He 
 forgot to make use of the delicately scented 
 pocket-handkerchief now, and the drops of 
 perspiration trickled slowly down his face.
 
 PUPPETS 125 
 
 The soldiers shuffled in their saddles. 
 Some of the spirited little Arabs pawed the 
 pavement. One of them squealed angrily, 
 and there was a slight commotion somewhere 
 in the rear ranks — an equine difference of 
 opinion. The officers had come forward to 
 the barricade and were consulting together. 
 The question was — what was 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. He scrambled up, putting his 
 foot through the window of an omnibus in 
 passing. Against the dim light of the 
 street-lamp beyond, his slight, straight figure 
 stood out in bold relief. It was a splendid 
 mark for a man with chalked sights to his 
 rifle. 
 
 ' Ah ! ' muttered the Citizen, ' you are all 
 right this time — master, the young officer.
 
 126 THE SLAVE OF THE LAMP 
 
 They are only barking. Next time perhaps 
 it will be quite another history.' 
 
 The officer turned and disappeared. 
 After the lapse of a few moments a dozen 
 words of command were shouted, and upon 
 them followed the sharp click of hilt on scab- 
 bard as the sabres fell home. 
 
 After a pause it became evident that the 
 barricade was being destroyed. And then 
 lights flashed here and there. In a compact 
 column the cavalry advanced at a trot. The 
 street was empty. 
 
 Citizen Morot turned away and sat down 
 on a chair that happened to be placed near 
 the window. His finely-drawn eyebrows 
 were raised with a questioning 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
 
 PUPPETS 127 
 
 tlie cavalry had been withdrawn and the local 
 firemen were at work upon the barricade. 
 Then, when order was fully restored, he left 
 the house, walking quietly down the length 
 of the insignificant little street. 
 
 Ten minutes later he entered the tobacco- 
 shop in the Eue St. Gingolphe. Mr. Jacque- 
 tot was at his post, behind the counter near 
 the window, with the little tin box con- 
 taining postage-stamps in front of him upon 
 his desk. He was always there — like 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 
 pleasantly. 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.
 
 128 THE SLAVE OF THE LAMP 
 
 There lie found Lerac, the foreman of the 
 slaughter-house. The butcher was pale with 
 excitement. His rough clothing was dis- 
 hevelled ; 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 min- 
 gled. 
 
 ' Well ? ' he exclaimed with triumphant 
 interrogation. 
 
 ' 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 rathei* white about the lips 
 for a brave man. 
 
 ' Till the last,' echoed Morot, taking up
 
 PUPPETS 129 
 
 some letters addressed to him which lay on 
 the table. 
 
 ' And the street was quite clear before 
 they broke through the barrier ? ' 
 
 ' Quite — the People did not wait.' He 
 seemed to resign himself to conversation, for 
 he put the letters into his pocket and sat 
 down. ' Had you,' he inquired, ' any diffi- 
 culty in getting them away ? ' 
 
 ' Oh no,' somewhat loftily and quite un- 
 suspicious of irony. ' The passages were 
 narrow, of course ; but we had allowed for 
 that in our organisation. Organisation and 
 the People, see you ' 
 
 ' Yes,' replied Morot. ' Organisation and 
 the People.' Like Lerac, he stopped short, 
 apparently lost in the contemplation of the 
 vast possibihties presented to his mental vision 
 by the mere thought of such a combination. 
 
 ' Well ! ' exclaimed the butcher energeti- 
 voL. I. k:
 
 130 THE SLAVE OF THE LAMP 
 
 cally, ' I must move on. I have meetings. I 
 merely wished to hear from you that all was 
 right — that no one was caught.' 
 
 He was bubbling over with excitement 
 and the sense of his own huge importance. 
 
 The Citizen Morot raised his secretive eyes. 
 
 ' Good-night,' he said, with an insolence 
 far too fine for the butcher's comprehension. 
 
 ' Well — good-night. We may congratu- 
 late ourselves, I think, Citizen ! ' 
 
 ' I congratulate you,' said Morot. ' Good- 
 night.' 
 
 ' Good-night.' 
 
 It is probable that, had Lerac looked 
 back, there would have been murder done in 
 the small room behind the tobacco-shop. 
 But the contemptuous smile soon vanished 
 from the face of the Citizen Morot. No smile 
 lingered there long. It was not built upon 
 smiling lines at all.
 
 PUPPETS 131 
 
 Then he took up his letters. There were 
 only two of them : one bearing the postmark 
 of a small town in Morbihan, the other hail- 
 ing from England. 
 
 He replaced the first in his pocket un- 
 read ; the second he opened. It was written 
 in Prench. 
 
 'There are difficulties,' it said. ' Can you 
 come to me? Cross from Cherbourg to 
 Southampton — train from thence to this 
 place, and ask for Signor Bruno, an Italian 
 refugee, living at the house of Mrs. Potter, a 
 ci-devant laundress.' 
 
 The Citizen Morot rubbed his chin thought- 
 fully 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. 
 
 K 2
 
 132 THE SLAVE OF THE LAMP 
 
 ' 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. 
 Perhaps it is just as well that he is dead. I 
 was always afraid of Carew.' 
 
 Then he wrote a letter, which he addressed 
 to Signor Bruno, care of Mrs. Potter, St. Mary 
 Western, Dorset.' 
 
 ' I shall come,' he wrote, ' but not in the 
 way 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 Eue St. Gingolphe.
 
 133 
 
 CHAPTER Yin 
 
 FALSE METAL 
 
 Theee 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 
 walked. 
 
 ' 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.'
 
 134 THE SLAVE OF THE LAMP 
 
 ' 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 under- 
 stand.' 
 
 Hilda laughed. 
 
 ' Yes,' she answered vaguely. 
 
 ' Your father admired him tremendously,' 
 Mrs. Carew went on to say. ' He said that 
 he was one of the cleverest men in France, 
 but that he had fallen in a wrong season, 
 and would not adapt himself. Had France 
 been a monarchy, the Yicomte d'Audierne 
 would have been in a very different posi- 
 tion.' 
 
 Yellacott did not open his own letters. 
 He seemed to be interested in the conver- 
 sation of these ladies. He was not a reserved 
 man, but a secretive, which is quite a diffe-
 
 FALSE METAL 135 
 
 rent thing. Eeserve is natural — it comes 
 unbidden, and often unwelcome. Secretive- 
 ness is born of circumstances. Some men 
 find it imperative to cultivate it, although 
 their soul revolts within them. In profes- 
 sional or social matters it is often merely an 
 expediency — in some cases it almost feels like 
 a crime. There are some secrets which can- 
 not be divulged ; there are some deceptions 
 which a certain book-keeper Avill record upon 
 the credit side of our account. 
 
 Like most young men who have got on 
 in their calling, Christian Yellacott 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 justi- 
 fied deceptions. 
 
 He knew this Yicomte d'Audierne by re- 
 putation ; he wished to hear more of him ; 
 and so he feigned ignorance — listening.
 
 136 THE SLAVE OF THE LAMP 
 
 ' What has he written about ? ' mquired 
 Hilda. 
 
 ' To ask if he may come and see us. I 
 suppose he means to come and stay.' 
 
 Vellacott looked what the French call 
 ' contraried.' 
 
 ' When ? ' asked the girl. 
 
 ' On Monday week.' 
 
 And then Mrs. Carew turned to her other 
 letters. Yellacott 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 anytliing whatever about French 
 home politics but Christian Yellacott.
 
 FALSE METAL 137 
 
 A continuance of these disturbances would 
 necessarily assume political importance, and 
 miglit even lead to a crisis. This meant an 
 instant recall for Yellacott. 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 was already a question of 
 recall. It happened also that within that 
 short space a considerable 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 nothino^- — a feelinor 
 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 who knows no mercy and makes no 
 allowances. Some of us who serve him know
 
 138 THE SLATE OF THE LAMP 
 
 it to our cost, and yet we would be content to 
 serve no other. That taskmaster is the Public. 
 
 Vellacott was a pubUc 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 Avith practice. 
 
 ' I am sorry,' he said, looking up, ' but I 
 must send off a telegram. 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, &c.' 
 
 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.
 
 FALSE METAL 139 
 
 Several of the family were standing round 
 the vehicle talking in a desultory manner, 
 and Yellacott learnt then for the first time 
 that Frederick Farrar had left home that 
 same morning to attend a midland race- 
 meeting. 
 
 It was one of those brilliant summer days 
 when it is quite impossible to be pessimistic 
 and exceedingly difficult to compass pre- 
 occupation. The light breeze bowling over 
 the upland from the sea had just sufficient 
 strength to blow away all mental cobwebs. 
 Also, Christian Yellacott 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 Yellacott felt 
 that, after all, French politics and Frederick 
 Farrar did not quite monopolise the world. 
 
 Hilda was on this occasion more talkative
 
 140 THE SLAVE OF THE LAMP 
 
 than usual. There was in her manner a new 
 sense of ease, ahnost of familiarity, which 
 Yellacott could not understand. He noticed 
 that she spoke invariably 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 appeared 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 again refer to his home life. 
 
 As they were returning in the full glare
 
 FALSE METAL 141 
 
 of the mid-day sun, they descried in front of 
 them the figure of an old man ; he was walk- 
 ing painfully and making poor progress. 
 Carefully dressed in black broadcloth, he 
 wore a soft felt hat of a shape seldom seen in 
 England. 
 
 ' I beheve,' said Hilda, as they approached 
 him, ' that is Signor Bruno. Yes, it is. Please 
 pull up. Christian. We must give him a 
 hft ! ' 
 
 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 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
 
 142 THE SLAVE OF THE LAMP 
 
 cold, by reason of their perfection. Now, 
 however, they were softened by the touch of 
 years, and Signor Bruno was the hving sem- 
 blance of (juilelessness 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, 
 courteously removing his hat and standing 
 bareheaded. ' Ah ! 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 in it ! ' 
 
 Hilda smiled her quick surprising smile.
 
 FALSE METAL 143 
 
 and hastened to speak before the old gentleman 
 recovered his breath. 
 
 ' Allow me to introduce to you Sidney's 
 friend, Mr. Yellacott, Signor Bruno ! ' 
 
 Sidney's friend, Mr. Yellacott, was by this 
 time behind her. He had alighted, and was 
 employed in arranging the back seat of the 
 dog-cart. When Signor Bruno looked to- 
 wards him, he found Christian's eyes fixed 
 upon his face with a quiet persistence which 
 might have been embarrassing to a younger 
 man. He raised his hat and murmured 
 something unintelligible in reply to the 
 Italian's extensive salutation. 
 
 ' Sidney Carew's friends are, I trust, mine 
 also ! ' said Signor Bruno, as he replaced his 
 picturesque hat. 
 
 Christian smiled spasmodically and con- 
 tinued arranging the seat. He then came 
 round to the front of the cart and made a
 
 144 THE SLAVE OP THE LAMP 
 
 sioTi to Hilda that she should move into the 
 rio:ht-liand seat and drive. Sis^nor Bruno 
 saw the sign^ and said urbanely : 
 
 ^You will, if you please, resume your 
 seat. I will place myself behind ! ' 
 
 ' Oh, no I You must allow me to sit be- 
 hind ! ' said Christian. 
 
 ' But why, my dear sir ? That would not 
 be correct. You are Mr. Carew's guest, and 
 I — =1 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 now ! ' 
 
 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 would be easy to see why 
 you should sit in front I ' said Christian with
 
 FALSE METAL 145 
 
 a laugh, which, although quite genial, some- 
 how closed the discussion. 
 
 ' Ah 1 ' replied the old gentleman with 
 outspread hands. ' There you have worsted 
 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 £fate of a small yellow cotta^fe where 
 he had two rooms. The seat was 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 Signor Bruno. I shall reserve him 
 for the next awkward pause that occurs.' 
 
 VOL. L L
 
 146 THE SLAVE OF THE LAMP 
 
 ' Yes,' replied Christian quietly. ' He 
 seems very nice.' 
 
 Something in his tone seemed to catch 
 her attention. 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 ? ' 
 
 ' 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 with him
 
 FALSE METAL 147 
 
 — any tiling that would 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, 
 suddenly 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.' 
 
 ' Wlien it does come,' said Hilda, with 
 a smile, ' you w^U find that it is someone 
 else. I can assure you Signor Bruno is an 
 Italian, and beyond that he is the nicest 
 old gentleman imaginable.' 
 
 ' Well,' replied Christian. ' In the mean- 
 
 l2
 
 148 THE SLAVE OF THE LAMP 
 
 time 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 returned. 
 
 ' Oh, indeed/ was the reply. ' I am very 
 glad. You must ask him to dinner to- 
 morrow evening. Is he not a nice old man, 
 Christian ? ' 
 
 ' Very,' replied Christian, almost before 
 the words v/ere out of her lips. ' Yes, 
 very nice.' He looked across the table to- 
 wards Hilda with an absolutely expression- 
 less 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 
 Signor Bruno had vouchsafed in the way of
 
 FALSE METAL 149 
 
 information respecting himself. It was a 
 short story and an old one, such as many a 
 white-haired Itahan could tell to-day. A hfe, 
 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 pro- 
 gramme 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
 
 150 THE SLAVE OF THE LAMP 
 
 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 up- 
 stairs ensued and a hurried toilet. Molly and 
 Christian met on the stairs a 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 ? ' 
 
 Signor Bruno, who was seated at the far
 
 FALSE METAL 151 
 
 end of tlie 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 Signor 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 re- 
 serving 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 Hilda. He had discovered that
 
 152 THE SLAVE OP THE LAMP 
 
 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 light 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 constant 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 conversationally. ' I did 
 not know that there were any estabhshments 
 of that sort in England.' 
 
 Hilda looked up rather sharply from an illus-
 
 FALSE METAL 153 
 
 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 Chris- 
 tian, and she reahsed during the minutes that 
 followed, that this was indeed the brilliant 
 young journalist of whose fame Farrar had 
 spoken as already known in London. 
 
 Signor 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 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 short of monastery is it ? 
 Dominican ? Franciscan ? Carmelite ? '
 
 154 THE SLAVE OF THE LAMP 
 
 ' Oh, goodness ! I do not know.' 
 
 ' Perhaps,' said Christian, advancing to- 
 wards the Itahan — ' Perhaps Signor Bruno 
 can tell us.' 
 
 ' What is that, Mr. YeH'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 : 
 
 ' We want some details of the establish- 
 ment at Porton Abbey, Signor Bruno.' 
 
 The old gentleman made a little grimace 
 expressive 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
 
 FALSE METAL 155 
 
 owes her downfall. Xo, 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, when Signor Bruno had again 
 turned to Mrs. Carew, he looked across the 
 room towards Hilda with the same expression 
 of vacant composure that she had noticed on 
 a previous occasion. The accent with which 
 Signor Bruno had spoken the few words of 
 French was of the purest Parisian, entirely 
 free from the harshness which an Italian 
 rarely conquers. 
 
 After dinner Hilda went out of the open 
 window into the garden alone. Christian, 
 Avho 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 flowers stood in front of
 
 156 THE SLAVE OF THE LAMP 
 
 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 own 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 was not in 
 the garden, but in making this intentional 
 mistake she showed the wisdom of her kind.
 
 FALSE METAL 157 
 
 * It seems to me,' said Signer Bruno, 
 ' that the air — the refrain, one might call it — 
 is familiar.' 
 
 Christian Yellacott smiled suddenly be- 
 hind his screen of iiowers, 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 towns 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 — what was his occupation, how long 
 he was going to stay, and whether she did 
 not agree with him in considering that their
 
 158 THE SLAVE OF THE LAMP 
 
 young friend had a remarkably interesting 
 face. In the course of his remarks the old 
 gentleman rose and crossed to the table 
 where 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 which he had found it.
 
 159 
 
 CHAPTEE IX 
 
 A CLUE 
 
 When Christian left tlie drawing-room he 
 walked 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 con- 
 tinued, ' to shatter one illusion after another.
 
 160 THE SLAVE OF THE LAMP 
 
 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 Signor 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 outhned 
 against the sky. 
 
 ' 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 begin- 
 ning to find that outward things are very 
 important after all. In London it seemed
 
 A CLUE 161 
 
 only natural that everyone should live in a 
 hurr}', with no time for thought, pushing 
 forward and trying to outstrip their neigh- 
 bours ; 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 for doing something — trying to 
 be something^ that their neiolibours cannot 
 be — and no doubt they are happier for it.^ 
 I am beginning to see how they 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. 1 can understand it in 
 others, but for me it is different. I have 
 tasted too deeply of the other life. I should 
 get restless ' 
 
 VOL. I. M
 
 162 THE SLAVE OF THE LAMP 
 
 ' You are getting restless already,' she 
 interrupted gravely, ' and you have not been 
 here two days ! ' 
 
 They were interrupted by Sidney's clear 
 whistle, and a moment later Molly came 
 tripping down the path. 
 
 ' Come alono' in,' she said : ' the old gen- 
 tleman is going. 1 was just stealing away 
 to join you when Sidney whistled.' 
 
 When Signor 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 arm- 
 chair, 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 .^ ' 
 
 Signor Bruno spoke French when soldo-
 
 A CLUE 163 
 
 quising, which was perhaps somewhat pecu- 
 Har for an Itahan. However proficient a 
 man may be in tlie mastery of foreign 
 tongues, he usually dreams and talks to liim- 
 self 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 t6~ 
 swear in an acquired language. Probably 
 our forefathers borrowed each other's exple- 
 tives wlien things went so lamentably wrong 
 over the Tower of Babel. Still muttering to 
 liimself, 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 
 
 M 2
 
 164 THE SLAVE OF THE LAMP 
 
 drawing-room with Hilda. He promptly pro- 
 duced from his pocket the leaf he had cut 
 from a book earlier in the evening. Un- 
 folding the paper, he handed it to her, and 
 said : — 
 
 ' Do you recognise that ? ' 
 
 She looked at it, and answered without 
 hesitation — 
 
 ' Signor Bruno ! ' 
 
 The drawing was slight, but the likeness 
 was perfect. The face was in profile, and 
 the reproduction 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 ! '
 
 A CLUE 165 
 
 'To-morrow I will send this to him, 
 simply asking who it is.' 
 
 ' Yes, — and then ? ' 
 
 'When the answer comes, Hilda, I w^ill 
 write on the outside of the envelope the 
 name that you w^ill 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 mistake yet. I would rather have my 
 memory confirmed by Trevetz before telling
 
 166 THE SLAVE OF THE LAMP 
 
 you what I know — or tliiiik I know — about 
 Bruno ! ' 
 
 Hilda was about to question him further 
 when Molly entered the room, and the subject 
 was perforce dropped. 
 
 The next morniufj^ tliere came a letter for 
 Christian from Mr. Bodery. It was short, 
 and not very pleasant. 
 
 ' 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 j^ou. 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 witli 
 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 cir-
 
 A CIXE 167 
 
 cumstance in the present somewhat strained 
 state of affairs. Several of the " dailies " refer 
 to us, as you will see, and express a hope 
 that our " exceptional knowledge of French 
 affairs " will enable us to throw 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 
 strong party has got up the whole affair — ■ 
 perhaps the Church. We must have some- 
 thing to say (something of importance) next 
 week, and with this in view I must ask 
 vou to hold yourself in readiness to qo 
 to Paris on receipt of a telegram or letter 
 from me. 
 
 ' Yours, 
 
 ' C. C. Bodeky;
 
 1G8 THE SLAVE OF THE LAMP 
 
 Christian folded the letter, and replaced it 
 in 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 tlie 
 paper. 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 
 liad 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
 
 A CLUE 1G9 
 
 round the table. Hilda's attention was taken 
 up by her plate, upon which, however, tliere 
 was nothing. He leant forward, and handed 
 her the toast-rack. She took a piece, but for- 
 got to thank him. 'I am sorry,' he continued 
 simply, ' very sorry that the disturbances 
 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. 
 
 ' Xo,' 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 ! ' 
 
 ' It is a great shame,' said Mollv, with a
 
 170 THE SLAVE OF THE LAMP 
 
 pout. ' I am sure there are plenty of people 
 who could do it instead of you.' 
 
 Christian laughed readily. 
 
 ' I am sure there are,' he replied, ' and 
 that is tlie very reason why I must take the 
 opportunities that fortune offers.' 
 
 Hilda looked across the table at him, and 
 noted the smile upon his lips, the light of 
 energy in his e^'es. The love of action had 
 driven all otlier thoughts from his mind. 
 
 ' I suppose,' she said, conversationally, 
 ' that it will in reality be a good thing for 
 you if the summons does come.' 
 
 'Yes,' he replied, without meeting her 
 glance ; ' it will be a o"ood thino- for me.' 
 
 ' Is that consolatory view of the matter 
 the outcome of philosophy, or of virtue ? ' 
 inquired Molly, mischievously. 
 
 ' Of virtue,' replied Christian gravely, and 
 then he changed the subject.
 
 A CLUE 171 
 
 After breakfast he devoted a short time 
 to the study of some newspaper cuttmgs 
 inclosed in ]Mr. Bodery's letter. Then he 
 suddenly expressed his determination of 
 walking down to the village post office. 
 
 ' I wish,' he said, ' to send a telegram, 
 and to get some newspapers, which liave no 
 doubt come by the second post. After that 
 you will be troubled no more about my 
 affiiirs.' 
 
 ' Until a telegram comes,' said Hilda 
 quietly, without looking up from a letter she 
 lield 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 tele- 
 gram. It is not so serious as all that. In 
 fact, it is not worth thinkino^ about.' 
 
 * You have a most enviable way of putting
 
 172 THE SLAVE OF THE LAMP 
 
 aside disagreeable subjects,' persisted Hilda, 
 ' for discussion at a vague future period.' 
 
 Christian was steadily cheerful that morn 
 ing, imperturbably practical. 
 
 ' Tliai,' 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 peace- 
 ful fields. Stanley never lingered long beside 
 them ; something w^as for ever attracting him 
 aside or ahead, and he ran restlessly away. 
 Christian could not help noticing the differ- 
 ence in Hilda's manner when they were alone 
 together. The semi-sarcastic badinage to 
 wdiich he had been treated lately was com- 
 pletely dropped, and her earnest nature was 
 allowed to show itself undisguised. Still she 
 was a mystery to him. He was by habit a
 
 A CLUE 173 
 
 close observer, but her chanCTino; moods and 
 humours were to him unaccountable. At 
 times she would make a remark the direct 
 contradiction of which was shiningr in her 
 eves, and at other times she remained silent 
 when mere politeness would seem to demand 
 speech. Who knows ? Perhaps at all times 
 and in all things they understood each other. 
 When their lips were exchanging mere 
 nothings — the very lightest and emptiest of 
 conversational chaff — despite averted eyes, 
 despite indifferent manner, their souls may 
 have been drawn together by that silent bond 
 of sympathy which holds through fair and 
 foul, through laughter and tears, through life, 
 and beyond death. 
 
 Christian was not in the habit of allowing 
 himself to become al^sorbed by any passing 
 thoughts, however deep they might be. His 
 mind had adapted itself to the work required
 
 174 THE SLAVE OF THE LAMP 
 
 of it, as the human mind is ever ready to do. 
 No deep meditating was required of it, but a 
 quick grasp and a somewhat superficial treat- 
 ment. Journahsm is superficial, it cannot be 
 otherwise ; it must be universal and imme- 
 diate, and therefore its touch is necessarily 
 light. There is nothing permaneut 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 
 inditinor historv, and his words may be for- 
 o-otten 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. J3odery's communication in no manner
 
 A CLUE 175 
 
 disturbed Christian. He was ready enouo-h 
 to talk and lauo-h, or talk and be ^rave, as 
 Hilda might dictate, while they walked side 
 by side that morning, but she was strangely 
 silent. It thus happened that little passed be- 
 tween 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
 
 176 THE SLAVE OF THE LAMP 
 
 swing of his pencil. It seemed certain that 
 lie was making conversation with the sole 
 purpose of entertaining the old woman. 
 With a pleased laugh and a sliake of her grey 
 curls sl^e replied : 
 
 ' Ah, I wish I could, sir. I w^ish J could 
 burn the bad letters and send on only tlie 
 good ones — ^but they're all alike on the out- 
 side. It's as hard to say what's inside a 
 letter as it is to tell what's inside a man by 
 lookin' on his face.' 
 
 ' Yes,' replied Christian, reading over 
 what he had just written. ' Yes, Mrs. Chal- 
 der, you are right.' 
 
 ' But the reason of your letter gettin' 
 earlier this morning w^as that Seen'yer Bruno 
 said he was goin' past the Hall, sir, and 
 would just leave the letters at the Lodge. It 
 is a bit out of the carrier's way, and that man 
 do have a long tramp every day, sir.'
 
 A CLUE 177 
 
 '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, knowing the 
 futility of it, since the world began. She 
 never referred to the incident, and made no 
 remark whatever with a view to his doing so, 
 but he knew that it would be remembered, 
 and in after days he learnt to bidld up a very 
 castle of hope upon that frail foundation. 
 
 Hilda had not been paying much atten- 
 tion to what he was saying until Signor 
 Bruno's name was mentioned. The old man 
 had hitherto occupied a very secondary 
 place in her thoughts. He was no one in her 
 circle of possibly interesting people, beyond 
 
 VOL. I. N
 
 178 THE SLAVE OF THE LAMP 
 
 the fact of his having passed through a 
 troubled pohtical phase — a fighter on the 
 losing side. Now he had, as it were, assumed 
 a more important role. The mention of his 
 name possessed a new suggestion ; and all 
 this, forsooth, because Cliristian Yellacott 
 opined that the benevolent old face was 
 known to him. 
 
 She began to entertain exaggerated ideas 
 concerning the young journalist's thoughts 
 and motives. Twice had she obtained a 
 glimpse into the inner chamber of his mind, 
 and on each occasion the result had been a 
 vao'ue suggestion of some mental conflict, 
 some dark game of cross-purposes between 
 him and Signor Bruno. Kemembering this, 
 she, in her intelhgent simphcity, 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
 
 A CLUE 179 
 
 and direct way of reaching the end lie 
 desired, and unconsciously she yielded a little 
 to the influence of his streno-th — 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 news- 
 papers addressed to him, and they left the 
 post oflice. 
 
 N 2
 
 180 THE SLAVE OF THE LAMP 
 
 CHAPTER X 
 
 ON THE SCENT 
 
 It appeared to Stanley, on the way home 
 that morning, that the conversation flagged 
 somewhat. He therefore set to himself the 
 task of reviving it. 
 
 ' Christian,' he began conversationally. 
 ' Is there any smuggling done now ? Eeal 
 smuggling, I mean.' 
 
 ' No, I think not,' replied Christian. He 
 evidently did not look upon smuggling as a 
 fruitful topic at that moment. 
 
 ' Why do you ask ? ' interposed Hilda 
 good-naturedly. 
 
 ' Well, I was just wondering,' replied the
 
 ox THE SCENT 181 
 
 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, deter- 
 mined not to be cheated out of his smugglers. 
 
 'Perhaps someone has been out for a row 
 for his own pleasure and enjoyment,' suggested 
 Christian, without thinking much of what he 
 was saying. 
 
 ' Then how did he get the padlock open ? ' 
 
 ' Smugglers, I suppose,' said Hilda, smil- 
 ing down at her small brother, ' would be 
 provided with skeleton keys.' 
 
 ' Of course,' replied Stanley in an aAve- 
 struck tone. 
 
 ' I will tell you what we w^ill do, Stanley,'
 
 182 THE SLAVE OF THE LAMP 
 
 said Christian. ' To-morrow mornins^ 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 tliought he read aloud as 
 follows : —
 
 ON THE SCENT 183 
 
 ' Letter and papers received ; believe I 
 have dropped into the ckie of the whole 
 affair. Will write particulars.' 
 
 Mr. Morgan caressed his heavy moustache 
 with the end of his penholder. 
 
 ' That young man,' he said, ' goes about 
 the world with his eyes remarkably wide 
 open, ha-ha ! ' 
 
 Mr. Bodery rolled the telegram out flat 
 with his pencil silently. 
 
 Stanley Carew was so anxious that the 
 inspection 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
 
 184 THE SLAVE OF THE LAMP 
 
 different breath from that which twisted and 
 gnarled tlie strong Scotch firs in winter-time. 
 
 ' You would not care about climbing 
 down 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 back- 
 wards, 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 towns- 
 man at his side. 
 
 ' Hardly,' replied Christian, gazii\g up- 
 ward 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.
 
 ON THE SCENT 185 
 
 Presently they sat on the edge of the boat 
 over which Stanley's sense of proprietorsliip 
 had been so grievously outraged. 
 
 ' What do you know, Christian, or what 
 do you suspect about Signor Bruno ? ' asked 
 Hilda suddenly. 
 
 Stanley was running across the sands 
 towards them, and Christian, seeing his 
 approach, avoided tlie question by a gener- 
 ality. 
 
 ' Wait a little longer,' he said. ' Let me 
 have Trevetz's answer to confirm my sus- 
 picions, 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
 
 186 THE SLAVE OF THE LAMP 
 
 here and look at these seams m the boat — 
 the damp is there stilL' 
 
 The boat was chnker-built, and where the 
 planks overlapped a slight appearance of 
 dampness was certainly discernible. Chris- 
 tian lay lazily leaning upon his elbow, some- 
 times glancing at the boat in obedience to 
 Stanley's accusatory finger, sometimes looking 
 towards Hilda, whose eyes were turned sea- 
 wards. 
 
 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 had been in the water, but it may be 
 that the dampness is merely owing to heavy 
 dew. The boat wants painting, I think.'
 
 ox THE SCENT 187 
 
 He knew well enough that little Stanley's 
 suspicions were correct. There w^as no doubt 
 that the boat 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 
 supphed food enough for conjectural thought. 
 The writing was undoubtedly fresh, and this 
 was the 26tli of the month. Some appoint- 
 ment was made for midnight by the words 
 pencilled on the boat, and the journalist 
 determined that he would be there to see. 
 The question was, should he go alone .^ He 
 watched Sidney Carew walking somewhat 
 heavily along in front of him, and decided 
 that he would not seek aid from that quarter. 
 There was no time to communicate with Mr.
 
 188 THE SLAVE OF THE LAMP 
 
 Boclery, so the only course open to him was 
 to go by himself. 
 
 In a vague manner he had connected the 
 Jesuit party with the disturbances in Paris 
 and the importation of the English rifles 
 wherewith the crowd had been armed. The 
 gay capital was at that time in the hands of 
 the most ' Provisional ' and uncertain Govern- 
 ment imaginable, and the home politics of 
 France were completely disorganised. It was 
 just the moment for the Church party to 
 attempt a retrieval of their lost power. The 
 lirearms had been recognised by the English 
 authorities as some of a pattern lately dis- 
 carded. They liad been stored at Plymouth, 
 awaiting shipment to the colonies where they 
 were to be served out to the auxiliary forces, 
 when tliey had been cleverly removed. The 
 robbery was not discovered until the rifles 
 were found in the hands of a Paris mob, still
 
 ON THE SCENT 189 
 
 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 politics of a disturbed country a deed 
 is either a crime or a heroism according to 
 circumstances, and he was wise enough to 
 await the course of events before thrustincf 
 his opinion down the public throat. But now 
 he felt that the crisis had supervened, and 
 unwillingly he recognised that it was not for 
 him to be idle amidst those rapid events. 
 
 These thoughts occupied his mind as he 
 w^alked inland from the Cove, and rendered 
 his answers to Stanley's ceaseless fiow of 
 questions upon all conceivable subjects some-
 
 190 THE SLAVE OF THE LAMP 
 
 what vague and unreliable. Hilda was 
 walking with them, and divided w^ith Christian 
 the task of supplying her small brother with 
 varied information. 
 
 As they were approaching the Hall, Chris- 
 tian discerned two figures upon the smooth 
 lawn, evidently coming towards them. At 
 the same moment Stanley perceived them. 
 
 ' I see Fred Farrar and Mr. Signor Bruno,' 
 he exclaimed. 
 
 Christian could not resist glancing over 
 the little fellow's head towards Hilda, though 
 he knew that it was 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 wonder why she never told me,' thought 
 Christian. 
 
 Presently he said, in an airy, conver-
 
 ON THE SCEXT 191 
 
 sational 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 Hikla. '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 Signer Bruno, 
 so cool and unembarrassed was her tone. 
 
 ' I am glad he is back,' said Christian 
 thoughtlessly. It was a mere stop-gap. The 
 silence was awkward, 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 were 
 stumbhng blindfold through an unknown
 
 192 THE SLAVE OF THE LAMP 
 
 country. He experienced a sudden sense of 
 vacuity as if his mind were a blank and all 
 words futile. It was now Stanley's turn to 
 break the silence, and unconsciously he did it 
 very well. 
 
 ' I wonder,' he said speculatively, ' whether 
 he has brought any chocolate creams ? ' 
 
 Hilda laughed, and the smile was still 
 hovering in her eyes when 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 and Christian together. The 
 old man lingered obviously, and his companion 
 took the hint readily enough, anticij^ating 
 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,
 
 ON THE SCENT 193 
 
 very peaceful and — very disorganising, I may 
 perhaps add.' 
 
 Christian looked at his companion with 
 grave attention. 
 
 ' It is very enjoyable,' he replied simply. 
 
 Signor 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 es- 
 sentially English.' 
 
 ' Yes,' answered Christian, with a polite 
 display of interest ; ' and, nevertheless, the 
 Carews were all brought up and educated in 
 France.' 
 
 ' 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 ac- 
 
 VOL I. O
 
 194 THE SLATE OF THE LAMP 
 
 companying action, were admirably calculated 
 to leave the hearer in doubt as to whether 
 mere surprise was expressed or polite ac- 
 quiescence in the statement of a known fact. 
 
 'Yes,' added Christian, deliberately. He 
 also stooped and raised a white rose to his 
 face, thus meeting Signor 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.' 
 
 'Aht' 
 
 ' 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
 
 ox THE SCEXT 195 
 
 am sure, I would by choice have been born 
 an Enghshman.' 
 
 ' Ah ! ' observed Christian, gravely, and 
 Signor Bruno turned sharply to glance at his 
 face. The young Enghshman was gazing 
 straight in front of him, earnestly, with no 
 suspicion upon his lips of the incredulous 
 smile which seemed somehow to have lurked 
 there when he last spoke. The Italian turned 
 away dissatisfied, and they walked on a few 
 paces in silence, until he spoke again, re- 
 flectively : — 
 
 ' Yes,' he said, ' there is a quality in the 
 English character which to me is very praise- 
 worthy. 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 — 
 
 o 2
 
 196 THE SLAVE OF THE LAMP 
 
 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 shoul- 
 ders deprecatingly and spread out his delicate 
 hands. 
 
 ' Perhaps you are right,' he said, w^ith 
 enoraging 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.'
 
 ON THE SCENT 197 
 
 ' I am afraid,' continued Christian, ' that 
 foreigners find our bhmtness very disagree- 
 able and difficult to meet ; but I know that 
 they frequently misjudge us on the same 
 account. It is to our benefit, so we cannot 
 complain.' 
 
 ' 111 what way do we misjudge you ? ' 
 asked Signor Bruno genially. They were 
 almost on the threshold of the drawino^-room 
 window, which stood invitingly open, and 
 from which came the sounds of cups and 
 saucers being mated. 
 
 ' You s^ive us credit for less intelligence 
 than we in reality possess,' said Christian with 
 a smile, as he stood aside to let his companion 
 pass in first. 
 
 Whatever influences may have been at 
 work among those congregated at the Hall 
 during the half- hour or so occupied by after- 
 noon tea, no sign appeared upon the surface.
 
 198 THE SLAVE OF THE LAMP 
 
 Molly as usual led the chorus of laughter. 
 Hilda smiled her sweet ' kittenish ' smile. 
 Signor Bruno surpassed himself in the rela- 
 tion of innocent little tales, told with a true 
 southern ' verve ' and spirit, while Fred 
 Farrar's genial laugh filled in the interstices 
 reliably. Grave and unobtrusive, Christian 
 moved about among them. He saw when 
 Molly wanted the hot water, and was invari- 
 ably the iirst to detect an empty cup. He 
 1 lughed softly at Signor Bruno's stories, and 
 occasionally capped them with a better, 
 related in a conciser 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
 
 199 
 
 CHAPTER XI 
 
 BURY BLUFF 
 
 As Cliristian walked rapidly across the 
 uneven turf towards the sea at midnight, his 
 thoughts were divided between a schoolboy 
 delight in the adventurous nature of his 
 expedition and an uncomfortable 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 
 communicated easily enough with the garden 
 by means of a few stone steps, but visitors are
 
 200 THE SLAVE OF THE LAMP 
 
 not usually in the habit of leaving their bed- 
 rooms in order to take the air at midnijzht. 
 Thinking 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-west. 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 tliat transparent 
 description wdiich sailors prefer to the 
 brio'htest moonlight. 
 
 Christian Yellacott had worked out most 
 problems in life for himself. Taken as a 
 whole, his solutions had been fairl}" successful 
 — as successful as those of most men. If his 
 views upon things in general were rather 
 photographic — that is to say, hard, with
 
 BURY BLUFF 201 
 
 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 statins^ that he neither souoht tlieirs 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.' Admirable 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
 
 202 THE SLAVE OF THE LAMP 
 
 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 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. 
 Instinctively 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
 
 BURY BLUFF 203 
 
 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 npon his shoulders and 
 completely protected the neck and throat, 
 was such as is worn by the natives of the 
 C6tes-dn-Xord. 
 
 The sea boomed forth its melancholy 
 song, far down in the black depths beyond. 
 The tide was higli, 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 guarding the little 
 path down the cliff to the Cove. He had
 
 204 THE SLAVE OF THE LAMP 
 
 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 liad that very after- 
 noon pronounced so hazardous. By da}' it was 
 dangerous enough ; by night it was almost an 
 impossibility. 
 
 He crept noiselessly along to the east- 
 ward, 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 
 hesitation he crept to the edge and cautiously
 
 BURY BLUFF 205 
 
 disappeared into the grim abyss of darkness. 
 Slowly and laboriously he worked his way 
 down, feeling for each foothold in advance. 
 Occasionally he muttered impatiently to liim- 
 self at the slowness of his progress. He knew 
 tliat the strata of soft sandstone trended down- 
 wards at an easy angle, and with consummate 
 skill took full advantage of his knowledge. 
 Occasionally he was forced to progress side- 
 ways with his face to the rock and hands out- 
 stretched till his fingers were cramped, and 
 the feeling known as ' pins and needles ' as- 
 sailed his arms. Then he would rest for some 
 moments, peering into the darkness below 
 him all the while. Once or twice 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
 
 206 THE SLAVE OF THE LAMP 
 
 only a distant concussion far down beside the 
 sea. With an involuntary shudder, the climber 
 turned and made his way upwards and side- 
 ways 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 held to his purpose. Never since 
 leaving the summit had he been able to rest 
 both hands at once. With a dogged 
 mechanical endurance which is essential y 
 characteristic of climbers and mountaineers, 
 he lowered himself, inch by incli, foot by foot. 
 Louder and louder sang the sea, as if in 
 derision at his petty efforts, but through his 
 head there rushed another sound infinitely 
 more terrible : a painful continuous buzz, 
 which seemed to press upon his temples. A 
 dull pain was slowly creeping up the muscles
 
 BURY BLUFF 207 
 
 of his neck towards his head. All these 
 symptoms the climber knew. The buzzing in 
 his ears would never cease until he could lie 
 down and breathe freely with every muscle 
 relaxed, every sinew slack. The dull ache 
 would creep up until it reached his brain, and 
 then nothino; could save him — no strenofth of 
 will could prevent liis fingers from relaxing 
 their hold. 
 
 ' Sish — sish, sish — sish ! ' laucrhed the 
 waves below. Placidly the stars held on their 
 stately course — each perhaps peopled by 
 millions of its own — young and old, tame and 
 fiery — all pursuing shadows as we do here. 
 
 ' This is getting serious,' muttered Christian 
 with a pitiful laugh. The perspiration was 
 running down his face, burning his eyes, and 
 dripping from his chin. With straining eyes 
 he peered into the night. Close beneath him 
 there was a led^re of some breadth. It was
 
 208 THE SLAVE OF THE LAMP 
 
 not fiat, but inclined upwards from tlie face 
 of tlie cliff, thus forming a shelf of solid stone. 
 For some seconds he stared continuously at 
 this, so as to reduce to a minimum the chance 
 of being mistaken. Then witli great caution 
 he slid down the steep incline of smooth stone 
 and landed safely. The glissade lasted but a 
 moment, nevertheless it recalled to his mind a 
 picture which was indelibly stamped in his 
 memory. Years before he had seen a man 
 slide like this, unintentionally, after a false 
 step. Again that picture came to him — unim- 
 pressionable as his life had rendered him. 
 Again he saw the glittering expanse of snow, 
 and on it the broad strong figure of the 
 Yaudois guide sliding down and down, with 
 madly increasing speed — feet foremost, skilful 
 to the last. Again he felt the thrill which 
 men cannot but experience at the sight of a 
 man, or even of a dumb beast, fighting
 
 BURY BLUFF 203 
 
 bravely for life. Again he saw the dull gleam 
 of the uplifted ice-axe as the man dealt 
 scientific blow after blow on the frozen snow, 
 attempting to arrest his terrible career. And 
 again in his mind's eye the pure expanse of 
 spotless white lay before him, 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 ex- 
 ploit still possessed for him the elements of a 
 good joke, to be related thereafter in such a 
 manner as would enforce laughter. 
 
 Suddenly — within the softer sound of the 
 
 VOL. I. p
 
 210 THE SLAVE OF THE LAMP 
 
 sea below — a harsh grating noise struck his 
 ears. It was to him hke the sound made by 
 a nailed boot upon rock. It was as if another 
 were following him down the face of the clifT. 
 In a second he was upon his feet, his weari- 
 ness 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 something 
 was moving His first feeling was one of 
 intense fear. Every climber knows that it is 
 easier to pass a difiicult corner than to stand 
 idle, w^atching 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 w^hat the box 
 contained, and unhesitatingly ran along the
 
 BURY BLUFF 211 
 
 ledcrs towards it. As it descended he seized 
 it with both hands and swung it in towards 
 himself. With pendulum-hke motion it de- 
 scended, 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 w^as this carried out that 
 those lowering overhead were deceived, and 
 continued to pay out the rope slowly. Steadily 
 Christian hauled in, the slack falhng 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 necessary to 
 take in in order to carry out the deception. 
 
 At length he ceased abruptly, and pro- 
 ceeded to untie the knots round the bale. 
 Then, after the manner of a sailor wdio is 
 working cut of sight with a life-line, he jerked 
 the rope, whicli immediately began to ascend 
 
 p 2
 
 212 THE SLAVE OF THE LAMP 
 
 rapidly and with irregularity. Coil after coil 
 ran easily away, and at last the frayed end 
 passed into tlie darkness above Christian'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 sicken- 
 ing gurgle, and he fell sideways and back- 
 wards on to the box, clutching at it with 
 his nerveless fingers. 
 
 When he recovered his faculties his first 
 sensation 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 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
 
 BURY BLUFF 213 
 
 bundle. Beneath tlie 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 intelligence, 
 who vastly preferred being afloat in his 
 unsavoury yawl to climbing about unknown 
 rocks in the dark. On the beach, he found
 
 214 THE SLAVE OF THE LAMP 
 
 his two comrades, to whom he gruffly im- 
 parted the information 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 
 ca^e, their own dinghy being too small. 
 This done, they rowed off silently to the 
 yawl, which was rolling lazily in the trough 
 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 tlie 
 same spot as before, but nothing had come.
 
 BURY BLUFF 215 
 
 until at ientrth Hoel Grail arrived with 
 instructions from tlie ' monsieur ' to go on 
 board. Whereupon further French pro- 
 fanity, 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 descend- 
 ing. 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 tlie 
 eastern sky. All Nature was stirring re-
 
 216 THE SLAVE OF THE LAMP 
 
 freshed with the bahiiy dew and coolness of 
 the night. Far up in the higher branches 
 of the Weymouth pines the wrens were 
 awake, calhng 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. 
 
 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. Li cities, five, 
 four, or even three are sufficient for the 
 unfatigiied body and the restless mind. Men 
 wake 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
 
 BURY BLUFF 217 
 
 quite fresh and strong, and presently sat 
 down, coatless, to write. 
 
 Page after page he w^rote, turning each 
 leaf over upon its face as it w^^s completed — 
 never referring back, never hesitating, and 
 only occasionally raising his pen from the 
 paper. Line after line of neat small wiiting, 
 quite different from wdiat his friends knew 
 in letters or on envelopes, flowed from his 
 pen. It was his 'press' handwriting, plain, 
 rapid, and as legible as print. The punctua- 
 tion was attended to with singular care : the 
 commas broad and heavy, the colons like 
 the kisses in a cliild's letter, round and black. 
 Once or twice he smiled as he wTote, 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 walked slowly to 
 the window. Standin^]^ there he o-azed
 
 218 THE SLAVE OF THE LAMP 
 
 thoughtfully across the bare unlovely table- 
 land towards the sea. He had written many 
 hundreds of pages, all more or less masterly ; 
 he had read criticisms upon his own work 
 saying that it was good ; and j^et 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 pos- 
 sibilities — their countless opportunities to be 
 seized or left. He looked curiously 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 ^ood.
 
 219 
 
 CHAPTEE XII 
 
 A WAEXIXG WORD 
 
 As the breakfast-bell echoed throuoli 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. ' Xo, but ' 
 
 She stopped suddenly and handed him 
 two letters, which he took slowly, and ap- 
 parently forgot to thank her, saying nothing 
 at aU. There was a peculiar expression of
 
 220 THE SLAVE OF THE LAMP 
 
 dawning surprise upon his face, and he 
 studied the envelopes in his hand without 
 reading a word of the address. Presentl}^ he 
 raised his eyes and glanced at Hilda. She was 
 holding a letter daintily between her two fore- 
 fingers, cornerwise, and with little puffs of her 
 pouted lips was spinning it round, evidently 
 enjoying 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. 
 
 ' Well ? ' slie said interrogatively. 
 
 ' What ? ' 
 
 ' And Mr. Trevetz's answer — I suppose it 
 is one of those letters ? ' 
 
 ' Oh yes ! ' he replied. 'I had forgotten 
 my promise.'
 
 A WAR.NIXG WOUD 221 
 
 He took the letters from his pocket, and 
 looked at the addresses ao^ain. 
 
 ' One is from Trevetz,' he said slowly, 
 ' and the other from Mrs. Strawd.' 
 
 ' Nothing from Mr. Bodery ? ' asked she 
 indifferently. 
 
 He had taken a pencil from liis pocket, 
 and, turning, he held Trevetz's letter against 
 the wall wliile he wrote across it. Without 
 ceasing his occupation, and in a casual way, 
 he replied : — 
 
 ' Xo, nothing from Mr. Bodery ; so I am 
 free as yet.' 
 
 ' I am very glad,' she murmured con- 
 ventionally. 
 
 ' And I,' he said, turning with a polite 
 smile to hand her tlie letter. 
 
 She took the envelope, and holding it up 
 in both hands examined it critically.
 
 222 THE SLAVE OF THE LAMP 
 
 ' M a-x,' she read; 'how badly it is 
 written I Max — Max Tahna — 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 
 watchhig her face. She continued to smile as 
 she unfolded the paper. Then she suddenly 
 became grave, and handed the open sketch to 
 him. At the foot w^as written : — 
 
 ' Max Talma — look out ! Avoid him as 
 
 \^ou 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, wdio came, singing, 
 downstairs at this moment. For an instant 
 he]' merry eyes assumed a scrutinising, almost
 
 A WAKXIXG WOED 223 
 
 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 pre- 
 arranged. A groom rode to the station at 
 Christian's request with a large envelope 
 upon which was printed Mr. Bodery's name 
 and address. This was to be given to the 
 guard, who 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 
 tlie programme of pleasure was satisfactorily 
 carried out. But with sunset the wind 
 freshened into a brisk gale, and heavy clouds 
 rolled upwards from the western horizon. 
 This was the first suggestion of autumn, the
 
 224 THE SLAVE OF THE LAMP 
 
 first sigh of dying summer. The lamps were 
 lio'hted a few minutes earher that niixht, 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 w^aited for no thanks or comment ; some-
 
 k WARXIXG TTORD 225 
 
 times 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 w^hich 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 disappeared in the 
 darkness. The sound of his footsteps died 
 away almost immediately amidst the rustle of 
 
 VOL. I. Q
 
 226 THE SLAVE OF THE LAMP 
 
 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 description of the old woman's com- 
 plaints 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 sur- 
 prised 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 tovv^ards the moat, but no 
 siojnal- whistle greeted her. The leaves rustled
 
 A WARDING WORD 227 
 
 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 dark- 
 ness. 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 circumstances 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 forbidding. The water at her 
 feet was so black and mysterious. She gave 
 a sort low whistle identical wdth that which had 
 called Christian out twenty minutes before, 
 but it remained unanswered, and through the 
 rusthng leaves she sped towards the house. 
 From the open window a glow of rosy light 
 shone forth upon the flowers, imparting to ail 
 
 Q 2
 
 228 THE SLAVE OF THE LAMP 
 
 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 particular chair. 
 
 Sidney rose from his seat, and going to 
 the window, sent his loud clear whistle away 
 into the nis^ht. His broad figure remained 
 motionless for some minutes, almost filling up 
 the window ; then he silently resumed his 
 seat. 
 
 Mrs. Carew smoothed down the silken 
 book-marker, and began reading in a low
 
 A WAEXIXG WORD 229 
 
 voice. It is to be feared that the Psalmist's 
 words of joy were not heard with understand- 
 ing ears that night. A short prayer followed ; 
 softly and melodiously Mrs. Carew asked for 
 blessings upon the bowed heads around her, 
 and the servants left the room. 
 
 ' Have you not seen Christian since you 
 went to see Mrs. Sender, Hilda ? ' asked Molly, 
 at once. 
 
 ' Xo,' 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 settino' the music in order. 
 
 ' How could I whistle,' she asked gently, 
 ' when I was in the kitchen doling out medi- 
 cated cotton-wool to Mrs. Sender?' 
 
 Molly looked puzzled.
 
 230 THE SLAVE OF THE LAMP 
 
 ' 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 what about the whistle ; are you 
 sure you heard it, Molly ^ ' asked Hilda, 
 speaking rather more quickly than was 
 habitual with her. She walked towards the 
 window and drew aside the curtain, keeping 
 her back turned towards the room. 
 
 ' Yes,' answered Molly uneasily. ' Yes — I 
 heard it, and so did he, for he went out at 
 once.' 
 
 Sidney stood awkwardly with his shoulder 
 against the mantelpiece, listening in a lialf- 
 liearted way to his sisters' conversation. 
 With a heavy jerk he threw himself upright 
 and slowly crossed the room. He stood for
 
 A WAENING WORD 231 
 
 some moments immediately behind Hilda 
 without touching her. Then he raised his 
 hand and with gentle, almost caressing pres- 
 sure round her waist, he made her step aside 
 so that he could pass out. He was a singu- 
 larly undemonstrative man, rarely giving way 
 to what he considered the weakness of a 
 caress. Fortunately, however, for their own 
 happiness, his womenfolk understood him, 
 and especially between himself and Hilda 
 there existed a peculiar unspoken sympathy. 
 
 In the ordinary way, he would have 
 mumbled — 
 
 ' Le'mme out ! ' 
 
 On this occasion he touched her waist 
 gently, and the caress almost startled her. 
 It seemed like a confession that he shared 
 the vague anxiety which she concealed so 
 well. 
 
 With the charity of maternal love, which
 
 232 THE SLAVE OF THE LAMP 
 
 is by no means so blind as is generally sup- 
 posed, 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 indif- 
 ference was a mere habit. The assumption of 
 the former saved him infinite worry and re- 
 sponsibihty ; the habit of indifference did 
 away with the necessity of coming to a deci- 
 sion upon general questions. This state of 
 mind may, to townsmen, be incomprehensible. 
 Certain it is that such as are in that condition 
 are not found among the foremost dwellers in 
 cities. But in the country it is a different 
 matter. Such cases are only too common, 
 and (without breath of disparagement) they 
 are usually to be found in households where 
 one man finds himself among several women 
 — be the latter mother and sisters, or wife 
 and sisters-in-law.
 
 A WAEMNG WOED 233 
 
 The man may be a tliorongh sportsman, 
 lie may be an excellent landlord and a popu- 
 lar squire, but within his own doors he is 
 overwhelmed. Chivalry bids him give way 
 to the wishes and desires of some woman or 
 other, and if he be a sportsman he is neces- 
 sarily chivalrous. When one is tired after a 
 long day in the saddle or with a gun, it is so 
 much easier to acquiesce and philosophically 
 persuade oneself that the matter is not worth 
 airing an adverse opinion over. This is the 
 beginning, and if any beginning can look 
 forward to great endings it is that of a habit. 
 
 It would appear that Sidney Carew's oc- 
 casion 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 liis head 
 erect. 
 
 He made his way rapidly to the stable,
 
 234 THE SLAVE OF THE LAMP 
 
 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. How- 
 ever long a memory may have been ware- 
 housed there, deep down beneath piles of 
 other remembrances and conceits, it is 
 generally to be found at the top when the 
 demand comes, ready for use — for good or 
 evil. A dim recollection was resuscitated in 
 Sidney's mind. An unauthenticated nursery 
 tale of a departing guest leaving with a word 
 of joy upon his lips and warm comfort in his 
 heart, turning from the glowing doorway and 
 walking down the little pathway straight into 
 the moat.
 
 A EARNING WORD 235 
 
 Christian, however, was an excellent 
 swimmer ; he knew every inch of the path- 
 w^ay, every stone round the moat. That he 
 should have been drowned in ten feet of clear 
 water, with an easy landing within ten yards, 
 seemed the wildest impossibility. Of course 
 such things have happened, but Christian 
 Yellacott was essentially wide awake, and un- 
 likely to come to mishap through his own 
 carelessness. 
 
 Of all these things Sidney thought as he 
 walked rapidly towards the moat, and in par- 
 ticular he pondered over Molly's statement 
 that she had heard Hilda whistle. This had 
 met with flat denial from Hilda, and Sidney 
 with brotherly candour could only arrive at 
 the conclusion that Molly had been mistaken. 
 He woidd not give way to the least sugges- 
 tion of anxiety even in his own mind. After 
 all Christian would probably come in with
 
 236 THE SLAVE OF THE LAMP 
 
 some simple explanation and a laugli for their 
 fears. It often happens thus, as we must all 
 know. The moments so long and dreary for 
 the watcher, whose imagination gains more 
 and more power as the time passes, slip away 
 unheeded by the awaited, who treats the 
 matter with a laugh or, at the most, a few 
 conventional words of sympathy. 
 
 Sidney stood at the edge of the water and 
 threw the beams of light across the rippling 
 surface. Mechanically he followed the ray 
 as it swept from end to end of the moat, and 
 presently, without heeding, he turned his 
 attention to the stones at his feet. A gleam 
 of reflected light caught his passing gaze, 
 and he stooped to examine the cause more 
 closely. 
 
 The smooth stonework was wet ; in fact 
 the water was standing in little pools upon it. 
 Bound these there were circles of dampness,
 
 A WAKNIXG WOED 237 
 
 showing that evaporation was taking place. 
 The water had not lain there long. A man 
 falling into the moat would have thrown up 
 splashes such as these ; in no other way could 
 they be plausibly accounted for. 
 
 Sidney stood erect. Again he held the 
 lamp over the gleaming water, half fearing to 
 see something. His lips had quite suddenly 
 become dry and parched, and there was an 
 uncomfortable throb in his throat. Suddenly 
 he heard a rustle behind him, and before he 
 could draw back BLilda was at his side. She 
 shpped her hand through his arm, and by the 
 slightest pressure drew him away from the 
 moat. 
 
 ' You know — Sid — he could swim per- 
 fectly,' she said persuasively. 
 
 He made no answer, but walked slowly by 
 her side, swinging the lamp backwards and 
 forwards as a schoolboy swings his satchel.
 
 238 THE SLAVE OF THE LAMP 
 
 Thus he gained time to moisten his lips and 
 render speech possible. 
 
 Together they went round the grounds, 
 but no sign or vestige of Christian did they 
 discover. A pang of remorse came to Hilda 
 as she touched her brother's strong arm. 
 Ever since Christian's arrival she remembered 
 that Sidney had been somewhat neglected, 
 or only remembered when his services were 
 required. Christian had indeed been attentive 
 to him, but Hilda felt that their friendship 
 was not what it used to be. The young 
 journalist in his upward progress had left the 
 slow-thinking country squire behind him. 
 Ail they had in common belonged to the 
 past ; and, for Christian, the past was of small 
 importance compared to the present. She 
 recollected that during the last fortnight 
 everything had been arranged with a view to 
 giving pleasure to herself, Molly, and Christian,
 
 A WARNING WORD 239 
 
 without heed to Sidney's inchnations. By- 
 word or sign he had never shown his know- 
 ledge of this ; he had never impHed that 
 his existence or opinion was of any great 
 consequence. She remembered even that 
 such pleasures as Christian had shared with 
 Sidney — pleasures after his own heart, sailing, 
 shooting, and fishing — had been undertaken 
 at Christian's instigation or suggestion, and 
 eagerly welcomed by Sidney. 
 
 And now, at the first suspicion of trouble, 
 she turned instinctively to her brother for the 
 help and counsel which were so willingly and 
 modestly accorded. 
 
 ' Sidney,' she said, ' did he ever speak to 
 you of his work ? ' 
 
 'No,' he rephed slowly; 'No, I think 
 not.' 
 
 ' He has been rather worried over these 
 disturbances in Paris, I think, and — and — I
 
 240 THE SLAVE OF THE LAMP 
 
 suppose lie lias never said anything to you 
 about Signer Bruno ? ' 
 
 * Signor Bruno ! ' said Sidney, repeating 
 the name in some surprise. ' No, he has 
 never mentioned his name to me.' 
 
 ' He does not hke 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, ' dis- 
 trusted him for some reason. He knows 
 something of his former life, and told me a 
 short time ago that Bruno was not his name 
 at all. This morning Christian received a 
 letter from Carl Trevetz, whom we knew in 
 Paris, you will remember, saying that Signor
 
 A WAKNJNG WOKD 241 
 
 Bruno's real name was Max Talma, also 
 warning Christian to avoid him.' 
 
 ' Is this all you know ? ' asked Sidney, in a 
 peculiarly quiet tone. 
 
 ' That is all I know,' she replied. ' But it 
 has struck me that — that this may have 
 something to do with Signor Bruno. I mean 
 — is it not probable that Christian may have 
 discovered something which caused him to go 
 away suddenly without letting Bruno know of 
 his departure ? ' 
 
 Sidney thought of the water at the edge 
 of the moat. The incident might prove easy 
 enough of explanation, but at the moment it 
 was singularly unreconcilable with Hilda's 
 comforting explanation. And again, the 
 recollection of the signal whistle heard by 
 Molly was unwelcome. 
 
 'Yes,' he replied, vaguely. 'Yes, it may.' 
 
 He was, by nature and habit, a slow 
 
 VOL. I. R
 
 242 THE SLAVE OF THE LAMP 
 
 thinker, and Hilda was running away from 
 him a Uttle ; 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 practi- 
 cally unlimited,' he said slowly, still wishing 
 to gain time. 
 
 ' Yes, but he has always appeared so child- 
 like and innocent.' 
 
 ' That is exactly what I disliked about 
 him,' said Sidney. 
 
 ' Then do you think he has been deliber- 
 ately deceiving us all along ? ' she asked. 
 
 ' Not necessarily,' was the tolerant reply. 
 ' You must remember that Christian is essen-
 
 A WARXIXG WOED 243 
 
 tially a politician. He does not suspect 
 Bruno of anything criminal ; liis suspicions 
 are merely political ; and it may be that 
 Bruno's doings, whatever they appear to be 
 now, may in the future be looked upon as the 
 actions of a hero. Politics are impersonal, 
 and Signer Bruno is only known to us 
 socially.' 
 
 Hilda could not see the matter in this 
 light. Xo woman could have been expected 
 to do so. 
 
 ' I suppose,' she said, presently, ' that 
 Signer 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 searchinor for Christian or callino- him. 
 
 ' Then,' continued Sidney, ' you think it is 
 likely that he has gone off to see Bruno, or to 
 watch him ? ' 
 
 s 2
 
 244 THE SLAVE OF THE LAMP 
 
 ' I think so/ 
 
 ' That is the only reasonable explanation T 
 can think of,' he said, gravely and doubtfully, 
 for he was still thinking of the moat. 
 
 They entered the house, and to Mrs. 
 Carew and Molly their explanation was im- 
 parted. It was received somewhat doubt- 
 fully, especially by Molly. However, the 
 farce had to be kept up — and do we not act 
 in similar comedies every day ?
 
 245 
 
 CHAPTEE 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 confidence 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. 
 Occasionally she glanced towards Hilda, but 
 contributed nothing to the explanations forth- 
 coming from all quarters.
 
 246 THE SLAVE OF THE LAMP 
 
 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 in- 
 clination 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 cheer- 
 fulness. 
 
 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
 
 A NIGHT WATCH 247 
 
 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 conviction 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 without 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 hght from the
 
 248 THE SLAVE OF THE LAMP 
 
 candle that he was holding all awry, while the 
 wax 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. 
 
 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
 
 A NIGHT WATCH 249 
 
 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 was courting sleep 
 in vain, having resolutely blown out her candle. 
 Sidney made no pretence. He was fully 
 dressed, and seated at his rarely-used writing- 
 table. Before him lay a telegraph-form bear- 
 ing 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 occupied the thoughts of his 
 mother and sisters. What could be the ex- 
 planation of the whistle heard by Molly? 
 The want of this alone sufficed to overthrow 
 the most ingenious of consolatory explanations. 
 All four looked at it from different points of
 
 250 THE SLAVE OF THE LAMP 
 
 view, and to each the signal- whistle calling 
 Christian into the garden was an insurmount- 
 able barrier to every explanation. 
 
 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, mechanically 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 sign of feeling 
 the cold. At times physical pain 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
 
 A NIGHT WATCH 251 
 
 of mist waiting the sun's warmth to melt them 
 all away. 
 
 The suppressed creak of Sidney'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 awkward 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 Hfe, 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 the moat when the weeds 
 died down in autumn. The quiet was ren- 
 dered more remarkable by the suddenness of
 
 252 THE SLAVE OF THE LAMP 
 
 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 
 something, 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 com- 
 menced 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 o^listenimr on his rouoii shootinor- 
 boots as he entered the room, and upon the 
 brown leather gaiters there was a deeper shade
 
 A NIGHT WATCH 253 
 
 showing where the wet grass had brushed against 
 his leers. His honest immobile face showed 
 but little 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 shyly, ' as to what 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 suddenly 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
 
 254 THE SLAVE OF THE LAMP 
 
 editor of the "Beacon," and await his in- 
 structions. 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 sug- 
 gest seems wise and prudent.' 
 
 ' Then will you see mother and Molly in
 
 A N"IGHT WATCH 255 
 
 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 
 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 chanofe it at once.'
 
 256 THE SLAVE OF THE LAMP 
 
 CHAPTER XIY 
 
 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 com- 
 fortable way, and there was little harm in his 
 desire that the world should be aware of his 
 industry. 
 
 ' Good morning, Morgan,' said the editor, 
 hanging up his hat. 
 
 ' Morning,' replied the other, genially, but 
 
 t
 
 FOILED 257 
 
 without 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 quickly enough 
 that it means to show how the trick was in 
 reahty performed — ha, ha ! ' 
 
 ' Yes,' replied Mr. Bodery absently. He 
 was glancing at the pile of letters that lay 
 upon his desk. There were among them one 
 or two telegrams, and these he put to one 
 side while he took up each envelope in 
 
 VOL. I. s
 
 258 THE SLAVE OF THE LAMP 
 
 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'in 1 ' 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 poHtely dismissed to a much 
 greater extent than anyone suspected. Into
 
 FOILED 259 
 
 his manner of announcing a person he some- 
 how 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 am engaged ' with a 
 little nod of mutual understanding which was 
 intensely comprehensive. 
 
 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 progression. 
 
 He made a low bow, and shot up erect 
 again with startling rapidity. He then stood 
 
 s 2
 
 260 THE SLAVE OF THE LAMP 
 
 quietly waiting until the door had closed 
 behind the small boy, who, after having 
 punctiliously expectorated upon a silver coin 
 which had found its way into the palm of his 
 hand, proceeded to slide down the balustrade 
 upon his waistcoat. 
 
 It often occurred that strangers addressed 
 themselves to Mr. Morgan when 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,' 
 rephed the editor, with no great warmth of 
 manner. 
 
 ' Would it be possible now,' inquired the
 
 FOILED 261 
 
 stranger conversationally, ' at this late hour, 
 to remove a printed article and substitute 
 another ? ' 
 
 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, deliber- 
 ately 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 polite- 
 ness. ' There would still be time to do so if 
 necessary — at the sacrifice of some hundred- 
 weight of paper.' 
 
 ' How marvellously organised your in- 
 teresting paper must be ! ' 
 
 Dead silence. Most men would have felt 
 embarrassed, but no sign of such feeling was
 
 262 THE SLAVE OF THE LAMP 
 
 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 furtherance 
 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, who is unfor- 
 tunately ill in bed this morning ' 
 
 (Mr Bodery did not look in the least 
 sympathetic, though he listened attentively.) 
 
 '. . . .has received a teleoram from a 
 gentleman who I am told is on the staff of 
 your journal — Mr. Yellacott. This gentleman 
 wishes to withdraw, for correction, an article 
 he has sent to you. He states that he will
 
 FOILED 263 
 
 re-write the article, with certain alterations, 
 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 illness ' 
 
 ' I am afraid you are too late, sir,' inter- 
 rupted Mr. Bodery briskly. ' The press is at 
 work ' 
 
 ' My friend instructed me,' interposed the 
 stranger in his turn, ' to make you rather a 
 difficult proposition. If a thousand pounds 
 will compensate for the loss incurred by the
 
 264 THE SLAVE OF THE LAMP 
 
 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 con- 
 centrated voice, ' I will give you five hundred 
 pounds for a proof copy of Mr. Yellacott's 
 article.' 
 
 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.
 
 FOILED 265 
 
 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.'
 
 266 THE SLAVE OF THE LAMP 
 
 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 stair- 
 case. ' If I could only see the article I could 
 tell whether 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. 
 
 ' That's one of them,' observed Mr. Morgan 
 compreh ensi vely . 
 
 ' Yes,' replied the editor, ' a dangerous 
 customer. I do not like a blue-chinned 
 man.' 
 
 ' I was not much impressed with his diplo- 
 matic skill.' 
 
 ' No ; but you must remember that he had 
 difficult cards to play. No doubt his infor-
 
 FOILED 267 
 
 mation was of the scantiest, and — we are not 
 chickens, Morgan.' 
 
 'No,' said Llr. Morgan, with a little sigh. 
 He turned to the revision of the proof-sheets 
 again, while the editor began opening and 
 readincr his telecframs. 
 
 '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 mthin 
 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 pohtical 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
 
 268 THE SLAVE OF THE LAMP 
 
 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 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 
 whom its results would chiefly benefit : 
 the Eoman Catholic Church in general — the 
 Society of Jesus in particular. We have 
 endeavoured to show how the followers of 
 Ignatius Loyola could have brought about
 
 FOILED 269 
 
 the present crisis in France ; the extent to 
 which they would benefit by a religious re- 
 action 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 ex- 
 claimed huskily. 
 
 The sub-editor looked up sharply, with his 
 pen poised in the air. Then Mr Bodery read : 
 
 ' Is Yellacott 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.'
 
 270 THE SLAVE OF THE LAMP 
 
 They remained thus for some moments ; 
 the editor looking at the telegram with a pe- 
 culiar blank expression in his eyes ; Mr. Morgan 
 staring at him while he rubbed his chin thought- 
 fully with outspread finger and thumb. In 
 the lane beneath the window some industrious 
 housekeeper was sweeping her doorstep with 
 aggravating monotony ; otherwise tliere 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 was 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 gong which stood on the 
 table at his side. The silent door instantly
 
 FOILED 271 
 
 opened, and the snpernaturally sharp boy- 
 stood on the threshold grhnly 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 danghng on either side. If the 
 balance was correct, he slid down rapidly and 
 shot out some feet from the 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 miscal- 
 culation, he inevitably rolled off sideways and 
 landed in a heap on the floor. Either result 
 appeared to afford him infinite enjoyment and 
 exhilaration. On this occasion he performed 
 the feat with marked success.
 
 272 THE SLAVE OF THE LAMP 
 
 ' Guv'nor's goin' on the loose — wants the 
 railway guide,' 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/ remarked the black-fingered one with 
 fine sarcasm. Whereupon there followed a 
 feint — a desperate lunge to one side, a 
 vigorous bob of the head, and a resounding 
 bang with the railway guide in the centre of 
 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 im- 
 patiently, stopped, looked rapidly down a 
 column, and, without raising his eyes from
 
 FOILED 273 
 
 the railway guide, tore a telegraph form from 
 the handle of a drawer at his side. Then he 
 wrote in a large clear style : — 
 
 * Will be with you at five o'clock. Invent 
 some excuse for Vs 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. 
 
 ' Go down to Banks,' said Mr. Bodery, ' ask 
 him to let me have two copies of the foreign 
 pohcy article in ten minutes.' 
 
 When the silent door was closed, Mr. 
 Morgan wheeled round upon his heels and 
 gazed meditatively 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- 
 
 VOL. I. T
 
 274 THE SLAVE OF THE LAMP 
 
 editor, ' we may as well keep the printing- 
 office door locked to-day. That slippery 
 gentleman with the watery eyes meant busi- 
 ness, or I am very much mistaken. Ill 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 
 brushing 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
 
 FOILED 275 
 
 away. This expedient was due to Christian 
 Vellacott's forethought. 
 
 The editor now proceeded to stuff into his 
 bag 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. Yellacott is as wide-awake as any 
 man, and it always struck me that he w^as 
 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 whence these fellow^s get their power.
 
 27 G THE SLAVE OF THE LA:\rP 
 
 Half of them are fanatics and the other half 
 hypocrites.' 
 
 Mr. Bodery had now completed his pre- 
 parations, and he held out his plump hand, 
 which the sub-editor grasped. 
 
 ' I hope,' said the latter, ' that you will find 
 
 Vellacott at the station to meet you, ha, ha I ' 
 ' I hope so.' 
 
 ' If,' said Mr. Morgan, following the editor 
 to the door, ' If he turns up here, I will wire 
 to Carew and to you, care of the station- 
 master.' 
 
 END OF THE FIRST VOLU^FE 
 
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