“Indeed! Do you know at all what it was he saw, and when, and under what circumstances?” Mr. Shargeloes put these questions with more urgency than Miss Twemlow liked.
“Really I cannot tell you all those things; they are scarcely of general interest. My dear father said little about it: all knowledge is denied in this good world to women. But no doubt he would tell you, if you asked him, when there were no ladies present.”
“I will,” said Mr. Shargeloes. “He is most judicious; he knows when to speak, and when to hold his tongue. And I think that you combine with beauty one of those two gifts—which is the utmost to be expected.”
“Percival, you put things very nicely, which is all that could be expected of a man. But do take my advice in this matter, and say no more about it.”
Mr. Shargeloes feigned to comply, and perhaps at the moment meant to do so. But unluckily he was in an enterprising temper, proud of recovered activity, and determined to act up to the phosphate supplied by fish diet. Therefore when the Rector, rejoicing in an outlet for his long pent-up discoveries, and regarding this sage man as one of his family, repeated the whole of his adventure at Carne Castle, Mr. Shargeloes said, briefly, “It must be seen to.”
“Stubbard has been there,” replied Mr. Twemlow, repenting perhaps of his confidence; “Stubbard has made an official inspection, which relieves us of all concern with it.”
“Captain Stubbard is an ass. It is a burning shame that important affairs should be entrusted to such fellows. The country is in peril, deadly peril; and every Englishman is bound to act as if he were an officer.”
That very same evening Carne rode back to his ruins in a very grim state of mind. He had received from the Emperor a curt and haughty answer to his last appeal for immediate action, and the prospect of another gloomy winter here, with dangers thickening round him, and no motion to enliven them, was almost more than he could endure. The nights were drawing in, and a damp fog from the sea had drizzled the trees, and the ivy, and even his own moustache with cold misery.
“Bring me a lantern,” he said to old Jerry, as he swung his stiff legs from the back of the jaded horse, “and the little flask of oil with the feather in it. It is high time to put the Inspector's step in order.”
Jerry Bowles, whose back and knees were bent with rheumatism and dull service, trotted (like a horse who has become too stiff to walk) for the things commanded, and came back with them. Then his master, without a word, strode towards the passage giving entry to the vaults which Stubbard had not seen—the vaults containing all the powder, and the weapons for arming the peasantry of England, whom Napoleon fondly expected to rise in his favour at the sight of his eagles.