Part 91 (2/2)

”You bet she is! Absolute pa.s.sion. What sort is he?”

”Oh! He's all right. But I've never seen them together, and I never thought she was so particularly keen on him.”

”Don't you make any mistake,” said Charlie loftily. ”I believe women often are like that about an only child when they've had a rough time.

And by the look of her she must have had a pretty rough time. I've never made out why she married that swine, and I don't think anyone else has either.”

”Did you know him?” Edwin asked, with sudden eagerness.

”Not a bit. But I've sort of understood he was a regular outsider. Do you know how long she's been a widow?”

”No,” said Edwin. ”I've barely seen her.”

At these words he became so constrained, and so suspicious of the look on his own face, that he rose abruptly and began to walk about the room.

”What's the matter?” demanded Charlie. ”Got pins and needles?”

”Only fidgets,” said Edwin.

”I hope this isn't one of your preliminaries for clearing out and leaving me alone,” Charlie complained. ”Here--where's that gla.s.s of yours? Have another cigarette.”

There was a sound that seemed to resemble a tap on the door.

”What's that noise?” said Edwin, startled. The whole of his epidermis tingled, and he stood still. They both listened.

The sound was repeated. Yes, it was a tap on the door; but in the night, and in the repose of the house, it had the character of some unearthly summons.

Edwin was near the door. He hesitated for an instant afraid, and then with an effort brusquely opened the door and looked forth beyond the shelter of the room. A woman's figure was disappearing down the pa.s.sage in the direction of the stairs. It was she.

”Did you--” he began. But Hilda had gone. Agitated, he said to Charlie, his hand still on the k.n.o.b: ”It's Mrs Cannon. She just knocked and ran off. I expect she wants you.”

Charlie jumped up and scurried out of the room exactly like a boy, despite his tall, mature figure of a man of thirty-five.

VOLUME FOUR, CHAPTER TWELVE.

END OF THE NIGHT.

For the second time that night Edwin was left alone for a long period in the little breakfast-room. Charlie's phrase, 'You're another of her beliefs,' shone like a lamp in his memory, beneficent. And though he was still jealous of Charlie, with whom Hilda's relations were obviously very intimate; although he said to himself, 'She never made any appeal to me, she would scarcely have my help at any price;' nevertheless he felt most singularly uplifted and, without any reason, hopeful. So much so that the fate of the child became with him a matter of secondary importance. He excused this apparent callousness by making sure in his own mind that the child was in no real danger. On the other hand he blamed himself for ever having fancied that Hilda was indifferent to George. She, indifferent to her own son! What a wretched, stupid slander! He ought to have known better than that. He ought to have known that a Hilda would bring to maternity the mightiest pa.s.sions. All that Charlie had said confirmed him in his idolisation of her. 'One minute of the grand style.' That was it. Charlie had judged her very well--d.a.m.n him! And the one minute was priceless, beyond all estimation.

The fire sank, with little sounds of decay; and he stared at it, prevented as if by a spell from stooping to make it up, prevented even from looking at his watch. At length he s.h.i.+vered slightly, and the movement broke the trance. He wandered to the door, which Charlie had left ajar, and listened. No sign of life! He listened intently, but his ear could catch nothing whatever. What were those two doing upstairs with the boy? Cautiously he stepped out into the pa.s.sage, and went to the foot of the stairs, where a gas jet was burning. He was reminded of the nights preceding his father's death.

Another gas jet showed along the corridor at the head of the stairs. He put his foot on the first step; it creaked with a noise comparable to the report of a pistol in the dead silence. But there was no responsive sound to show that anyone had been alarmed by this explosion. Impelled by nervous curiosity, and growing careless, he climbed the reverberating, complaining stairs, and, entering the corridor, stood exactly in front of the closed door of the sick-room, and listened again, and heard naught. His heart was obstreperously beating. Part of the household slept; the other part watched; and he was between the two, like a thief, like a spy. Should he knock, discreetly, and ask if he could be of help? The strange romance of his existence, and of all existence, flowed around him in mysterious currents, obsessing him.

Suddenly the door opened, and Charlie, barely avoiding a collision, started back in alarm. Then Charlie recovered his self-possession and carefully shut the door.

”I was just wondering whether I could be any use,” Edwin stammered in a whisper.

Charlie whispered: ”It's all right, but I must run round to Stirling's, and get a drug I want.”

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