In a few minutes he looked still more put out. He had learnt of the disturbances in Paris, and was reading a rather panic-stricken letter from Mr. Bodery. The truth was that there was no one in the office of the _Beacon_ who knew anything whatever about French home politics but Christian Vellacott.

A continuance of these disturbances would necessarily a.s.sume political importance, and might even lead to a crisis. This meant an instant recall for Vellacott. In a crisis his presence in London or Paris was absolutely necessary to the _Beacon_.

His holiday had barely lasted twenty-four hours, and there was already a question of recall. It happened also that within that short s.p.a.ce 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 nothing--a feeling of which he had not hitherto been conscious. He was distinctly averse to leaving St. Mary Western just yet. But there is one task-master who knows no mercy and makes no allowances. Some of us who serve him know it to our cost, and yet we would be content to serve no other. That task-master is the Public.

Vellacott was a public servant, and he knew his position.

Somewhat later in the morning Molly and Hilda found him still seated at the table, writing with that concentrated rapidity which only comes with practice.

"I am sorry," he said, looking up, "but I must send off a telegram. I shall walk in to the station."

"I was just coming," said Hilda, "to ask if you would drive me in. I want to get some things."

"And," added Molly, "there are some domestic commissions--butcher, baker, &c."

Vellacott expressed his entire satisfaction with the arrangement, and by the time he had finished his letter the dog-cart was waiting at the door.

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 race-meeting.

It was one of those brilliant summer days when it is quite impossible to be pessimistic and exceedingly difficult to compa.s.s preoccupation. The light breeze bowling over the upland from the sea had just sufficient strength to blow away all mental cobwebs. Also, Christian Vellacott had suddenly given way to one of those feelings which sometimes come to us without apparent reason. The present was joyous enough without the aid of the ever-to-be-bright future, and Vellacott felt that, after all, French politics and Frederick Farrar did not quite monopolise the world.

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 soft felt hat of a shape seldom seen in England.

"I believe," said Hilda, as they approached him, "that is Signor Bruno.

Yes, it is. Please pull up, Christian. We must give him a lift!"

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

On hearing the sound of the wheels, the old 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 semblance of guilelessness and benevolence.

"How do you do, Signor Bruno?" said Hilda, speaking rather loudly and very distinctly. "You are back from London sooner than you expected, are you not?"

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

"Ah! now indeed the sun shines upon me. Yes, I am back from London--a most terrible place--terrible--terrible--terrible! As I walked along just now I said to myself: 'The sun is warm, the skies are blue; yonder is the laughing sea, and yet, Bruno, you sigh for Italy.' This is Italy, Miss Hilda--Italy with a northern fairy walking in it!"

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

"Allow me to introduce to you Sidney's friend, Mr. Vellacott, Signor Bruno!"

Sidney's friend, Mr. Vellacott, was by this time behind her. He had alighted, and was employed in arranging the back seat of the dog-cart.

When Signor Bruno looked towards him, he found Christian's eyes fixed upon his face with a quiet persistence which might have been embarra.s.sing 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 right-hand seat and drive. Signor Bruno saw the sign, and said urbanely:

"You will, if you please, resume your seat. I will place myself behind!"

"Oh, no! You must allow me to sit behind!" said Christian.

"But why, my dear sir? That would not be correct. You are Mr. Carew's guest, and I--I am only a poor old Italian runaway, who is accustomed to back seats; all my life I have occupied back seats, I think, Mr.

Vell'cott. There is no reason why I should aspire to better things now!"

The old fellow's voice was strangely balanced between pathos and a peculiar self-abnegating humour.

"If we were both to take our hats off again, I think it would be easy to see why you should sit in front!" 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, and--I obey!"

He climbed into the cart with a little senile joke about the stiffness of his aged limbs. He chattered on in his innocent, childish way until the village was reached. Here he was deposited on the dusty road at the gate of a small yellow cottage where he had two rooms. The seat was re-arranged, and amidst a volley of thanks and salutations, Hilda and Christian drove away. Presently Hilda looked up and said:

"Is he not a dear old thing? I believe, Christian, in all the various local information I have given you, I have never told you about Signor Bruno. I shall reserve him for the next awkward pause that occurs."

"Yes," replied Christian quietly. "He seems very nice."

Something in his tone seemed to catch her attention. She half turned as if to hear more, but he said nothing. Then she raised her eyes to his face, which was not expressive of anything in particular.

"Christian," she said gravely, "you do not like him?"

Looked upon as a mere divination of thought, this was very quick; but he seemed in no way perturbed. He turned and looked down with a smile at her grave face.

"No," he replied. "Not very much."

"Why?"

"I do not know. There is something wrong about him, I think!"

She laughed and shook her head.

"What do you mean?" she asked. "How can there be anything wrong with him--anything that would affect us, at all events?"

He shrugged his shoulders, still smiling.

"He says he is an Italian?"

"Yes," she replied.

"I say he is a Frenchman," said Christian, suddenly turning towards her.

"Italians do not talk English as he talks it."

She looked puzzled.

"Do you know him?" she asked.