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THE SLAVE OF THE LAMP...........................................................................................................................1

IT was, not so many years ago, called the Rue de l'Empire, but republics are proverbially sensitive. Once they

are established they become morbidly desirous of obliterating a past wherein no republic flourished. The

It is presumably safe to take it for granted that you are located in the neighbourhood of the Louvre, on the

north side of the river which is so 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

The bridge to cross is that of the Holy Fathers. So called today. Once upon a timebut no matter. Bridges

are peculiarly liable to change in troubled times. The Rue St. Gingolphe is situated between the Boulevard St.

Germain and Quai Voltaire. One hears with equal facility the lowtoned boom of the steamers' whistle upon

the river, and the crack of whips in the boulevard. Once across the bridge, turn to the right, and go along the

Quay, between the limetrees and the bookstalls. You will probably go slowly because of the bookstalls. No

one worth talking to could help doing so. Then turn to the left, and after a few paces you will find upon your

right hand the Rue St. Gingolphe. It is noted in the Directory "Botot" that this street is one hundred and

fortyfive m�tres long; and who would care to contradict "Botot," or even to throw the faintest shadow of a

If your fair and economical spouse should think of repairing to the BonMarch� to secure some of those

wonderful linen pillowcases (at one franc forty) with your august initial embroidered on the centre with a

view of impressing the sleeper's cheek, she will pass the end of the Rue St. Gingolphe on her wayprovided

The street itself is a typical Parisian street of one hundred and fortyfive m�tres. There is room for a baker's,

a caf�, a bootmaker's, and a tobacconist who sells very few stamps. The Parisians do not write many letters.

They say they have not time. But the tobacconist makes up for the meanness of his contribution to the inland

revenue of one 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,

The Rue St. Gingolphe is within a stone'sthrow of the Ecole des BeauxArts, and in the very centre of a

remarkably cheap and yet respectable quarter. Thus there are many young men occupying apartments in close

proximityand young men do not mind much what they smoke, especially provincial young men living in

Paris. They feel it incumbent upon them to be constantly smoking somethingjust 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

The tobacconist's shop is singularly convenient. It has, namely, an entrance at the back, as well as that giving

on to the street of St. Gingolphe. This entrance is through a little courtyard, in which is the stable and

coachhouse combined, where Madame Perin�re, a lady who paints the magic word "Modes" beneath her

name on the doorpost of number seventeen, keeps the dapper little cart and pony which carry her bonnets to

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 condemning a man who wears no collar. There is probably a very good reason,

as in the case of Mr. Jacquetot, but it is to be feared that few pause to seek it. One need not seek the reason

with much assiduity in this instance, because the tobacconist of the Rue St. Gingolphe is always prepared to

explain it at length. French people are thus. They talk of things, and take pleasure in so doing, which we, on

Mr. Jacquetot does not even wear a collar 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 godthe god of most

Frenchmenhis inner man. His pleasures are gastronomical, his sorrows stomachic. The little shop is open

early and late, Sundays, weekdays, and holidays. Moreover, the tobacconistMr. Jacquetot himselfis

always at his post, on the high chair behind the counter, near the window, where he can see into the street.

This constant attention to business is almost phenomenal, because Frenchmen who worship the god of Mr.

Jacquetot love to pay tribute on f�tedays at one of the little restaurants on the Place at Versailles, at Duval's,

or even in the Palais Royal. Mr. Jacquetot would have loved nothing better than a pilgrimage to any one of

these shrines, but he was tied to the little tobacco store. Not by the chains of commerce. Oh, no! When rallied

by his neighbours for such an unenterprising love of his own hearth, he merely shrugged his heavy shoulders.

Now the affairs of Mr. Jacquetot were, in the days with which we have to do, like many things on this earth,

It would be inexpedient, for reasons closely connected with the tobacconist of the Rue St. Gingolphe, as well

as with other gentlemen still happily with us in the flesh, to be too exact as to dates. Suffice it, therefore, to

say that it was only a few years ago that Mr. Jacquetot sat one evening as usual in his little shop. It happened

to be a Tuesday evening, which is fortunate, because it was on Tuesdays and Saturdays that the little barber

from round the corner called and shaved the vast cheeks of the tobacconist. Mr. Jacquetot was therefore quite

presentabledoubly so, indeed, because it was yet March, and he had not yet entered upon his summer

The little street was very quiet. There was no through traffic, and folks living in this quarter of Paris usually

carry their own parcels. It was thus quite easy to note the approach of any passenger, when such had once

turned the corner. Someone was approaching now, and Mr. Jacquetot threw away the stump of a cheap cigar.

One would almost have said that he recognised the step at a considerable 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. Mr. Jacquetot weighed seventeen stone,

but he was eminently intelligent. He had recognised the footstep while it was yet seventy m�tres 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

The newcomer's actions were characterised by a certain carelessness, as if he were going through a

He nodded to Mr. Jacquetot, and rather a pleasant smile flickered for a moment across his face. He was a

singularly wellmade man, of medium height, with straight square shoulders and small limbs. He wore

spectacles, and as he looked at one straight in the face there was a singular contraction of the eyes which

hardly amounted to a castmoreover, it was momentary. It was precisely the look of a hawk when its hood

is suddenly removed in full daylight. This resemblance was furthered by the fact that the man's profile was

birdlike. He was cleanshaven, and there was in his sleek head and determined little face that smooth

The face was small, like that of a Greek bust, but in expression it suggested a yet older people. There was that

mystic depth of expression which comes from ancient Egypt. No one feature was obtrusiveall were

chiselled with equal delicacy; and yet there was only one point of real beauty in the entire countenance. The

mouth was perfect. But the man with a perfect mouth is usually one whom it will be found expedient to

avoid. Without a certain allowance of sensuality no man is genialwithout 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

blindedintentionally and mercifully blinded. If some of us were a little more observant, a few of the human

It was probably the form of the lips 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 Nile, which never alter in expressioneyes

that do not seem to be busy with this life at all, but fully occupied with something else: something beyond

"Not yet arrived?" inquired the newcomer 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 Rue St. Gingolphe. It was the

language one sometimes hears in an old ch�teau lost in the depths of the countrythe vast unexplored rural

districts of Francewhere the bearers of dangerously historical names live out their lives with a singular

suppression and patience. They are either biding their time or else they are content with the past and the part

played by their ancestors therein. For there is an old French and a new. In Paris the new is spokenthe very

newest. Were it anything but French it would be intolerably vulgar; as it is, it is merely neat and intensely

"Not yet arrived, sir," said the tobacconist, and then he seemed to recollect himself, for he repeated:

"Not yet arrived," without the respectful addition which had slipped out by accident.

The new arrival took out his watcha small one of beautiful workmanship, the watch of a ladyand

consulted it. His movements were compact and rapid. He would have made a splendid lightweight boxer.

"That," he said shortly, "is the way they fail. They do not understand the necessity of exactitude. The

"I suppose so. But is it safe to stand there in the full day? Will you not pass in? The room is ready; the lamp is

"Ah, bah!" and he shrugged his shoulders contemptuously. "I am not afraid of them. There is only one thing

to be feared, Citizen Jacquetotthe press. The press and the people, bien entendu."

"In default of better, my friend. If one has not steam one uses the river to turn the millwheel. The river is

slow; sometimes it is too weak, sometimes too strong. One never has full control over it, but it turns the

"And eventually sweeps away the miller," suggested the tobacconist lightly. It must be remembered that

though stout he was intelligent. Had he not been so it is probable that this conversation would never have

taken place. The darkeyed man did not look like one who would have the patience to deal with stupid

"But," conceded Jacquetot, meditatively selecting a new cigar from a box which he had reached without

"Ah!" with a protesting shrug, as if deprecating the enunciation of such a platitude.

Then he passed through into a little room behind the shop a little room where no daylight penetrated,

because there was no window to it. It depended for daylight upon the shop, with which it communicated by a

door of which the upper half was glass. But this glass was thickly curtained with the material called

And the tobacconist was left alone in his shop, smoking gravely. There are some people like oysters,

inasmuch as they leave an aftertaste behind them. The man who had just gone into the little room at the rear

of the tobacconist's shop of the Rue St. Gingolphe in Paris was one of these. And the taste he left behind him

was rather disquieting. One was apt to feel that there was a mistake somewhere in the ordering of human

In a few minutes two men passed hastily through the shop into the little room, with scarcely so much as a nod

THE first man to enter the room was clad in a blouse of coarse grey cloth which reached down to his knees.

On his head he wore a black silk cap, very much pressed down and exceedingly greasy on the right side. This

was to be accounted for by the fact that he used his right shoulder more than the left in that state of life in

which he had been placed. It was not what we, who do not kill, would consider a pleasant state. He was, in

It is, perhaps, fortunate that Antoine Lerac is of no great prominence in this record, and of none in his official

capacity at the slaughterhouse. But the man is worthy of some small attention, because he was so essentially

of the nineteenth centuryso distinctly 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 descriptiona

braggart, a talker, a windbag. He preached, or rather he shrieked, the doctrine of equality, but the equality he

sought was that which would place him on a par with his superiors, while in no way benefiting those beneath

At one time, when he had first come into contact with the darkeyed man who now sat at the table watching

"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 without making yourself ridiculous. Butthat is not the question. Let us get to

And in time the butcher succumbed, as he was bound to do, to the man whom he shrewdly suspected of being

He who entered the room immediately afterwards was of a very different type. His mode of entry was of

another description. Whereas the man of blood swaggered in with an air of nervous truculence, as if he were

afraid that someone was desirous of disputing his equality, the next comer crept in softly, and closed the door

with accuracy. He was the incarnation of benevolencein the best sense of the word, a sweet old

manlooking out upon the world through large tinted spectacles with a beam which could not be otherwise

than blind to all motes. In earlier years his face might, perhaps, have been a trifle hard in its contour; but

Time, the lubricator, had eased some of the corners, and it was now the seat of kindness and love. He bowed

ceremoniously to the first comer, and his manner seemed rather to breathe of fraternity than equality. As he

bowed he mentioned the gentleman's name in such loving tones that no greeting could have been heartier.

The butcher, with more haste than dignity, assumed the chair which stood at the opposite end of the table to

that occupied by the Citizen Morot. He had evidently hurried in first in order to secure that seat. From his

pocket he produced a somewhat soiled paper, which he threw with exaggerated carelessness across the table.

"What have we here?" inquired the first comer, who had not hitherto opened his lips, with a deep interest

which might possibly have been ironical. He was just the sort of man to indulge in irony for his own

"Ah!" he said, "a receipt for five hundred rifles with bayonets and shoulderstraps complete. `Received of the

Citizen Morot five hundred rifles with bayonets and shoulderstraps complete.Antoine Lerac.'"

Then he turned in his chair and threw the papers into the ashtray of the little iron stove behind him.

"I judged it best to be strictly businesslike," said the butcher, with moderately well simulated carelessness.

"But yes, Monsieur Lerac," with a shrug. "We of the Republic distrust each other so completely."

"And," he said, turning to Lerac, "you have them stored in a safe place? There is absolutely no doubt of that?"

"Very good. It is not for a short time only, but for some months. One cannot hurry the people. Besides, we are

"Yes; the English Government is full of chivalry. They are always ready to place it within the power of their

The old gentleman laugheda pleasant, cooing laugh. He invariably encouraged humour, this genial

"At last Friday's meeting," Lerac said shortly, "we enrolled forty new members. We now number four

"Four hundred strong men," broke in the old gentleman, rather hastily. "Ah, but that is already a power."

"It is," opened Lerac sententiously, "the strong man who is the power. Riches are nothing; birth is nothing.

"Everything," acquiesced Morot, fervently. He was consulting a small notebook, wherein he jotted down

"Four hundred and two," he muttered as he wrote, "up to Friday night, in the arrondissement of the

The butcher looked up with a doubtful expression upon his coarse face. His great brutal lips twitched, and he

was on the point of speaking when the Citizen Morot's velvety eyes met his gaze with a quiet smile in which

"And now," said the lastmentioned, turning affably to the old gentleman, "let us have the report of the

"Ah," laughed Lerac, without attempting to conceal the contempt that was in his soul, "the Church." The old

"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

The Citizen Morot laughed at this pleasantry, while the old man against whom it was directed bowed his head

"And yet," said the laugher, with a certain air of patronage, "the Church is of some use still. She paid for

"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

"But," exclaimed the butcher, emphatically banging his fist down upon the table, "why does she do it? That is

The old priest glanced furtively towards Morot, and then his face assumed an air of childish bewilderment.

The butcher was pleased with himself. He sat upright, and, banging the table a second time, he looked round

"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 encouragement, have turned upon that Church of which he was the humble representative, merely for

The butcher cleared his throat after the manner of the streetscausing Morot to wince visiblyand

"But," he added cunningly, "the Church, see youAch! it is deepit is treacherous. Never trust the

The Citizen Morot, to whom these remarks were addressed, smiled in a singular way and made no reply.

"Nothing of great importance," replied he, humbly. "All is going on well. We are in treaty for two hundred

rifles with the Montenegrin Government, and shall no doubt carry the contract through. I go to England next

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."

"I do," was the reply, delivered with a little nod in answer to Lerac's curt farewell bow.

The butcher walked noisily through the shopheavy with responsibilityweighted with the sense of his

own importance to the world in general and to France in particular. Had he walked less noisily he might have

Citizen Morot did not laugh. He was not a laughing man. But a fine, disdainful smile passed over his face,

"Yessir," replied the old man, "but if he were less so it would be difficult to manage him."

"No titlesmy father," said the Citizen Morot, quietly. "No titles here, if you please. Tell me, are you quite

"As sure as one can be of anything that comes from the streets. He is an excitable, bumptious, quarrelsome

man; but he has a certain influence with those beneath him, although it seems hard to realise that there are

"Ha! you are right! But a republic is a social manureheap that which is on the top is not pleasant, and the

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

When the door had closed behind the departing Lerac, the old priest seemed to throw off suddenly quite a

number of years. His voice, when next he spoke, was less senile, his movements were brisker. He was, in a

Mr. Jacquetot had finished his dinner, brought in from a neighbouring restaurant all hot, and was

slumberously enjoying a very strongsmelling cigar, when the door of the little room opened at length, and

HALFWAY down Fleet Street, on the lefthand side, stands the church of St. DunstanintheWest. Around

its grimy foundations there seethes a struggling, toiling race of mennot only from morning till night, but

throughout the twentyfour hours. Within sound of this church bell a hundred printingpresses throb out their

odorous broadsheets to be despatched to every part of the world. Day and night, week in week out, the human

writingmachines, and those other machines which are almost human (and better than human in some points)

hurry through their allotted tasks, and ignore the saintly shadow cast upon them by the spire of St. Dunstan.

This is indeed the centre of the world: the hub from whence spring the spokes of the vast wheel of life. For to

this point all things over the world converge by a vast web of wire, railroad, coach road, and steamer track.

Upon wings that boast of greater speed than the wind can compass come to this point the voices of our kin in

farthest lands. Newsnewsnews. News from the East of events occurring in the afternoonscan it over

and flash it westward, where it will be read on the morning of the same day! News in every tongue to be

translated and brought into shapewhile the solemn church clock tells his tale in deep voice, audible above

From hurried scribbler to pale compositor, and behold, the news is bawled all over London! Such work as

this goes on for ever around the church of St. Dunstan. Scribblers come and scribblers go; compositors come

to their work young and hopeful, they leave it bent and poisoned, yet the work goes on. Each day the pace

grows quicker, each day some 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"Brainfever, complete rest; a

wreck." For years his writings have been read by thousands daily. A new man takes the vacant chairhe has

been waiting more or less impatiently for thisand the thousands are none the wiser. One night the head

compositor presses his black hand to his sunken chest, and staggers home. "And time toohe's had his turn,"

mutters the second compositor as he thinks of the extra five shillings a week. No doubt he is right. Every dog

Nearly opposite to the church stands a tall narrow house of dirty red brick, and it is with this house that we

At seven o'clock, one evening some years agowhen heads now grey were brown, when eyes now dim were

brightthe Strand was in its usual state of turmoil. Carriage followed carriage. Seedy clerks hustled past

portly merchantsnot their own masters, bien entendu, but those of other seedy clerks. Carriages and

footpassengers were alike going westward. All were leaving behind them the day and the busy citysome

after a few hours devoted to the perusal of "Times" and "Gazette"; others fagged and weary from a long day

Ah! those were prosperous days in the City. Days when men of but a few years' standing rolled out to

Clapham or Highgate behind a pair of horses. Days when books were often represented by a bankbook and

a roughlykept daybook. What need to keep mighty ledgers when profits are great and returns quick in their

As the pedestrians made their way along the narrow pavement, some of them glanced at the door of the tall

redbrick house and read the inscription on a brassplate screwed thereon. This consisted of two mystic

words: "The Beacon." There was, however, in reality, no mystery about it. The "Beacon" was a newspaper,

published weekly, and the clock of St. Dunstan's striking seven told the end of another week. The publishing

From early morning until six o'clock in the evening this narrow doorway and passage had been crowded by a

heaving, swearing, laughing mass of more or less dilapidated humanity interested in the retail sale of

newspapers. At six o'clock Ephraim Bander, a retired constable, now on the staff of the "Beacon," had taken

his station at the door, in order to greet wouldbe purchasers with the laconic and discouraging words: "Sold

During the last two years exconstable Bander had announced the selling "hout" of the "Beacon" every

At seven o'clock Mrs. Bander emerged from her den on the fourth floor, like a portly goodnatured spider,

and with a broom proceeded to attack the dust shaken from the boots of the journalistic fraternity, with noisy

energy. After that she polished the doorplate; and peace reigned within the narrow house.

On the second floor there was a small room with windows looking out into a narrow lane behind the house. It

was a singularly quiet room; the door opened and shut without sound or vibration; double windows 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 comfort imperceptibly crept over the senses of persons

entering this tiny apartment. It must have been in the atmosphere; for some rooms more luxuriously furnished

are without it. It certainly does not lie in the furniturethis 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

This diminutive room, despite its lack of 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 idling with the calm

restfulness of a man who has never worked very hard. He was rolling his pencil up to the top of his blotting

pad, and allowing it to come down again in accordance with the rules of gravity.

This was Mr. Bodery's habit when thoughtful; and after all, there was no great harm in it. Mr. Bodery was

editor and proprietor of the "Beacon." The amusing and somewhat satirical article which appeared weekly

under the heading of "Light" was penned by the chubby hand at that moment engaged with the pencil.

Mr. Morgan, subeditor, was even stouter than his chief. Laughter was his most prominent 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 printingmachine went wrong on Monday afternoon, andmost

wonderful of allhe 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 Parliamentary articles on the

These two gentlemen were in no way of brilliant intellect. They had their share of sound, practical

commonsense, which is in itself a splendid substitute. Fortune had come to them (as it comes to most men

when it comes at all) without any apparent reason. Mr. Bodery had supplied the capital, and Mr. Morgan's

share of the undertaking was added in the form of a bustling, hollow energy. The "Beacon" was lighted, so to

speak. It burnt in a dull and somewhat flickering manner for some years; then a new hand fed the flame, and

It was from pure good nature that Mr. Bodery held out a helping hand to the son of his old friend, Walter

Vellacott, when that youth appeared one day at the office of the "Beacon," and in an offhand manner

announced 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 literaturein fact, he was fortunate enough to have found, at the age of twentytwo, his

Gradually, as the years wore on, the influence of the young fellow's superior intellect made itself felt. From

the position of a mere supernumerary, he worked his way upwards, taking on to his shoulders one duty after

anotherbearing the weight, quietly and confidently, of one responsibility after another. This exactly suited

Mr. Bodery and his subeditor. There was very little of the slave in the composition of either. They delighted

in an easy, luxurious life, with just enough work to impart a pleasant feeling of selfsatisfaction. It suited

Christian Vellacott also. In a few weeks he found his levelin 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 harumscarum diplomatist, who could have done great things in his short life if he had wished to. It

is from only sons that fortune selects her favourites. Men who have no brothers to share their amusements

turn to serious matters early in life. Christian Vellacott soon discovered that a head was required at the office

of the "Beacon" to develop the elements of success 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 whole 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 strong body is great, but it is

nevertheless limited. The "Beacon" had reached a large circulation, but its slave was worn out. Two years

without a holidaytwo years of hurried hard brainwork had left their mark. It is often so when a man finds

his avocation too early. He is too hurried, works too hard, and collapses; or he becomes selfsatisfied, over

confident, and unbearable. Fortunately for Christian Vellacott he was devoid of conceit, which is like the

There was also a "home" influence at work. When Christian passed out of the narrow doorway, and turned

his face westward, his day's work was by no means over, as will be shown hereafter.

As Mr. Bodery rolled his pencil up and down his blottingpad, he was slowly realising the fact that

something must be done. Presently he looked up, and his pleasant eyes rested on the bent head of his

"Morgan," he said, "I have been thinking Seems to me Vellacott wants a rest! He's played out!"

Mr. Morgan wiped his pen vigorously upon his coat, just beneath the shoulder, and sat back in his chair.

"Yes," he replied; "he has not been up to the mark for some time. But you will find difficulty in making him

This "ha, ha!" did not mean very much. There was no mirth in it. It was a species of punctuation, and implied

Mr. Bodery extended his chubby white hand and touched a small gong. Almost instantaneously the silent

door opened and a voice from without said, "Yess'r." A small boy with a mobile wicked mouth stood at

The small boy closed the door. Once outside he placed his hand upon his heart and made a low bow to the

handle, retreating backwards to the head of the stairs. Then he proceeded to slide down the banister, to the

trifling detriment of his waistcoat. As he reached the end of his perilous journey a door opened at the foot of

"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

"All right," replied Vellacott, putting on the coat he had been carrying over his arm. A peculiar smooth

rapidity characterised all his movements. At school he had been considered a very "clean" fielder. The

The preternaturally sharp boysharp as only London boys are watched the lithe form vanish up the stairs;

Subsequently he balanced his diminutive person full length upon the balustrade, and proceeded to haul

In the meantime Christian Vellacott had passed into the editor's room. The light of the lamp was driven

downwards upon the table, but the reflection of it rose and illuminated his face. It was a fairly handsome face,

with eyes just large enough to be keen and quick without being dreamy. The slight fair moustache was not

enough to hide the mouth, which was refined, and singularly immobile. He glanced at Mr. Bodery, as he

entered, quickly and comprehensively, and then turned his eyes towards Mr. Morgan. His face was very still

and unemotional, but it was pale, and his eyes were deeply sunken. A keen observer would have noticed, in

comparing the three men, that there was something about the youngest which was lacking in his elders. It lay

in the direct gaze of his eyes, in the carriage of his head, in the small, motionless mouth. It was what is

"Sit down, Vellacott," said Mr. Bodery. "We want to have a consultation." After a short pause he continued:

"You know, of course, that it is a dull season just now. People do not seem to read the papers in August.

Now, we want you to take a holiday. Morgan has been away; I shall go when you come back. Say three

weeks or a month. You've been overworking yourself a bit burning the candle at both ends, eh?"

"Hardly at both ends," corrected Vellacott, with a ready smile which entirely transformed his face. "Hardly at

"Ha, ha! Very good," chimed in Mr. Morgan the irrepressible. "At one end in a draughtthat 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

"I don't think I care for a holiday just now, thanks," he said slowly, without remembering to call up a smile

for Mr. Morgan's benefit. Unconsciously he put his hand to his forehead, which was damp with the heat of

"My dear fellow," said Mr. Bodery gravely, emphasising his remarks with the pencil, "you have one thing in

life to learn yetno doubt you have many, but this one in particular you must learn. Work is not the only

thing we are created fornot the only thing worth living for. It is a necessary evil, that is all. When you have

reached my age you will come to look upon it as such. A little enjoyment is good for everyone. There are

"And love," suggested the subeditor, 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,

selfcontained man, but that sorrow had entirely changed his nature. The true William Morgan only came out

Mr. Bodery was right. Christian had yet to learn a great lesson, and unconsciously he was even now

beginning to grasp its meaning. His whole mind was full of his work, and out of those earnest grey eyes his

"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

"Of course we will; as well as and perhaps better than he could do it himself, eh? Ha, ha!"

"But seriously, Vellacott," continued Mr. Bodery, "things will go on just as well for a time. When I was

young I used to make that mistake too. I thought that no one could manage things like myself, but in time I

realised (as you will do some day) that things went on as smoothly when I was away. Depend upon it, my

boy, when a man is put on the shelf, worn out and useless, another soon fills his place. You are too young to

"You are very kind, sir" began the young fellow, but Mr. Bodery interrupted him.

"Well, then, that is settled. Shall we say this day week? That will give you time to make your plans."

With a few words of thanks Christian left the room. Vaguely and mechanically he wandered 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. No papers lay on the table in artistic disorder. The presiding genius of the

room was methodclearheaded, practical method. The walls were hidden by shelves of books, from the

last half hysterical production of some vain woman to the singlevolume 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 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

"I recognised that fact some years ago," replied the sub editor, wiping his pen on his coat. "It is humiliating,

CHRISTIAN VELLACOTT soon descended the dingy stairs and joined the westwardwending throng in the

Strand. In the midst of the crowd he was alone, as townsmen soon learn to be. The passing faces, the roar of

traffic, and the thousand human possibilities of interest around him in no way disturbed his thoughts. In his

busy brain the traffic of thought, passing and repassing, crossing and recrossing, went on unaffected by

outward things. A modern poet has confessed that his muse loves the pavementa bold confession, but most

certainly true. Why does talent gravitate to cities? Because there it works its bestbecause friction

necessarily produces brilliancy. Nature is a great deceiver; she draws us on to admire her insinuating charms,

Christian had been born and bred in cities. The din and roar of life was to him what the voice of the sea is to

the sailor. In the midst of crowded humanity he was in his element, and as he walked rapidly along he made

his way dexterously through the narrow places without thinking of it. While meditating deeply he was by no

means absorbed. In his active life there had been no time for thoughts beyond the present, no leisure for

dreaming. He could not afford to be absentminded. Numbers of men are so situated. Their minds are

required at all moments, in full working order, clear and rapidready, shoes on feet and staff in hand, to go

Although he was going to the saddest home that ever hung like a millstone 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

redbrick house, which formed the corner of a little terrace facing the river and a quiet street running inland

With a latchkey he admitted himself noiselesslyalmost surreptitiously. Once inside, he closed the door

without unnecessary sound and stood for some moments in the dark little entrancehall, apparently listening.

Presently a voice broke the silence of the house. A querulous highpitched voice, quavering with the palsy of

extreme age. The sound of it was no new thing for Christian Vellacott. Tonight 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

"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, goodfornothing boythat is what he is. We have not set eyes on him for a

"Christian, that is his namea 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 are different

The frothy one outside the door seemed in no great degree impressed by these impartial views upon himself,

"He's coming home tonight, though, Miss Judith," said another voice, in a coaxing, wheedling tone, such as

one uses towards petulant children. "He's coming home tonight, sure enough!" It was a pleasant voice, with

a strong, capable ring about it. One instinctively felt that the possessor of it was a woman to be relied upon at

"Is he nowis he now?" said the first speaker reflectively. "Well, I am sure it is time he did. We will just

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 goodfornothing nephew in the dimlylighted passage, greeting him

"Oh, they have been well enough, Master Christian," was the reply, in a cheerful undertone. "Aunt Judith has

'most got rid of her cold. But they've been very trying, sirjust like children, as wilful as could bethe

same question over and over again till I was fit to cry. They are quieter now, butbut it's you they're abusing

The young fellow looked down into the little woman's face. His eyes were sympathetic enough, but he said

nothing. With a little nod and a suppressed sigh he turned away from her. He laid his hand upon the door and

"As soon as you have brought up tea," he said, looking back, "I will take them for the evening, and you can

From the room came, at intervals, the ring of silver, as if someone were moving the spoons and forks from

They were exactly alike, these two old ladies; the same marvellously wrinkled features and silver hair;

voluminous caps and white woollen shawls identical. With exaggerated marks of respect he kissed each by

"May I sit down, Aunt Judith?" he asked, and without waiting for an answer drew a chair towards the

"Yes, Nephew Vellacott, you may take a seat," replied Aunt Judith with chill severity, "and you may also tell

Poor old human wreck! Only ten hours earlier her nephew had bid her farewell for the day. Christian began

an explanation in a weary, mechanical way, like an actor tired of the part assigned to him, but the old ladies

"Your shallow excuses are wasted on us, Nephew Vellacott. You have doubtless been away, enjoying

yourself and leaving us us who support you and deprive ourselves in order to keep a decent coat upon your

backleaving us to the mercy of all the thieves in London. And tell us, praywhat are we to do for spoons

"What?" exclaimed Christian with perfunctory interest, "have the spoons gone?" he almost said "again,"

but checked himself in time. He turned to look at the table, which had been carefully denuded of every piece

"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 coughing, which seemed to be tearing her to pieces. Christian watched her

"There, you see," remarked Aunt Hester, with the precise intonation of her accomplice.

They allowed their nephew's remorse full scope, and then proceeded laboriously to extract the missing

articles from the side of Aunt Judith's armchair. 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 meing" until the worthless nephew was perforce called to the rescue, to fish and probe

"We only wished, Nephew Vellacott, to show you what might have happened during your unconscionable

absence. Servants are only too ready to talk to the first comer of their mistresses' wealth and position. They

have no discrimination," said Aunt Judith in a reproving tone. The old ladies were very fond of boasting of

their wealth and position, whereas, in reality, their nephew was the only barrier between them and the

"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 life!"

He had learnt to humour these two silly old women. During the two years which had just passed he had

gradually recognised the utter futility of endeavouring to make them realise the true state of their affairs.

They spoke grandiloquently of the family solicitor: a man who had been in his grave for nearly a quarter of a

century. It was simply impossible to instil into their minds any fact whatever, and such facts as had

established 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 followed the gradual failing of each sense and

There is something pathetic about the decay of a mind which has been driven to death by constant work, but

there is a compensating thought to alleviate the sadness. It may rattle and grow loose, like some wornout

engine, where the friction presses; but it will work till it collapses totally, and some of the work achieved is

good and permanent. 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 idlenessand 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 Vellacott's grandmother, they had left

his house in Honiton to go and live in Bodmin upon a limited but sufficient income. These "sufficient

When Christian Vellacott arrived in England, an orphan with no great wealth, he made it his first duty to visit

the only living relations he possessed. He was just in time to save them, literally, from starvation. It was

obvious that he could not make a literary livelihood in Bodmin, so he made a home for the two old wrecks of

humanity in London. Their means, like their minds, were simply exhausted. Aunt Judith was ninety three;

Aunt Hester ninetyone. During 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 gaugethey had never been

separated for one day. Like two apples they had grown side by side, until their very contact had engendered

diseasea slow, deadly, creeping rot, finding its source at the point of contact, reaching its goal at the heart

of each. They had existed thus with terrible longevitylived a mere animal life of sleeping and eating, such

"Of course, you must learn to make your daily bread, Nephew Vellacott!" answered Aunt Hester. "The desire

does you credit; but you should be careful into what society you go without us. Girls are very designing, and

"Yes, that they would," replied the old lady. "The minxes know that they might do worse than catch the

"Look at us," continued Aunt Hester, drawing up her shrunken old form with a touch of pride. "Look at us!

She waited for a confirmation of this bold statement, but Christian was not listening. He was leaning forward

with his hands clasped between his knees, gazing into the fire. He was recalling the conversation which had

passed in the little room in the Strand. Could he leave these two helpless old creatures. Could he get away

from it all for a little timeaway from the maddening prattle of unguided tongues, from the dread monotony

of hopeless watching? He knew that he was wasting his manhood, neglecting his intellectual opportunities,

and endangering his career; but his course of duty was marked out with terrible distinctness. He never saw the

pathos of it, as a woman would have seen it, gathering perhaps some slight alleviation from the sight. It never

entered his thoughts to complain, and he never conceived the 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 obvious duty and striving not to look forward too eagerly to a release at

Fortunately, Mrs. Strawd 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 dishcover. What was it, and would there be

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.

"Excuse me, Nephew Vellacott!" said Aunt Judith, with dangerous severity. "Is that first slice intended for

Aunt Hester? It appears to me that the butter is very thickmuch thicker than on the second, which is

"Do you think so, Aunt Judith?" asked Christian in a voice purposely loud in order to 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 more

With similar fruitful topics of conversation the meal was pleasantly despatched. The turn of Dick and Mick

followed thereon. Dick, the property of Aunt Judith, was a canary of thoughtful 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 subjectsand

Now Aunt Hester, in her inmost heart, loved a silent bird, and secretly coveted Dick, but as Mick was her

property, and Dick the silent was owned by Aunt Judith, she never lost an opportunity of enlarging upon the

stupidity and uselessness of silent birds. Aunt Judith, on the other hand, admired a lively and talkative canary;

consequently she was weighed down with the conviction that her sister's bird was the superior article.

Altogether, birds as a topic of conversation were best avoided. Dick and Mick were housed in cages of

similar buildindeed, 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

breadandbutter, 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 armchairs. 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 somewhat closelyset eyes were not such as wax tender

over drowning flies, for even in repose they were somewhat direct and stern in their gaze. In fact, Christian

Vellacott was so visibly created for strife and the forefront of life's battle, that it was almost painful to see

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 Westcountryman, with a true ear and a touch peculiarly light and tender

for a man. He played gently and drowsily for some time, half forgetting that he was not alone in the room.

Presently he turned round, letting his fingers rest on the keys. Aunt Judith was asleep, and Aunt Hester made

a sign for him to go on playing. Five minutes more, gradually toned down till the very sounds seemed to fall

asleep, and Aunt Hester was peacefully slumbering. Silently the player rose, and crossing the room, he

resumed his seat at the table from which the white cloth had not yet been removed. Pen, ink, and paper were

within reach, and in a few minutes he had written the following note: "Dear Sidney,

"May I retract the letter I wrote yesterday and accept your invitation? I have been 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,

He folded the note and slipped it into an envelope, which he addressed to "Sidney Carew, Esq., St. Mary

Western, Dorset." Then he slipped noiselessly out of the room and upstairs to where Mrs. Strawd had a small

sittingroom of her own. The little woman heard his footstep on the old creaking stairs, and opened the door

"Of course I could," replied the little woman, readily. "Just you go away and take a holiday, Master Christian.

You need it sorely, that I know. You do indeed. We shall get on splendidly without you. I'll just have my

sister to come and stay, same as I did when you had to go to the Paris House of Parliament."

"Of course you hav'n't, and you want it. It's only human natureand 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,

"Well, then, if your sister comes it must be understood, nurse, that I make the same arrangement with her as

"Oh, yes, Master Christian, that is all right. But you need not have troubled about that. She never would have

"No," replied he gravely, "I know she would not, but it will be better, I think, to have it understood

beforehand. Gratitude is a very nice thing to work for, but some work is worth more than gratitude. If you are

Before Christian went to bed that night he held a candle close to the mirror and looked long and hard at his

own reflection. There were dark streaks under his eyes, his small mouth was drawn and dry, his lips

colourless. At each temple the bone stood out rather prominently, and the skin was brilliant in its whiteness

and reflected the light of the candle. He felt his own pulse. It was beating, at one moment fast and irregular, at

"Yes!" he muttered, with a professional nodin his training as a journalist he had learnt a little of many

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

Such was the morning that greeted Christian Vellacott, 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 go, every obstacle was thrown aside and his

determination was now as great as had been his previous reluctance. He had no presentiment that he was

taking an important step in lifeone 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

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. 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

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 d�bris, as it were. Three voices there were whose tones would never more be heard in the round of merry

jest. Mr. Carew, Walter Vellacott (Uncle Walter, the young ones called him), and little Charlie Carew, the

brighteyed 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 mistakethis silenceif you will; but it was one of those mistakes which

are often made in wisdom. In splendid solitary grandeur he lay awaiting the end of all thingsthe call of his

Creatorin the grey icefields 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 furclad giants kneeling at his side. Time, the merciful,

had healed, as best he could (which is by no means perfectly), the wound in the younger hearts. It is only the

old that are quite beyond his powers; he cannot touch them. Mrs. Carew, a woman with a patient face and a

ready smile, was the only representative of the vanishing generation. Her daughtersay! 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 oldfashioned seaport town, whose

good fortune it was to be too far west for a London wateringplace, and too far east for Plymouth or Bristol.

Sidney Carew was on the platform a sturdy, typical Englishman, with a certain sure slowness of movement

handed down to him by seafaring ancestors. The two friends had not met for many years, but with men

absence has little effect upon affection. During the space of many years they may never meet and seldom

write, but at the end that gulf of time is bridged over by a simple "Halloa, old fellow!" and a warm grip.

Slowly, piece by piece, the history of the past years comes out. Both are probably changed in thought and

Simultaneouslyand that was all. The changes were there in both, and noted by both, but not commented

It was with womanly foresight that Miss Molly Carew had elected to wait outside with the dogcart 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 might be like after the

lapse of years. Of herself she was sure enough, being one of those happy people who have no

On seeing her, Christian came forward at once, raising his hat and shaking hands as if they had parted the day

She saw at once that it was all right. This was Christian Vellacott as she had remembered him. She looked

down at him as he stood with one hand resting on the splashboard, and he, looking up to her, smiled in return.

"Christian," she said, "do you know, I should scarcely have recognised you. You are so big, andand you

look positively ghastly!" She finished her remark with a little laugh which took away from the spoken

"Ghastly?" he replied. "Thanks; I do not feel like itonly hungry. Hungry, and desperately glad to see a face

"Nevertheless I am the only person in the house who does any work at all. Hilda, for instance"

"Jump up in front, Chris," he said; "Molly will drive, while I sit behind. Your luggage will follow in the cart."

The drive of six miles passed away very pleasantly. Molly's strong little hands were quite accustomed to the

reins, and the men were free to talk, which, however, she found time to do as well. The two young people on

the front seat stole occasional sidelong glances at each other. The clever mischievous 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 fearless

eyes of old. Fearless they had been in the times of childish mischief and adventure; fearless they remained in

Christian had been a shy and commonplace enough boy as she recollected him. Now she found a

selfpossessed man of the world. Tall and strong of body she saw he was, and she felt that he possessed

another strengtha strength of mind and will which, reaching out, can grasp and hold anything or

With practised skill, Molly turned into the narrow gateway at a swinging trot, and then only was the house

visiblea 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 scantilywooded tableland

that stretched away unbroken by wall or hedgerow to the sea, implied a certain 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 comfortable hall, such as

might be used as a sittingroom. 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 occasionally 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, 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

"I do not know, dear. She is out, somewhere; in the garden, I expect. You are before your time a little. The

train must have been punctual, for a wonder. Had Hilda known, she would have been here to welcome you, I

"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 dogcart round to the stables, kneeling awkwardly upon the back seat.

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 absorbing. The anxiety regarding the welfare of the two old ladies was

already alleviated by distance. The strong sea air, the change to pleasant and kindly society, were already

Suddenly Molly stopped, and Christian saw that she was standing at the edge of a long still sheet of water

bounded by solid stonework, which, however, was crumbling away in parts, while everywhere the green

"Oh, Christian," said Molly lightly, "I suppose Sidney told you a little of our news. Men's letters are not

He was standing beside her at the edge of the moat, looking down into the deep clear water.

"Yes," he replied slowly, "yes, Molly; he told me a little in a scrappy, unsatisfactory way."

A pained expression came into her eyes for a moment, and then she spoke, rather more quickly than was

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 mossgrown path. The man was of medium height, with an honest

brown face. He was dressed for riding, and walked with a slight swagger, which arose less from conceit than

from excessive riding on horseback. The maiden was tall and stately, and in her walk there was an

oldfashioned grace of movement which harmonised perfectly with the old world surroundings. She was

looking down, and Christian could not see her face; but as she wore no hat, he saw and recognised her hair.

This was of goldnot 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.

THEY came forward, and suddenly the girl raised her face. She made a little hesitating movement of

nonrecognition, and then suddenly her face was transformed by a very pleasant smile. There was something

peculiar in Hilda Carew's smile, which came from the fact that her eyelashes were golden, while her eyes

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 selfreliance which with years might become more

"Christian!" she exclaimed, "I am sorry I did not know you." They shook hands, and Molly hastened to

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 wellset person.

Hilda and her companion passed on in front, while Molly and Christian followed them. The latter purposely

"Look at the effect of the sunlight through the trees upon that water," said he, in a conversational way; "it is

"Yes," replied Molly, moving away tentatively, "we see most peculiar effects over the moat. The water is so

He raised his quiet eyes to her face, upon which the ready smile still lingered. As she met his gaze she raised

her hand and pushed back a few truant wisps of hair which, curling forward like tendrils, tickled her cheek. It

"Yes," he said absently. He was wondering in an analytical way whether the action was habitual with her, or

significant of embarrassment. At length he turned to follow her, but Molly had failed in her object; the others

"He is the squire of St. Mary Eastern, six miles from here," she replied; "very well off; very good to his

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

"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 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 overpowered it, and yet it was always therean 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 noiseless

Nevertheless the feeling that forced itself into Christian Vellacott's waking thoughts was not peaceful. It was

a sense of discomfort. Townpeople expect too much from the country that is the truth of it. They quite

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 thingsindeed 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 untowardthinking of Hilda,

and Hilda engaged to be married to Fred Farrar. It was not that he was in love with Hilda Carew himself. He

had scarcely remembered her existence during the last two years. But this engagement jarred, and Farrar

jarred. It was something more than the very natural shock which comes with the news that a companion of

our youth is about to be marrieda shock which seems to shake the memory of that youth; to confuse the

background of our life. It is by means of such shocks as these that Fate endeavours vainly to make us realise

that the past is irrevocablethat 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 Today 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 clouds. The window

was open, and the song of the distant sea rose and fell with a rhythm full of peace. But in this man's mind

there was no peace. In all probability there never would be complete peace there, because Ambition had set

its hold upon him. He wanted to do more than there was time for. Like many of us, he began by thinking that

Life is longer than it is. Its whole length is in those "long, long thoughts" of Youth. When those are left

behind, we settle down to work, and the rest of the story is nothing but labour. Vellacott resented this

engagement because he felt that Hilda Carew had stepped out of that picture which formed what was

probably destined to be the happiest time of his lifehis 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. Above all, he felt that it was a mistake. This was, of course, at the bottom of it. He probably

felt that it was a pity. We usually feel so on hearing that a pretty and charming girl is engaged to be married.

We think that she might have done so much better for herself, and we grow pensive or possibly sentimental

over her lost opportunity when contemplating him in the mirror as he shaves. Like all Socalled happy

events, an engagement 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 habithis father had been one of the keenestsighted men of his dayand

he had graduated at the subtlest school in the world. He unwittingly fell to studying his fellowmen 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 pigeonholed away, as a lawyer stores

With regard to Frederick Farrar, Vellacott had only made one note. The squire of St. Mary Eastern was

apparently very similar to his fellows. He was an ordinary young British squire with a knowledge of horses

and a highlydeveloped fancy for smart ridingbreeches 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 goodnatured, plucky in a hardheaded British way,

and gentlemanly. In all this there was nothing exceptionalnothing to take note ofand 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 breakfast, and when he found himself walking beside the moat with Hilda later on he was still

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 constrained silence made itself felt at

Vellacott was fully aware that there was something to be got over, and so instead of skipping round it, as a

She bent her head in a grave little bow which was not quite English; but she said nothing.

Again she made that mystic little motion of the head, but did not look towards him, and never offered the

"A long life, a happy one, and your own will," he added more lightly, looking down into the green water of

And then there followed an awkward pause. It was Vellacott who finally broke the silence in the only way

"I like Farrar," he said. "I am sure he will make you happy. Heis 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 deliberately 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

There is something eminently conversational in the practice of walking to and fro. For that purpose it is better

Occasionally Vellacott dropped a pace behind, apparently with a purpose; for when he did so he raised his

eyes instantly. He seemed to be slowly detailing the maiden, and he frowned a little. She was exactly what

she had promised to be. The singularly golden hair which he had last seen flowing freely over her slight

young shoulders had acquired a decorousness of curve, although the hue was unchanged. The shoulders were

exactly the same in contour, on a slightly larger scale; and the manner of carrying her heada manner

And yet there was a change: that subtle change which seems to come to girls suddenly, in the space of a

weekof one night. And this man was watching her with his analytical eyes, wondering what the change

He was more or less a bookworm, and he possibly thought that this subjectthis pleasant young subject

walking beside him in a blue cotton dresswas 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 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 booklearning can aid this study, let him read the ignorance of

Gibbon, comparing it with the learning of that cheery old ignoramus Montaigne. And Vellacott 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 manfor a critic who knew himself to be capable of understanding most

things, of catching the drift of most thoughts, however imperfectly expressed. He was vaguely conscious of

defeat. He felt that he was nonplussed by a pair of soft round eyes like the eyes of a kitten, and the dignified

repose of a pair of demure red lips. Both eyes and lips, as well as shoulders and golden hair, were strangely

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

While reflecting, he forgot to be conversational, and Hilda seemed to be content with silence. So they walked

the length of the moat twice without speaking, and might have accomplished it a third time, had little Stanley

Carew not appeared upon the scene with the impulsive energy of his thirteen years, begging Christian to bowl

He was standing at the window of a small house in an insignificant street on the southern side of the Seine.

He was remarkably calmquite the calmest man within the radius of a mile; for the insignificant little street

was in an uproar. There was a barricade at each end of it. Such a barricade as Parisians love. It was composed

of a few overturned omnibuses; for the true Parisian is a cynic. He likes overturned things, and he loves to see

objects of peace converted to purposes of war. He is not content that ploughshares be beaten into swords. He

prefers altarrails. 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 secondhand bricks and pavingstones brought from the

In the street between the barricades, surged, hooted, and yelled that wildest and most dangerous of

incomprehensiblesa Paris mob. Half a dozen orators were speaking at once, and no one was listening to

them. Here and there amidst the rabble a voice was raised at times with suspicious persistence.

A few took up the refrain, but the general tone was negative. It was not so much a question of upholding

"Down with the Republic!" was the favourite cry. "Down with the President! Down with everything!"

The Citizen Morot listened, and his contemptuous mouth was twisted with a delicate, subtle smile.

"Ah!" he muttered. "The voice of the people. The howling of the wolves. Go on, go on, my braves. Cry `Long

live the King,' and soon you will begin to believe that you mean it. They are barking now. Let them bark.

His voice dropped almost to a whisper, and he stood there amidst the din and hubbubdreaming. At last he

raised his hand to his foreheada prominent rounded forehead, flat as the palm of one's hand from eyebrow

"Ah!" he exclaimed, with a little laugh; and he drew from an inner pocket a delicately scented

pockethandkerchief, with which he wiped his brow. "If I get excited now, what will it be when they

All this while the orators were shouting their loudest, and the voices dispersed throughout the crowd raised at

And the police? There were only two agents attached to the immediate neighbourhood, and they were

smoking cigars and drinking absinthe in two separate cellars, with the door locked on the outside. They were

prisoners of war of the most resigned type. The room in which stood the Citizen Morot was dark, and wisely

so. For the Parisian street politician can make very pretty practice of a lighted petroleumlamp 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 slightly self satisfied. It suggested that of the manager of a

theatre looking down from an uppertier box upon a full house and a faultless stage. At the same time he was

keeping what sailors call a very "bright lookout" 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.

There was something dramatic in the motionless attitude of these two women, standing guard alone in the

At times Morot leant well out of the window and listened. Then he stood back again and contemplated the

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 was plenty of movement. It was what the newspapers call an animated scene or

The Citizen Morot could not hear the jokes nor distinguish the cause of the groaning. But he did not seem to

mind much. The speeches were not of the description to be given in full in the morning papers. There were,

fortunately, no reporters present. It was the frank eloquence of the slaughterhousethe unclad humour of

Suddenly one of the womenshe who was posted at the southern end of the streetraised both her arms,

and the Citizen leant far out of the window. He was very eager, and his hawklike eyes blinked perpetually.

His hand was raised to his mouth, and the lights of the orators gleamed on something that he held in his

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 over the

heads of the mob, and its effect was almost instantaneous. The "flares" disappeared like magic. Dark figures

swarmed up the lampposts and extinguished the feeble lights. The voice of the orator was still. Silence and

darkness reigned over that insignificant little street on the southern side of the Seine. Then came the clatter of

cavalrythe 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

The Citizen Morot leant recklessly out of the window, peering into the gloom. He forgot to make use of the

delicately scented pockethandkerchief now, and the drops of perspiration trickled slowly down his face.

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 nothingit 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 streetlamp 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. They are only barking.

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 scabbard 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

"Pretty work!" he ejaculated. "Pretty work formy father's son! So grand, so open, so noble!"

He waited there, in the darkness, until the 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

Ten minutes later he entered the tobaccoshop in the Rue St. Gingolphe. Mr. Jacquetot was at his post,

behind the counter near the window, with the little tin box containing postage stamps in front of him upon

his desk. He was always therelike the poor. He laid aside the "Petit Journal" and wished the new comer a

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

There he found Lerac, the foreman of the slaughterhouse. The butcher was pale with excitement. His rough

clothing was dishevelled; his stringy black hair stood up uncouthly in the centre of his head, while over his

"And you stayed to the last?" inquired Lerac. He was rather white about the lips for a brave man.

"Till the last," echoed Morot, taking up some letters addressed to him which lay on the table.

"Quitethe 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 difficulty in getting them away?"

"Oh no," somewhat loftily and quite unsuspicious of irony. "The passages were narrow, of coarse; but we had

"Yes," replied Morot. "Organisation and the People." Like Lerac, he stopped short, apparently lost in the

contemplation of the vast possibilities presented to his mental vision by the mere thought of such a

"Well!" exclaimed the butcher energetically, "I must move on. I have meetings. I merely wished to hear from

"Goodnight," he said, with an insolence far too fine for the butcher's comprehension.

It is probable that, had Lerac looked back, there would have been murder done in the small room behind the

tobaccoshop. But the contemptuous smile soon vanished from the face of the Citizen Morot. No smile

Then he took up his letters. There were only two of them: one bearing the postmark of a small town in

He replaced the first in his pocket unread; the second he opened. It was written in French.

"There are difficulties," it said. "Can you come to me? Cross from Cherbourg to Southamptontrain from

thence to this place, and ask for Signor Bruno, an Italian refugee, living at the house of Mrs. Potter, a

The Citizen Morot rubbed his chin thoughtfully with the back of his hand, making a sharp, grating sound.

"That old man," he said, "is getting past his work. He is losing nerve; and nerve is a thing that we cannot

"Ah!" he exclaimed suddenly; "St. Mary Western. He is there how very strange. What a singular

"Carew is deadbut still I can manage it. Perhaps it is just as well that he is dead. I was always afraid of

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

He purchased a twentyfive centime stamp from Mr. Jacquetot, and posted the letter with his own hand in the

THERE was, however, no cricket for Stanley Carew that morning. When they came within sight of the house

Mrs. Carew emerged from an open window carrying several letters in her hand. She was not hurrying, but

"Just think, Hilda dear," she said, with as much surprise as she ever allowed herself. "I have had a letter from

"Yes," said the girl; "I remember him, of course. He is not the sort of man one forgets."

"I always liked the Viscount," said Mrs. Carew, pensively looking at the letter she held in her hand. "He was

a good friend to us at one time. I never understood him, and I like men whom one does not understand."

"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 Vicomte d'Audierne would have been in a very different position."

Vellacott did not open his own letters. He seemed to be interested in the conversation of these ladies. He was

not a reserved man, but a secretive, which is quite a different thing. Reserve is naturalit comes unbidden,

and often unwelcome. Secretiveness is born of circumstances. Some men find it imperative to cultivate it,

although their soul revolts within them. In professional or social matters it is often merely an expediencyin

some cases it almost feels like a crime. There are some secrets which cannot be divulged; there are some

deceptions which a certain bookkeeper will record upon the credit side of our account.

Like most young men who have got on in their calling, Christian Vellacott held his career in great respect. He

felt that any sacrifice made for it carried its own reward. He thought that it levelled scruples and justified

He knew this Vicomte d'Audierne by reputation; he wished to hear more of him; and so he feigned

And then Mrs. Carew turned to her other letters. Vellacott took the budget addressed to him, and walked

In a few minutes he looked still more put out. He had learnt of the disturbances in Paris, and was reading a

rather panic stricken letter from Mr. Bodery. The truth was that there was no one in the office of the

"Beacon" who knew anything whatever about French home polities but Christian Vellacott.

A continuance of these disturbances would necessarily assume political importance, and might even lead to a

crisis. This meant an instant recall for Vellacott. In a crisis his presence in London or Paris was absolutely

His holiday had barely lasted twentyfour 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 nothinga feeling of which he had not hitherto been

conscious. He was distinctly averse to leaving St. Mary Western just yet. But there is one taskmaster who

knows no mercy and makes no allowances. Some of us who serve him know it to our cost, and yet we would

Somewhat later in the morning Molly and Hilda found him still seated at the table, writing with that

"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."

Vellacott expressed his entire satisfaction with the arrangement, and by the time he had finished his letter the

Several of the family were standing round the vehicle talking in a desultory manner, and Vellacott learnt then

for the first time that Frederick Farrar had left home that same morning to attend a midland racemeeting.

It was one of those brilliant summer days when it is quite impossible to be pessimistic and exceedingly

difficult to compass preoccupation. The light breeze bowling over the upland from the sea had just sufficient

strength to blow away all mental cobwebs. Also, Christian Vellacott had suddenly given way to one of those

feelings which sometimes come to us without apparent reason. The present was joyous enough without the

aid of the evertobebright future, and Vellacott felt that, after all, French politics and Frederick Farrar did

Hilda was on this occasion more talkative than usual. There was in her manner a new sense of ease, almost of

familiarity, which Vellacott 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 of the midday sun, they descried in front of them the figure of an old

man; he was walking painfully and making poor progress. Carefully dressed in black broadcloth, he wore a

"I believe," said Hilda, as they approached him, "that is Signor Bruno. Yes, it is. Please pull up, Christian.

Christian obeyed her. He thought he detected a shade of annoyance in Hilda's voice, with which he fully

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 cold, by reason of their

perfection. Now, however, they were softened by the touch of years, and Signor Bruno was the living

"How do you do, Signor Bruno?" said Hilda, speaking rather loudly and very distinctly. "You are back from

"Ah! my dear young lady," he replied, courteously removing his hat and standing bareheaded. "Ah! now

terribleterribleterrible! 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 HildaItaly with a

Hilda smiled her quick surprising smile, and hastened to speak before the old gentleman recovered his breath.

Sidney's friend, Mr. Vellacott, was by this time behind her. He had alighted, and was employed in arranging

the back seat of the dogcart. When Signor Bruno looked towards 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 continued arranging the seat. He then came round to the front of the cart

and made a sign to Hilda that she should move into the righthand seat and drive.

"But why, my dear sir? That would not be correct. You are Mr. Carew's guest, and II am only a poor old

Italian runaway, who is accustomed to back seats; all my life I have occupied back seats, I think, Mr.

The old fellow's voice was strangely balanced between pathos and a peculiar selfabnegating 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!" said

Christian with a laugh, which, although quite genial, somehow closed the discussion.

"Ah!" replied the old gentleman with outspread hands. "There you have worsted me. After that I am silent,

He climbed into the cart with a little senile joke about the stiffness of his aged limbs. He chattered on in his

innocent, childish way until the village was reached. Here he was deposited on the dusty road at the gate of a

small yellow cottage where he had two rooms. The seat was rearranged, 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."

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.

Looked upon as a mere divination of thought, this was very quick; but he seemed in no way perturbed. He

"What do you mean?" she asked. "How can there be anything wrong with himanything that would affect

"I say he is a Frenchman," said Christian, suddenly turning towards her. "Italians do not talk English as he

"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 it does come," said Hilda, with a smile, "you will 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 meantime I vote that we do not trouble ourselves about him."

The subject was dropped, and not again referred to until after they had reached home, when Hilda informed

"Oh, indeed," was the reply. "I am very glad. You must ask him to dinner tomorrow evening. Is he not a

"Very," replied Christian, almost before the words were out of her lips. "Yes, very nice." He looked across

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

information respecting himself. It was a short story and an old one, such as many a whitehaired Italian could

tell today. A life, income, and energy devoted to a cause which never had much promise of reward. Failure,

exile, and a life closing in a land where the blue skies of Italy are known only by name, where Maraschino is

Hilda was engaged on this day to lunch and spend the afternoon with Mrs. Farrar, at Farrar Court. Molly and

Christian were to drive over for her in the evening. This programme was carried out, but the young people

lingered rather longer at Farrar Court listening to the quaint oldworld recollections of its whitehaired

hostess than was allowed for. Consequently they were late, and heard the first dinnerbell ringing as they

drove up the lane that led in a casual way to their home. (This lane was characteristic of the house. It turned

off unobtrusively from the high road at right angles with the evident intention of leading nowhere.) A race

upstairs ensued and a hurried toilet. Molly and Christian met on the stairs a 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

"Oh, Christian, there is one place you have not seen yet. Quite close at hand too."

"Yees," he replied absently, as he at length fixed the clasp. "There, it is done!"

Signor Bruno, who was seated at the far end of the room with Mrs. Carew, rose as he heard the door opened,

"Porton Abbey," she said over her shoulder as she advanced into the room. "You must see Porton Abbey."

The Italian shook hands with the newcomers 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

"No," was the reply. "I have been reserving it for some afternoon when we do not feel very energetic.

"Why?" asked Christian without looking towards Hilda. He had discovered that Signor 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,

"Because it is a French monastery," replied Molly. "Here," she added, "is a flower for your coat, as you say

"Thanks," he replied, stooping a little in order that she could reach the buttonhole of his coat. She was in

front of him, directly between him and Signor 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 establishments of that

Hilda looked up rather sharply from an illustrated newspaper she happened to be studying. She knew that he

was not adhering strictly to the truth. From her point of vantage behind the newspaper she continued to watch

Christian, and she realised during the minutes that followed, that this was indeed the brilliant young journalist

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

"Not at all," Christian hastened to add, with a laugh. "It simply happened that I was surprised. It shall not

occur again. But tell me, what sort of monastery is it? Dominican? Franciscan? Carmelite?"

"Perhaps," said Christian, advancing towards the Italian "perhaps Signor Bruno can tell us."

"What is that, Mr. Vell'cott?" asked the old gentleman, making a movement as if about to raise his curved

Hilda noticed that, instead of raising his voice, Christian spoke in the same tone, or even lower, as he said:

The old gentleman made a little grimace expressive of disgust, at the same time spreading out his hands as if

"Ach!" he said, "do not ask me. I know nothing of such people, and wish to learn no more. It is to them that

my poor country owes her downfall. No, no; leave them alone. I always take care of myself

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, who had seated himself at a

small table in the drawingroom, 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 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. Signor Bruno gave a little start and a quick upward

"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

Mrs. Carew knew that Molly was not in the garden, but in making this intentional mistake she showed the

"It seems to me," said Signor Bruno, "that the airthe refrain, one might call itis familiar."

Christian Vellacott smiled suddenly behind his screen of flowers, but did not move or look up.

"I expect," explained Sidney, "that you have heard the air played upon the bugle. It is the French `retraite,'

In the meantime Christian had cut the flyleaf from the book before him, and, after carefully folding it, he

placed the paper in his breastpocket. 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 guestwhat was his

occupation, how long he was going to stay, and whether she did not agree with him in considering that their

young friend had a remarkably 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 flyleaf was gone! When he laid the volume down again he replaced it in the

WHEN Christian left the drawingroom he walked quickly down the mossgrown 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.

He looked down at her without replying. His eyes softened for a moment into a smile, but his lips remained

"You deliberately set yourself," she continued, "to shatter one illusion after another. You have made me feel

quite old and worldly tonight, and the worst of it is that you are invariably right. It is most annoying."

Her voice was only halfplayful. There was a shade of sadness in it. Christian must have divined her

She looked slowly round. Her eyes rested on the dark surface of the water, where the shadows lay deep and

"I suppose that such practical matteroffact people as you are proof against mere outward influences."

"So I used to imagine, but I am beginning to find that outward things are very important after all. In London

it seemed only natural that everyone should live in a hurry, with no time for thought, pushing forward and

trying to outstrip their neighbours; but in the country it seems that things are different. Intellectual people live

quiet, thoughtful, and even dreamy lives. They get through somehow without seeing the necessity for doing

somethingtrying to be something that their neighbours cannot beand 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

"No, no, Hilda. I can understand it in others, but for me it is different. I have tasted too deeply of the other

"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 along in," she said; "the old gentleman is going. I was just stealing away to join you when Sidney

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 armchair, and

contemplated the square toes of his own boots for some moments. Then he scratched his head thoughtfully.

Signor Bruno spoke French when soliloquising, which was perhaps somewhat peculiar for an Italian.

However proficient a man may be in the mastery of foreign tongues, he usually dreams and talks to himself in

the language he learnt at his mother's knee. He may count fluently in a strange tongue, but he invariably

works out all mental arithmetic in his own. Likewise he praysif he pray at allin one tongue only. On the

other hand, it appears very easy to swear in an acquired language. Probably our forefathers borrowed each

other's expletives when things went so lamentably wrong over the Tower of Babel. Still muttering to himself,

Signor Bruno presently retired to rest with the remembrance of a young face, peculiarly and unpleasantly

Shortly after Signor Bruno's departure, Christian happened to be left alone in the drawingroom with Hilda.

He promptly produced from his pocket the leaf he had cut from a book earlier in the evening. Unfolding the

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

"You remember Carl Trevetz, at Paris," continued he; "his father belonged to the Austrian Embassy?"

"When the answer comes, Hilda, I will write on the outside of the envelope the name that you will find

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?"

"Yes; I remember nowbut it may be a mistake yet. I would rather have my memory confirmed by Trevetz

Hilda was about to question him further when Molly entered the room, and the subject was perforce dropped.

The next morning there 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 you. It is hinted that the mob are mere tools in the

hands of influential wire pullers, and the worst of it is that they were armed with English rifles and bayonets

of a pattern just superseded by the War Office. How these got into their hands is not yet explained, but you

will readily see the gravity of the circumstance in the present somewhat strained state of affairs. Several of

the `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 affairperhaps the Church. We

must have something to say (something of importance) next week, and with this in view I must ask you to

hold yourself in readiness to go to Paris on receipt of a telegram or letter from me.

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 the paper.

The envelope had been tampered with by a skilful manipulator. If Mr. Bodery had been in the habit of using

Christian slipped the letter into his pocket, and, glancing round, saw that his movements had passed

"Well, yes," was the reply. "There has been a disturbance in Paris. I may have to go over there on receipt of a

telegram from the office;" he stopped, and looked slowly round the table. Hilda's attention was taken up by

her plate, upon which, however, there was nothing. He leant forward, and handed her the toastrack. She

took a piece, but forgot to thank him. "I am sorry," he continued simply, "very sorry that the disturbances

His voice expressed natural and sincere regret, but no surprise. This seemed to arouse Molly's curiosity, for

"No," he replied; "I am accustomed to this sort of thing, you see. I knew all along that there was the chance of

"It is a great shame," said Molly, with a pout. "I am sure there are plenty of people who could do it instead of

"I am sure there are," he replied, "and that is the very reason why I must take the opportunities that fortune

Hilda looked across the table at him, and noted the smile upon his lips, the light of energy in his eyes. The

"I suppose," she said, conversationally, "that it will in reality be a good thing for you if the summons does

"Yes," he replied, without meeting her glance; "it will be a good thing for me."

"Is that consolatory view of the matter the outcome of philosophy, or of virtue?" inquired Molly,

After breakfast he devoted a short time to the study of some newspaper cuttings inclosed in Mr. Bodery's

letter. Then he suddenly expressed his determination of walking down to the village post office.

"I wish," he said, "to send a telegram, and to get some newspapers, which have no doubt come by the second

"Until a telegram comes," said Hilda quietly, without looking up from a letter she held in her hand. She

"Oh," he said, "I do not expect a telegram. It is not so serious as all that. In fact, it is not worth thinking

"You have a most enviable way of putting aside disagreeable subjects," persisted Hilda, "for discussion at a

"That," he said, "is the outcomenot of virtuebut of philosophy. Will you come to the post office with

Together they walked through the peaceful fields. Stanley never lingered long beside them; something was

for ever attracting him aside or ahead, and he ran restlessly away. Christian could not help noticing the

difference in Hilda's manner when they were alone together. The semisarcastic badinage to which he had

been treated lately was completely dropped, and her earnest nature was allowed to show itself undisguised.

Still she was a mystery to him. He was by habit a close observer, but her changing moods and humours were

to him unaccountable. At times she would make a remark the direct contradiction of which was shining in her

eyes, and at other times she remained silent when mere politeness would seem to demand speech. Who

knows? Perhaps at all times and in all things they understood each other. When their lips were exchanging

mere nothingsthe very lightest and emptiest of conversational chaffdespite averted eyes, despite

indifferent manner, their souls may have been drawn together by that silent bond of sympathy which holds

through fair and foul, through laughter and tears, through life, and beyond death.

Christian was not in the habit of allowing himself to become absorbed by any passing thoughts, however

deep they might be. His mind had adapted itself to the work required of it, as the human mind is ever ready to

do. No deep meditating was required of it, but a quick grasp and a somewhat superficial treatment.

Journalism is superficial, it cannot be otherwise; it must be universal and immediate, and therefore its touch

is necessarily light. There is nothing permanent about it except the ceaseless throb of the printing machine

and the warm smell of ink. That which a man writes one day may be rendered useless and worthless the next,

through no carelessness of his, but by the simple course of events. He must perforce take up his pen again and

write against himself. He may be inditing history, and his words may be forgotten in twelve hours. There is

no time for deep thought, even if such were required. He who writes for cursory reading is wise if he writes

Mr. Bodery's communication in no manner disturbed Christian. He was ready enough to talk and laugh, or

talk and be grave, as Hilda might dictate, while they walked side by ride that morning, but she was strangely

silent. It thus happened that little passed between them until they reached the post office. There, he was

formally introduced to the spry little postmistress, who looked at him sharply over her spectacles.

"I wish, Mrs. Chalder," he said cheerily, as he scribbled off his message to Mr. Bodery, while Hilda made

friendly overtures to the official cat, "I wish that you would forget to send me the disagreeable letters, and

only forward the pleasant ones. There was one this morning, for instance, which you might very easily have

mislaid. Instead of which you carefully sent it rather earlier than usual and spoilt my breakfast."

His voice unconsciously followed the swing of his pencil. It seemed certain that he was making conversation

with the sole purpose of entertaining the old woman. With a pleased laugh and a shake of her grey curls she

"Ah, I wish I could, sir. I wish I could burn the bad letters and send on only the good onesbut they're all

alike on the outside. It's as hard to say what's inside a letter as it is to tell what's inside a man by lookin' on his

"Yes," replied Christian, reading over what he had just written. "Yes, Mrs. Chalder, you are right."

"But the reason of your letter gettin' earlier this morning was that Seen'yer Bruno said he was goin' past the

Hall, sir, and would just leave the letters at the Lodge. It is a bit out of the carrier's way, and that man do have

"Ah, that accounts for it," murmured the journalist, without looking up. He was occupied in crossing his t's

and dotting his i's. He felt that Hilda was looking at him, and some instinct told him that she saw the motive

of his conversation, but still he played his part and wore his mask of carelessness, as men have done before

women, knowing the futility of it, since the world began. She never referred to the incident, and made no

remark whatever with a view to his doing so, but he knew that it would be remembered, and in after days he

Hilda had not been paying much attention to what he was saying until Signor Bruno's name was mentioned.

The old man had hitherto occupied a very secondary place in her thoughts. He was no one in her circle of

possibly interesting people, beyond the fact of his having passed through a troubled political phasea fighter

on the losing side. Now he had, as it were, assumed a more important r�le. The mention of his name

possessed a new suggestion; and all this, forsooth, because Christian Vellacott opined that the benevolent old

She began to entertain exaggerated ideas concerning the young journalist's thoughts and motives. Twice had

she obtained a glimpse into the inner chamber of his mind, and on each occasion the result had been a vague

suggestion of some mental conflict, some dark game of crosspurposes between him and Signor Bruno.

Remembering this, she, in her intelligent simplicity, began to ascribe to Christian's every word and action an

ulterior motive which in reality did not perhaps exist. She noted Christian's calm and direct way of reaching

the end he desired, and unconsciously she yielded a little to the influence of his strengthan influence

dangerously fascinating for a strong woman. Her strength is so different from that of a man that there is no

After paying for the telegram, Christian took possession of the bulky packet of newspapers addressed to him,

IT appeared to Stanley, on the way home that morning, that the conversation flagged somewhat. He therefore

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

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

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

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

"Three strong men could carry it bodily into the water and make no marks whatever on the sand," argued

"Perhaps someone has been out for a row for his own pleasure and enjoyment," suggested Christian, without

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

"I will tell you what we will do, Stanley," said Christian. "Tomorrow morning we will go and have a bathe;

at the same time I will look at the boat and tell you whether it has been moved."

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 closelywritten sheets upon which his hand was

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

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

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

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 southwest, obscuring every now and then

the burning sun. A gentle breeze blew gaily across the bleak uplanda very different breath from that which

"You would not care about climbing down there, I should think," observed Sidney, when they had reached

He was standing, gazing lazily up at the brown cliffs with his straw hat tilted backwards, his hands in his

pockets, and his whole person presenting as fair a picture as one could desire of lazy quiescent strengtha

"Hardly," replied Christian, gazing upward at the dizzy height. "It is rather nasty stuffslippery in parts and

He turned and strolled off by Hilda's side. With a climber's love of a rocky height he looked upwards as they

Presently they sat on the edge of the boat over which Stanley's sense of proprietorship had been so grievously

"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 the question

"Wait a little longer," he said. "Let me have Trevetz's answer to confirm my suspicions, and then I will tell

you. Suspicions are dangerous things to meddle with. In imparting them to other people it is so difficult to

At this moment Stanley arrived and threw himself down breathlessly on the warm sand.

"Chris!" he exclaimed, "come down here and look at these seams in the boatthe damp is there still."

The boat was clinkerbuilt, and where the planks overlapped a slight appearance of dampness was certainly

discernible. Christian lay lazily leaning upon his elbow, sometimes glancing at the boat in obedience to

Stanley's accusatory finger, sometimes looking towards Hilda, whose eyes were turned seawards.

Suddenly he caught sight of some words pencilled on the sternpost 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

"It certainly looks," he said rising, "as if the boat had been in the water, but it may be that the dampness is

He knew well enough that little Stanley's suspicions were correct. There was 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

On the way home he was somewhat preoccupiedas much, that is to say, as he was in the habit of

allowing. The pencil scrawl supplied food enough for conjectural thought. The writing was undoubtedly

fresh, and this was the 26th of the month. Some appointment 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. Bodery, so the only course

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 Government 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

firearms had been recognised by the English authorities as some of a pattern lately discarded. They had been

stored at Plymouth, awaiting shipment to the colonies where they were to be served out to the auxiliary

forces, when they had been cleverly removed. The robbery was not discovered until the rifles were found in

the hands of a Paris mob, still fresh and brutal from the horrors of a long course of military law. Some of the

more fiery of the French journals boldly hinted that the English Government had secretly sold the firearms

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 thrusting 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

These thoughts occupied his mind as he walked inland from the Cove, and rendered his answers to Stanley's

ceaseless flow of questions upon all conceivable subjects somewhat vague and unreliable. Hilda was walking

with them, and divided with Christian the task of supplying her small brother with varied information.

As they were approaching the Hall, Christian discerned two figures upon the smooth lawn, evidently coming

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

Presently he said, in an airy, conversational way: "I did not know Farrar was coming back soso soon."

He knew that by this early return Farrar was missing an important day of the racemeeting he had been

"Yes," replied Hilda. "He does not like to leave his mother for many days together." The acutest ears could

have detected no lowering of the voice, no tenderness of thought. She was simply stating a fact; but she might

"I am glad he is back," said Christian thoughtlessly. It was a mere stopgap. 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 stumbling blindfold through an unknown 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

"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,

"To you, Mr. Vellacott," said the Italian, with senile geniality, "to you whose life is spent in London this must

"Our young friends," he said, indicating with a wave of his expressive hand Hilda and Farrar, "are admirably

"Yes," answered Christian, with a polite display of interest; "and, nevertheless, the Carews were all brought

"Ah!" observed the old man, stopping to raise the head of a "Souvenir de Malmaison," of which he inhaled

the odour with evident pleasure. The little ejaculation, and its accompanying action, were admirably

calculated to leave the hearer in doubt as to whether mere surprise was expressed or polite acquiescence in

"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

"Now with me," said Signor Bruno, frankly, "it is different. If I were not an Italian (which God forbid!) I

"Ah!" observed Christian, gravely, and Signor Bruno turned sharply to glance at his face. The young

Englishman 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,

"Yes," he said, "there is a quality in the English character which to me is very praiseworthy. It is a certain

directness of purpose. You know what you wish to do, and you proceed calmly to do it without stopping to

consider what your neighbours may think of it. Now with the Gallic racesfor I take this virtue of

straightforwardness as Teutonicand in my own country especially, men seek to gain their ends by less

They were now walking up a gentle incline to the house, which was built upon the buried ruins of its ancient

"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

"Perhaps you are right," he said, with engaging frankness. "I am afraid you are. But you must excuse a little

illfeeling in a man such as I, with a past such as mine has been, and loving his country as I do."

"I am afraid," continued Christian, "that foreigners find our bluntness very disagreeable and difficult to meet;

but I know that they frequently misjudge us on the same account. It is to our benefit, so we cannot complain."

"In what way do we misjudge you?" asked Signor Bruno genially. They were almost on the threshold of the

drawing room window, which stood invitingly open, and from which came the sounds of cups and saucers

"You give us credit for less intelligence than we in reality possess," said Christian with a smile, as he stood

Whatever influences may have been at work among those congregated at the Hall during the halfhour or so

occupied by afternoon tea, no sign appeared upon the surface. Molly as usual led the chorus of laughter.

Hilda smiled her sweet "kittenish" smile. Signor Bruno surpassed himself in the relation of innocent little

tales, told with a true southern "verve" and spirit, while Fred Farrar's genial laugh filled in the interstices

reliably. Grave and unobtrusive, Christian moved about among them. He saw when Molly wanted the hot

water, and was invariably the first to detect an empty cup. He laughed softly at Signor Bruno's stories, and

occasionally capped them with a better, related in a 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

AS Christian 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 not usually in the habit of leaving their bedrooms in order to take the air

at midnight. Thinking over these things in his rapid and rather superficial way, he unconsciously quickened

The night was clear and starlit; the air soft and very pleasant, with a faint breath of freshness from the

southwest. The moon being well upon the wane would not rise for an hour or more, but the heavens were

glowing with the gentler light of stars, and on earth the darkness was of that transparent description which

Christian Vellacott had worked out most problems in life for himself. Taken as a whole, his solutions had

been fairly successfulas successful as those of most men. If his views upon things in general were rather

photographicthat is to say, hard, with clearly defined shadowsit was owing to his father's somewhat

cynical training and to the absence of a mother's influence. Elderly maiden ladies, with sufficient time upon

their hands to manage other people's affairs in addition to their own, complained of his want of sympathy,

which may be read in the sense of stating that he neither sought theirs nor asked advice upon questions

connected with himself. This self reliance was the inevitable outcome of his life at home and at the office of

the "Beacon." 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 menfolk a trifle dependent upon them.

Christian was in the midst of a problem as he walked across the tableland that stretched from St. Mary

Western to the sea. That problem absorbed more of his attention than the home politics 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

Leaving the narrow road, he presently struck the little pathway leading to the Cove. Suddenly he stopped, and

stood motionless. Therenot twenty yards from himwas 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 be a coastguard was soon dispelled. The heavy clothing and loose thighboots were those of a

fisherman. The huge "cachenez" which lay in coils upon his shoulders and completely protected the neck

The sea boomed forth its melancholy song, far down in the black depths beyond. The tide was high, and the

breeze freshening every moment. Christian could have crept up to the man's very feet without being detected.

From the man's clumsy attitude it was almost possible to divine his slow mindless naturefor there is

expression in the very turn of a man's leg as he standsand it was easy to see that he was guarding the little

path down the cliff to the Cove. He had been posted there, and evidently meant to stay till called away.

There was only one way, now, to the Cove, and that was down the face of the cliff: the way that Christian had

that very afternoon pronounced so hazardous. By day it was dangerous enough; by night it was almost an

He crept noiselessly along to the eastward, so that the watcher stood upon the windward side of him, and

reaching the brink he peered over into the darkness. Of course he could discern nothing. The sea rose and fell

with a monotonous roar; overhead the stars twinkled as merrily as they have twinkled over the strifes of men

Quietly he knelt upright and buttoned his coat with some care. Then without a moment's hesitation he crept to

the edge and cautiously 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 himself at the

slowness of his progress. He knew that the strata of soft sandstone trended downwards at an easy angle, and

with consummate skill took full advantage of his knowledge. Occasionally he was forced to progress

sideways with his face to the rock and hands outstretched till his fingers were cramped, and the feeling

known as "pins and needles" assailed his arms. Then he would rest for some moments, peering into the

darkness below him all the while. Once or twice he dropped a small stone cautiously, holding it at arm's

length. When the tiny messenger touched earth soon after leaving his hand, he continued his downward

progress. Once, no sound followed for some seconds, and then it was only a distant concussion far down

beside the sea. With an involuntary shudder, the climber turned and made his way upwards and sideways

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 essentially characteristic of

climbers and mountaineers, he lowered himself, inch by inch, foot by foot. Louder and louder sang the sea, as

if in derision at his petty efforts, but through his head there rushed 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 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 nothing could save himno strength of will could

"Sishsish, sishsish!" laughed the waves below. Placidly the stars held on their stately courseeach

perhaps peopled by millions of its ownyoung and old, tame and fieryall pursuing shadows as we do

"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 ledge of some breadth. It was not flat, but inclined upwards from the face of the 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 with 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 himunimpressionable as his life had rendered him. Again he saw the

glittering expanse of snow, and on it the broad strong figure of the Vaudois guide sliding down and down,

with madly increasing speedfeet 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 bravely for life. Again he saw the dull

gleam of the uplifted iceaxe 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

Christian lay like a halfdrowned man upon the shelving ledge, slowly realising his position. He calculated

that he could not yet be halfway down, and his strength was almost exhausted. Yet, as he lay there, no

thought of waiting for daylight, no question of retreat entered his stubborn West country brain. The exploit

still possessed for him the elements of a good joke, to be related thereafter in such a manner as would enforce

Suddenlywithin the softer sound of the sea belowa harsh grating noise struck his ears. It was to him like

the sound made by a nailed boot upon rock. It was as if another were following him down the face of the

cliff. In a second he was upon his feet, his weariness a thing forgotten. Overhead, against the starlit sky, he

could define the line of rock with its sharp, broken angles and uncouth turns. Not thirty feet above him

something was moving. His first feeling was one of intense fear. Every climber knows that it is easier to pass

a difficult corner than to stand idle, watching another do it. Slowly the dark form came downwards, and

suddenly, with a quick sense of unutterable relief, Christian saw the black line of a tightened rope. When it

was barely ten feet above him he saw that the object was no man, but a square case. In a flash of thought he

divined what the box contained, and unhesitatingly ran along the ledge towards it. As it descended he seized

it with both hands and swung it in towards himself. With pendulumlike motion it descended, and at last

touched the rock at his feet. As this took place he grasped the rope with both hands and threw his entire

weight upon it, hauling slowly in, hand over hand. So quickly and deftly was this carried out that those

lowering overhead were deceived, and continued to pay out the rope slowly. Steadily Christian hauled in, the

slack falling in snakelike 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 proceeded to untie the knots round the bale. Then, after the manner of a

sailor who is working out of sight with a lifeline, he jerked the rope, which immediately began to ascend

rapidly and with irregularity. Coil after coil ran easily away, and at last the frayed end passed into the

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 sickening gurgle, and he fell sideways and backwards on to the

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 bundle. Beneath the rough covering of canvas, which was not sewn

"What luckwhat 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 semisuperstitious 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 his two

comrades, to whom he gruffly imparted the information that they were to go on board.

The Breton intellect is not, as a rule, acute. Like sheep the three men proceeded to carry up from the water's

edge Stanley's boat, which was required to carry the heavy case, their own dinghy being too small. This done,

they rowed off silently to the yawl, which was rolling lazily in the trough of the sea, a quarter of a mile from

the shore. Once on board they were regaled with some choice French profanity from the lips of a large man in

a sealskin cap and a dirty woollen muffler. This gentleman they addressed as the "patron," and, with clumsy

awe, informed him that they had waited at the same spot as before, but nothing had come, until at length Hoel

Grall arrived with instructions from the "monsieur" to go on board. Whereupon further French profanity,

followed by unintelligible orders, freely interlarded with embellishments of a forcible tenor.

As the yawl swung slowly round and stood out to sea, Christian turned to climb up Bury Bluff. He found that

he had in reality made very little progress in descending. Before leaving the case, he edged it by degrees

nearer to the base of the ledge, which would render it invisible from the beach. The ascent was soon

accomplished, and after a cautious search he concluded that no one was about, so set off home at a rapid

Before he reached the Hall the light of coming day was already creeping up into the eastern sky. All Nature

was stirring refreshed with the balmy dew and coolness of the night. Far up in the higher branches of the

Weymouth pines the wrens were awake, calling to each other with tentative twitter, and pluming themselves

Like a thief Christian hurried on, and creeping into his bedroom window, was soon sleeping the dreamless

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 allsufficing sleep of ten hours. In cities, five, four, or

even three are sufficient for the unfatigued 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 quite fresh and strong, and presently sat down, coatless, to write.

Page after page he wrote, turning each leaf over upon its face as it was completednever referring back,

never hesitating, and only occasionally raising his pen from the paper. Line after line of neat small writing,

quite different from what his friends knew in letters or on envelopes, flowed from his pen. It was his "press"

handwriting, plain, rapid, and as legible as print. The punctuation was attended to with singular care: the

commas broad and heavy, the colons like the kisses in a child's letter, round and black. Once or twice he

smiled as he wrote, and occasionally jerked his head to one side critically as he reread a sentence.

In less than two hours it was finished. He rose from his seat, and walked slowly to the window. Standing

there he gazed thoughtfully across the bare unlovely tableland towards the sea. He had written many

hundreds of pages, all more or less masterly; he had read criticisms upon his own work saying that it was

good; and yet he knew that the bestthe best he had ever writtenlay 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 possibilitiestheir 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 good.

AS the breakfastbell echoed through the house Christian ran downstairs. He met Hilda entering the open

She stopped suddenly and handed him two letters, which he took slowly, and apparently forgot to thank her,

saying nothing at all. There was a peculiar expression of dawning surprise upon his face, and he studied the

envelopes in his hand without reading a word of the address. Presently he raised his eyes and glanced at

Hilda. She was holding a letter daintily between her two forefingers, 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.

He had taken a pencil from his pocket, and, turning, he held Trevetz's letter against the wall while he wrote

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 flyleaf of a novel. Christian was watching 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 was

Christian read it, laughed carelessly, and thrust the paper into his pocket. "Trevetz writes in a good forcible

style," he said, turning to greet Molly, who came, singing, downstairs at this moment. For an instant her

merry eyes assumed a scrutinising, almost anxious look as she caught sight of her sister and Christian

As usual the day's pleasure was all prearranged. 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

The day was fine with a fresh breeze, and the 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 first sigh of dying summer. The lamps were lighted a few minutes

earlier that night, and the family assembled in the drawingroom soon after dark, although the windows were

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

Christian was seated at the piano, playing by snatches and turning over the brown leaves of some very old

music, unearthed from a lumberroom by Mrs. Carew for his benefit. He waited for no thanks or comment;

sometimes he read a few bars only, sometimes a page. He appeared to have forgotten that he had an audience.

Presently he rose, leaving the music in disorder. Hilda had been called away some time before by an old

village woman requiring medicaments for unheardof symptoms. Christian looked slowly round the room,

then raising his hand he dexterously caught a huge moth which had flown past his face.

As he crossed the room towards the open window, with a view of liberating the moth, a low whistle reached

his ear. The refrain was that of the familiar "retraite." Hilda had evidently gone out to the moat by another

door. Bowing his head, he passed between the muslin curtains and disappeared in the darkness. The sound of

his footsteps died away almost immediately amidst the rustle of branch and leaf already crisp with

It was Stanley's bedtime. 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

complaints and maladies. She stood quite close to Molly, and told her story to Mrs. Carew merrily, failing to

notice that her sister had ceased sewing, and was listening with a surprised look in her eyes. When the

symptoms had been detailed and laughed over, Hilda turned quietly and passed out into the garden. With

fearless familiarity she ran lightly down the narrow pathway towards the moat, but no signalwhistle greeted

her. The leaves rustled and whispered overhead; the water lapped and gurgled at her feet, but there was no

Silent and motionless she stood, a tall fair form clad in white, amidst the universal darkness. So silent and so

still that it might have been the shade of some fair maid of bygone years mourning the loss of her true knight,

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 soft low whistle identical with that which had

called Christian out twenty minutes before, but it remained unanswered, and through the rustling leaves she

sped towards the house. From the open window a glow of rosy light shone forth upon the flowers, imparting

to all alike a pallid pink, and dimly defining the grey treetrunks across the lawn. As Hilda stepped between

the curtains, the servants entered the drawingroom in solemn Indian file for evening prayers.

Mrs. Carew looked up from the Bible which lay open before her, and said to Hilda:

"I don't know, mother; he is not in the garden," answered the girl, crossing the room to her own particular

Sidney rose from his seat, and going to the window, sent his loud clear whistle away into the night. 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 bookmarker, and began reading in a low voice. It is to be feared that

the Psalmist's words of joy were not heard with understanding 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

"Have you not seen Christian since you went to see Mrs. Sender, Hilda?" asked Molly, at once.

"No," replied Hilda, arranging the music into something like order upon the piano.

Hilda turned her head as if about to reply hastily, but checked herself, and resumed her task of setting the

"How could I whistle," she asked gently, "when I was in the kitchen doling out medicated cottonwool to

"I expect he has gone for a stroll, and forgotten the time," suggested Mrs. Carew reassuringly, as she sat

"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

"Yes," answered Molly uneasily. "YesI heard it, and so did he, for he went out at once."

Sidney stood awkwardly with his shoulder against the mantelpiece, listening in a halfhearted way to his

sisters' conversation. With a heavy jerk he threw himself upright and slowly crossed the room. He stood for

some moments immediately behind Hilda without touching her. Then he raised his hand and with gentle,

almost caressing pressure round her waist, he made her step aside so that he could pass out. He was a

singularly undemonstrative man, rarely giving way to what he considered the weakness of a caress.

Fortunately, however, for their own happiness, his womenfolk understood him, and especially between

On this occasion he touched her waist gently, and the caress almost startled her. It seemed like a confession

With the charity of maternal love, which is by no means so blind as is generally supposed, Mrs. Carew often

said of Sidney that he invariably rose to the occasion; and Mrs. Carew's statements were as a rule correct. His

slowness was partly assumed; his indifference was a mere habit. The assumption of the former saved him

infinite worry and responsibility; the habit of indifference did away with the necessity of coming to a decision

upon general questions. This state of mind may, to townsmen, be incomprehensible. Certain it is that such as

are in that condition are not found among the foremost dwellers in cities. But in the country it is a different

matter. Such cases are only too common, and (without breath of disparagement) they are usually to be found

in households where one man finds himself among several womenbe the latter mother and sisters, or wife

The man may be a thorough sportsman, he may be an excellent landlord and a popular squire, but within his

own doors he is overwhelmed. Chivalry bids him give way to the wishes and desires of some woman or

other, and if he be a sportsman he is necessarily chivalrous. When one is tired after a long day in the saddle or

with a gun, it is so much easier to acquiesce and philosophically persuade oneself that the matter is not worth

airing an adverse opinion over. This is the beginning, and if any beginning can look forward to great endings

It would appear that Sidney Carew's occasion had come at last, for once outside the window he changed to a

different being. The lazy slouch vanished from his movements, his eyes lost their droop, and he held his head

He made his way rapidly to the stable, and there, without the knowledge of the grooms, he obtained a large

hurricanelamp, 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

The mind is a strange storehouse. However long a memory may have been warehoused there, deep down

beneath piles of other remembrances and conceits, it is generally to be found at the top when the demand

comes, ready for usefor good or evil. A dim recollection was resuscitated in Sidney's mind. An

unauthenticated nursery tale of a departing guest leaving with a word of joy upon his lips and warm comfort

in his heart, turning from the glowing doorway and walking down the little pathway straight into the moat.

Christian, however, was an excellent swimmer; he knew every inch of the pathway, every stone round the

moat. That he should have been drowned in ten feet of clear water, with an easy landing within ten yards,

seemed the wildest impossibility. Of course such things have happened, but Christian Vellacott was

essentially wide awake, and unlikely to come to mishap through his own carelessness.

Of all these things Sidney thought as he walked rapidly towards the moat, and in particular he pondered over

Molly's statement that she had heard Hilda whistle. This had met with flat denial from Hilda, and Sidney,

with brotherly candour, could only arrive at the conclusion that Molly had been mistaken. He would not give

way to the least suggestion of anxiety even in his own mind. After all Christian would probably come in with

some simple explanation and a laugh for their fears. It often happens thus, as we must all know. The moments

so long and dreary for the watcher, whose imagination gains more and more power as the time passes, slip

away unheeded by the awaited, who treats the matter with a laugh or, at the most, a few conventional words

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

The smooth stonework was wet; in fact the water was standing in little pools upon it. Round these there were

circles of dampness, showing that evaporation was taking place. The water had not lain there long. A man

falling into the moat would have thrown up splashes such as these; in no other way could they be plausibly

Sidney stood erect. Again he held the lamp over the gleaming water, half fearing to see something. His lips

had quite suddenly become dry and parched, and there was an uncomfortable throb in his throat. Suddenly he

heard a rustle behind him, and before he could draw back Hilda was at his side. She slipped her hand through

He made no answer, but walked slowly by her side, swinging the lamp backwards and forwards as a

schoolboy swings his satchel. Thus he gained time to moisten his lips and render speech possible.

Together they went round the grounds, but no sign or vestige of Christian did they discover. A pang of

remorse came to Hilda as she touched her brother's strong arm. Ever since Christian's arrival she remembered

that Sidney had been somewhat neglected, or only remembered when his services were required. Christian

had indeed been attentive to him, but Hilda felt that their friendship was not what it used to be. The young

journalist in his upward progress had left the slowthinking country squire behind him. All they had in

common belonged to the past; and, for Christian, the past was of small importance compared to the present.

She recollected that during the last fortnight everything had been arranged with a view to giving pleasure to

herself, Molly, and Christian, without heed to Sidney's inclinations. By word or sign he had never shown his

knowledge of this; he had never implied that his existence or opinion was of any great consequence. She

remembered even that such pleasures as Christian had shared with Sidneypleasures after his own heart,

sailing, shooting, and fishinghad been undertaken at Christian's instigation or suggestion, and eagerly

And now, at the first suspicion of trouble, she turned instinctively to her brother for the help and counsel

"He has been rather worried over these disturbances in Paris, I think, andandI suppose he has never said

"Signor Bruno!" said Sidney, repeating the name in some surprise. "No, he has never mentioned his name to

This was lamentably true, and Hilda felt that it was so, although her brother had no thought of posing as a

"Christian," she continued softly, "distrusted him for some reason. He knows something of his former life,

and told me a short time ago that Bruno was not his name at all. This morning Christian received a letter from

Carl Trevetz, whom we knew in Paris, you will remember, saying that Signor Bruno's real name was Max

"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

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

He was, by nature and habit, a slow thinker, and Hilda was running away from him a little; but he was,

"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

"A man's power of doing harm is practically unlimited," he said slowly, still wishing to gain time.

"Not necessarily," was the tolerant reply. "You must remember that Christian is essentially a politician. He

does not suspect Bruno of anything criminal; his suspicions are merely political; and it may be that Bruno's

doings, whatever they appear to be now, may in the future be looked upon as the actions of a hero. Politics

Hilda could not see the matter in this light. No woman could have been expected to do so.

They were walking slowly up the broad path towards the house, having given up the idea of searching for

"Then," continued Sidney, "you think it is likely that he has gone off to see Bruno, or to watch him?"

"That is the only reasonable explanation I can think of," he said, gravely and doubtfully, for he was still

They entered the house, and to Mrs. Carew and Molly their explanation was imparted. It was received

somewhat doubtfully, especially by Molly. However, the farce had to be kept upand do we not act in

CHEERFULNESS is, thank goodness, infectious. The watchers at the Hall that night made a great show of

lightheartedness. 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 needlework in her hands she sat beneath the lamp and

worked rapidly. Occasionally she glanced towards Hilda, but contributed nothing to the explanations

Hilda was also working; slowly, however, and with marvellous care. She was engaged upon a more artistic

production than ever came from Molly's workbasket. Once she consulted Mrs. Carew about the colour of a

skein of wool, but otherwise showed no inclination to avoid topics in any manner connected with Christian,

despite the fact that these were obviously distasteful to her family. In all that she said, indifference was

Thus they waited until after midnight, pretending bravely to work and read as if there were no such feeling as

suspense in the human heart. Then Mrs. Carew persuaded the young people to go to bed. She had letters to

write, and would not be ready for hours. If Christian did not appear by the time that she was sleepy, she

would wake Sidney. After all, she acted her part better than they. She was old at itthey were new. She was

experienced in stagecraft and made her points skilfully; above all, she did not overact.

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 light

from the candle that he was holding all awry, while the wax dripped upon the carpet.

And then she passed into the room without closing the door, and he walked on with loudlycreaking 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

There were four watchers in the house that night. Downstairs, Mrs. Carew sat by the shaded lamp in her

upright armchair. She was not writing, but had reopened 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 rarelyused writingtable. Before him lay a telegraphform bearing nothing but the address

C. C. Bodery, "Beacon" Office, Fleet St., London. He was gazing mechanically at the blank spaces waiting to

be filled in, and through his mind was passing and repassing the same question that occupied the thoughts of

his mother and sisters. What could be the explanation 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 view, and to each the signalwhistle calling Christian into the garden was an insurmountable barrier

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

midair without apparent reason or support. In and among the branches lingered little secret deposits of mist

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

beforenot in another life, not in years gone by, not in a dream, but during the last few hours.

The air was very still, and she could hear the clank of the chain as Sidney unmoored the old punt, rarely used

except by the gardener to clean the moat when the weeds died down in autumn. The quiet was rendered more

remarkable by the suddenness of its advent. All night it had been blowing a wild gale, which dropped at

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

She read on until Sidney's firm step upon the gravel beneath the window roused her. A minute later he

knocked softly at her door. The water was glistening on his rough shootingboots as he entered the room and

upon the brown leather gaiters there was a deeper shade showing where the wet grass had brushed against his

legs. His honest immobile face showed but little surprise at the sight of Hilda still in evening dress, but she

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, andand of course there is no sign."

"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 editor of the `Beacon,' and await his instructions. I

She was standing close to him, with one hand on the table, resting upon the closed volume of "Vanity Fair,"

She was still looking out of the windowstill standing motionless near the table with her hand upon

"Then will you see mother and Molly in their rooms and forewarn them to say nothingnothing that may

Sidney walked heavily to the door. Grasping the handle, he turned round once more.

"It is nearly halfpast seven," he said with more confidence in his tone, "and Mary will soon be coming to

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 proofsheets, with his coat off and

shirtsleeves tucked up. The subeditor of the "Beacon" was in reality a good hard worker in his comfortable

way, and there was little harm in his desire that the world should be aware of his industry.

"Morning," replied the other, genially, but without looking up. Before Mr. Bodery had seated himself,

however, the sub editor laid his hand with heavy approval upon the odoriferous proofsheet before him, and

"This article of Vellacott's is firstrate," he said. "By Jove! sir, he drops on these holy fatherslets 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 reality performedha,

"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 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!" said Mr. Morgan sharply, and at the same moment the silent door was thrown open. The diminutive

Even this small officeboy was allowed his quantum of discretionary power. It rested with him whether an

unknown visitor was admitted or politely dismissed to a much greater extent than anyone suspected. Into his

manner of announcing a person he somehow managed to convey his opinion as to whether it was worth the

editor's time to admit him or not, and he invariably received Mr. Bodery's "Tell him I'm engaged" with a little

On this occasion his manner said, "Have him inhave him in, my boy, and you will find it worth your

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 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, cleanshaven person.

He fixed his peculiar lightblue eyes upon Mr. Bodery, and, with a slight inclination, said suavely,

"It is, sir, and a busy day with us," replied the editor, with no great warmth of manner.

"Would it be possible now," inquired the stranger conversationally, "at this late hour, to remove a printed

At these words Mr. Morgan ceased making some pencil notes with which he was occupied, and looked up.

He met the stranger's benign glance and, while still looking at him, deliberately turned over all the

proofsheets before him, leaving no printed matter exposed to the gaze of the curious.

"Yes," he replied, with dangerous politeness. "There would still be time to do so if necessaryat the

Dead silence. Most men would have felt embarrassed, but no sign of such feeling was forthcoming from any

of the three. It is possible that the dark gentleman with the skyblue 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

"The truth is," explained the stranger at length, "that a friend of mine, who is unfortunately ill in bed this

(Mr. Bodery did not look in the least sympathetic, though he listened attentively.)

". . . . has received a telegram from a gentleman who I am told is on the staff of your journalMr. Vellacott.

This gentleman wishes to withdraw, for correction, an article he has sent to you. He states that he will

The stranger produced and handed to the editor a pink paper covered with faint black writing.

"You will see at the foot thisMr. 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," interrupted Mr. Bodery briskly. "The press is at work"

"My friend instructed me," interposed the stranger in his turn, "to make you rather a difficult proposition. If a

thousand pounds will compensate for the loss incurred by the delay of issue, and defray the expense of paper

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 proofsheets before him.

"Mr. Bodery," he said in a low concentrated voice, "I will give you five hundred pounds for a proof copy of

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

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

"You refuse my offers," said the stranger curtly, without deigning to notice the subeditor.

Mr. Bodery had turned his attention to his letters, of which he was cutting open the envelopes, one by one,

"Tomorrow morning," he said, "you will be able to procure a copy from any stationer for the trifling sum of

"A curse on these Englishmen!" he muttered as he passed down the narrow staircase. "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

Mr. Morgan closed the door of the small room and resumed his seat. He then laughed aloud, but Mr. Bodery

"Yes," replied the editor, "a dangerous customer. I do not like a bluechinned man."

"No; but you must remember that he had difficult cards to play. No doubt his information was of the

"No," said Mr. Morgan, with a little sigh. He turned to the revision of the proofsheets again, while the editor

"This is a little strong," exclaimed Mr. Morgan, after a few moments of silence, broken only by the crackle of

"It simply comes to thisthe General of the Society of Jesus is an autocrat in the worst sense of the word.

He holds within his fingers the wires of a vast machine moving with little friction and no noise. No farthest

corner of the world is entirely beyond its influence; no political crisis passes that is not hurried on or

restrained by its power. Unrecognised, unseen even, and often undreamt of, the vast Society does its work. It

is not for us who live in a broadminded, 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 accusedas a nationof 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 Roman Catholic Church in

generalthe Society of Jesus in particular. We have endeavoured to show how the followers of Ignatius

Loyola could have brought about the present crisis in France; the extent to which they would benefit by a

religious reaction is patent to the most casual observer; let the Government of England do the rest."

Mr. Bodery was, however, not listening. He was staring vacantly at a telegram which lay spread out upon the

The subeditor looked up sharply, with his pen poised in the air. Then Mr. Bodery read:

"Is Vellacott with you? Fear something wrong. Disappeared from here last night."

Mr. Morgan moved in his seat, stretching one arm out, while he pensively rubbed his cleanshaven chin and

They remained thus for some moments; the editor looking at the telegram with a peculiar blank expression in

his eyes; Mr. Morgan staring at him while he rubbed his chin thoughtfully with outspread finger and thumb.

In the lane beneath the window some industrious housekeeper was sweeping her doorstep with aggravating

At length Mr. Morgan rose from his seat and walked slowly to the window. He stood gazing out upon the

smokebegrimed 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 opened, and the supernaturally sharp boy stood on the

"Yess'r," replied the boy, closing the door. His inventive mind had conceived a new and improved method of

going downstairs. This was to lie flat on his back upon the balustrade with a leg dangling on either side. If the

balance was correct, he slid down rapidly and shot out some feet from the bottom, as he had, from an

advantageous point of view on Blackfriars Bridge, seen sacks of meal shoot from a Thames warehouse into

the barge beneath. If, however, he made a miscalculation, he inevitably rolled off sideways and landed in a

heap on the floor. Either result appeared to afford him infinite enjoyment and exhilaration. On this occasion

"Guv'nor's goin' on the loosewants the railway guide," he confided to a small friend in the printing interest

"Suppose you'll be sitten' upstairs now, then," remarked the blackfingered one with fine sarcasm.

Whereupon there followed a feinta 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

Mr. Bodery turned the flimsy leaves impatiently, stopped, looked rapidly down a column, and, without

raising his eyes from the railway guide, tore a telegraph form from the handle of a drawer at his side. Then he

"Will be with you at five o'clock. Invent some excuse for V.'s absence. On no account give alarm to

The sharp boy took the telegram from the editor's hand with an expression of profound respect upon his

"Go down to Banks," said Mr. Bodery, "ask him to let me have two copies of the foreign policy article in ten

When the silent door was closed, Mr. Morgan wheeled round upon his heels and gazed meditatively at his

"Going down to see these people?" he asked, with a jerk of his head towards the West.

"I have been thinking," continued the subeditor, "we may as well keep the printingoffice door locked

today. That slippery gentleman with the watery eyes meant business, or I am very much mistaken. I'll just

send upstairs for Bander to go on duty at the shop door today as well as tomorrow; I think we shall have a

"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

Mr. Bodery and his colleagues were in the habit of keeping at the office a small bag, containing the luggage

necessary for a few nights in case of their being suddenly called away. This expedient was due to Christian

The editor now proceeded to stuff into his bag sundry morning newspapers and a large cigar case. Telegraph

"I say, Bodery," said the subeditor with grave familiarity. "It seems to me that you are taking much too

serious a view of this matter. Vellacott is as wide awake as any man, and it always struck me that he was very

"I have a wholesome dread of men who use religion as a means of justification. A fanatic is always

"Exactly so; and a sincere fanatic in the hands of an agitator is the very devil. That is whence these fellows

Mr. Bodery had now completed his preparations, and he held out his plump hand, which the subeditor

"I hope," said the latter, "that you will find Vellacott at the station to meet Youha, ha!"

"If," said Mr. Morgan, following the editor to the door"if he turns up here, I will wire to Carew and to you,

THE London express rolled with stately deliberation into Brayport station. Mr. Bodery folded up his

newspapers, reached down his bag from the netting, and prepared to alight. The editor of the "Beacon" had

enjoyed a very pleasant journey, despite broiling sun and searching dust. He knew the possibilities of a

firstclass smokingcarriagehow to regulate the leeward window and chock off the other with a wooden

He stepped from the carriage with the laboured sprightliness of a man past the forties, and a moment later

He was beginning to rise to the occasion. He was one of those men who are usually too slack to burthen their

"There is a man," explained Sidney hurriedly, "getting out of the train who is coming to stay with us. I had

Mr. Bodery was a Londoner. He did not look round. Nine out of ten countrybred people would have

"Then come along. We'll bolt for it. He'll have to get a fly, and that means ten minutes' start if the porter is

They hurried out of the station and clambered into the dog cart. Sidney gathered up the reins.

"Hang it," he exclaimed. "What bad luck! There is a fly waiting. It is never there when you want it."

"Let him have it," he exclaimed in a low voice. "Your friend sees you, but he does not know that you have

As he spoke the cart swung round the gatepost of the station yard, nearly throwing him out, and Sidney's

He gave a full and minute description of events previous to Christian Vellacott's disappearance, omitting

nothing. The relation was somewhat disjointed, somewhat vague in parts, and occasionally incoherent. The

narrator repeated himself hesitatedblurted out some totally irrelevant fact, and finished up with a vague

supposition (possessing a solid basis of truth) expressed in doubtful English. It suited Mr. Bodery admirably.

In telling all about Vellacott, Sidney unconsciously told all about Mrs. Carew, Molly, Hilda, and himself.

When he reached the point in his narration telling how Vellacott had been attracted into the garden, he

became extremely vague and his style notably colloquial. Tell the story how he would, he felt that he could

not prevent Mr. Bodery from drawing his own inferences. Young ladies are not in the habit of whistling for

youthful members of the opposite sex. Few of them master the labial art, which perhaps accounts for much.

Mr. Bodery did draw his own inferences, but the countenance into which Sidney glanced at intervals was one

"Well, I confess I cannot make it outat present," he said; "Vellacott has written to us only on business

matters. We publish tomorrow a very good article of his purporting to be the dream of an overworked

attach�. It is very cutting and very incriminating. The Government cannot well avoid taking some notice of it.

My only hope is that he is in Paris. There is something brewing over there. Our Paris agent wired for

Vellacott this morning. By the way, Mr. Carew, is there a monastery somewhere in this part of the country?"

"In Vellacott's article there is mention of a monasterynot too minutely described however. There are also

some remarkable suppositions respecting an old foreigner living in seclusion. Could that be the man you

"Hardly. Bruno is a harmless old soul," replied Sidney, pulling up to turn into the narrow gateway.

Mrs. Carew shook hands, and the two young ladies bowed. They were all disappointed in Mr. Bodery. He

was too calm and comfortablealso there was a suggestion of cigar smoke in his presence, which jarred.

"I am sorry," said the Londoner, with genial selfpossession, "to owe the pleasure of this visit to such an

"Nothing," replied Mr. Bodery, removing his tight gloves. "But it is too soon to think of getting anxious yet.

Vellacott is eminently capable of taking care of himselfhe is, above all things, a journalist. Things are

He folded his gloves and placed them in the pocket of his coat. The others watched him in silence.

"Do you take sugar and cream?" inquired Hilda sweetly, speaking for the second time.

"I say," interrupted Sidney at this moment, "the Vicomte d'Audierne is following us in a fly. He will be here

"The Vicomte d'Audierne," raid Mr. Bodery with considerable interest, turning away from the teatable, cup

Mr. Bodery turned and took a slice of bread and butter from a plate which Hilda held.

"By the way," said the editor of the "Beacon," raising his voice so as to command universal attention, "do not

tell the Vicomte d'Audierne about Vellacott. Do not let him know that Vellacott has been here. Do not tell

The ladies barely had time to reconsider their first impression of Mr. Bodery, when the door was thrown

He who entered immediately afterwardswith an almost indecent hastewas of middle height, with a

certain intrepid carriage of the head which appeals to such as take pleasure in the strength and endurance of

men. His face, which was clean shaven, was the face of a hawk, with the contracted myope vision

characteristic of that bird. It is probable that from the threshold he took in every occupant of the room.

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

"And Sid," he said, "and Mollywicked little Molly. Never mindyour antecedents are safe. I am silent as

This was not strictly true. He was as deep, and deeper than the restingplace mentioned, but his method was

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

"You are not changed, at all events," she said. "Allow me to introduce Mr. Boderythe Vicomte

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

Then Molly offered the newcomer some tea, and the party broke up into groups. But the Vicomte's

personality in some subtle manner pervaded the room. Mr. Bodery lapsed into monosyllables and felt

ponderous. Monsieur d'Audierne had it in his power to make most men feel ponderous when the spirit moved

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

It fell to Hilda's lot to undertake the Frenchman. They had been great friends once, and she was quite ready to

renew the pleasant relationship. She led her guest to the prettiest part of the gardenthe old overgrown

As soon as they had passed under the nuttrees into the open space at the edge of the water, the Vicomte

d'Audierne stopped short and looked round him curiously. At the same time he gave a strange little laugh.

"Heinheinc'est dr�le," he muttered, and the girl remembered that in the old friendship between the

brilliant, middleaged diplomatist and the little child they had always spoken French. She liked to hear him

speak his own language, for in his lips it received full justice: it was the finest tongue spoken on this earth.

But she did not feel disposed just then to humour him. She looked at him wonderingly as his deep eyes

While they stood there, somethingprobably a kestrel disturbed the rooks dwelling in the summits of the

still elms across the moat, and they rose simultaneously in the air with longdrawn cries.

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

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

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

"There is," he said at length, "an old ch�teau in Morbihan many miles from a railwayin the heart of a

peaceful country, It has a moat like thisthere are elmsthere are rooks that swing up into the air like that

and calland one does not know why they do it, and what they are calling. Listen, little girl they are

calling something. What is it? I think I was there. It was impoliteI am sorry, Miss Carew."

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

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

He was not apparently disposed to be loquacious as he had been at first. Possibly the rooks had brought about

this change. Hilda also had her thoughts. At times she glanced at the water with a certain shrinking in her

heart. She had not yet forgotten the moments she had passed at the edge of the moat the night before. They

walked right round the moat and down a little pathway through the elm wood without speaking. The rooks

had returned to their nests and only called to each other querulously at intervals.

"Has it ever occurred to you, little girl," said the Vicomte d'Audierne suddenly, "to doubt the wisdom of the

"I suppose not," he went on, without waiting for an answer, which she remembered as an old trick of his.

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

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

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

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

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

"I do not imagine, little girl," replied d'Audierne, "that you could learn very much that is good from me."

Hilda gave a noncommitting little laugh, and led the way through the nuttrees towards the house. The

Vicomte d'Audierne followed, and Signor Bruno came last. When they emerged upon the lawn in view of

Mrs. Carew and Mr. Bodery, who were walking together, the Vicomte dropped his handkerchief. Signor

Bruno attempted to pick it up, and there was a slight delay caused by the interchange of some Gallic

Before the two foreigners came up with Hilda, who had walked on, Signor Bruno found time to say:

"I must see you tonight, without fail; I am in a very difficult position. I have had to resort to strong

"Where?" inquired the Vicomte d'Audierne, with that pleasant nonchalance which is so aggravating to the

IT is only when our feelings are imaginary that we analyse them. When the real thing comesthe thing that

only does come to a few of uswe can only feel it, and there is no thought of analysis. Moreover, the action

is purely involuntary. We feel strange thingssuch things as murderand we cannot help feeling it. We

may cringe and shrink; we may toss in our beds when we wake up with such thoughts living, moving, having

their being in our brainsbut we cannot toss them off. The very attempt to do so is a realisation, and from

consciousness we spring to knowledge. We know that in our hearts we are thieves, murderers, slanderers; we

know that if we read of such thoughts in a novel we should hold the thinker in all horror; but we are distinctly

conscious all the time that these thoughts are our own. This is just the difference existing between artificial

Hilda Carew could not have defined her feelings on the evening of the arrival of Mr. Bodery and the Vicomte

d'Audierne. She was conscious of the little facts of everyday existence. She dressed for dinner with singular

care; during that repast she talked and laughed much as usual, but all the while she felt like anyone in all the

world but Hilda Carew. At certain moments she wondered with a throb of apprehension whether the

difference which was so glaringly patent to herself could possibly be hidden from others. She caught strange

inflections in her own voice which she knew had never been there before her own laughter was a new

thing to her. And yet she went on through dinner and until bedtime, acting this strange part without break,

without faulta part which had never been rehearsed and never learnt: a part which was utterly artificial and

And through it all she feared the Vicomte d'Audierne. Mr. Bodery counted for nothing. He made a very good

dinner, was genial and even witty in a manner befitting his years and station. Mrs. Carew was fully engaged

with her guests, and Molly was on lively terms with the Vicomte; while Sidney, old Sidney no one counted

him. It was only the Vicomte who paused at intervals during his frugal meal, and looked across the table

towards the young girl with those deep impenetrable eyes shadowless, gleamless, like velvet.

When bedtime at length arrived, she was quite glad to get away from that kind, unobtrusive scrutiny of which

she alone was aware. She went to her room, and sitting wearily on the bed she realised for the first time in her

life the incapacity to think. It is a realisation which usually comes but once or twice in a lifetime, and we are

therefore unable to get accustomed to it. She was conscious of intense pressure within her brain, of a hopeless

weight upon her heart, but she could define neither. She rose at length, and mechanically went to bed like one

In the meantime Mr. Bodery, Sidney Carew, and the Vicomte d'Audierne were smoking in the little room at

the side of the porch. A single lamp with a red shade hung from the ceiling in the centre of this room, hardly

giving enough light to read by. There were halfadozen deep armchairs, a divan, and two or three small

tablesbeyond that nothing. Sidney's father had furnished it thus, with a knowledge and appreciation of

Oriental ways. It was not a study, nor a library, nor a den; but merely a smokingroom. Mr. Bodery had

lighted an excellent cigar, and through the thin smoke he glanced persistently at the Vicomte d'Audierne. The

Vicomte did not return this attention; he glanced at the clock instead. He was thinking of Signor Bruno, but

At last Mr. Bodery opened fire from, as it were, a masked battery; for he knew that the Frenchman was

ignorant of his connection with one of the leading political papers of the day. It was a duel between sheer

skill and confident foreknowledge. When Mr. Bodery spoke, Sidney Carew leant back in his chair and puffed

The Vicomte was engaged in rolling a cigarette, and he finished the delicate operation before looking up with

"Yes," he said. "In Paris. But Paris is not France. That fact is hardly realised in England, I think."

"What," inquired Mr. Bodery, with that conversational heaviness of touch which is essentially British, "is the

For a momentand a moment onlythe Vicomte's profound gaze rested on the Englishman's face. Mr.

Bodery was evidently absorbed in the enjoyment of his cigar. The smile that lay on his genial face like a

mask was the smile of a consciousness that he was making himself intensely pleasant, and adapting his

"Ah!" replied the Frenchman with a neat little shrug of bewilderment. "Who can tell? Probably there is no

"You only asked me the meaning," he said lightly. "I am glad you did not inquire after the result; because

there I should indeed have been at fault. I always argue to myself that it is useless to trouble one's brain about

results. I leave such matters to the good God. He will probably do just as well without my assistance."

"Thank heavenyes! Look at my position. Fancy carrying in France today a name that is to be found in the

"If it began at once," he said, "it would never be right in my time. Not as it used to be. And in the meantime

"And newspaper men," pursued the Vicomte, "what are they? Men of no education, no position, no sense of

honour. The great aim of politicians in France today is the aggrandisement of themselves."

Perhaps the Frenchman saw the glance, perhaps he was deceived by the yawn. At all events, he rose and

expressed a desire to retire to his room. He was tired, he said, having been travelling all the previous night.

Mr. Bodery had not yet finished his cigar, so he rose and shook hands without displaying any intention of

Sidney lighted a candle, one of many standing on a side table, and led the way upstairs. They walked through

the long dimlylighted corridors in silence, and it was only when they had arrived in the room set apart for

"By the way," he said, "who is this personthis Mr. Bodery? He was not a friend of your father's."

Sidney was lighting the tall candles that stood upon the dressingtable, and the combined illumination

showed with remarkable distinctness the reflection of his face in the mirror. From whence he stood the

"He is the friend of a great friend of mine; that is how we know him," replied Sidney, prizing up the wick of a

candle. He was still rising to the occasionthis dull young Briton. Then he turned. "Christian Vellacott," he

Sidney was moving to the door without any hurry, and also without any intention of being deterred.

"His father," continued the Vicomte, winding his watch meditatively, "was brilliant. Has the son inherited

When the door was closed the Vicomte looked at his watch. It was almost midnight.

"The Reverend Father Talma will have to wait till tomorrow morning," he said to himself. "I cannot go to

him tonight. It would be too theatrical. That old gentleman is getting too old for his work."

In the meantime, Sidney returned to the little smokingroom at the side of the porch. There he found Mr.

Bodery smoking with his usual composure. The younger man forbore asking any questions. He poured out

for himself some whisky, and opened a bottle of sodawater with deliberate care and noiselessness.

"I am convinced of it. By the way, who is the old gentleman who came to tea this afternoon?"

"I suppose sothat superinnocent old man with the white hair who wears windowglass spectacles."

Mr. Bodery had taken his silver pencil from his waistcoat pocket, and was rolling it backwards and forwards

on the table. This was indicative of the fact that the editor of the "Beacon" was thinking deeply.

"Then, my dear sir, Vellacott is right. That old man is at the bottom of it. This Vicomte d'Audierne, what do

"He is an old friend of my father's. In fact, he is a friend of the family. He calls the girls by their Christian

"I know nothing of him personallyexcept what I have learnt today. For my own part, I like him,"

answered Mr. Bodery. "He is keen and clever. Moreover, he is a thorough gentleman. But, politically

speaking, he is one of the most dangerous men in France. He is a Jesuit, an active Royalist, and a staunch

worker for the Church party. I don't know much about French politics that is Vellacott's department. But I

know that if he were here, and knew of the Vicomte's presence in England, he would be very much on the

"Then," asked Sidney, "do you connect the presence of the Vicomte here with the absence of Vellacott?"

"There can be little question about it, directly or indirectly. Indirectly, I should think, unless the Vicomte

"I do not," pursued Mr. Bodery with a certain easy deliberation, "think that the Vicomte is aware of

"No! I said that you were a friend of a friend, and mentioned Vellacott's name. He knew his father very well."

"Were you"asked Mr. Bodery, throwing away the end of his cigar and rising from his deep chair"were

Mr. Bodery nodded his head in a businesslike way, indicative of the fact that he was engaged in assimilating

"There is nothing to be done tonight," he said presently, as he made a movement towards the door, "but to

go to bed. To morrow the `Beacon' will be published, and the result will probably be rather startling. We

"By the way," said the editor, turning back and speaking more lightly, "if anyone should inquireyour

mother or one of your sistersyou can say that I am not in the least anxious about Vellacott. Goodnight."

IT was quite early the next morning when the Vicomte d'Audierne left his room. As he walked along the still

corridor and down the stairs it was noticeable that he made absolutely no sound, without, however, indulging

in any of those contortions which are peculiar to late arrivals in church. It would seem that Nature had for

purposes of her own made his footfall noiselessif, by the way, Nature can be credited with any purpose

"Good morning," he said. "Can you tell me the breakfast hour? I forgot to inquire last night."

"Nine o'clock, sir," replied the servant, rather taken aback at the thought of having this visitor dependent upon

"Ahand it is not yet eight. Never mind. I will go into the garden. I am fond of fruit before breakfast."

He took his hat and lounged away towards the kitchengarden which lay near the moat.

"And now," he said to himself, looking round him in a searching way, "where is this pestilential village?"

The way was not hard to find, and as the church clock struck eight the Vicomte d'Audierne opened the little

The old gentleman must have been watching for him; for he opened the door before the Vicomte reached it.

He turned and led the way into a little room on the right hand of the narrow passage. A little room intensely

typical: china dogs, knitted antimacassars of a brilliant tendency, and horsehair covered furniture. There was

even the usual stuffy odour as if the windows, halfhidden behind muslin curtains and scarlet geraniums,

Signor Bruno closed the door before speaking. Then he turned upon his companion with something very like

"Why did you not come last night?" he asked. "I am left alone to contend against one difficulty on the top of

He drew from his pocket a thin and somewhat crumpled sheet of paper, upon which there were two columns

The Vicomte d'Audierne read the printed matter carefully from beginning to end. He had approached the

window because the light was bad, and when he finished he looked up for a few minutes, out of the little

There was something in the Vicomte's expressive voice that made Signor Bruno look at him sharply with

He gave a little jerk with his head in the direction of the house he had just left.

"I was told last night that he was a friend of this Christian Vellacotta protector."

The two Frenchmen looked at each other in silence. Signor Bruno was evidently alarmedhis lips were

white and unsteady. There was a smile upon the birdlike face of the younger man, and behind his spectacles

"Do you know," he asked in a disagreeably soft manner, "where Christian Vellacott is?"

"You will do better not to ask me that question," he replied, "unless you mean to run for itas I do."

The Vicomte folded the proofsheet carefully, handed it back to his companion, and said:

"I ask no questions," continued the other. "It is better so. I shall stay where I am for a few days, unless it

"No; I have impertinencethat is all. There will be a storm a newspaper storm. The embassies will be

busy; in the English Parliament some pompous fool will ask a question, and be snubbed for his pains. In the

Chambre the newspapermen will rant and challenge each other in the corridors; and it will blow over. In the

meantime we have got what we want, and we can hide it till we have need of it. Your Reverence and I have

"I am not so sure," he said, "that we have got what we want. There has been no acknowledgment of receipt of

"Yes; they were despatched in the usual way; but, as I say, they have not been acknowledged. There may

have been some difficulty on the other side. Our police are not so easygoing as these coastguard

"Well," said the aristocrat, with that semibantering lightness of manner which sometimes aggravated, and

always puzzled, his colleagues. "We will not give ourselves trouble over that: the matter is out of our hands.

"It is now eight o'clockthis newspaperthis precious `Beacon' is now casting its light into some dark

intellects in London. It will take those intellects two hours to assimilate the information, and one more hour

to proceed to action. You have, therefore, three hours in which to make yourself scarce."

"I have arranged that," replied the old man calmly. "There is a small French potatoship lying at Exmouth. In

"The others left yesterday afternoon. They cross by this morning's boat from Southampton to Cherbourg. You

"And now." said Signor Bruno, ignoring the compliment, "I must go. We will walk away by the back garden

"I have thought of that. One old man saw me, but he did not look at me twice. He will not know me again.

As they spoke they left the little cottage by the back door, as Signor Bruno had proposed, through the little

garden, and across some lowlying fields. Presently they parted, Signor Bruno turning to the left, while the

"We shall meet, I suppose," were the last words of the younger man, "in the Rue St. Gingolphe?"

For so old a man the pace at which Signor Bruno breasted the hill that lay before him was somewhat

remarkable. The Vicomte d'Audierne, on the other hand, was evidently blessed with a greater leisure. He

looked at his watch and strolled on through the dewladen meadows, wrapt in thought as in a cloak that hid

the sweet freshness of the flowery hedgerows, that muffled the broken song of the busy birds, that killed the

scent of ripening hay. Thus these two singular men partedand it happened that they were never to meet

again. These little things do happen. We meet with gravity; we part with a smile; perhaps we make an

appointment; possibly we speak of the pleasure that the meeting seems to promise: and the next meeting is

Often we part with an indifferent nod, as these two men parted amidst the sylvan peace of English meadow

on that summer morning. They belonged to two different stations in life almost as far apart as two social

stations could be, even in a republic. They were not, in any sense of the word, friends; they were merely

partners, intensely awake, as partners usually are, to each other's shortcomings.

The Vicomte d'Audierne probably thought no more of Signor Bruno from the moment that he raised his hat

"The son of Vellacott," he muttered, as he took a cigarette from a neat silver case. "How strange! And yet I

am sorry. He might have done something in the world. That article was cleververy clevercurse it! He

cannot yet be thirty. But one would expect something from the son of a man like Vellacott."

It was not yet nine o'clock when the Vicomte entered the diningroom by the open window. Only Hilda was

there, and she was busy with the old leather postbag. Among the letters there were several newspapers, and

the Vicomte d'Audierne's expression underwent a slight change on perceiving them. His thin mobile lips were

closely pressed, and his china very short onewas thrust forward. Behind the gentle spectacles his eyes

assumed for a moment that singular blinking look which cannot be described in English, for it seemed to

"Ah, Hilda!" he said, approaching slowly, "do I see newspapers? I love a newspaper!"

She handed him the "Times" enveloped in a yellow wrapper, upon which was printed her brother's name and

"Ah," he said lightly, "the `Times'estimable, but just a trifle opaque. Is that all?"

"And what newspaper does Mr. Bodery read?" asked the Frenchman, holding out his hand.

She hesitated for a moment. His position with regard to her was singular, his ascendancy over her had never

been tried. It was an unknown quantity; but the Vicomte d'Audierne knew his own power.

"The `Beacon,'" he muttered, reading aloud from the ornamented wrapper, "a weekly journal."

"Tell me, Hilda," he said, "is Mr. Bodery connected with this weekly journal, the `Beacon'?"

Her back was turned towards him. She was hanging up the key of the postbag on a nail beside the fireplace.

For some time he appeared to be absorbed in this piece of news, then he spoke again.

"I knew something of a man who writes for that newspaper the `Beacon.' I knew his father very well."

"We know him also," she answered, moving towards the bell. He made a step forward as if about to offer to

When the butler entered the room, Hilda reminded him of some small omission in setting out the

breakfasttable. The item required was in the room, and the man set it upon the table with some decision and

The Vicomte d'Audierne raised his eyes, and then he looked very grave. He was a singular man in many

ways, but those who worked with him were aware of one peculiarity which by its prominence cast others into

the shade. He possessed a very useful gift rarely given to menthe gift of intuition. It was dangerous to

think when the eyes of the Vicomte d'Audierne were upon one's face. He had a knack of knowing one's

He looked gravealmost distressedon this occasion, because he knew something of which Hilda herself

was ignorant. He knew that she was engaged to be married to one man while she loved another.

IN the middle of breakfast a card was handed to Sidney Carew. He glanced at it, nodded his head as a signal

to the servant that he need not wait, and slipped the card into his pocket. Mr. Bodery and the Vicomte

Presently he rose from the table and left the room. Mrs. Carew became suddenly lively, and the meal went on

"Do you want," he said to his mother, "some tickets for a concert at Brayport on the 4th of next month?"

"We always take six tickets," put in Miss Molly, and her mother began to seek her pocket.

"Mr. Bodery," said Sidney, at this moment, "you have nothing to eat. Let me cut you some ham."

Sidney held the plate. They were quite close together, and Hilda was talking persistently and gaily to the

"The London police are here already," whispered Sidney; "shall I say anything about Vellacott?"

Sidney left the room again, and the Vicomte d'Audierne detected the quick anxious glance directed by Hilda

at his retreating form. A few minutes later young Carew rode away from the house in company with two men,

He who rode on Sidney's left hand was a tall, grizzled man, with the bearing of a soldier, while his second

companion was fair and gentle in manner. The soldier was Captain Pharland, District Inspector of Police; the

"Of course," said this man, who sat his hired horse with perfect confidence. "Of course we are too late, I

He spoke softly and somewhat slowly; his manner was essentially that of a man accustomed to the entire

"The old Italian," he continued, "who went under the name of Signor Bruno, disappeared this morning. It is

just possible that he will succeed in getting out of the country. It all depends upon who he is."

"Who do you suppose he is?" asked Captain Pharland. He was an upright old British soldier, and felt ill at

"I don't know," was the frank reply; "you see this is not a criminal affair, it is entirely political; it is hardly in

They rode on in silence for a space of time, during which Captain Pharland lighted a cigar and offered one to

his companions. Sidney accepted, but the gentleman from London refused quietly, and without explanation. It

"Mr. Carew," he said, "can you tell me when this monastery was first instituted at Porton Abbey?"

The thin flaxen eyebrows went up very high, until they were lost to sight beneath the hat brim.

"No," replied Sidney, "I think not. They received all their stores by train from London."

The fairhaired gentleman gave a little upward jerk of the head and smiled quietly for his own satisfaction.

He did not speak again until the cavalcade reached Porton Abbey. The old place looked very peaceful in the

morning light, standing grimly in the midst of that soft lush grass which only grows over old habitations.

One side of the long low building was in good repair, while the other half had been allowed to crumble away.

The narrow Norman windows had been framed with unpainted wood and cheap glass. The broad doorway

had been partly filled in with unseasoned deal, and an inexpensive door had been fitted up.

The bellknob was of brass, new and glaring in the morning sun. The gentleman from London, having

alighted, took gently hold of this and rang. A faint tinkle rewarded him. It was the peculiar sound of a bell

ringing in an empty house. After a moment's pause he wrenched the bell nearly out of its socket, and a long

peal was the result. At last this ceased, and there was no sound in the house. The fair man looked back over

Then he took from his breast pocket a little bar in the shape of a lever. He introduced the bent end of this

between the door and the post, just above the keyhole, and gave a sharp jerk. There was a short crack like that

Without a moment's hesitation the man went in, followed closely by Sidney and Captain Pharland.

The birds had flown. As mysteriously as they had come, the devotees had vanished. Bare walls met the eyes

of the searchers. Porton Abbey stood empty again after its brief return to life and warmth, and indeed it

scarcely looked habitable. The few personal effects of the simple monks had been removed; the walls and

stone floors were rigidly clean; the small chapel showed signs of recent repair. There was an altarcloth, a

The gentleman from London noted these items with a cynical smile. He had instinctively removed his hat; it

is just possible that there was another side to this man's lifea side wherein he dealt with men who were not

The search did not last much longer. Only a few rooms had been inhabited, and there was absolutely nothing

"Yes," said the fairhaired man, when they had finished their inspection, "these were exceptional men; they

"You see," he said, "there is not even a bolt on the door. They knew better than to depend on bolts and bars.

At the gate they met a small inoffensive man, with a brown beard and a walkingstick. There was nothing

else to say about him; without the beard and the walkingstick there would have been nothing left to know

"That is my assistant," announced the London detective quietly. "He has been down to the cliff."

The two men stepped aside together, and consulted in an undertone for some time. Then the last speaker

"That newspaper," he said, "the `Beacon,' is word for word right. My assistant has been to the spot. The arms

and ammunition have undoubtedly been shipped from this place. The cases of cartridges mentioned by the

man who wrote the article as having been seen, in a dream, halfway down the cliff, are actually there; my

Captain Pharland scratched his honest cavalry head. He was beginning to regret that he had accepted the post

of district inspector of the police. Sidney Carew puffed at his pipe in silence.

"Of course," said the detective, "the newspaper man got all this information through the treachery of one of

the party. I should like to get hold of that traitor. He would be a useful man to know."

In this the astute gentleman from London betrayed his extremely limited knowledge of the Society of Jesus.

Sidney and Captain Pharland rode home together, leaving the two detectives to find their way to Brayport

They rode in silence, for the Captain was puzzled, and his companion was intensely anxious.

Sidney Carew was beginning to realise that the events of the last three days had a graver import than they at

first promised to conceal. The now celebrated article in the "Beacon" opened his eyes, and he knew that the

writer of it must have paid very dearly for his daring. It seemed extremely probable that the head and hands

which had conceived and carried out this singular feat were both still for ever. Vellacott's own written tribute

to the vast powers of the Jesuits, and their immovable habit of forcing a way through all obstacles to the end

Sidney knew and recognised the usual fertility of resource possessed by his friend; but against him were

pitted men of greater gifts, of less scruple, and of infinitely superior training in the crooked ways of

humanity. That he should have been so long without vouchsafing word or sign was almost proof positive that

his absence was involuntary; and men capable of placing firearms into the hands of a maddened mob were

not likely to hesitate in sacrificing a single life that chanced to stand in their path.

As the young fellow rode along, immersed in meditation, he heard the sound of carriagewheels, and,

looking up, recognised his own grey horse and dogcart. Mr. Bodery was driving, and driving hard. On

seeing Sidney he pulled up, somewhat recklessly, in a manner which suggested that he had not always been a

"Been telegraphed for," he shouted, "by the people at the office. Government is taking it up. Just time to

WHEN Christian Vellacott passed out of the drawingroom window in answer to what he naturally supposed

to be a signalwhistle from Hilda or Sidney, he turned down the narrow, winding pathway that led to the

moat. The extreme darkness, contrasting suddenly with the warm light of the room he had just left, caused

him to walk slowly with outstretched hands. Floating cobwebs broke across his face, and frequently he

stopped to brush the clinging fibre away. The intense darkness was somewhat relieved when he reached the

edge of the moat, and the clear sky was overhead instead of interlocked branches. He could just discern that

Hilda was not at her usual seat upon the rustic bench farther towards the end of the moat, and he stopped

short, with a sudden misgiving, at the spot where the path met, at right angles, the broader stone walk

He was on the point of whistling softly the familiar refrain, when there was a rustle in the bushes behind him.

A rush, a sudden shock, and a pair of muscular hands were closed round his throat dragging him backwards.

But Christian stood like a rock. Quick as thought he seized the two wrists, which were small and flat, and

wrenched them apart. Then, stepping back with one foot in order to obtain surer leverage, he lifted his

assailant from the ground, swung him round, and literally let him fly into the moatwith a devout hope that

it might be Signor Bruno. The man hurtled through the darkness, without a cry or sound, and fell face

foremost into the water, five yards from the edge, throwing into the air a shower of spray.

Christian Vellacott was one of those men whose litheness is greater than their actual muscular force; but a

lithe man possesses greater powers of endurance than a powerful fellow whose muscles are more highly

developed. The exertion of lifting his assailant and swinging him away into the darkness was great, although

the man's weight was nothing very formidable, and Christian staggered back a few paces without, however,

actually losing his balance. At this moment two men sprang upon him from behind and dragged him to the

ground. He felt at once that this was a very different matter. Either of these two could have overpowered him

singly. Their thick arms encompassed him like the coils of a snake, and there was about their heavy woollen

clothing a faint odour of salt water. He knew that they were sailors. Recognising that it was of no avail, he

still fought on, as Englishmen do. One of the men had wound a large woollen scarf round his mouth, the

other was slowly but very surely succeeding in pinioning his arms. Then a third assailant came, and Christian

knew by the wet hand (for he used one arm only) that it was the smallest of the three, who had suffered for

"Quick, quick!" this man whispered in French. With his uninjured hand he twisted the scarf tighter and tighter

Still the Englishman struggled and writhed upon the ground, while the hard breathing of the two sailors

testified that it was no mean resistance. Suddenly the onearmed man loosened the scarf, but before Christian

could recover his breath a handkerchief was pressed over his lips, and a sweet pungent odour filled his

"Three to one," he gasped, and quite suddenly his head fell forward, while his clutch relaxed.

"He is a brave man," said the dripping leader of the attack, as he stood upright and touched his damaged

shoulder gently and tentatively. "Now quick to the carriage with him. You have not managed this well, my

The speaker raised his cold hand to his forehead, which was wet, less perhaps from past exertion than from

"But, monsieur," grumbled one of the sailors in humble self defence, "he is made of steel!"

The pale light of a grey dawn was stealing slowly up into the riven sky, lighting up the clouds which were

flying eastward on the shoulder of a boisterous wind. The heavy grey sea, heaving, surging, and hissing,

threw itself upwards into broken spray, which flew to leeward at a sharp angle, blown from the summit of the

wave like froth from an overfilled tankard. After a night of squally restlessness, accompanied by a driving

rain that tasted brackish, things had settled down with the dawn into a steady, roaring gale of wind. In the

growing light seagulls rose triumphantly with smooth breasts bravely facing the wind.

In the midst of this a dripping vessel laboured sorely. The green water rushed from side to side over her

slippery, filthy deck as she rolled, and carried with it a tangled mass of ropes, a wooden bucket, a capstan bar,

andominous signa soaking, limp fur cap. The huge boom, reaching nearly the whole length of the little

vessel, swung wildly from side to side as the yawl dipped her bulwarks to the receding wave. It was certain

death for a man to attempt to stand upright upon the sopping deck, for the huge spar swung shoulder high.

The steersman, crouching low by his strong tiller, was doing his best to avoid a clean sweep, but only a small

jib and the mizzen were standing with straining clews and gleaming seams. Crouching beneath the weather

bulwarks, with their feet wedged against the low combing of the hatch, three men were vainly endeavouring

to secure the boom, and to disentangle the clogged ropes. Two were huge fellows with tawny washedout

beards innocent of brush or comb, their faces were half hidden by rough sou'westers, and they were

enveloped from head to foot in oilskins from which the water ran in little rills. The third was Christian

Vellacott, who looked very wet indeed. The water was dripping from his cuffs and running down his face.

His black dress clothes were clinging to him with a soppy hindrance, while the feet firmly planted against

the combing of the hatch were encased in immaculate patentleather shoes, and the salt water ran off silk

socks. It would have been very funny if it were not that fortune invariably mingles her strokes of humour

most heedlessly with sadder things. Christian Vellacott was apparently unconscious of the humour of the

situation. He was working patiently and steadily, as men must needs work when fighting Nature, and his

halfforgotten seacraft was already coming back. Beneath his steady hands something akin to order was

slowly being achieved; he was coiling and disentangling the treacherous rope, of which the breaking had cast

Farther forward upon the hatch lay the limp body of a very big man. His matted head was bare, and the dead

brown face, turned upward to its Maker, jerked from side to side as the vessel heaved. The stalwart legs were

encased in greasy sea boots, deeply wrinkled, and the coils of a huge scarf of faded purple lay upon his

broad breast, where they had been dragged down by a hasty hand in order to see more clearly the still

At the dead man's side knelt upon the deck a small spare figure clad in black and wearing his left arm in a

sling. With his right hand he held a crucifix to the blue lips that would never breathe a prayer to the Virgin

again. The small mouth and refined features of the praying man were strangely out of keeping with his

tempestuous surroundings. Unmindful, however, of wind and waves alike, he knelt and prayed audibly. Each

lurch of the vessel threw him forward, so that, in order to save himself from falling, he was obliged to press

heavily upon the dead man's throat and breast; but this he heeded not. His girlish blue eyes were half closed

in an ecstasy of religious fervour, and the pale narrow face wore a light that was not reflected from sea or sky.

This was the man who had unhesitatingly attacked Vellacott, had dared to pit his small strength, more of

nerve than of muscle, against the young Englishman's hardened sinews. Violence in itself was most abhorrent

to him; it had no part in his nature; and consequently, by the strange tenets of Ignatius Loyola's disciples, he

was condemned to a course of it. Any objectionable duty, such as this removal of Vellacott, was immediately

assigned to him in the futile endeavour of subjecting the soul to the brain. A true Jesuit must have no nature

of his own and no individuality. He is simply a machine, with likes and dislikes, conscience and soul subject

to the will of his superior, whose mind is also under the same arbitrary control; and so on to the top. If at the

head there were God, it would be well; but man is there, and consequently the whole society is a gigantic

mistake. To be a sincere member of it, a man must be a halfwitted fool, a religious fanatic, or a rogue for

Ren� Drucquer, the man kneeling on the slimy deck, was as nearly a religious fanatic as his soft sweet nature

would allow. With greater bodily strength and attendant greater passions, he would have been a simple

monomaniac. In him the passion for selfdevotion was singularly strong, and contact with men had cooled it

Personally courageous, his bravery was of a high order, if the spirit of selfdevotion called it into existence.

In this his courage was more akin to that of women than of men. If duty drove him he would go where the

devil drags most people, and Ren� Drucquer was not by any means the first man or woman whose life has

When throwing himself upon Christian Vellacott, no thought of possible danger to his own person had

restrained or caused him a moment's hesitation. His blind faith in the righteousness of his cause was,

however, on the wane. This disciple of St. Ignatius might have lived a true and manly life three hundred years

earlier when his master trod the earth, but the march of intellect had trodden down the "Constitutions" years

before Ren� Drucquer came to study them. An ignoramus and a zealot who lived nearly four centuries ago

can be no guide or help to men of the present day, and this young priest was overshadowed by the saddest

While Christian Vellacott was assisting the sailors he glanced occasionally towards the kneeling priest, and

on the narrow intelligent face he read a truth that never was forgotten. He saw that Ren� Drucquer was

unconscious of his surroundingsunmindful of the fact that he was on board a disabled vessel at the mercy

of the wild wind. His whole being was absorbed in prayer: this priest remembered only that the soul of the

great, rough, disfigured man was winging its serene way to the land where no clouds are. Christian was not

an impressionable manjournalism had killed all thatnor, it is to be feared, did he devote much thought to

religion; but he recognised goodness when he met it. The young journalist's interest was aroused, and in that

trifling incident lay the salvation of the priest. From that small beginning came the gleam of light that was to

Chance had capriciously ruled that the hand that had dislocated the Abb�'s arm should set it again, and the

dead sailor lying on the sticky, tarred hatchcover had helped. The "patron" of the boat, for he it was whose

head had been smashed by the spar, had held the priest's trembling, swollen shoulder while Christian's steady

hands gave the painful jerk required to slip the joint back into its socket. The great coarse lips which had

trembled a little, with a true Frenchman's sympathy for suffering, were now blue and drawn; the stout tender

The priest prayed on, while the men worked near at hand seeking to restore order, and to repair the damages

made by sea and wind. They had got over their sullen, native shyness on finding that Christian could speak

French like the Abb� and was almost as good a sailor as themselves. One offered him a rough blue jersey,

while another placed a goldembroidered Sunday waistcoat at his disposal, with a visible struggle between

kindness of heart and economy. The first was accepted, but the waistcoat was given back with a kind laugh

The Englishman knew too well with whom he was dealing to harbour any illfeeling against the ignorant

fishermen or even towards the Abb� Drucquer for the rough treatment he had received. The former were

poor, and money never was beaten by a scruple in open combat yet. The latter, he rightly presumed, was only

obeying a mandate he dared not dispute. The authority was to him Divine, the command came from one

whom he had sworn to look up to and obey as the earthly representative of his Master.

At length the deck was cleared, and order reigned on board, though the mainsail could not be set until the

"Monsieur, let us carry the `patron' down below. It is not right for the dead to lie there in this wind and

"I am willing," answered Christian, looking towards the spot where the dead man lay.

"Perhaps Monsieur will speak toto the Abb�. It is that we do not like to disturb him in prayer."

"I will do so," he said gravely. Then he crawled across the deck and touched Ren� Drucquer's shoulder. The

Christian guessed at the words, for in the tumult of the gale he could not hear them.

Then for the first time did the priest appear to remember that this was not one of the sailors.

"I beg your pardon," he said, rising from his knees. "You are right; it is better. But I am afraid the men will

"I will help you," said Christian simply, "and that man also, I think, because he proposed it."

With a motion of the head he indicated Hoel Grall, upon whom the command of the little vessel had now

devolved. The man was better educated than his companions, and spoke French fluently, but in the Breton

character superstition is so deeply rooted that generations of education will scarcely eradicate it.

The priest looked into the Englishman's face with a gentle wonder in his eyes, which were shadowy with the

fervour of his recent devotions. The two men were crouching low upon the deck, grasping the black rail with

It was the first time they had seen each other face to face in open daylight, and their eyes met quietly and

searchingly as they swayed from side to side with the heavy lurching of the ship. The Englishman spoke first.

"You must leave it to us," he said calmly. "You could do nothing in this heavy sea with your one arm!"

The gentle blue eyes were again filled with wonder, and presently the priest's intellectual face relaxed into a

Christian did not hear this remark. He had turned away to call Grall towards him, and was about to move

"Tell me," continued Ren� Drucquer quickly, as if in doubt, "are you Christian Vellacott?"

The priest looked relieved, and at the same time he appeared to be making an effort to restrain himself, as if

he had been betrayed into a greater show of feeling than was desirable. When he at length spoke in reply to

the Englishman's obvious desire for some explanation of the strange question, his voice was singularly cold,

and modulated in such a manner as to deprive it of any expression, while his eyes were fixed on the deck.

Christian looked down at him with straightforward keenness, and he saw the priest's eyelids move uneasily

beneath his gaze. Mixing with many men as he had done, he had acquired a certain mental sureness of touch,

like that of an artist with his brush when he has handled many subjects and many effects. He divined that

Ren� Drucquer had been led to expect a violent headstrong man, and he could not restrain a smile as he

"At present it is a matter of saving the ship, and our lives. My own affairs can wait, but when this gale is over

BEYOND this one allusion to their respective positions, Christian was silent regarding his captivity. After the

gale subsided the weather took a turn for the better, and clear skies by day and night rendered navigation an

With characteristic daring the young Englishman had decided to offer no resistance and to seize no

opportunities of escape until the termination of the voyage. The scheme halfformed within his mind was to

see the voyage through, and effect his escape soon after landing in France. It was not without a certain

adventurous fascination, and in the meantime there was much to interest him in his surroundings. If this

young Abb� was a typical member of the Society of Jesus, he was worth studying. If this simplicity was an

acquired cloak to deeper thought, it was worth penetrating, and if the man's entire individuality had been

submerged in the mysterious system followed in the College of Jesuits, it was no waste of time to seek for the

The more the two young men saw of each other the closer grew their intimacy, and with growing intimacy

To the frail and nervous priest this young Englishman was a new experience; his vitality and calm

straightforward manner of speech were such as the Abb� had never met with before. Such men and better

men there were and are in the Society of Jesus, otherwise the power of the great Order would not be what it

is; but Ren� Drucquer had never come in contact with them. According to the wonderful code of laws laid

down by its great founder (who, in other circumstances, might have prepared the world for the coming of

such a man as Napoleon the First), the education of the young is entrusted to such brethren as are of slower

parts; and from these honest, but by no means intelligent, men the young Abb� had learnt his views upon

mankind in general. The creed they taught without understanding it themselves was that no man must give

way to natural impulses; that he must restrain and quell and quench himself into a machine, without

individuality or impulse, without likes or dislikes; that he must persistently perform such duties as are

abhorrent to him, eat such food as nauseates him, and submit to the dictates of such men as hate him. And

these, forsooth, are the teachings of one who, in his zealous shortsightedness, claims to have received his

Ren� Drucquer found himself in the intimate society of a man who said what he thought, acted as he

conceived best, and held himself responsible, for word or deed, to none on earth. It was his first mission after

a long and rigorous training. This was the first enemy of the Holy Church against whom he had been sent to

fight, armed with the immeasurable power of the greatest brotherhood the world has ever known, protected

by the shadow of its blessing; and there was creeping into the young priest's heart a vague and terrible

suspicion that there might be two sides to the question. All the careful years of training, all the invisible

meshes of the vast net that had been gathering its folds round him since he had first donned the dress of a

Probationer of the College of Jesuits, were powerless to restrain the flight of a pure and guileless heart to the

height of truth. Despite the countless onesided and ingenious arguments instilled into his eager young mind

in guise of mental armour against the dangers of the world, Ren� Drucquer found himself, at the very first

contact with the world, unconvinced that he was fighting upon the righteous side.

Brest had been left behind in a shimmering blue haze. Ahead lay the grim Pointe de Raz, with its short,

thickset lighthouse facing the vast Atlantic. Out to sea, in the fading glory of sunset, lay the long, low

IledeSein, while here and there black rocks peeped above the water. The man holding the tiller was a

sardine fisher, to whom every rock, every ripple of these troubled waters was familiar. Fearlessly he guided

the yawl close round by the high cliffthe westernmost point of Europe but with the sunset the wind had

dropped and the sails hung loosely, while the broad bows glided onwards with no sound of parted water.

The long Atlantic roll was swinging lazily in, and the yawl rose to it sleepily, with a long, slow movement.

The distant roar of the surf upon the Finisterre coast rose in the peaceful atmosphere like a lullaby. The holy

calm of sunset, the hush of lowering night, and the presence of the only man who had ever drawn him with

the strange, unaccountable bond that we call sympathy, moved the heart of the young priest as it had never

For the first time he spoke of himself. The solitary heart suddenly broke through the restraining influence of a

mistaken education, and unfolded its sad story of a misread existence. Through no fault of his own, by no

relaxation of supervising care on the part of his teachers, the Jesuit had run headlong into the very danger

which his Superior had endeavoured to avoid. He had formed a friendship. Fortunately the friend was a man,

"I should think," he said musingly, "that no two lives have ever been so widely separated as yours and mine,

Vellacott took the cigarette from his lips. It was made of a vile tobacco, called "Petit Caporal," but there was

nothing better to be had, and he was in the habit of making the best of everything. Therefore he blew into the

air a spiral column of thin blue smoke with a certain sense of enjoyment before replying. He also was looking

across the glassy expanse of water, but his gaze was steady and thoughtful, while his companion's eyes were

dreamy and almost vacant. The light shone full upon his face, and a physicianor a motherwould have

noticed, perhaps, that there was beneath his eyes a dull shadow, while his lips were dry and somewhat drawn.

"Yes," he said at length, with grave sympathy, "we have drifted together like two logs in a torrent."

The young priest changed his position, drawing in one leg and clasping his hands round his knee. The

movement caused his long black garment to fall aside, displaying the dark purple stockings and rough shoes.

The hands clasped round his knee were long and white, with peculiarly flat wrists.

"One log," he said vaguely, "was bound for a certain goal, the other was drifting."

Vellacott turned slowly and glanced at his companion's face. The smoke from the bad cigarette drifted past

their heads to windward. He was not sure whether the priest was speaking from a professional point of view,

with reference to heresy and the unknown goal to which all heretics are drifting, or not. Had Ren� Drucquer

been a good Jesuit, he would have seen this opportunity of saying a word in season. But this estimable desire

"Your life," he continued in a monotone, "is already mapped outlike the voyage of a ship traced across a

Vellacott continued to smoke for some moments in silence. He sat with his long legs stretched out in front of

him, his back against the rail, and his rough blue jersey wrinkled up so that he could keep one hand in his

pocket. The priest turned to look at him with a sudden fear that his motives might be misread. Vellacott

"I think it is best," he said, "not to think too much about it. From what experience I have had, I have come to

the humiliating conclusion that men have very little to do with the formation of their own lives. A

shipcaptain may sit down and mark his course across the chart with the greatest accuracy, the most profound

knowledge of wind and current, and the keenest foresight; but that will have very little effect upon the actual

"But," argued the priest in a low voice, "is it not better to have an end in viewto have a certain aim, and a

Christian smoked meditatively. A month ago he would have said "Yes" without a moment's hesitation.

"And you know it, I think," added the priest slowly. He was perfectly innocent of any desire to extract details

of his companion's life from unwilling lips, and Christian knew it. He was convinced that, whatever part Ren�

Drucquer had attempted to play in the past, he was sincere at that moment, and he divined that the young

Jesuit was weakly giving way to a sudden desire to speak to some fellowbeing of his own lifeto lay aside

the strict reserve demanded by the tenets of the Society to which he was irrevocably bound. In his superficial

way, Christian Vellacott had studied men as well as letters, and he was not ignorant of the influence exercised

over the human mind by such trifling circumstances as moonshine upon placid water, distant music, the

solemn hush of eventide, or the subtle odour of a beloved flower. If Ren� Drucquer was on the point of

committing a great mistake, he at least would not urge him on towards it, so he smoked in silence, looking

The priest laughed a little short deprecating laugh, in which there was no shadow of mirth.

"I have not," he said, rubbing his slim hands together, palm to palm, slowly, "andI know it."

The priest shook his head with a little smile, which was infinitely sadder than tears. His cold silence was

worse than an outburst of grief; it was like the keen frost that comes before snow, harder to bear than the

snow itself. Presently he moved slightly towards his companion so that their arms were touching, and in his

"My friend," he said, intertwining his fingers, which were very restless, "no man can be the worse for hearing

the story of another man's life. Before you judge of me, listen to what my life has been. I have never known a

friend or relation. I have never had a boy companion. Since the age of thirteen, when I was placed under the

care of the holy fathers, I have never spoken to a woman. I have been taught that life was given us to be spent

in prayer; to study, to train ourselves, and to follow in the footsteps of the blessed Saint Ignatius. But how are

we who have only lived half a life, to imitate him, whose youth and middleage were passed in one of the

most vicious courts of Europe before he thought of turning to holy things? How are we, who are buried in an

atmosphere of mystic religion, to cope with sin of which we know nothing, and when we are profoundly

ignorant of its evil results? These things I know now, but I did not suspect them when I was in the college.

There, all manliness, and all sense of manly honour were suppressed and insidiously forbidden. We were

taught to be spies upon each other, to cringe servilely to our superiors, and to deal treacherously with such as

were beneath us. Hypocrisyinnate, unfathomable hypocrisywas instilled into our minds so cunningly

that we did not recognise it. Every movement of the head or hands, every glance of the eyes, and every word

from the lips was to be the outcomenot of our own heartsbut of a law laid down by the General himself.

It simply comes to this: we are not men at all, but machines carefully planned and fitted together, so as to

render sin almost an impossibility. When tempted to sin we are held back, not by the fear of God, but by the

thought that discovery is almost certain, and that the wrath of our Superior is withheld by no scruple of

human kindness. . . . But remember, I knew nothing of this before I took my vows. To me it was a glorious

career. I became an enthusiast. At last the time came when I was eligible; I offered myself to the Society, and

was accepted. Then followed a period of hard work; I learnt Spanish and Italian, giving myself body and soul

to the work. Even the spies set to watch me day and night, waking and sleeping, feeding and fasting, could

but confess that I was sincere. One day the Provincial sent for me my mission had come. I was at last to go

forth into the world to do the work of my Master. Trembling with eagerness I went to his room; the

Provincial was a young man with a beautiful face, but it was like the face of the dead. There was no colour,

no life, no soul, no heart in it. He spoke in a low measured voice that had neither pity nor love.

"When that door closed behind me an hour later the scales had fallen from my eyes. I began to suspect that

this great edifice, built not of stones but of men's hearts, was nothing less than an unrighteous mockery. With

subtle doublemeaning words, the man whom I had been taught to revere as the authorised representative of

Our Lord, unfolded to me my duties in the future. The work of God, he called it; and to do this work he

The young Englishman sat and listened with increasing interest. His cigarette had gone out long before.

"And," he said presently, in his quiet reassuring voice, which seemed to infer that no difficulty in life was

quite insurmountable"And, if you did not know it then, how have you learnt it now?"

"From you, my friend," replied the priest, earnestly, "from you and from these rough sailors. They, at least,

Christian Vellacott made no answer. He knew that what his companion said was true. Unconsciously, and

with no desire to do so, he had opened this young zealot's eyes to what a man's life may be. The tale was

infinitely sad, but with characteristic promptitude the journalist was already seeking a remedy without

Presently Ren� Drucquer's quick, painful tones broke the silence again, and he continued his story.

"He told me," he said, "that in times gone by we had ruled the Roman Catholic world invisibly from the

recesses of kings' cabinets and queens' boudoirs. That now the power has left us, but that the Order is as firm

as ever, nearly as rich, and quite as intelligent. It lies like a huge mill, perfect but idle, waiting for the grist

that will never come to be crushed between its ruthless wheels. He told me that the sway over kings and

princes has lapsed with the growth of education, but that we hold still within our hands a lever of greater

power, though the danger of wielding it is proportionately greater to those who would use it. This power is

the People. Before us lies a course infinitely more perilous than the sinuous paths trodden by the first

followers of St. Ignatius as they advanced towards power. It lies on the troubled waters; it leads over the

Again the priest ceased speaking. There was a strange thrill of foreboding in his voice, which, however, had

never been raised above a monotone. The two men sat side by side, as still as the dead. They gazed vacantly

into the golden gates of the west, and each in his own way thought over these things. Assuredly the Angel of

Silence hung over that little vessel then, for no sound from earth or sea or sky came to wake those two

"This," he said, "has not been learnt in two days. You must have known it before. If you knew it, why are you

This was the bitterest drop in the priest's cup. Everything had been done of his own free willat his own

desire. During eleven years a network of perfidy had been cunningly woven around him, mesh after mesh,

day after day. As he grew older, so grew in strength the warp of the net. Thus, in the fulness of time,

everything culminated to the one great end in view. Nothing was demanded (for that is an essential rule),

everything must be offered freely, to be met by an apparently hesitating acceptance. Constant dropping wears

"But," said Vellacott, "you can surely represent to your Provincial that you are not fitted for the work put

"My friend," interrupted the priest, "we can represent nothing. We are supposed to have no natural

The Englishman looked at him for some seconds in the fading light. In his quick way he had already found a

remedy, and he was wondering whether he should propose it or hold his peace. He was not afraid of incurring

responsibility. The young Jesuit had appealed to him, and there was a way out of the difficulty. Christian felt

that things could not be made worse than they were. In a moment his mind was made up.

"As you know," he said, "the Society has few friends and a multitude of enemies. I am afraid I am an enemy;

but there is one redeeming point in the Jesuit record which we are all bound to recognise, and I recognise it

unhesitatingly. You have done more to convert the heathen than the rest of the Christian Church put together.

Whatever the motive has been, whatever the results have proved to be, the missionary work is unrivalled.

As he asked the question Christian glanced at his companion's face. He saw the sad eyes light up suddenly

with a glow that was not of this dull earth at all; he saw the thin pure face suddenly acquire a great and

wondrous peace. The young priest rose to his feet, and, crossing the deck, he stood holding with one hand to

the tarred rigging, his back turned towards the Englishman, looking over the still waters.

Presently he returned, and laying his thin hand upon Christian's shoulder, he said, "My friend, you have saved

me. In the first shock of my disillusion I never thought of this. I thinkI think there is work for me yet."

WITH the morning tide, the Deux Fr�res entered Audierne harbour. The rough sailors crossed themselves as

they looked towards the old wooden cross upon the headland, facing the great Atlantic. They thought of the

dead "patron" in the little cabin below, and the joyous young wife, whose snowy headdress they could

Both Christian Vellacott and the Abb� were on deck. They had been there the whole night. They had lain

motionless side by side upon the old sail. Day vanished, night stole on, and day came again without either

They now stood near the steersman, and looked upon the land with an interest which only comes after heavy

weather at sea. To the Englishman this little fishingport was unknown, and he did not care to ask. The vessel

was now dropping up the river, with anchor swinging, and the women on the pier were walking inland

slowly, keeping pace and waving a greeting from time to time in answer to a husband's shout.

"That is she, Monsieur L'Abb�," said Hoel Grall, with a peculiar twitch of his coarse mouth, as if from pain.

Ren� Drucquer bowed his head, saying nothing. The Deux Fr�res slowly edged alongside the old quay in her

usual berth above the sardine boats. A board was thrown across from the rail to the quay, and the priest

stepped ashore alone. He went towards the smiling young wife without any hesitation; she stood there

surrounded by the wives of the sailors on board the Deux Fr�res, with her snowy coiffe and spotless apron,

holding her golden haired child by the hand. All the women curtsied as the priest approached, for in these

"Ah, mon p�re," she said, "it is the season of the great winds now. What a long voyage it has been! And you

say it is a bad one. My husband is no doubt in despair, but another voyage is sure to be better; is it not so? I

have not seen Loic upon the deck, but then my sight is not good. I am not from Audierne, mon p�re, but from

The priest changed colour; no smile came into his face in response to hers. He stepped nearer, and placed his

"It has been a very bad voyage for your poor husband," he said. "The Holy Virgin give you comfort."

Slowly the colour vanished from the woman's round cheeks. Her soft shortsighted eyes filled with a terrible,

hopeless dismay as she stared at the young priest's bowed head. The women round now began to understand,

and they crossed themselves with a very human prayer of thankfulness that their husbands and brothers had

"Loic is dead?" she said, in a rasping voice. For some moments she stood motionless, then, in obedience to

some strange and unaccountable instinct, she began turning up the sleeves of her rough brown dress, as if she

"The Holy Virgin comfort you, my daughter; and you, my little one," said the priest, as he stooped to lay his

"That comes from having aught to do with the priests," muttered the customs officer, beneath his heavy

moustache. He was an old soldier, who read the newspapers, and spoke in a loud voice on Sunday evenings

The Abb� heard the remark, and looked at the man, but said nothing. He remembered that no Jesuit must

The girlwidow stepped on board the untidy vessel in a mechanical dreamy way. She dragged the little

trotting child almost roughly after her. Christian Vellacott stood at the low cabindoor. He was in the dress of

a Probationer of the Society of Jesus, which he had assumed at the request, hesitatingly made, of Ren�

Drucquer, and for the very practical reason that he had nothing else to wear except a torn dresscoat and Hoel

"Much good will a blessing of mine do you, little one," he muttered in English. Nevertheless, he lifted the

child up and kissed her rosy cheek. He kept her by his side, letting the mother go to her dead husband alone.

When the woman came from the cabin halfanhour later, hardfaced, and with dry, stony eyes, she found

the child sitting on Christian's knee, prattling away in broken French. Tears came to her aching eyes at the

sight of the happy, fatherless child; the hard Breton heart was touched at last.

The Abb�'s instructions were to keep his prisoner confined under lock and key in the cabin until nightfall,

when he was to be removed inland in a carriage under the surveillance of two laybrethren. Christian,

however, never for a moment doubted his ability to escape when he wished to do so, and acting upon this

conviction he volunteered a promise not to attempt evasion. Dressed as he was, in the garments of a

probationer, there was no necessity of awaiting nightfall, as there was nothing unusual about him to attract

attention. Accordingly the departure from the Deux Fr�res was fixed for midday. In the meantime the young

Englishman found himself the object of unremitting attention on the part of two smoothfaced individuals

who looked like domestic servants. These two men had come on board at the same moment that the Abb�

stepped ashore, and Christian noticed that no word of greeting or recognition passed between them and Ren�

Drucquer. This was to him a further proof of the minuteness of organisation which has characterised the

Order since Ignatius Loyola wrote down his wonderful "Constitutions," in which no trifle was too small to be

unworthy of attention, no petty dramatic effect devoid of significance. Each man appeared to have received

In the meantime, however, the journalist had not been wasting his time. Although he still looked upon the

whole affair as a very good farce, he had not forgotten the fact that his absence must necessarily have been

causing endless anxiety in England. During the long night of wakefulness he had turned over in his mind

every possible event at St. Mary Western since his sudden disappearance. Again and again he found himself

wondering how they would all take it, and his conclusions were remarkably near to the truth. He guessed that

Mr. Bodery would, sooner or later, be called in to give his opinion, and he sincerely hoped that the course

taken would be the waiting tactics which had actually been proposed by the editor of the "Beacon."

In this hope he determined to communicate with Sidney Carew, and having possessed himself of a blank

Customs Declaration Form he proceeded to write a letter upon the reverse side of it. In this he told his friend

to have no anxiety, and, above all, to institute no manner of search, because he would return to England as

soon as his investigations were complete. The letter was written in guarded language, because Christian had

arrived at the conclusion that the only means he had of despatching it was through the hands of Ren�

Drucquer. The crew of the Deux Fr�res were not now allowed to speak with him. He possessed no money,

and it would have been folly to attempt posting an unstamped letter addressed to England in a little place like

Accordingly, as they were preparing to leave the vessel (the care of poor Loic having been handed over to the

"Read it yourself," urged Christian. "No harm can possibly come of it. My friend will do exactly as I tell him.

Still the Jesuit shook his head. Suddenly, however, in the midst of an argument on the part of the Englishman,

Christian watched him place the letter within the breast of his "soutane," unread. The two laybrethren were

Presently the priest removed his broadbrimmed hat and passed through the little doorway into the

dimlylighted cabin where the dead sailor lay. He left the door ajar. After glancing at the dead man's still face

he fell upon his knees by the side of the low bunk, and remained with bowed head for some moments. At last

he rose to his feet and took the Englishman's letter from his breast. The envelope was unclosed, and with

smooth, deliberate touch he opened the letter and read it by the light of the candle at the dead man's head, of

which the rays were to illuminate the wandering soul upon its tortuous way. The priest read each word slowly

and carefully, for his knowledge of English was limited. Then he stood for some seconds motionless, with

arms hanging straight, staring at the flame of the candle with weary, wondering eyes. At last he raised his

hand and held the flimsy paper in the flame of the candle till it was all burnt away. The charred remains

fluttered to the ground, and one wavering flake of carbonised paper sank gently upon the dead man's throat,

"He said that I was not a Jesuit," murmured the priest, as he burnt the envelope, and across his pale face there

Scarcely had the thin smoke mingled with the incenseladen air when Christian pushed open the door. The

two men looked their last upon the rigid face dimly illuminated by the light of the wavering candles, and then

The carriage was waiting for them on the quay, and Christian noticed that the two men who had been

watching him since his arrival at Audierne were on the box. Ren� Drucquer and himself were invited to enter

the roomy vehicle, and by the way in which the door shut he divined that it was locked by a spring.

At the village postoffice the carriage stopped, and, one of the servants having opened the door, the priest

descended and passed into the little bureau. He said nothing about the letter addressed to Sidney Carew, but

Christian took for granted that it would be posted. Instead of this, however, the priest wrote a telegram

announcing the arrival of the Deux Fr�res, which he addressed to "Morel et Fils, Merchants, Quimper."

"Hoel Grall asked me to despatch this," he said, quietly, as he handed the paper to the old postmaster.

After this short halt the carriage made its way rapidly inland. Thus they travelled through the fair Breton

country together, these two strangelycontrasting men brought together by a chain of circumstances of which

the links were the merest coincidences. Christian Vellacott did not appear to chafe against his confinement.

He took absolutely no notice of the two men whose duty it was to watch his every movement. The spirit of

adventure, which is not quite educated out of us Englishmen yet, was very strong in him, and the rapid

movement through an unknown land to an unknown goal was not without its healthy fascination. He lay back

in the comfortable carriage and sleepily watched the flying landscape. Withal he noticed by the position of

the sun the direction in which he was being taken, and despite many turns and twists he kept his bearings

fairly well. The carriage had left the high road soon after crossing the bridge above Audierne, and was now

The sun had set before Vellacott awoke to find that they were still lumbering on. He had, of course, lost all

bearing now, but he soon found that they had been journeying eastward since leaving the coast.

A halt was made for refreshment at a small hillside village which appeared to be mainly inhabited by women,

for the men were all sailors. The accommodation was of the poorest, but bread was procurable, and eggs,

In the lowering light they journeyed on again, sometimes on the broad postroad, sometimes through cool

and sombre forests. Many times when Christian spoke kindly, or performed some little act of consideration,

the poor Abb� was on the point of disclosing his own treason. Before his eyes was the vision of that little

cabin. He saw again the dancing flame of the paper in his hand, throwing its moving light upon the marble

features of that silent witness as the charred fragments fluttered past the still face to the ground. But as the

stone is worn by the dropping water, so at last is man's better nature overcome by persistent undermining

when the work is carried out by men chosen as possessing "a mind selfpossessed and tranquil, delicate in its

perceptions, sure in its intuitions, and capable of a wide comprehension of various subjects." What youthful

nature could be strong enough to resist the cunning pressure of influences wielded thus? So Ren� Drucquer

Man is, after all, only fallible, and those to whom is given the privilege of accepting or refusing candidates

for admission to the great Society of Jesus had made a fatal error in taking Ren� Drucquer. Never was a man

more unfitted to do his duty in that station of life in which he was placed. His religious enthusiasm stopped

short of fanaticism; his pliability would not bend so low as duplicity. All this the young journalist learnt as he

penetrated further into the sensitive depths of his companion's gentle temperament. The priest was of those

men to whom love and brotherly affection are as necessary as the air they breathe. His wavering instincts

were capable of being hardened into convictions; his natural gifts (and they were many) could be raised into

talents; his life, in fact, could have been made a success by one influencethe love of a womanthe one

influence that was forbidden: the single human acquirement that must for ever be beyond the priest's reach.

This Christian Vellacott felt in a vague, uncertain way. He did not know very much about love and its

influence upon a man's character, these questions never having come under his journalistic field of inquiry;

but he had lately begun to wonder whether man's life was given to him to be influenced by no other thoughts

than those in his own brainwhether there is not in our existence a completing era in the development of

Looking at the matter from his own personal point of view from whence even the best of us look upon

most thingshe was of the opinion that love stands in the path of the majority of men. This had been his

view of the matter for many years; probably it was the reflection of his father's cynically outspoken opinion,

Brought up, as he had been, by a pleasureseeking and somewhat cynical man, and passing from his care into

the busy and practical journalistic world, it was only natural that he should have acquired a certain hardness

of judgment which, though useful in the world, is not an amiable quality. He now felt the presence of a

dawning charity towards the actions of his fellow men. A month earlier he would have despised Ren�

Drucquer as a weak and incapable man; now there was in his heart only pity for the young priest.

Soon after darkness had settled over the country the carriage descended into a deep and narrow valley

through which ran a rapid river of no great breadth. Here the driver stopped, and the two travellers descended

from the vehicle. The priest exchanged a few words in a low voice with one of the servants who had leapt

The Englishman obeyed, and leaving the road they turned along a broad pathway running at the ride of the

water. Christian noticed that they were going upstream. Presently they reached a cottage, and a woman

came from the open doorway at their approach. Without any greeting or word of welcome she led the way

down some wooden steps to the ferryboat. As she rowed them across, the journalist took note of everything

in his quick, keen way. The depth of the water, rapidity of current, and even the fact that the boat woman was

On landing, they followed another small path for some distance, downstream, It was a quiet mossgrown

path, with poplar trees on either side, and appeared to be little used. Suddenly the young priest stopped. There

was the trunk of an elmtree lying on the inside of the path, evidently cut for the purpose of making a rough

"My friend," he said, presently, "a few minutes more and my care of you ceases. This journey will be over.

For me it has been very eventful. In these few days I have learnt more than I did during all the long years of

my education, and what I have learnt will never be forgotten. Without breathing one word of religion you

have taught me to respect yours; without uttering a single complaint you have made me think with horror and

shame of the part I have played in this affair. I dare . . . scarcely hope that one day you will forgive me!"

Christian raised his hand slowly to his forehead. The gleam of the sleek, smooth water flowing past his feet

made him giddy. He wondered vaguely if the strange, dull feeling that was creeping over his senses was the

The priest did not answer for some moments. His slim hands were tightly clasped upon his knees.

"It is probable," he said at length, "that such will be the case. If our friendship is discovered it is certain!"

"A little duplicity, more or less, cannot matter much," replied Christian, in a harder voice.

The priest looked up sharply, half fearing that his own treachery in the matter of the letter was suspected. But

his companion remained silent, and the darkness prevented the expression of his face from being seen.

There was a peculiar ring of weary indifference in his tone, as if it mattered little where he was left. The

"I cannot prevent the thoughts from coming into my mind," replied the priest gently, "but I can keep them

He rose suddenly, and led the way along the river bank. Had Christian's manner been more encouraging he

As they passed along the narrow footpath, the dim form of a man rose from behind the log of wood upon

which they had been sitting. It was one of the lay brethren who had accompanied them from Audierne.

Contrary to Ren� Drucquer's whispered instructions, he had followed them after quitting the carriage, and had

crept up behind the poplars unheard and unsuspected. He came, however, too late. Unconsciously, Christian

WHEN they had walked about a hundred yards farther on, the footpath was brought to a sudden termination

by a house built across it to the water's edge. In this lay the explanation of its scanty use and luxuriant growth

It was not a dark night, and without difficulty the priest found the handle of a bell, of which, however, no

sound reached their ears. The door, cut deep in the stone, was opened after a short delay by a lay brother who

showed no signs of rigid fasting. Again Christian noticed that no greeting was exchanged, no word of

explanation offered or expected. The lay brother led the way along a dimlylighted corridor, in which there

were doors upon each side at regular intervals. There was a chill and stony feeling in the atmosphere.

At the end of the corridor a gleam of light shone through a halfopen door upon the bare stone floor. Into this

cell Christian was shown. Without even noticing whether the priest followed him or not, he entered the tiny

room, and threw himself wearily upon the bed. Although it was an intensely hot night he shivered a little, and

as he lay he clasped his head with either hand. His eyes were dull and lifeless, and the colour had entirely left

his cheeks, though his lips were red and moist. He took no notice of his surroundings, which, though simple

In the meantime, Ren� Drucquer had followed the doorkeeper up a broad flight of stairs to a second corridor

which was identical with that below, except that a room took the place of the small entrancelobby and broad

door. Thus the windows of this room were immediately above the river, which rendered them entirely free

The lay brother stopped in front of the door of this apartment, and allowed the young priest to pass him and

knock at the door with his own hands. The response from within was uttered in such a low tone that if he had

not been listening most attentively Ren� would not have heard it. He opened the door, which creaked a little

In front of him a man dressed in a black soutane was seated at a table placed before the window. The only

lamp in the room, which was long and narrow, stood on the table before him, so that the light of it was

reflected from his sleek black head disfigured by a tiny tonsure. As Ren� Drucquer advanced up the room, the

occupant raised his head slightly, but made no attempt to turn round. With a quick, unobtrusive movement of

his large white hand he moved the papers on the table before him, so that no written matter remained exposed

to view. Upon the table were several books, and on the righthand side of the plain inkstand stood a

beautifully carved stone crucifix, while upon the left there was a small mirror no larger than a carte

devisite. This was placed at a slight angle upon a tiny wire easel, and by raising his eyes any person seated

at the table could at once see what was passing in the room behind himthe entire apartment, including the

Though seated, the occupant of this peculiarly constructed room was evidently tall. His shoulders, though

narrow, were very square, and in any other garment than a thin soutane his slightness of build would scarcely

have been noticeable. His head was of singular and remarkable shape. Very narrow from temple to temple, it

was quite level from the summit of the high forehead to the spot where the tonsure gleamed whitely, and the

length of the skull from front to back was abnormal. The dullest observer could not have failed to recognise

The Abb� Drucquer advanced across the bare stone floor, and took his stand at the left side of the table,

Before taking any notice of him, the Provincial opened a thick book bound in dark morocco leather, of which

the leaves were of white unruled paper, interleaved, like a diary, with blottingpaper. The pages were

numbered, although there was, apparently, no index attached to the volume. After a moment's thought, the

tall man turned to a certain folio which was partially covered by a fine handwriting in short paragraphs. Then

"Good evening," he said, in full melodious voice. As he raised his face the light of the lamp fell directly upon

it. There was evidently no desire to conceal any passing expression by the stale old method of a shaded lamp.

The face was worthy of the head. Cleancut, calm, and dignified; it was singularly fascinating, not only by

reason of its beauty, which was undeniable, but owing to the calm, almost superhuman power that lay in the

gaze of the velvety eyes. There was no keenness of expression, no quickness of glance, and no seeking after

effect by mobility of lash or lid. When he raised his eyes, the lower lid was elevated simultaneously, which

peculiarity, concealing the white around the pupil, imparted an uncomfortable sense of inscrutability. There

was no expression beyond a vague sense of velvety depth, such as is felt upon gazing for some space of time

"Good evening," replied Ren� Drucquer, meeting with some hesitation the slow, kindly glance.

The Provincial leant forward and took from the tray of the inkstand a quill pen. With the point of it he

"I understand," he said, in a modulated and businesslike tone, "that you have been entirely successful?"

The Provincial turned his head slightly, as if about to raise his eyes once more to the young priest's face, but

after remaining a moment in the same position with slightly parted lips and the pen poised above the book, he

"You left," he continued, "on Monday week last. On the Wednesday evening you . . . carried out the

instructions given to you. This morning you arrived at Audierne, and came into the harbour at daybreak. Your

part has been satisfactorily performed. You have brought your prisoner with all expedition. So" here the

Provincial raised the pen from the book with a jerk of his wrist and shrugged his shoulders almost

Although there was a distinct intention of interrogation in the tone in which this last satisfactory statement

was made, the young priest stood motionless and silent. After a pause, the other continued in the same kind,

"The `patron' of the boat, Loic Plufer, was killed by the breaking of a rope, before we were out of sight of the

"Ah! I am sorry. Had you timewere you enabled to administer to him the Holy Rites?"

The Provincial laid aside his pen and leant back. His soft eyes rested steadily on the book in front of him.

"I think not," was the reply. "I endeavoured to prevent such effect arising, andand in this the Englishman

Without moving a muscle the Provincial turned his eyes towards the young priest. He did not look up into his

face, but appeared to be watching his slim hands, which were moving nervously upon the surface of his black

"My son," he said, smoothly. "As you know, I am a great advocate for frankness. Frankness in word and

thought, in subordinate and superior. I have always been frank with you, and from you I expect similar

treatment. It appears to me that there is still something unsatisfactory respecting your successfullyexecuted

Ren� Drucquer moved a little, changing his attitude and clasping his hands one over the other.

"No," said the Provincial, meditatively. "They are a strange race. Some of them are strongvery strong

indeed. But most of them are foolish; and singularly selfsatisfied. He is intelligent, this one; is it not so?"

For some moments the Provincial thought deeply. Then he waved his hand in the direction of a chair which

"Take a seat, my son," he said, "I have yet many questions to ask you. I am afraid I forgot that you might be

"Now tell me," he continued when Ren� had seated himself, "Do you think this indifference was assumed by

"We were naturally thrown together a great deal; especially after the death of the `patron.' He was of great

assistance to me and to Hoel Grall, the second in command, by reason of his knowledge of seamanship."

A further note was here added to the partiallyfilled page of the manuscript book.

"Of what subjects did he speak? Of religion, our Order, politics, himself and his captivity?"

The Provincial leant back suddenly in his chair, and for some minutes complete silence reigned in the room.

He was evidently thinking deeply, and his eyes were fixed upon the open book with inscrutable immobility.

Once he glanced slowly towards Ren� Drucquer, who sat with downcast eyes and interlocked fingers. Then

he pressed back his elbows and inhaled a deep breath, as if weary of sitting in one position.

"I have met Englishmen," he said, speculatively, "of a type similarI thinkto this man. They never spoke

of religion, of themselves or of their own opinion; and yet they were not silent men. Upon most subjects they

could converse intelligently, and upon some with brilliancy; but these subjects were invariably treated in a

strictly general sense. Such men never argue, and never appear to be highly interested in that of which they

happen to be speaking. . . . They make excellent listeners. . . ." Here the speaker stopped for a moment and

passed his long hand downwards across his eyes as if the light were troubling his sight; in doing so he

glanced again towards the Abb�'s fingers, which were now quite motionless, the knuckles gleaming like

". . . And one never knows quite how much they remember and how much they forget. Perhaps it is that they

"It is such men as he who have made that little island what it is. They are difficult subjects; but they are liable

to sacrifice their opportunities to a mistaken creed they call honour, and therefore they are not such dangerous

The Provincial said these words in a lighter manner, almost amounting to pleasantry, and did not appear to

"Then," he continued, "you have learnt nothing of importance during the few days you have passed with

The Provincial leant forward in his chair and took a pen in his right hand, while he extended his left across

The Provincial examined the point of his pen critically, his perfectlyformed lips slightly apart.

"Yes," he murmured, reflectively. "Yes, of course, you had discretion. What was in the letter?"

"A few words in English, telling his friends to have no anxiety, and asking them particularly to institute no

The Provincial made another note in the manuscript book. Then he read the whole page over carefully and

critically. His attitude was like that of a physician about to pronounce a diagnosis.

"And," he said, reflectively, without looking up, "was there nothing noticeable about him in any way?

Nothing characteristic of the man, I mean, and peculiar. How would you describe him, in fact?"

"I should say," replied Ren� Drucquer, "that his chief characteristic is energy; but for some reason, during

these last two days this seems to have slowly evaporated. His resistance on Wednesday night was very

energetiche dislocated my arm, and reset it laterand when the vessel was in danger he was full of life.

Later this peculiar indifference of manner came over him, and hour by hour it has increased in power. It

The Provincial raised his long white finger to his upper lip. It was the action of a man who is in the habit of

tugging gently at his moustache when in thought, and one would almost have said that the smoothfaced

priest had at no very distant period worn that manly ornament. His finger passed over the shaded skin with a

"That does not sound very likely," he said slowly. "Have you any tangible reason to offer in support of this

"No, my father. But the idea came to me, and so I mention it. It seemed as if this desire came to him upon

reflection, after the ship was out of danger, and the indifference was contemporaneous with it."

"Thank you, my son!" he said, in smooth, heartless tones, "I will not trouble you any more tonight. You will

Ren� Drucquer rose and gravely passed down the long room. Before he reached the door, however, the clear

"As you go down to the refectory," he said, "kindly make a request that Mr. Vellacott be sent to me as soon

When the door had closed behind Ren� Drucquer the Provincial rose from his seat and slowly paced

backwards and forwards from the door to the table. Presently he drew aside the curtain which hid a small

recess near the door, where a simple bed and a small table were concealed. With a brush he smoothed back

his sleek hair, and, dipping the ends of his fingers into a basin of water, he wiped them carefully. Thus he

He returned to his chair and seated himself somewhat wearily. Although there were but few papers on the

table, he had three hours' hard work before him yet. He leant back, and again that singular gesture, as if to

"I have a dull presentiment," he muttered reflectively, "that we have made a mistake here. We have gone

about it in the wrong way, and if there is blame to be attached to anyone, Talma is the man. That temper of

After a pause he heaved a weary sigh, and stretched his long arms out on either side, enjoying a free and open

"Ah me!" he sighed, "what an uphill fight this has become, and day by day it grows harder. Day by day we

lose power; one hold after another slips from our grasp. Perhaps it means that this vast organisation is

effeteperhaps, after all, we are dying of inanition, and yetyet it should not be, for we have the people

still. . . . Ah! I hear footsteps. This is our journalistic friend, no doubt. I think he will prove interesting."

A moment later someone knocked softly at the door. There was a slight shuffling of feet, and Christian

Vellacott entered the room alone. There was a peculiar dull expression in his eyes, as if he were suffering

pain, mental or physical. After glancing at the mirror, the Provincial rose and bowed formally with his hand

upon the back of his chair. As the Englishman came forward the Jesuit glanced at his face, and with a polite

"Sir, take the trouble of seating yourself," speaking in French at once, with no apology, as if well aware that

"Thank you," replied Christian. He drew the chair slightly forward as he seated himself, and fixed his eyes

upon the Jesuit's face. Through the entire interview he never removed his gaze, and he noticed that until the

"I suppose," said the Jesuit at length, almost humbly, "that we are irreconcilable enemies, Mr. Vellacott?"

The manner in which this was spoken did not bear the slightest resemblance to the cold superiority with

The Englishman sat with one lean hand resting on the table and watched. He knew that some reply was

expected, but in face of that knowledge he chose to remain silent. It was a case of Greek meeting Greek. The

inscrutable Provincial had met a foeman worthy of his steel at last. His strange magnetic influence threw

itself vainly against a will as firm as his own, and he felt that his incidental effects, dramatic and

conversational, fell flat. Instantly he became interested in Christian Vellacott.

"I need hardly remind a man of your discrimination, Mr. Vellacott," he continued tentatively, "that there are

The Englishman smiled and moved slightly in his chair, drawing in his feet and leaning forward.

"Implying, I presume," he said lightly, "that in this particular question you are on one side and I upon the

"In my turn," he said quietly, "I must remind you, monsieur, that I am a journalist."

The Provincial raised his eyebrows almost imperceptibly and waited for his companion to continue. His

silence and the momentary motion of his eyebrows, which in no way affected the lids, expressed admirably

"Which means," Christian went on to explain, "that my place is not upon either side of the question, but in the

middle. I belong to no party, and I am the enemy of no man. I do not lead men's opinions. It is my duty to

state facts as plainly and as coldly as possible in order that my countrymen may form their own judgment. It

may appear that at one time I write upon one side of the question; the next week I may seem to write upon the

"Nonot necessarily. On the other hand," continued Christian, with daring deliberation, "it is not at all

The Jesuit smiled slightlyso slightly that it was the mere ghost of a smile, affecting the lines of his small

"Then we are enemies," he said. "He Whose follower I am, said that all who are not with Him are against

The Englishman's lips closed suddenly, and a peculiar stony look came over his face. There was one subject

"I am instructed," continued the Provincial, with a sudden change of manner from pleasant to practical, "to

ask of you a written promise never to write one word either for or against the Society of Jesus again. In

exchange for that promise I am empowered to tender to you the sincere apologies of the Society for the

inconvenience to which you may have been put, and to assist you in every way to return home at once."

A great silence followed this speech. A small clock suspended somewhere in the room ticked monotonously,

otherwise there was no sound audible. The two men sat within a yard of each other, each thinking of the other

in his individual way, from his individual point of view, the Jesuit with downcast eyes, his companion

"Then I will not detain you any longer. You are no doubt fatigued. The laybrother waiting outside will show

you the room assigned to you, and at whatever time of day or night you may wish to see me remember that

Christian rose also. He appeared to hesitate, and then to grasp the table with both hands to assist himself. He

stood for a moment, and suddenly tottered forward. Had not the Provincial caught him he would have fallen.

"My head turns," he mumbled incoherently. "What is the matter? . . . what is the matter?"

The Jesuit slipped his arm round hima slight arm, but as hard and strong as steel.

"You are tired," he said, sympathetically; "perhaps you have a little touch of fever. Come, I will assist you to

IN later days Christian Vellacott could bring back to his memory no distinct recollection of that first night

spent in the monastery. There was an indefinite remembrance of the steady, monotonous clang of a bell in the

first hours, doubtless the tolling of the matins, calling the elect to prayer at midnight.

After that he must have fallen into a deep lethargic sleep, for he never heard the distant strains of the organ

and the melodious chanting of gruff voices. The strange, unquiet melody hovered over him in the little cell,

following him as he glided away from earth upon the blessed wings of sleep, and haunted his restless dreams.

The monks were early astir next morning, for the sweet smell of drying hay filled the air, and the second crop

of the fruitful earth lay waiting to be stacked. With tucked up gowns and bared arms the sturdy devotees

worked with rake and pitchfork. No whispered word passed between them; none raised his head to look

around upon the smiling landscape or search in the cloudless sky for the tiny lark whose morning hymn

rippled down to them. Each worked on in silence, tossing the scented hay, his mind being no doubt filled with

Near at hand lay a carefullykept vegetable garden of large dimensions. Here grew in profusion all

nourishing roots and herbs, but there was no sign of more luscious fruits. Small birds hopped and fluttered

here and there unheeded and unmolested, calling to each other joyously, and the warming air was alive with

In the midst of this walked manthe lord of allhumbly, silently, with bowed head and unadmiring

A little square patch of sunlight lay on the stone floor of the small cell allotted to Christian Vellacott. The

thick oak door deadened the sounds of life in the monastery, such as they were, and the strong laboured

Christian lay, all dressed, on the narrow bed. His eyes were half closed, and the ruddy brown of his cheeks

had faded into an ashy grey. His clenched hands lay numbly at his side. Through his open, swollen lips

Presently the door opened with a creaking sound, but the sleeper moved no limb or feature. Ren� Drucquer

entered the cell and ran quickly to the bedside. Behind, with more dignity and deliberation, followed the

subprior of the monastery. The young priest had obtained permission from his Provincial to see Christian

Vellacott for a few moments before his hurried departure for India. Thus Ren� had received his mission

sooner than he had hoped for. The astute and farseeing Provincial had from the beginning intended that

Ren� Drucquer should be removed from harm's way without delay once his disagreeable mission to St. Mary

The venerable subprior bent his head over the bed. He was a tall, spare man, with very sunken cheeks, and a

marvellous expression of placid contentment in his eyes such as one never finds in the face of a young monk.

He was very learned in medicines, and in the administration of such simple herbs as were required to remedy

the illnesses within the monastery walls. Perhaps some of his patients died when they might have lived under

more skilled treatment, but it is a short and easy step from life to death within a comfortless cell, and his bony

He felt the Englishman's pulse and watched his ashen face for some moments, touching the clammy forehead

softly, while Ren� Drucquer stood by with a great sickening weight of remorse and fear upon his heart. Then

the subprior knelt stiffly down, and placed his cleanshaven lips near to Christian's ear.

Christian breathed less heavily, as if he were listening to some faroff sound, but never moved a feature.

Presently he began to murmur incoherently, and the subprior bent his ear to listen.

"Much good would a blessing of mine do you, Hilda," observed Christian into the reverend ear. The old

gentleman raised his cadaverous head and looked somewhat puzzled. Again he listened.

"Look after Aunt Judyshe cannot last long," murmured the young Englishman in his native tongue, which

"It is fever," said the subprior presently"one of those terrible fevers which kill men as the cold kills flies!"

No thought seemed to enter the monk's mind of possible infection. He knelt upon the cold floor with one bare

and bony arm beneath the sick man's head, while the other lay across his breast. He was looking intently into

"Will he die, my father?" asked Ren� Drucquer in a whisper; his face was as pale as Vellacott's.

"He is in the hands of the good God," was the pious answer. The tall monk rose to his feet and stood before

the bed thinking. He rubbed his bony hands together slowly. Through the tiny window a shaft of sunlight

poured down upon his grizzled head, and showed up relentlessly the deep furrows that ran diagonally down

"You must watch here, my son," he continued, "while I inform the FatherProvincial of this."

The venerable subprior was no Jesuit, and perhaps he would have been just as well pleased had the

Provincial elected to live elsewhere than in the monastery. But the Prioran old man of ninety, and

When he found himself alone with the Englishman, Ren� Drucquer sat wearily upon a small wooden bench,

The prospect that he saw before him as he sat staring vacantly at the floor of the little cell was black enough.

He saw no possible outlet, and he had not the courage to force his way through the barriers erected all round

him. It must be remembered that he was a Roman Catholic, and over a sincere disciple of the Mother Church

the power of the Jesuits is greater than man should ever be allowed to exercise. The slavery that England

fought against so restlessly is nothing to it, for mental bondage is infinitely heavier than physical service. He

had determined to accept the Provincial's offer of missionary work in Asia, but the sudden horror of realising

that he was a Jesuit, and could never be anything else than a Jesuit for the rest of his days, was fresh upon

him. He was too young yet to find consolation in the thought that he at all events could attempt to steer a

clear, unsullied course through the shoals and quicksands that surround a priest's existence, and he was too

old to buoy himself up with the false hope that he might, despite his Jesuit's oath, do some good work for his

Church. His awakening had been rendered more terrible by the brilliancy of the dreams which it had

He had not looked upon Christian Vellacott as a victim hitherto, for the bravest receive the least sympathy,

and the young Englishman's cool way of treating his reverse of fortune had repelled pity or commiseration.

But now all that was changed. Whatever this sickness might prove to be, Ren� Drucquer felt that the blame of

it lay at his own door. If Christian Vellacott were to die, he, Ren� Drucquer, was in the eyes of God a

murderer, for he had forcibly brought him to his death. This was an unpleasant reflection for a young devotee

whose inward soul was full of human kindness; and the presence of the strong man who lay gasping for

It was only natural that these thoughts, coupled with the realisation of the aimlessness of his own existence,

should have bred in the young Jesuit's heart a dull fire of antagonism against the man who was in immediate

authority over him, and when the Provincial noiselessly entered the cell a few minutes later, he felt a sudden

thrill of misgiving at the thought that his feelings were sacred to nonethat this man with his deep

In this, Ren� Drucquer was right. The Provincial was fully aware of the presence of this spirit of antagonism,

and, moreover, he knew that it extended to the taciturn subprior who accompanied him. But this knowledge

in no way disturbed him. The spirit of antagonism had met him in every turn of life. It was so familiar that he

had learnt to despise it. Hitherto he had never failed in any undertaking, and he had never been turned aside

from the execution of his purpose by the fear of incurring the enmity of men. Such minds as this make their

mark in the line of life which they take up, and if they do not happen to win the love of their fellowbeings,

The Provincial came into the cell with a singular noiselessness of motion. His pale face expressed neither

surprise nor annoyance, and his eyes rested upon the form of the sick man with no sign of apprehension. He

approached, and with his long white finger touched Christian's wrist. For a few moments he watched the

uneasy movements of his flushed face, and then he turned aside, without, however, leaving the bedside. Here

The subprior stood behind him with clasped hands, while Ren�, who had risen from his seat, was near at

"This man, my father," said the Provincial, coldly, "must not die. You must take every care, and spare no

expense or trouble. If it is necessary you can have doctors from Nantes. I will bear every expense, and I shall

Then he turned to leave the cell. He was a busy man, and his visit had already lasted nearly three minutes.

Ren� Drucquer stepped forward hurriedly. He was between his superior and the door, so that he was in a

The Provincial raised his eyebrows almost imperceptibly; then he waved his hand, commanding the young

"No," he said, softly, "you must leave for Nantes in halfan hour," and he passed out into the noiseless

ONE mellow autumnal evening, when the sunlight reflected from the white monastery walls upon the

fruittrees climbing there was still warm and full of ripening glow, the Provincial was taking his

It is, perhaps, needless to observe that he was alone. No one ever walked with the Provincial. No footstep

ever crushed the gravel in harmony with his gliding tread. Perhaps, indeed, no one had ever walked with him

thus, in the twilight, since a fairy dancing form had moved in the shadow of his tall person, and footsteps

lighter than his own had vainly endeavoured to keep time with his longer limbs. But that was in no monastery

garden; and the useful, vegetableproducing enclosure bore little resemblance to the ch�teau terrace. In those

days it may be that there was a gleam of life in the man's deep, velvety eyesperhaps, indeed, a moustache

The pious monks were busy with their evening meal, and the Provincial was quite alone in the garden. All

around him the leaves glowed ruddily in the warm light. Everywhere the fruits of earth were ripe and full

with mature beauty; but the solitary walker noted none of these. He paced backwards and forwards with

downcast eyes, turning slowly and indifferently as if it mattered little where he walked. The merry blackbirds

in the hayfield adjoining the garden called to each other continuously, and from a hidden rookery came the

voice of the dusky settlers, which is, perhaps, the saddest sound in all nature's harmonies. But the Jesuit

resolutely refused to listen. Once, however, he stopped and stood motionless for some seconds, with his head

turned slightly to meet the distant cry; but he never raised his eyes, which were deep and lifeless in their gaze.

It may be that there was a rookery near that southern ch�teau, where he once had walked in the solemn

evening hour, or perhaps he did not hear that sound at all though his ear was turned towards it.

It would be hard indeed to read from the priest's still features the thoughts that might be passing through his

powerful brain; but the strange influence of his being was such as makes itself felt without any spoken word.

As he walked there with his long hands clasped behind his back, his peculiarlyshaped head bent slightly

forward, and his perfect lips closely pressed, no one could have looked at him without feeling instinctively

that no ordinary mind was busy beneath the tiny tonsurethat no ordinary soul breathed there for weal or

woe, seeking after higher things in the right way or the wrong. The man's cultivated repose of manner, his

evident intellectuality, and his subtle strength of purpose visible in every glance of his eyes, betrayed that

although his life might be passed in the calm retreat of a monastery, his soul was not there. The man was

never created to pass his existence in prayerful meditation; his mission was one of strife and contention

amidst the strong minds of the age. One felt that he was living in this quiet Breton valley for a purpose; that

from this peaceful spot he was dexterously handling wires that caused puppetsaye, puppets with golden

Presently the Jesuit heard footsteps upon the gravel at the far side of the garden, but he did not raise his head.

His interest in the trivial incidents of everyday life appeared to be quite dead.

"Softly, softly!" said a deep rough voice, which the Provincial recognised as that of the subprior; then he

raised his eyes slightly and looked across the garden, without, however, altering his pace.

He saw there Christian Vellacott walking by the side of the hardfaced old monk with long hesitating strides,

like a man who had forgotten how to use his legs. It was exactly six weeks since the young journalist had

passed through that garden with Ren� Drucquer, and those weeks had been to him a strange and not

unpleasant dream. It seemed as if the man lying upon that little bed was in no way connected with the wiry

energetic Christian Vellacott of old. As he lay there semisomnolent and lazily comfortable from sheer

weakness, his interest in life was of a speculative description, as if he looked on things from afar off. Nothing

seemed to matter much. There was an all pervading sense of restful indifference as to whether it might be

night or day, morning, noon, or evening. All responsibility in existence seemed to have left him; his ready

pride of self dependence had given way to a gentle obedience, and the passage from wakefulness to sleep

Through all those dreamy hours he heard the soft rustle of woollen garments and the suppressed shuffle of

sandalled feet. Whenever he opened his heavy eves he discerned vaguely in the dim light a grey still form

seated upon the plain wooden bench at his bedside. Whenever he tried to change his position upon the hard

bed and his weary bones refused their function, strong hard hands were slipped beneath him and kind

assistance freely given. As a rule, it was the tall subprior who ministered to the sick man, fighting the dread

fever with all his simple knowledge; his hands smoothed oftenest the tossed pillow; but many cleanshaven,

strong, and weary faces were bowed over the bed during those six weeks, for there was a competition for the

post of sicknurse. The monks loved to feel that they were performing some tangible good, and not spending

One frequent visitor, however, Christian Vellacott never saw beneath his lazy lashes. The Provincial never

entered that little cell unless he was positively informed that its inmate was asleep. The inscrutable Jesuit

seemed almost to be ashamed of the anxiety that he undoubtedly felt respecting the sick man thus thrown

upon his hands by a peculiar chain of incidents. He spoke coldly and sarcastically to the subprior whenever

he condescended to mention the subject at all; but no day passed in which he failed to pay at least one visit to

"Softly, softly!" said the old subprior, holding out his bony hand to stay his companion's progress, "you are

Christian laughed in a low weak voice, and raised his head to look round him. The laugh ceased suddenly as

he caught sight of the Provincial, and across the potatobed the two strong men looked speculatively into

each other's eyes in the peaceful twilight. The Jesuit's gaze fell first, and with a dignified bow he moved

"I am stronger than I look, my father," said Christian, turning to his companion. Then they walked slowly on,

The young Englishman leant back and watched the Provincial, who was pacing backwards and forwards

where they had first seen him. The old monk sat with clasped hands, and gravely contemplated the gravel

beneath his feet. Thus they waited together within the high whitewashed walls, while the light faded from the

western sky. Three types, as strangely contrasted as the student of human kind could wish to see: the old

monk with his placid bloodless face and strong useless armsa wasted energy, a mere monument to

mistaken zeal; and the younger men so widely severed by social circumstances, and yet resembling each

other somewhat in heart and soul. Each had a strong individualityeach a great and farreaching vitality.

Each was, in his way, a power in the world, as all strong minds are; for in face of what may be said (and with

apparent justice) respecting chance and mere good fortune, good men must come to the top among their

fellows. They mustand most assuredly they do. As in olden days the doughtiest knights sought each other

in the battlefield to measure steel, so in these later times the ruling intellects of the day meet and clear a circle

round them. The Provincial was a power in the Society of Jesus; perhaps he was destined one day to be

General of it; and Christian Vellacott had suddenly appeared upon the field of politic strife, heralding his

arrival with two most deadly blows dealt in masterly succession. From the first they were sure to come

together, sooner or later; and now, when they were separated by nothing more formidable than a bed of

potatoes, they were glancing askance and longing to be at each other. But it could not be. Had the subprior

left the garden it would have made no difference. It was morally impossible that those two men could speak

The Provincial, however, made the first move, and the Englishman often wondered in later days what his

intention might have been. He walked on to the northern end of the garden, where a few thickstemmed pear

trees were trained against the wall. The fruit was hanging in profusion, for it was not consumed in the

monastery but given to the poor at harvesttime. The Provincial selected a brown ripe pear, and broke it

delicately from the tree without allowing his fingers to come in contact with the fruit itself. Then he turned

and walked with the same lazy precision towards the two other occupants of the garden. At his approach the

subprior rose from his seat and stood motionless with clasped hands; there was a faint suggestion of

antagonism in his attitude, which was quite devoid of servility. Christian, however, remained seated, raising

his keen grey eyes to the Provincial's face with a quiet selfassertion which the Jesuit ignored.

"I am glad, monsieur, to see you restored to health," he said coldly to Christian, meeting his gaze for a

The Englishman bowed very slightly, and there was a peculiar expressiveness in the action which betrayed

his foreign education, but the cool silence with which he waited for the Provincial to speak again was

essentially British. The Jesuit moved and glanced slowly beneath his lowered eyelids towards the motionless

figure of the subprior. He was too highly bred to allow himself to be betrayed into any sign of

embarrassment, and too clever to let the Englishman see that he was hesitating. After a momentary pause he

"Will you allow your patient, my brother, to taste of our fruit? it is ripe and wholesome."

Then, without awaiting a reply, he presented the pear to Vellacott. It was a strange action, and no doubt there

was some deep intention in it. The Jesuit must have known, however, from Ren� Drucquer's report, and from

his own observations, that Christian Vellacott was of too firm a mould to allow his feelings to be influenced

by a petty action of this description, however sincere and conciliatory might have been the spirit in which it

was conceived. Perhaps he read the Englishman's character totally wrong, although his experience of men

must have been very great; or perhaps he really wished to conciliate him, and took this first step with the

With a conventional word of thanks, Vellacott took the pear and set it down upon the bench at his side.

Whatever the Jesuit's intention might have been, it was frustrated by his quiet action. It would have been so

easy to have said a few words of praise regarding the fruit, and it was only natural to have begun eating it at

once; but Vellacott read a deeper meaning in all this, and he chose a more difficult course. It was assuredly

harder to keep silence then than to talk, and a weakerminded man would have thanked the Provincial with

effusion. The manner in which Vellacott laid the fruit upon the bench, his quiet and deliberate silence,

conveyed unmistakably and intentionally that the Provincial's society was as unwelcome as it was

unnecessary. There was nothing to be done but take the hint; and in the lowering twilight the solitary,

miserable man moved reluctantly away. With contemplative hardness of heart the Englishman watched him

go; there was no feeling of triumph in his soulneither, however, was there pity. The Jesuit had chosen his

own path, he had reached his goal, and that most terrible thirstthe thirst for powerwas nearly slaked. If

at timesat the end of a long day of hard mental work, when men's hearts are softened by weariness and

lowering peacehe desired something else than power, some little touch of human sympathy perhaps, his

was the blame if no heart responded to his own. Christian Vellacott sat and wondered dreamily, with the

nonchalance of a man who has been at the very gates of death, if power were worth this purchase money.

The subprior had seated himself again, and with his strong hands meekly clasped he waited. He knew that

something was passing which he could not understand; his dull instincts told him vaguely that between these

two strong men there was warfare, dumb, sullen, and merciless; but unused as he was to the ways of men,

"You have not told me yet, my father," said Vellacott, "how long I have been ill."

Christian slowly rubbed his thin hands together. His fingers were moist and singularly white, with a bleached

appearance about the knuckles. His face was thin, but not emaciated, his long jaw and somewhat pronounced

chin were not more bony than of old, but the expression of his mouth was quite changed; his lips were no

longer thrust upward with a determined curve, and a smile seemed nearer at hand.

"I have a faint recollection of being very tenderly nursed and cared for; generally by you, I think. No doubt

The Englishman, with some tact, allowed this remark to pass in acquiescent silence.

"Did you ever think that . . . I was not . . . going back to England?" he asked presently, in a lighter tone,

The subprior did not reply at once. He appeared to be thinking deeply, for he leant forward in an unmonastic

attitude with his knees apart, his elbows resting upon them, and his hands clasped. He gazed across the

"One night," he began meditatively, "I went to sit with you after the bell for matins had been rung. From

midnight till three o'clock you never moved. Then I gave you some cordial, and as I stooped over you the

candle flickered a little; there were strange shadows upon your face, but around your lips there was a deeper

shade. I had seen it once before, on my brother's face when he lay upon the hard Paris pavement with a bullet

in his lungs, and his breath whistling through the orifice as the winds whistle round our walls in winter. I held

the candle closer to your face, and as I did so, a hand came over my shoulder and took it from my fingers.

The Father Provincial had come to help me. He said no word, but set the candle down upon the bed, and I

held you up while he administered the cordial drop by drop, as a man oils a cartwheel."

The monk made no reply. He sat motionless, with a calm, acquired silence, which might have meant much or

This, again, was met with silence. Presently the subprior continued his narrative.

"When daylight came at last," he said, "the shadow had left your lips. I think that night was the worst; it was

Christian Vellacott was strong enough now to take his usual interest in outward things. With the writer's

instinct he went through the world looking round him, always studying men and things, watching, listening,

and storing up experience. The Provincial interested him greatly, but he did not dare to show his curiosity; he

hesitated to penetrate the darkness that surrounded the man's life, past, present, and future. In a minor degree

the taciturn subprior arrested his attention. The old monk was in a communicative humour, and the

"He died," was the reply. "Yes, my son, he dieddied cursing the tyrant's bullet in his lungs. He threw away

his life in a vain attempt to alter human nature, to set straight that which is crooked and cannot be set straight.

He sought to bring about at once that which cometh not until the lion shall eat straw like an ox. See, my son,

"I think," said Christian, after a pause, "that we all try a little, and perhaps some day a great accumulation of

The monk slowly shook his head, without, however, any great display of conviction.

It was nearly dark now. The birds were silent, and only the whispering of the crisp, withering leaves broke

the solemn hush of eventide. The two men sat side by side without speaking. They had learnt to know each

other fairly well during the last weeks so well that between them silence was entirely restful. At length

Christian moved restlessly. He had reached that stage of convalescence where a position becomes irksome

"He spoke of going abroad," said Christian, deliberately ignoring the subprior's tone.

"The Father Provincial told me that the Abb� has gone abroadto Indiato spread there the Holy Light to

The young journalist thought that he detected again a faint suggestion of antagonism in the subprior's voice.

The manner in which the information was imparted was almost an insult to the Provincial. It was a repetition

of his words, given in such a manner that had the speaker been a man of subtle tongue it would have implied

Christian was somewhat surprised that Ren� Drucquer should have attained his object so quickly. He never

suspected that he himself might have had much to do with it, that it had been deemed expedient to remove the

young priest beyond the possible reach of his influence, because he was quite unconscious of this influence.

He did not know that its power had affected Ren� Drucquer, and that some reflection of it had even touched

the selfcontained Provincialthat it was even now making this old subprior talk more openly than was

prudent or wise. He happened to be taking the question from a very different point of view.

DAY by day Christian Vellacott recovered strength. The enforced rest, and perhaps also the monastic

peacefulness of his surroundings, contributed greatly towards this. In mental matters as in physical we are

subject to contagion, and from the placid recluses, vegetating unheeded in the heart of Brittany, their prisoner

acquired a certain restfulness of mind which was eminently beneficial to his body. Life inside those white

walls was so sleepy and withal so pleasant that it was physically and mentally impossible to think and worry

Presently, however, Christian began to feel idle, which is a good sign in invalids; and soon the days became

long and irksome. He began to take an increased interest in his surroundings, and realised at once how little

he knew of the existence going on about him. Though he frequently passed, in the dim corridors and cloisters,

a silent greyclad figure, exchanging perhaps with him a scarcely perceptible salutation, he had never spoken

He noticed also that the watchful care of the nurse had imperceptibly glided into that of a warder. He was

never allowed out of his cell unless accompanied by the subpriorin fact, he was a state prisoner. His daily

walks never extended beyond the one path near the potato bed, or backwards and forwards at the sunny end

of the garden, where the huge pears hung ripely. From neither point was any portion of the surrounding

country visible, but the Provincial could not veil the sun, and Christian knew where lay the West and where

No possible opportunity for escape presented itself, but the Englishman was storing up strength and

knowledge all the while. He knew that things would not go on for long like this, and felt that the Provincial

would sooner or later summon him to the long room at the end of the corridor upon the upper floor.

This call came to him three weeks after the day when the two men had met in the gardennine weeks after

"My son," said the subprior one afternoon, "the Father Provincial wishes to speak with you today at three."

Christian glanced up at the great monastery clock, which declared the time to be a quarter to three.

"I am ready," he said quietly. There was no tremor in his voice or light in his eyes, and he continued walking

leisurely by the side of the old monk; but a sudden thrill of pleasant anticipation warmed his heart.

A little later they entered the monastery and mounted the stone stairs together. As they walked along the

"I will wait for you at the foot of the stairs," said the monk slowly, as if with some compunction. Then he led

the way to the end of the corridor and knocked at the door. He stood back, as if the Provincial were in the

habit of keeping knockers waiting. Such was, at all events, the case now, and some minutes elapsed before a

The monk opened the door and stood back against the wall for Christian to pass in. The Provincial was seated

at the table near the window, which was open, the afternoon being sultry although the autumn was nearly

over. At his left hand stood the small Venetian mirror which enabled him to see who was behind him without

As Christian crossed the room the Provincial rose and bowed slightly, with one of his slow soft glances. Then

he indicated the chair at the lefthand side of the table, and said, without looking up:

When they were both seated the Provincial suddenly raised his eyes and fixed them upon the Englishman's

face. The action was slightly dramatic, but very effective, and clearly showed that he was accustomed to find

the eyes of others quail before his. Christian met the gaze with a calmness more difficult to meet than open

"I need scarcely," said the Provincial, with singular sweetness of manner, which, however, was quite devoid

of servility, "apologise to you, Monsieur, for speaking in French, as it is almost your native language."

"There are one or two matters," continued the Jesuit, speaking faster, "upon which I have been instructed to

treat with you; but first I must congratulate you upon your restoration to health. Your illness has been very

serious . . . I trust that you have had nothing to complain of in the treatment which you have received at our

Christian, while sitting quite motionless, was making an exhaustive survey of the room.

"On the contrary," he said, in a conventional tone which, in comparison to his companion's manner, was

almost brutal, "it is probably owing to the care of the subprior that I am alive at the present moment,

He stopped suddenly; an almost imperceptible motion of the Jesuit's straight eyebrows warned him.

"And . . .?" repeated the Provincial, interrogatively. He leant back in his chair with an obvious air of interest.

"The reverend father is a great doctor," said the Jesuit lightly. "Excuse me," he continued, rising and leaning

across the table, "I will close the window; the air from the river begins to grow cool."

The journalist moved slightly, looking over his shoulder towards the window; at the same moment he altered,

with his elbow, the position of the small mirror standing upon the table. Instead of reflecting the whole room,

including the door at the end, it now reproduced the blank wall at the side opposed to the curtained recess

"And now, Mr. Vellacott," continued the Jesuit, reseating himself, "I must beg your attention. I think there

can be no harm in a little mutual frankness, andand it seems to me that a certain allowance for respective

He paused, and, opening the leatherbound manuscript book, became absorbed for a moment in the perusal

"From your pen," he then said, in a businesslike monotone, "there has emanated a serious and hitherto

unproved charge against the Holy Society of Jesus. It came at a critical moment in the political strife then

raging in France; and, in proportion to the attention it attracted, harm and calumny accrued to the Society. I

am told that your motives were purely patriotic, and your desire was nothing beyond a most laudable one of

keeping your countrymen out of difficulties. Before I had the pleasure of seeing you I said, `This is a young

journalist who, at any expense, and even at the sacrifice of truth, wishes to make a name in the world and

force himself into public attention.' Since then I have withdrawn that opinion."

During these remarks the Provincial had not raised his eyes from the table. He now leant back in the chair and

contemplated his own clasped hands. Christian had listened attentively. His long grave face was turned

slightly towards the Provincial, and his eyes were perhaps a little softer in their gaze.

The Jesuit inclined his head. Then he raised his long white finger to his upper lip, stroking the blue skin

Presently he raised his eyes to the Englishman's face, and in their velvety depths Christian thought he

detected an expression which was almost pleading. It seemed to express a desire for help, for some slight

assistance in the performance of a difficult task. He never again looked into those eyes in all his life, but the

remembrance of them remained in his heart for many years after the surrounding incidents had passed away

from memory and interest. He knew that the Soul looking forth from that pale and heartless face was of no

ordinary mould or strength. In later years when they were both greyhaired men whose Yea or No was of

some weight in the worldone speaking with the great and open voice of the Press, the other working

subtly, dumbly, secretlytheir motives may have clashed once more, their souls may have met and touched,

as it were, over the heads of the People, but they never looked into each other's eyes again.

"It has been a most unfortunate business," he said gently, and after a pause continued more rapidly, with his

eyes upon the book. "I am instructed to lay before you the apologies of the Society for the inconvenience to

which you have been put. Your own sense of justice will tell you that we were bound to defend ourselves in

every way. You have done us a great injury, and, as is our custom, we have contradicted nothing. The Society

of Jesus does not defend itself in the vain hope of receiving justice at the hands of men. I am now in a

position to inform you again that you are at libertyfree to go where you will, when you willand that any

sum you may require is at your disposal to convey you home to England . . . on your signing a promise never

to write another word for private or public circulation on the subject of the Holy Order of Jesus, or to dictate

"I must refuse," said Christian laconically, almost before the words had left the Jesuit's lips. "As I explained

before, I am simply a public servant; what I happen to know must ever be at the public disposal or I am

A short silence followed this remark. When at length the Provincial spoke his tone was cold and reserved.

"Of course," he said, "I expected a refusalat first. I am instructed to ask you to reconsider your refusal and

to oblige me, at the end of a week, with the result of your meditations. If it remains a refusal, another week

The Jesuit closed the book upon the table in front of him and with great care altered its position so that it lay

quite squarely. He raised his eyebrows slightly and glanced sideways towards the Englishman. At that

moment the bell began summoning the devotees to their evening meal, its deep tone vibrating weirdly

Christian looked at him speculatively. The faintest suspicion of a smile hovered for a moment in his eyes, and

"I hope, Monsieur," continued the Jesuit, "that when I have the pleasure of seeing youa week henceyour

"And in the meantime I shall feel honoured by your asking for anything you may require."

"Thank you!" answered Christian again. He was still looking over his shoulder, down at the brown river

"Please excuse my rising to open the door for you," said the Provincial with cool audacity, "but I have a few

Christian turned and looked at him vaguely. There was a peculiar gleam in his eyes, and he was breathing

heavily. Then he rose and, as he passed the Jesuit, bowed slightly in acknowledgment of his grave salutation.

He walked quickly down the length of the room, which was not carpeted, and opened the door, closing it

again with some noise immediately. But he never crossed the threshold. To the man sitting at the table it was

Presently the Provincial glanced at the mirror, from mere habit, and found that it was displaced. He

rearranged it thoughtfully, so that the entire room was included in its field of reflection.

Then he returned to his writing. In a few minutes, however, he rose and pushed back his chair. With his hands

clasped behind his back he stood and gazed fixedly out of the window. Beneath him the brown water glided

past with curling eddy and gleaming ripple, while its soft murmur was the only sound that broke the pathetic

silence surrounding this lonely man. His small and perfectlyformed face was quite expressionless; the curve

of his thin lips meant nothing; all the suppressed vitality of his being lay in those deep soft eyes over which

there seemed to be a veil. Presently he turned, and with lithe, smooth steps passed down the long room and

Instantly Christian Vellacott came from his hidingplace within the recess. He ran to the window and opened

it noiselessly. A moment later he was standing upon the stone sill. The afternoon sun shone full upon his face,

as he stood there and showed a deep red flush on either cheek. Slowly he stooped forward, holding with one

hand to the woodwork of the window while he examined critically the surface of the water. Suddenly he

threw his arms forward and like a black shadow dived noiselessly, passing into the depth without a splash.

When he rose to the surface he turned to look at the monastery. The Provincial's window was the only outlet

The stream was rapid, and after swimming with it for a short time he left the water and lay down to recover

his breath under the friendly cover of some bushes. There he remained for some time, while the short October

twilight closed over the land. A man just dragged from the jaws of death, he lay in his wet clothes where he

first found shelter without even troubling to move his limbs from the pools of water slowly accumulating.

Already the monastery was a thing of the past. With the rapid forethought of his generation he was already

looking to the future. He knew too well the spirit of the people in France to fear pursuit. The monks never

ventured beyond their own walls except on ostentatious missions of charity. The machinations of the Society

of Jesus were less to be feared in France than in England, and he had only to take his story to the nearest sub

prefecture to raise a storm of popular opinion in his favour. But this was not his project. With him, as in all

human plans, his own personal feelings came before the possible duty he owed to the public. He lay beneath

the bramble undergrowth, and speculated as to what might have taken place subsequent to his disappearance.

At that moment the fortunes of the "Beacon" gave him no food for thought. What Mr. Bodery and his

subordinate might, or might not, think found no interest in his mind. All his speculations were confined to

events at St. Mary Western, and the outcome of his meditations was that when the friendly cover of darkness

lay on the land he rose and started to walk briskly across the welltilled country towards the North.

That portion of Brittany which lies along the Northern coast is a pastoral land where sleep occupies the larger

half of man's life. Although it was only evening, an hour when Paris and London recover, as it were, from the

previous night's vigil and brighten up into vigour, the solitary Englishman passed unheeded through the

squalid villages, unmolested along the winding roads. Mile after mile of scanty forest land and rich meadow

were left behind, while, except for a few heavily breathing cattle, he met no sign of life. At last he came

upon a broader road which bore unmistakable signs of military workmanship in its construction, and here he

met, and passed with laconic greeting, a few peasant women returning with empty baskets from some

neighbouring market; or perhaps a "cantonnier" here and there, plodding home with "sabots" swinging

heavily and round shoulders bent beneath the burden of his weighty stonebreaking implements.

Following the direction of this road his course was now towards the NorthEast, with more tendency to the

Eastward than he desired, but there was no choice. About eight o'clock he passed through a small village,

which appeared to be already wrapped in stupid slumber such as attends the peasant's pillow. A cock crowed

loudly, and in reply a dog barked with some alarm, but Christian was already beyond the village upon the

He now began to feel the weakening effect of his illness; his legs became cramped, and he frequently rested

at the roadside. The highway was running still more to the Eastward now, and Christian was just beginning to

consider the advisability of taking to the country again, when it joined a broader road cut East and West. Here

He now turned to the left, and advanced along the newly discovered road towards the West. As he

progressed the pungent odour of seaweed refreshed him and grew stronger every moment. Suddenly he

became aware that although high land lay upon his left hand there was to his right a hollow darkness without

shadow or depth. No merry plash of waves came to explain this; the smell of the sea was there, but the joyous

tumble of its waters was not to be heard. The traveller stooped low and peered into the darkness. Gradually he

discerned a distant line of horizon, and to that point there seemed to stretch a vast dead sheet of water without

light or motion. Upon his ears there stole a soft bubbling sound, varied occasionally by a tiny ripple.

Suddenly a flash of recollection appeared to pass through the watcher's mind, and he muttered an exclamation

of surprise as he turned towards the East and endeavoured to pierce the gloom. He was right. Upon the distant

line of horizon a jagged outline cut the sky. It was like the form of a huge tooth jutting out from the softer

earth. Such is Mont St. Michel standing grandly alone in the midst of a shallow sullen sea. The only firm

"The Bay of Cancale!" reflected Christian. "If I keep to the Westward I shall reach St. M�lo before ten

And he set off with renewed vigour. From his feet there stretched away to the North a great dead level of

quicksand, seething, bubbling and heaving in the darkness. The sea, and yet no sea. Neither honest land nor

SILAS LEBRUN, captain and partowner of the brig Agnes and Mary of Jersey, was an early riser.

Moreover, the old gentleman entertained peculiar views as to the homage due to Morpheus. He made no

elaborate toilet before entering the presence of that most loveable god. Indeed he always slept in his boots,

and the cabinboy had on several occasions invited the forecastle hands to believe that he neither removed

the ancient sealskin cap from his head nor the wooden pipe from his lips when slumber soothed his senses;

In person the ancient sailor was almost square, with short legs and a body worthy of promotion to something

higher. His face was wrinkled and brown, like the exterior of that incomprehensible fruit the medlar, which is

never ripe till it is bad, and then it is to be avoided. A yellowgrey beard clustered closely round a short chin,

and when perchance the sealskin cap was absent yellowgrey hair of a similar hue completed the circle,

standing up as high from his brow as fell the beard downward from his chin. A pair of intensely blue eyes,

liquid always with the milk of human kindness, rendered the hirsute medlar a pleasant thing to look at.

The Agnes and Mary was ready for sea, her cargo of potatoes, with a little light weight in the way of French

beans and eggs, comfortably stowed, and as Captain Lebrun emerged from what he was pleased to call his

"stateroom" with the first breath of a clear morning he performed his matutinal toilet with a certain sense of

satisfaction. This operation was simple, consisting merely in the passage of four very brown fingers through

the yellowgrey hair, and a hurried dispersal of the tobacco ash secreted in his beard.

The first object that met the mariner's astonished gaze was the long black form of a man stretched

comfortably upon the cabin locker. The green mud adhering to the sleeper's thin shoes showed that he had

Captain Lebrun gazed meditatively at the intruder for some moment's. Then he produced a

powerfullyscented pipe of venerable appearance, which had been, at various stages of its existence, bound

in a seamanlike manner with pieces of tarred yarn. He slowly filled this object, and proceeded to inform it in

a husky voice that he was "blowed." The pipe was, apparently, in a similar condition, as it refused absolutely

He then seated himself with some difficulty upon the corner of the low table, and examined the sleeper

"Poor devil," he again said, addressing himself to his pipe. "He's one of them priest fellows.Hi, mister!" he

Christian Vellacott woke up at once, and took in the situation without delay. He was not of those who must

"Indeed. Then you'll excuse me, but what in the name of glory are you doing here?"

"Well, the truth is that I am bolting. I want to get across to England. I saw where you hailed from by your rig,

and clambered on board last night. It seemed to me that when an Englishman is in a hole he cannot do better

Captain Lebrun made a mighty effort to force a passage through his pipe, and was rewarded by a very

"Ay!" he said, doubtfully. "But what sort of hole is it? Nothing dirty, I'm hopin'. Who are yer? Why are ye

Though a trifle blunt the sailor's manner was not unfriendly, and Christian laughed before replying.

"Well," he said, "to tell you the whole story would take a long time. You remember perhaps there was a row,

"Of course I remember that; we had a lot o' trouble with the Customs just then. The thing was ferreted out by

Christian rubbed his hands slowly together. He was terribly anxious to hear the sequel.

Captain Lebrun slowly stood up. He contemplated his pipe thoughtfully, then laying it upon the table he

turned solemnly towards Christian, and held out a broad brown hand which was covered with scales in lieu of

"And now," he said quickly, "I want to know what has happened sincesince I left England. Has there been

The old sailor may have had his suspicions. He may have guessed that Christian Vellacott had not left

England at the dictates of his own free will, for he looked at him very kindly with his liquid blue eyes, and

"I couldn't say that nobody hasn't been wonderin' where ye was, butbut there's been nothing in the papers!"

"Course I will! We sail about eleven this morning. I'm loaded and cleared out. But I should like you to have a

change o' clothes. Can't bear to see ye in them black things. It makes me feel as if I was talkin' to a priest."

"I should like nothing better," replied Christian, as he rose and contemplated his own person reflectively.

"Come into my stateroom then. I've got a few things of my own, and a bit of a slopchest; jerseys and things

The Captain's wardrobe was of a marine character and somewhat rough in texture. He had, however, a coat

and waistcoat of thick blue pilotcloth which fitted Christian remarkably well, but the continuations thereof

were so absurdly out of keeping with the young fellow's long limbs as to precipitate the skipper on to the

verge of apoplexy. When he recovered, and his pipe was relighted, he left the cabin and went forward to

borrow a pair of the required articles from Tom Slake, an ordinary seaman of tall and slim proportions. In a

short time Christian Vellacott bore the outward semblance of a very fair specimen of the British tar, except

that his cheeks were bleached and sunken, which discrepancy was promptly commented upon by the blunt

Secrecy was absolutely necessary, so Tom, of the long legs, was the only person to whom Christian's

presence was made known; and he it was who (in view of a possible berth as steward later on) was entrusted

Breakfast, as served up by Tom, was of a noble simplicity. A long shiny loaf of yesterday's bread, some

butter in a saucer which vessel was deemed entirely superfluous in connection with cupsbrown sugar in

an old mustardtin, with portions of yellow paper adhering to it, and solid slices of bacon brought from the

galley in their native fryingpan. Such slight drawbacks, however, as there might have been in the matter of

tableware disappeared before the sense of kindly hospitality with which Captain Lebrun poured the tea into

a cracked cup and a borrowed pannikin, dropping in the sugar with careful judgment from his brown fingers.

Such defects as there might have lurked in the culinary art as carried on in the galley vanished before the

friendly solicitude with which Tom tilted the fryingpan to pour into Christian's plate a bright flow of

When the meal had been duly despatched Captain Lebrun produced his pipe and proceeded to fill it, after

Christian leant back against the bulkhead with his hands buried deeply in Tom's borrowed pockets. He felt

"Ay?" repeated the captain interrogatively, as he searched in his waistcoatpocket for a match. "Ay, what is

"I've got one somewhere," he replied, reassuringly; "carried it for many years now, just in case this one fell

Tom, who happened to be present, smiled audibly behind a hand which was hardly a recommendation for the

coveted berth of steward, but Christian looked at the battered pipe with sympathetic gravity.

At ten o'clock the Agnes and Mary warped out of harbour and dropped lazily down the Rance, setting sail as

she went. Christian had spent most of the morning in the little cabin smoking Captain Lebrun's reserve pipe,

and seeking to establish order among the accounts of the ship. The accounts were the b�te noire of the old

sailor's existence. Upon his own confession he "wasn't no arithmetician," and Christian found, upon

When the Agnes and Mary was clear of the harbour he went on deck, where activity and maritime language

reigned supreme. The channel was narrow and the wind light, consequently the little brig drifted more or less

at her own sweet will. This would have been well enough had the waterway been clear of other vessels, but

the Jersey steamer was coming in, with her yellow funnel gleaming in the sunlight, her mailflag fluttering at

her foremast, and her captain swearing on the bridge, with the whistlepull in his hand.

Seeing that the Agnes and Mary had no steerage way, the captain stopped his engines for a few minutes, and

then went ahead again at halfspeed. This brought the vessels close together, and, as is the invariable custom

in such circumstances, the two crews stared stonily at each other. On the deck were one or two passengers

enjoying the morning air after a cramped and uncomfortable night. Among these was an old man with a

singularly benign expression; he was standing near the afterwheel, gazing with senile placidity towards St.

M�lo. As the vessels neared each other, however, he walked towards the rail, and stood there with a pleasant

smile upon his face, as if ready to exchange a greeting with any kindred soul upon the Agnes and Mary.

Christian Vellacott, seated upon the rail of the afterdeck, saw the old man and watched him with some

interestnot, however, altering his position or changing countenance. The vessels moved slowly on, and, in

due course, the two men were opposite to each other, each at the extreme stern of his ship.

Then the young journalist removed Captain Lebrun's spare pipe from his lips, and leaning sideways over the

The effect of this friendly greeting upon the benevolent old gentleman was peculiar. He grasped the rail

before him with both hands, and stared at the young Englishman. Then he stamped upon the deck with a

"Ah!" he exclaimed, fiercely, while a tigerlike gleam shone out from beneath his smooth white brows. "Ah!

Christian swung his legs idly, and smiled with some amusement across the little strip of water.

Suddenly the old man plunged his hand into the breastpocket of his coat. He appeared to be tugging wildly

at some article which was caught in the lining of his clothes, when a remarkable change came over his face.

A dull red colour flew to his cheeks, and his eyes gleamed ruddily, as if shot with blood. Then without a word

he fell forward with his breast against the painted rail, remained there a second, and as the two ships passed

away from each other, rolled over upon his back on the clean deck, grasping a pistol in his right hand.

Christian Vellacott sat still upon the rail, swinging one leg, and smiling reflectively. He saw the old man fall

and the other passengers crowd round him, but the Agnes and Mary had now caught the breeze and was

moving rapidly out to sea, where the sunlight danced upon the water in little golden bars.

"Apperlexy!" said a voice in the journalist's ear. He turned and found Captain Lebrun standing at his side

"I do," was the reply given with some conviction. "I seen a man fall just like that; he was a broadbuilt man

wi' a thick neck, and in a moment of excitement he fell just like that, and died a'most at once. Apperlexy they

"It seemed to come over him very suddenly, did it not?" said Christian absently.

Christian turned and looked at his companion full in the face. "I have met him twice," he said quietly. "He

was in England for some years, I believe; a political refugee, he called himself."

By sea and land Captain Lebrun had learnt to devote an exclusive attention to his own affairs, allowing other

men to manage theirs, well or ill, according to their fancy. He knew that Christian Vellacott wished to tell

him no more, and he was content that it should be so, but he had noticed a circumstance which, from the

young journalist's position, was probably invisible. He turned to give an order to the man at the wheel, and

then walked slowly and with some difficulty (for Captain Lebrun suffered, in a quiet way, agonies from

"Seemed to me," he said reflectively, as he looked upwards to see if the foretopsail was shivering, "as if he

Christian followed the Captain's gaze. The sails were now filling well, and there was an exhilarating sound of

straining cordage in the air while the vessel glided on. The young journalist was not an impressionable man,

but he felt all these things. The sense of open freedom, the gentle rise and fall of the vessel, the whirring

breeze, and the distant line of high land up the Rance towards Dinantall these were surely worth hearing,

Captain Lebrun turned sideways towards the steersman, and made a little gesture with his left hand. A

wrinkle had appeared in one corner of the foretopsail. Then he looked round the horizon with a sailor's

"Seemed to me," he mumbled, without taking his pipe from his lips, "that it was a revolver."

Then the two men smoked in silence for some time. The little vessel moved steadily out towards the blue

water, passing a lighthouse built upon a solitary rock, and later a lightship, with its clean red hull gleaming in

the sunlight as it rose and fell lazily. So close were they to the latter that the man watching on deck waved his

Still Vellacott had vouchsafed no reply to Captain Lebrun's strange statement. He sat on the low rail,

swinging one leg monotonously, while the square little sailor stood at his side with that patient maritime

"My calling brings me into contact with a rum lot of people," said the young fellow at last, "and I suppose all

With this vague elucidation the little skipper was forced to content himself. He gave a grunt of acquiescence,

ONE would almost have said that the good citizen Jacquetot was restless and disturbed. It was not that the

little tobacco shop left aught to be desired in the way of order, neither had the tobacconist quitted his seat at

the windowend of the counter. But he was not smoking, and at short intervals he drew aside the little red

curtain and looked out into the quiet Rue St. Gingolphe with a certain eagerness.

The tobacconist was not in the habit of going to meet things. He usually waited for them to come to him. But

on this particular evening of September in a year which it is not expedient to name, he seemed to be looking

out into the street in order that he might not be taken by surprise in the event of an arrival. Moreover he

mopped his vast forehead at unnecessarily frequent intervals, just as one may note a snuff taker have

recourse to that solace more frequently when he is agitated than when a warm calm reigns within his breast.

"So quietso quiet," he muttered, "in our little streetand in the otherswho knows? It would appear that

He listened intently, but there was no sound except the clatter of an occasional cart or the distant whistle of a

Then the tobacconist returned to the perusal of the "Petit Journal." Before he had skimmed over many lines,

he looked up sharply and drew aside the red curtain. Yes! It was someone at last. The footsteps were hurried

and yet hesitatingthe gait of a person not knowing his whereabouts. And yet the man who entered the shop

a moment later was evidently the same who had come to the citizen Jacquetot when last we met him.

"No," replied the other. "It is not. I am not the citizen . . . MorotI think you call it."

"But, yes!" exclaimed the fat man in amazement. "You are that citizen, and you are also the Vicomte

The newcomer was looking round him curiously; he stepped towards the curtained door, and turned the

"I am," he said, "his brother. We are twins. There is a resemblance. Is this the room? Yes!"

"Go," said the other, "and get a mattress. Bring it and lay it on this table. My brother is wounded. He has been

Jacquetot rose laboriously from his seat. He knew now that this was not the Vicomte d'Audierne. This man's

method was quite different. He spoke with a quiet air of command, not doubting that his orders would be

obeyed. He was obviously not in the habit of dealing with the People. The Vicomte d'Audierne had a

different manner of speaking to different peoplethis man, who resembled him so strangely, gave his orders

The tobacconist was essentially a man of peace. He passed out of a small door in the corner of the shop,

A moment later the sound of wheels awoke the peaceful stillness of the Rue St. Gingolphe. The vehicle

stopped, and at the same instant the man passed through the little curtained doorway into the room at the back

The gas was turned very low, and in the semidarkness he stood quite still, waiting. He had not long to wait;

he had scarcely closed the door when it was opened again, and someone entered rapidly, closing it behind

Across the little table, in the sudden flood of light, two men stood looking at each other curiously. They were

so startlingly alike, in height and carriage and every feature, that there was something weird and unpleasant in

"Why have you done this?" continued the Vicomte d'Audierne. "I thought we agreed sixteen years ago that

the world was big enough to contain us both without meeting, if we exercised a little care."

"She is dead," replied the brother. "She died two years ago the wife of Prangiuswhat does it matter

"I was ordered to Paris by the General. I was near you at the barricade, and I heard the bullet hit you. Where

The Vicomte looked down at his hand, which was pressed to his breast; the light of the gas flickered, and

"In my chest," he replied. "I am simply dripping with blood. It has trickled down my legs into my boots. Very

The other looked at him curiously, and across his velvety eyes there passed that strange contraction which has

"I have sent for a mattress," he said. "That bullet must come out. A doctor is following me; he will be here on

The Vicomte d'Audierne smiled and winced. He staggered a little, and clutched at the back of a chair. The

"Why do you not sit down?" he suggested, coldly. "There are none of yourPeoplehere to be impressed."

"Yes," he said smoothly, "we work on different lines, do we not? I wonder which of us has dirtied his hands

the most. Which of the twothe two fools who quarrelled about a woman. Ha? And she married a thirda

The Vicomte looked up slowly. It seemed that his eyelids were heavy, requiring an effort to lift them.

The other turned away his soft, slow glance, the glance that had failed to overcome Christian Vellacott's quiet

The Vicomte obeyed, and at the same moment the door opened and the tobacconist appeared, pushing before

The Jesuit laid aside his hat, revealing the tonsure gleaming whitely amidst his jetty hair, and helped to lay

the mattress upon the table. Then the two men, the Provincial and the tobacconist of the Rue St. Gingolphe,

lifted the wounded aristocrat gently and placed him upon the improvised bed. True to his blood the Vicomte

d'Audierne uttered no sound of agony, but as his brother began to unbutton the butcher's blouse in which he

was disguised he fainted quietly. Presently the doctor arrived. He was quite a young man, with shifting grey

eyes, and he saluted the Provincial with a nervous obsequity which was unpleasant to look upon. The deftness

with which he completed the task of laying bare the wound was notable. His fingers were too clever to be

quite honest. When, however, he was face to face with the little bluerimmed orifice that disfigured the

Vicomte's muscular chest, the expression of his faceindeed his whole mannerchanged. His eyes lost

their shiftinesshe seemed to forget the presence of the great man standing at the other side of the table.

While he was selecting a probe from his case of instruments the Vicomte d'Audierne opened his eyes.

"Who carried you into this room?" asked the doctor, returning to his case of instruments.

"No one! I walked." The doctor's manner, quick and nonchalant, evidently aggravated his patient.

This brought the doctor's glance to his face, and the result was instantaneous. The young man started, and

into his eyes there came again the shifty expression, as he looked from the face of the patient to that of the

Provincial standing motionless at the other side of the table. He said nothing, however, and returned with a

peculiar restraint to his preparations. It is probable that his silence was brought about by the persistent gaze of

"Will Monsieur take chloroform," he asked, unfolding a clean pockethandkerchief, and taking from his

The doctor looked across to the Provincial and made a hopeless little movement of the shoulders,

He had laid his instruments out upon the mattressthe gas was turned up as high as it would go. Everything

was ready. Then he turned his back a moment and took off his coat, which he laid upon a chair, returning

Quick as thought, he suddenly darted forward and pressed the clean handkerchief over the wounded man's

mouth and nose. The Vicomte d'Audierne gave a little smothered exclamation of rage, and raised his arms;

After a moment the doctor removed the handkerchief, and the Vicomte lay unconscious and motionless, his

delicate lips drawn back in anger, so that the short white teeth gleamed dangerously.

"It is possible," said the surgeon, feeling his pulse again, "that Monsieur has killed himself by walking into

Like a cat over its prey, the young doctor leant across the mattress. Without looking round he took up the

instruments he wanted, knowing the order in which they lay. He had been excellently taught. The noiseless

movements of his white fingers were marvellously dexterousneat, rapid, and finished. The evillooking

instruments gleamed and flashed beneath the gaslight. He had a peculiar little habit of wiping each one on his

After the lapse of a minute he raised his head, wiped something which he held in his fingers, and passed it

"That is the bullet, my father," he said, without ceasing his occupation, and without raising his eyes from the

"This would be the death of a dog," said the Provincial, as if musing aloud; for the surgeon was busy at his

"Better than the life of a dog," replied the Vicomte, in his smoothly mocking way, without opening his eyes.

It was very easy to blame one woman, and to cast reflections upon the entire sex. If these brothers had not

quarrelled about that woman, they would have fallen out over something else. Some men are so: they are like

a strong spiritlight, and yet potentthat floats upon the top of all other liquids and will mingle with none.

It would seem that these two could not be in the same room without quarrelling. It was only with care that (as

the Jesuit had coldly observed) they could exist in the same world without clashing. Never was the Vicomte

d'Audierne so cynical, so sceptical, as in the presence of his brother. Never was Raoul d'Audierne so cold, so

Sixteen years of their life had made no difference. They were as far apart now as on one grey morning sixteen

years ago, when the Vicomte d'Audierne had hurried away from the deserted shore of the C�te du Nord,

leaving his brother lying upon the sand with an ugly slit in his neck. That slit had healed now, but the scar

True to his training, the Provincial had not spoken the truth when he said that he had been ordered to Paris.

There was only one man in the world who could order him to do anything, and that man was too wise to test

his authority. Raoul d'Audierne had come to Paris for the purpose of seeing his brothersenior by an hour.

There were many things of which he wished to speak, some belonging to the distant past, some to a more

recent date. He wished to speak of Christian Vellacottone of the few men who had succeeded in outwitting

himof Signor Bruno, or Max Talma, who had died within pistol range of that same Englishman, a sudden

voiceless death, the result of a terrible access of passion at the sight of his face.

But this man was a Jesuit and a d'Audierne, which latter statement is full of import to those who, having

studied heredity, know that wonderful inner history of France which is the most romantic story of human

kind. And so Raoul d'Audierne the man whose power in the world is like that of the fires burning within

the crust of the earth, unseen, immeasurable and so he took his hat, and left the little room behind the

"MONEY," Captain Lebrun was saying emphatically, as the Agnes and Mary drifted slowly past Gravesend

pier on the rising tide. "Hang money! Now, I should think that you make as much of it in a month as I do in a

year. You're a young man, and as far as I know ye, ye're a successful one. Life spreads out before you like a

clean chart. I'm an old 'unmy time is nearly up. I've lived what landsmen call a hard life, and now I'm

slowly goin' home. Ay, Mr. Vellacott, goin' home! And you think that with all your manifold advantages

you're a happier man than me. Not a bit of it! And why? 'Cause you belong to a generation that looks so far

ahead that it's afraid of bein' happy, just for fear there's sorrow acomin'. Money, and lookin' ahead, that's

The skipper emphasised these weighty observations by expectorating decisively into the water, and walked

away, leaving Christian Vellacott with a vaguely amused smile upon his face. It is just possible that Silas

Lebrun, master and owner of the Agnes and Mary, was nearer the mark than he thought.

An hour later, Vellacott was walking along the deserted embankment above Westminster, on the Chelsea side

of the river. It was nine o'clock, for which fact Big Ben solemnly gave his word, far up in the fog. The

morning was very dark, and the street lamps were still alight, while every window sent forth a gleam

Turning up his own street he increased his pace, realising suddenly that he had not been within his own doors

for more than four months. Much might have happened in that timeto change his life, perhaps. As he

approached the house he saw a strange servant, an elderly woman, on her knees at the steps, and somehow

the sight conveyed to his mind the thought that there was something waiting for him within that peaceful little

house. He almost ran those last few yards, and sprang up the steps past the astonished woman without a word

The gas in the narrow entrance hall was lighted, and as he threw aside his cap he perceived a warm gleam of

firelight through the halfopen door of the diningroom. He crossed the carpeted hall, and pushed open that

Near the little breakfasttable, just under the gas, stood Hilda Carew. In his room, standing among his

multifarious possessions, in the act of pouring from his coffeepot. She was dressed in blackhe noticed

that. Instead of being arranged high upon her head, her marvellous hair hung in one massive plait down her

back. She looked like a tall and beautiful schoolgirl. He had not seen her hair like that since the old days

As he pushed open the door, she looked up; and for a moment they stood thus. She set down the coffeepot,

carefully and symmetrically, in the centre of the china stand provided for its receptionand the colour

"You have come back at last!" she said, quite monotonously. It sounded like a remark made for the purpose

Then he entered the room, and mechanically closed the door behind him. She noticed the action, but did not

move. He passed round the table, behind Aunt Judy's empty chair, and they shook hands conventionally.

"Yes," he said, almost breathlessly; "I am back; you do not seem elated by the fact."

In a peculiar dreamy way she began to add milk to the coffee. It seemed as if this were mere playacting, and

"How is it that you are here?" he asked, with a broken, disjointed laugh. "You cannot imagine how strange an

effect it was . . . for me . . . to come in and see you . . . hereof all people."

"Aunt Judy is dead!" she explained; "and Aunt Hester is very ill. Mother is upstairs with themhernow. I

She stopped, raised her hand to her hair as if recollecting something, and stood looking sideways out of the

"There is something about you this morning," he said, with a concentrated deliberation, "that brings back the

old Prague days. I suppose it is that I have not seen your hair as you have it todaysince then."

After a pause she broke the silencewith infinite tactnot speaking too hurriedly.

"It has been a terrible week," she said. "Mother heard from Mr. Bodery that they were very ill; so we came. I

never dreamt that it was so bad when you spoke of them. Five years it has been going on?"

"Yes; five years. Thank you for coming, but I am sorry you should have seen it."

"I was kidnapped," he said, with a short laugh, "and then I got typhoid. The monks nursed me."

She was idly arranging the cups and saucers with her left hand, which she seemed desirous of bringing under

"Quite," he replied, and after a pause he added, in a singularly easy manner, "Tell me what happened after I

"I do not know," she answered with painful hesitation. "I don't think I thought at all."

"Ioh, we searched. We telegraphed for Mr. Bodery, who came down at once. Then Fred rode over, and

placed himself at Mr. Bodery's disposal. First he went to Paris, then to Brest. He did everything that could be

done, but of course it was of no avail. By Mr. Bodery's advice everything was kept secret. There was nothing

She stopped suddenly, and there was a silence in the room. He was looking at her curiously, still ignoring that

little left hand. Only one word of her speech seemed to have attached itself to his understanding.

He turned awaywalked towards the door, and then returned to the hearthrug, where he stood quite still.

"I suppose it was a quiet wedding," he said in a hard voice, "on my account; eh?"

He came nearer to herquite near, until his sleeve almost touched her bowed head.

She raised her head, and her eyes flashed one momentary appeal for mercylike the eyes of a whipped dog.

"Ohh," she gasped, as if he were whipping her. She did not quite know what he meant. She does not know

"Some day," he said, "when you are older, when you have more experience of the world, you will probably

fall into the habit of thanking God, in your prayers, that I am what I am. It is not because I am good . . .

perhaps it is because I am ambitious my father, you may remember, was considered heartless; it may be

that. But if I were differentif I were passionate instead of being what the world calls cold and

calculatingyou would be . . . your life would be" he stopped, and turning away he sat down wearily

It is probable that she does know now. She knows, in all likelihood, that her husband would have been

powerless to save her from Christian Vellacottfrom herselffrom that Love wherein there are no roses

And in the room above them Aunt Hester was dying. So wags the world. There is no attention paid to the

laws of dramatic effect upon the stage of life. The scenes are produced without sequence, without apparent

rhyme or reason; and Chance, the sceneshifter, is very careless, for comedies are enacted amid scenic effects

calculated to show off to perfection the deepest tragedy, while tragedies are spoilt by their surroundings.

The doctor and Mrs. Carew stood at the bedside, and listened to the old woman's broken murmurings. Into

her mind there had perhaps strayed a gleam of that Light which is not on the earth, for she was not abusing

"Ah, Christian," she was murmuring, "I wish you would come. I want to thank you for your kindness, more

especially to Aunt Judy. She is old, and we must make allowances. I know she is aggravating. It happened

long ago, when your father was a little boybut it altered her whole life. I think women are like that. There

is something that only comes to them once. I am feeling far from well, nephew Vellacott. I think I should like

She turned her head to where she expected to find her sister, and in the act of turning her eyes closed. She

slumbered peacefully. The two sisters had slept together for seventy years seventy long monotonous years,

in which there had been no incident, no great joy, no deep sorrowyears lost. Except for the natural growth

and slow decay of their frames, they had remained stationary, while around them children had grown into

Presently Aunt Hester opened her eyes, and they rested on the vacant pillow at her side. After a pause she

slowly turned her head, and fixed her gaze upon the doctor's face. He thought that the power of speech had

Aunt Hester lay quite still, staring at the ceiling. Her shrivelled fingers were picking at the counterpane. Then

Aunt Hester was very human, although the shadow of an angel's wing lay across her bed.

It was many years later that Christian Vellacott found himself in the presence of the Angel of Death again. A

telegram from H�vre was one day handed to him in the room at the back of the tall house in the Strand, and

As the sun rose over the sea the next morning, its earliest rays glanced gaily through the open porthole of a

cabin in a large ocean steamer, still panting from her struggle through tepid Eastern seas.

In this little cabin lay the Jesuit missionary, Ren� Drucquer, watching the moving reflections of the water,

which played ceaselessly on the painted ceiling overhead. He had been sent home from India by a

kindhearted army surgeon; a doomed man, stricken by a climatic disease in which there was neither hope

nor hurry. When the steamer arrived in the Seine it was found expedient to let the young missionary die

where he lay. The local agent of the Society of Jesus was a kindhearted man, and therefore a faithless

servant. He acceded to Ren� Drucquer's prayer to telegraph for Christian Vellacott.

And now Vellacott was actually coming down the cabin stairs. He entered the cabin, and stood by the sick

"Ah, you have come," said the Frenchman, with that peculiar tone of pathetic humour which can only be

rendered in the language that he spoke. "But how old! Do I look as old as that, I wonder? And hardyes,

"Oh, no," replied Vellacott. "It may be that the hardness that was once there shows now upon my facethat

Vellacott's glance wavered; he raised his head, and looked out of the open porthole across the glassy waters

"I thought," said Ren� Drucquer, "there might be someone elsesome womanwho was waiting for news."

"My dear Abb�," he said, "there is no woman in the whole world who wants news of me. And the result is, as