"I have not had much of a holiday, you see, for two years now!"

"Of course you haven't, and you want it. It's only human nature--and you a young man that ought to be in the open air all day. For an old woman like me it's different. We're made differently by the good G.o.d on purpose, I think."

"Well, then, if your sister comes it must be understood, nurse, that I make the same arrangement with her as exists with you. She must simply be a duplicate of you--you understand?"

The little woman laughed, lightly enough.

"Oh, yes, Master Christian, that is all right. But you need not have troubled about that. She never would have thought of such a thing as wages, I'm sure!"

"No," replied he gravely, "I know she would not, but it will be better, I think, to have it understood beforehand. Grat.i.tude is a very nice thing to work for, but some work is worth more than grat.i.tude. If you are going out for your walk, perhaps you will post this letter."

Before Christian went to bed that night he held a candle close to the mirror and looked long and hard at his own reflection. There were dark streaks under his eyes, his small mouth was drawn and dry, his lips colourless. At each temple the bone stood out rather prominently, and the skin was brilliant in its whiteness and reflected the light of the candle. He felt his own pulse. It was beating, at one moment fast and irregular, at the next it was hardly perceptible.

"Yes!" he muttered, with a professional nod--in his training as a journalist he had learnt a little of many sciences--"yes, old Bodery was right."

CHAPTER V

A REUNION

The gentle August night had cooled and soothed the dusty atmosphere. All things looked fair, even in London. The placid Thames glided stealthily down to the sea, as if wishing to speed on unseen, to cast at last his reeking waters into the cool ocean. The bright brown sails, low hulls, and gaily painted spars of the barges dropping down with the stream added to the beauty of the scene.

Such was the morning that greeted 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 life--one of those steps which we hardly notice at the time, but upon which we look back in after years and note how clear and definite it was, losing ourselves in vague conjecture as to what might have been had we held back.

Christian being practical in all things, knew how to travel comfortably, dispensing with rugs and bags and such small packages as are understood to be dear to the elderly single female heart.

The smoky suburbs were soon left behind, and the smiling land gave forth such gentle, pastoral odours as only long confinement in cities can teach us to detect. Christian lowered the window, and the warm air played round him as it had not done for two long years. The whizz of the wind past his face brought back the memory of the long, idle, happy days spent with his father in the Mediterranean, when they had been half sailors and wholly Bohemians, gliding from port to port, village to city, in their yacht, as free and careless as the wind. The warm breeze almost seemed to be coming to him from some parched Italian plain instead of pastoral Buckinghamshire.

Then his thoughts travelled still further back to his school-days in Prague, when his father and Mr. Carew were colleagues in a brilliant but unfortunate emba.s.sy. Five years had pa.s.sed since then. The two fathers were now dead, and the children had dropped apart as men and women do when their own personal interests begin to engross them. Now again, in this late summer time, they were to meet. All, that is, who were left.

The _debris_, as it 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 bright-eyed sailor of the family, had all three travelled on.

The two former, whose age and work achieved had softened their departure, were often spoken of with gently lowered voice, but little Charlie's name was never mentioned. It was a fatal mistake--this silence--if you will; but it was one of those mistakes which are often made in wisdom. In splendid, solitary grandeur he lay awaiting the end of all things--the call of his Creator--in the grey ice-fields of the North. The darling of his ship, he had died with a smile in his blue eyes and a sad little jest upon his lips to cheer the rough fur-clad giants kneeling at his side. Time, the merciful, had healed, as best he could (which is by no means perfectly), the wound in the younger hearts.

It is only the old that are quite beyond his powers; he cannot touch them. Mrs. Carew, a woman with a patient face and a ready smile, was the only representative of the vanishing generation. Her daughters--ay! and perhaps her sons as well (though boys are not credited with so much tender divination)--knew the meaning of the little droop at the side of their mother's smiling lips. They detected the insincerity of her kindly laugh.

Shortly after leaving Exeter, Christian's station was reached. This was an old-fashioned seaport town, whose good fortune it was to lie too far west for a London watering-place, and too far east for Plymouth or Bristol. Sidney Carew was on the platform--a st.u.r.dy, 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 s.p.a.ce of many years they may never meet and seldom write, but at the end that gulf of time is bridged over by a simple "Halloa, old fellow!" and a warm grip.

Slowly, piece by piece, the history of the past years comes out. Both are probably changed in thought and nature, but the old individuality remains, the old bond of friendship survives.

"Well, Sidney?"

"How are you?"

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

"Molly is outside with the dog-cart," said Sidney; "is your luggage forward?"

"Yes, that is it being pitched out now."

It was with womanly foresight that Miss Molly Carew had elected to wait outside with the dog-cart while her brother met Christian on the platform. She feared a little natural embarra.s.sment at meeting the old playfellow of the family, and concluded that the first moments would be more easily tided over here than at the train. Her fears were, as it turned out, unnecessary, but she did not know what Christian might be like after the lapse of years. Of herself she was sure enough, being one of those happy people who have no self-consciousness whatever.

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

She saw at once that it was all right. This was Christian 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, and--and you look positively ghastly!" She finished her remark with a little laugh which took away from the spoken meaning of it.

"Ghastly?" he replied. "Thanks: I do not feel like it--only hungry.

Hungry, and desperately glad to see a face that does not look overworked."

"Meaning me."

"Meaning you."

She gave a little sarcastic nod, and pursed up a pair of very red lips.

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

At this moment Sidney came up and interrupted them.

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

The drive of six miles pa.s.sed 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 the face of life's graver mischances now.

Christian had been a shy and commonplace-enough boy as she recollected him. Now she found a self-possessed man of the world. Tall and strong of body she saw he was, and she felt that he possessed another strength--a strength of mind and will which, reaching out, can grasp and hold anything or everything.

With practised skill, Molly turned into the narrow gateway at a swinging trot, and then only was the house visible--a low, rambling building of brick and stone uncouthly mixed. Its chief outward characteristic was a promise of inward comfort. The st.u.r.dy manner in which its windows faced the scantily-wooded 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 sitting-room. All around the house, except, indeed, upon the sea-ward 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 and friendly to dispense with words.

"Where is Hilda?" asked Molly, as she leapt lightly to the ground.

"I do not know, dear. She is out, somewhere; in the garden, I expect.

You are before your time a little. The train must have been punctual, for a wonder. Had Hilda known, she would have been here to welcome you, I know, Christian."

"I expect she is at the moat," said Molly. "Come along, Christian; we will go and look for her. This way."

In the meantime Sidney had driven the dog-cart round to the stables, kneeling 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 beginning their work.

Suddenly Molly stopped, and Christian saw that she was standing at the edge of a long, still sheet of water bounded by solid stonework, which, however, was crumbling away in parts, while everywhere the green moss grew in velvety profusion.

"Oh, Christian," said Molly lightly, "I suppose Sidney told you a little of our news. Men's letters are not discursive as a rule I know, but no doubt he told you--something."

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