He stood there in all the splendour of thirty years, with more than Charlie’s naïveté, politely trying to enter into the life of the household, but failing to do so because of his preoccupation with the rippingness of Mrs Chris Hamson. The sight of him gave pleasure to Edwin. It did not occur to him to charge the young man with being callous.
When the cigarette was burnt, Johnnie said—
“Well, I think I shall leave seeing Charlie till breakfast.”
And he went to bed. On reaching the first-floor corridor he wished that he had gone to bed half a minute sooner; for in the corridor he encountered Janet, who had risen and was returning to her post; and Janet’s face, though she meant it not, was an accusation. Four o’clock had struck.
Five.
It was nearly half-past seven before Edwin left the house. In the meantime he had seen Charlie briefly twice, and Janet once, but he had not revisited the sick-room nor seen Hilda again. The boy’s condition was scarcely altered; if there was any change, it was for the better.
Dawn had broken. The fog was gone, but a faint mist hung in the trees over the damp lawn. The air was piercingly chill. Yawning and glancing idly about him, he perceived a curious object on the dividing wall. It was the candlestick which he had left there on the previous night. The candle was entirely consumed. “I may as well get over the wall,” he said to himself, and he scrambled up it with adventurous cheerfulness, and took the candlestick with him; it was covered with drops of moisture. He deposited it in the kitchen, where the servant was cleaning the range. On the oak chest in the hall lay the “Manchester Guardian,” freshly arrived. He opened it with another heavy yawn. At the head of one column he read, “Death of the Duke of Clarence,” and at the head of another, “Death of Cardinal Manning.” The double news shocked him strangely. He thought of what those days had been to others beside himself. And he thought: “Supposing after all the kid doesn’t come through?”