Book: The Vanished Messenger

E >> E. Phillips Oppenheim >> The Vanished Messenger




"A most admirable sentiment, my young friend, which you seem to be
doing your best to live up to. Not a line written, I see."

He sat up upon his rug. Mr. Fentolin, in his little carriage, was
there by his side. Behind was the faithful Meekins, with an easel
under his arm.

"I trust that your first night in your new abode has been a pleasant
one?" Mr. Fentolin asked.

"I slept quite well, thanks," Hamel replied. "Glad to see you're
going to paint."

Mr. Fentolin shook his head gloomily.

"It is, alas!" he declared, "one of my weaknesses. I can work only
in solitude. I came down on the chance that the fine weather might
have tempted you over to the Golf Club. As it is, I shall return."

"I am awfully sorry," Hamel said. "Can't I go out of sight
somewhere?"

Mr. Fentolin sighed.

"I will not ask your pardon for my absurd humours," he continued,
a little sadly. "Their existence, however, I cannot deny. I
will wait."

"It seems a pity for you to do that," Hamel remarked. "You see,
I might stay here for some time."

Mr. Fentolin's face darkened. He looked at the young man with a
sort of pensive wrath.

"If," the latter went on, "you say 'yes' to something I am going
to ask you, I might even stay - in the neighbourhood - for longer
still."

Mr. Fentolin sat quite motionless in his chair; his eyes were
fixed upon Hamel.

"What is it that you are going to ask me?" be demanded.

"I want to marry your niece.

Mr. Fentolin looked at the young man in mild surprise.

"A sudden decision on your part, Mr. Hamel?" he murmured.

"Not at all," Hamel assured him. "I have been ten years looking
for her."

"And the young lady?" Mr. Fentolin enquired. "What does she say?"

"I believe, sir," Hamel replied, "that she would be willing."

Mr. Fentolin sighed.

"One is forced sometimes," he remarked regretfully, "to realise
the selfishness of our young people. For many years one devotes
oneself to providing them with all the comforts and luxuries of
life. Then, in a single day, they turn around and give everything
they have to give to a stranger. So you want to marry Esther?"

"If you please."

"She has a very moderate fortune."

"She need have none at all," Hamel replied; "I have enough."

Mr. Fentolin glanced towards the house.

"Then," he said, "I think you had better go and tell her so; in
which case, I shall be able to paint."

"I have your permission, then?" Hamel asked, rising to his feet
eagerly.

"Negatively," Mr. Fentolin agreed, "you have. I cannot refuse.
Esther is of age; the thing is reasonable. I do not know whether
she will be happy with you or not. A young man of your
disposition who declines to study the whims of an unfortunate
creature like myself is scarcely likely to be possessed of much
sensibility. However, perhaps your views as to a solitary
residence here will change with your engagement to my niece."

Hamel did not reply for a moment. He was trying to ask himself
why, even in the midst of this rush of anticipatory happiness, he
should be conscious of a certain reluctance to leave the Tower - and
Mr. Fentolin. He was looking longingly towards the Hall. Mr.
Fentolin waved him away.

"Go and make love," he ordered, "and leave me alone. We are both
in pursuit of beauty - only our methods differ."

Hamel hesitated no longer but walked up the narnow path with
swift, buoyant footsteps. Everywhere he seemed to be surrounded
by the glorious spring sunshine. It glittered in the little pools
and creeks by his side. It drew a new colour from the dun-coloured
marshes, the masses of emerald seaweed, the shimmering sands. It
flashed in the long row of windows of the Hall. As he drew nearer,
he could see the banks of yellow crocuses in the sloping gardens
behind. There were odours of spring in the air. He ran lightly
up the terrace steps. There was an easy-chair drawn into her
favourite corner, and a book upon the table, but no sign of Esther.
He hesitated for a moment, and then, retracing his steps along the
terrace, entered the house by the front door, which stood wide
open. There was no one in the hall, scarcely a sound about the
place. A great clock ticked solemnly from the foot of the stairs.
There was not even a servant in sight. Hamel wandered around, a
a loss what to do. He opened the door of the drawing-room and
looked in. It was empty. He turned away, meaning to ring a bell.
On his way across the hall he paused. A curiously suggestive
sound reached him faintly from the end of one of the passages.
It was the click of a typewriter.

Hamel stood for a moment perfectly still. He had hurred up to
the Hall, filled with the one selfish joy common to all mankind.
He had had no thought save the thought of seeing Esther. The
click of that machine brought him hack to the stern realities of
life. He remembered his talk to Kinsley, his promise. On the
hall table he could see from where he was standing the great
headlines which announced the nation's anxiety. He was in the house
of a suspected spy. The click of the typewriter was an accompaniment
to his thought. He looked around once more and listened. Then he
made his way quietly across the hail and down the long passage, at
the end of which the room which Mr. Fentolin called his workroom
was situated. He turned the handle of the door and entered, closing
it immediately behind him. The woman who was typing paused with her
fingers upon the keys. Her eyes met his coldly, without curiosity.
She had paused in her work, but she took no other notice of his
coming.

"Has Mr. Fentolin sent you here?" she asked at last.

He came over to the typewriter.

"Mr. Fentolin has not sent me," he said slowly. "I am here on my
own account. I dare say you will think that I am a lunatic to
come to you like this. Nevertheless, please listen to me."

Her fingers left the keys. She laid her hands upon the table in
front of her. He drew a little nearer. She covered over the sheets
of paper with which she was surrounded with a pad of blotting-paper.
He pointed suddenly to them.

"Why do you do that? " he demanded. "What is there in your work
that you are afraid I might see?"

She answered him without hesitation.

"These are private papers of Mr. Fentolin's. No one has any
business to see them. No one has any business to enter this room.
Why are you here?"

"I came to the Hall to find Miss Fentolin," he replied. "I heard
the click of your typewriter. I came to you, I suppose I should
say, on impulse."

Her eyes rested upon his, filled with a cold and questioning light.

"There's an impression up in London," Hamel went on, "that Mr.
Fentolin has been intefering by means of his wireless in affairs
which don't concern him, and giving away valuable information.
This man Dunster's disappearance is as yet unexplained. I feel
myself justified in making certain investigations, and among the
first of them I should like you to tell me exactly the nature of
the work for which Mr. Fentolin finds a secretary necessary?"

She glanced towards the bell. He moved to the edge of the table
as though to intercept her.

"In any ordinary case," he continued, "I would not ask you to
betray your employer's confidence. As things are, I think I am
justified. You are English, are you not? You realise, I suppose,
that the country is on the brink of war?"

She looked at him from the depths of her still, lusterless eyes.

"You must be a very foolish person," she remarked, "if you expect
to obtain information in this manner."

"Perhaps I am," he confessed, "but my folly has brought me to you,
and you can give me the information if you will."

"Where is Mr. Fentolin?" she asked.

"Down at the Tower," he replied. "I left him there. He sent me
up to see Miss Fentolin. I was looking for her when the click of
your typewriter reminded me of other things."

She turned composedly back to her work.

"I think," she said, "that you had better go and find Miss Fentolin."

"Don't talk nonsense! You can't think I have risked giving myself
away to you for nothing? I mean to search this room, to read the
papers which you are typing."

She glanced around her a little contemptuously.

"You are welcome," she assured him. "Pray proceed."

They exchanged the glances of duelists. Her plain black frock was
buttoned up to her throat. Her colourless face seemed set in exact
and expressionless lines. Her eyes were like windows of glass. He
felt only their scrutiny; nothing of the reason for it, or of the
thoughts which stirred behind in her brain. There was nothing about
her attitude which seemed in any way threatening, yet he had the
feeling that in this interview it was she who possessed the upper
hand.

"You are a foolish person," she said calmly. "You are so foolish
that you are not, in all probability, in the slightest degree
dangerous. Believe me, ours is an unequal duel. There is a bell
upon this table which has apparently escaped your notice. I sit
with my finger upon the button - so. I have only to press it, and
the servants will be here. I do not wish to press it. I do not
desire that you should be, as you certainly would be, banished from
this house."

He was immensely puzzled. She had not resented his strange
intrusion. She had accepted it, indeed, with curious equanimity.
Her forefinger lingered still over the little ivory knob of the bell
attached to her desk. He shrugged his shoulders.

"You have the advantage of me," he admitted, a little curtly. "All
the same, I think I could possess myself of those sheets of paper,
you know, before the bell was answered."

"Would it be wise, I wonder, then, to ensure their safety?" she
asked coolly.

Her finger pressed the bell. He took a quick step forward. She
held out her hand.

"Stop!" she ordered. "These sheets will tell you nothing which you
do not know already unless you are a fool. Never mind the bell.
That is my affair. I am sending you away."

He leaned a little towards her.

"It wouldn't be possible to bribe you, I suppose?"

She shook her head.

"I wonder you haven't tried that before. No, it would not - not
with money, that is to say."

"You'll tell Mr. Fentolin, I presume?" he asked quickly.

"I have nothing to tell him," she replied. "Nothing has happened.
Richards," she went on, as a servant entered the room, "Mr. Hamel
is looking for Miss Fentolin. Will you see if you can find her?"

The man's expression was full of polite regret.

"Miss Fentolin went over to Legh Woods early this morning, sir,"
he announced. "She is staying to lunch with Lady Saxthorpe."

Hamel stood quite still for a moment. Then he turned to the window.
In the far distance he could catch a glimpse of the Tower. Mr.
Fentolin's chair had disappeared from the walk.

"I am sorry," he said. "I must have made a mistake. I will hurry
back."

There were more questions which he was longing to ask, but the cold
negativeness of her manner chilled him. She sat with her fingers
poised over the keys, waiting for his departure. He turned and
left the room.




CHAPTER XXVIII

Mr. Fentolin, his carriage drawn up close to the beach, was painting
steadily when Hamel stood once more by his side. His eyes moved
only from the sea to the canvas. He never turned his head.

"So your wooing has not prospered, my young friend," he remarked
gently. "I am sorry. Is there anything I can do?"

"Your niece has gone out to lunch," Hamel replied shortly.

Mr. Fentolin stopped painting. His face was full of concern as he
looked up at Hamel.

"My dear sir," he exclaimed, "how can I apologise! Of course she
has gone out to lunch. She has gone out to Lady Saxthorpe's. I
remember the subject being discussed. I myself, in fact, was the
instigator of her going. I owe you a thousand apologies, Mr. Hamel.
Let me make what amends are possible for your useless journey.
Dine with us to-night."

"You are very kind."

"A poor amends," Mr. Fentolin continued. "A morning like this was
made for lovers. Sunshine and blue sky, a salt breeze flavoured
just a little with that lavender, and a stroll through my spring
gardens, where my hyacinths are like a field of purple and gold,
a mantle of jewels upon the brown earth. Ah, well! One's thoughts
will wander to the beautiful things of life. There were once women
who loved me, Mr. Hamel."

Hamel looked doubtfully at the strange little figure in the chair.
Was this genuine, he wondered, a voluntary outburst, or was it some
subtle attempt to incite sympathy? Mr. Fentolin seemed almost to
have read his thought.

"It is not for the sake of your pity that I say this," he continued.
"Mine is only the passing across the line which age as well as
infirmity makes inevitable. No one in the world who lives to grow
old, and who has loved and felt the fire of it in his veins, can
pass that line without sorrow, or look back without a pang. I am
among a great army. Well, well, I shall paint no more to-day," he
concluded abruptly.

"Where is your servant? " Hamel asked.

Mr. Fentolin glanced around him carelessly.

"He has wandered away out of sight. He knows well how necessary
solitude is to me if once I take the brush between my fingers
- solitude natural and entire, I mean. If any one is within a
dozen yards of me I know it, even though I cannot see them.
Meekins is wandering somewhere the other side of the Tower."

"Shall I call him ?"

"On no account," Mr. Fentolin begged. "Presently he will appear,
in plenty of time. There is the morning to be passed - barely
eleven o'clock, I think, now. I shall sit in my chair, and sink a
little down, and dream of these beautiful lights, these rolling,
foam-flecked waves, these patches of blue and shifting green. I
can form them in my brain. I can make a picture there, even though
my fingers refuse to move. You are not an aesthete, I think, Mr.
Hamel? The study of beauty does not mean to you what it did to your
father, and my father, and, in a smaller way to me."

"Perhaps not," Hamel confessed. "I believe I feel these things
somewhere, because they bring a queer sense of content with them.
I am afraid, though, that my artistic perceptions are not so keen
as some men's."

Mr. Fentolin looked at him thoughtfully.

"It is the physical life in your veins - too splendid to permit you
abstract pleasures. Compensations again, you see - compensations.
I wonder what the law is that governs these things. I have
forgotten sometimes," he went on, "forgotten my own infirmities in
the soft intoxication of a wonderful seascape. Only," he went on,
his face a little grey, "it is the physical in life which triumphs.
There are the hungry hours which nothing will satisfy."

His head sank, his chin rested upon his chest. He had all the
appearance now of a man who talks in bitter earnest. Yet Hamel
wondered. He looked towards the Tower; there was no sign of Meekins.
The sea-gulls went screaming above their heads. Mr. Fentolin never
moved. His eyes seemed half closed. It was only when Hamel rose to
his feet that he looked swiftly up.

"Stay with me, I beg you, Mr. Hamel," he said. "I am in one of
the moods when solitude, even for a moment, is dangerous. Do you
know what I have sometimes thought to myself?"

He pointed to the planked way which led down the steep, pebbly beach
to the sea.

"I have sometimes thought," he went on, "that it would be glorious
to find a friend to stand by my side at the top of the planks, just
there, when the tide was high, and to bid him loose my chair and to
steer it myself, to steer it down the narrow path into the arms of
the sea. The first touch of the salt waves, the last touch of life.
Why not? One sleeps without fear."

He lifted his head suddenly. Meekins had am peared, coming round
from the back of the Tower. Instantly Mr. Fentolin's whole manner
changed. He sat up in his chair.

"It is arranged, then," he said. "You dine with us to-night. For
the other matters of which you have spoken, well, let them rest in
the hands of the gods. You are not very kind to me. I am not sure
whether you would make Esther a good husband. I am not sure, even,
that I like you. You take no pains to make yourself agreeable.
Considering that your father was an artist, you seem to me rather a
dull and uninspired young man. But who can tell? There may be
things stirring beneath that torpid brain of yours of which no other
person knows save yourself."

The concentrated gaze of Mr. Fentolin's keen eyes was hard to meet,
but Hamel came out of the ordeal without flinching.

"At eight o'clock, Mr. Fentolin," he answered. "I can see that I
must try to earn your better opinion.

Hamel read steadily for the remainder of the morning. It was past
one o'clock when he rose stiffly from his seat among the sand
knolls and, strolling back to the Tower, opened the door and
entered. The cloth was laid for luncheon in the little
sitting-room, but there were no signs of Hannah Cox. He passed
on into the kitchen and came to a sudden standstill. Once more
the memory of his own work passed away from him. Once more he
was back again among that queer, clouded tangle of strange
suspicions, of thrilling, half-formed fears, which had assailed
him at times ever since his arrival at St, David's. He stopped
quite short. The words which rose to his lips died away. He
felt the breathless, compelling need for silence and grew tense in
the effort to make no sound.

Hannah Cox was kneeling on the stone floor. Her ear was close to
the crack of the door which led into the boat-house. Her face,
half turned from it, was set in a strange, concentrated passion of
listening; her lips were parted, her eyes half closed. She took
no more notice of Hamel or his arrival than if he had been some
useless piece of furniture. Every faculty seemed to be absorbed in
that one intense effort of listening. There was no need of her
out-stretched finger. Hamel fell in at once with a mood so mesmeric.
He, too, listened. The small clock which she had brought with her
from the village ticked away upon the mantelpiece. The full sea
fell with placid softness upon the high beach outside. Some slight
noise of cooking came from the stove. Save for these things there
was silence. Yet, for a space of time which Hamel could never have
measured, they both listened. When at last the woman rose to her
feet, Hamel, finding words at last, was surprised to find that his
throat was dry.

"What is it, Mrs. Cox?" he asked. "Why were you listening there?"

Her face was absolutely expressionless. She was busying herself
now with a small saucepan, and her back was turned towards him.

"I spend my life, sir," she said, "listening and waiting. One
never knows when the end may come."

"But the boat-house," Hamel objected. "No one has been in there
his morning, have they?"

"Who can tell?" she answered. "He could go anywhere when he chose,
or how he chose - through the keyhole, if he wanted."

"But why listen?" Hamel persisted. "There is nothing in there now
but some odds and ends of machinery."

She turned from the fire and looked at him for a moment. Her eyes
were colourless, her tone unemotional.

"Maybe! There's no harm in listening."

"Did you hear anything which made you want to listen?"

"Who can tell?" she answered. "A woman who lives well-nigh alone,
as I live, in a quiet place, hears things so often that other folk
never listen to. There's always something in my ears, night or day.
Sometimes I am not sure whether it's in this world or the other. It
was like that with me just then. It was for that reason I listened.
Your luncheon's ready, sir."

Hamel walked thoughtfully back into his sitting-room. He seated
himself before a spotless cloth and watched Hannah Cox spread out
his well-cooked, cleanly-served meal.

"If there's anything you want, sir," she said, "I shall hear you at
a word. The kitchen door is open."

"One moment, Mrs. Cox."

She lingered there patiently, with the tray in her hand.

"There was some sound," Hamel continued, "perhaps a real sound,
perhaps a fancy, which made you go down on your knees in the kitchen.
Tell me what it was."

"The sound I always hear, sir," she answered quietly. "I hear it in
the night, and I hear it when I stand by the sea and look out. I
have heard it for so many years that who can tell whether it comes
from this world or the other - the cry of men who die!"

She passed out. Hamel looked after her, for a moment, like a man
in a dream, In his fancy he could see her back again once more in
the kitchen, kneeling on the stone floor,- listening!




CHAPTER XXIX

A cold twilight had fallen upon the land when Hamel left the Tower
that evening and walked briskly along the foot-way to the Hall.
Little patches of mist hung over the creeks, the sky was almost
frosty. The lights from St. David's Hall shone like cheerful
beacons before him. He hastened up the stone steps, crossed the
terrace, and passed into the hall. A servant conducted him at once
to the drawing-room. Mrs. Fentolin, in a pink evening dress, with
a pink ornament in her hair, held out both her hands. In the
background, Mr. Fentolin, in his queerly-cut evening clothes, sat
with folded arms, leaning back in his carriage. He listened grimly
to his sister-in-law as she stood with Hamel's hands in hers.

"My dear Mr. Hamel!" she exclaimed. "How perfectly charming of you
to come up and relieve a little our sad loneliness! Delightful, I
call it, of you. I was just saying so to Miles."

Hamel looked around the room. Already his heart was beginning to
sink.

"Miss Fentolin is well, I hope?" he asked.

"Well, but a very naughty girl," her mother declared. "I let her
go to Lady Saxthorpe's to lunch, and now we have had simply the
firmest letter from Lady Saxthorpe. They insist upon keeping Esther
to dine and sleep. I have had to send her evening clothes, but you
can't tell, Mr. Hamel, how I miss her."


Hamel's disappointment was a little too obvious to pass unnoticed.
There was a shade of annoyance, too, in his face. Mr. Fentolin
smoothly intervened.

"Let us be quite candid with Mr. Hamel, dear Florence," he begged.
"I have spoken to my sister-in-law and told her the substance of
our conversation this morning," he proceeded, wheeling his chair
nearer to Hamel. "She is thunderstruck. She wishes to reflect, to
consider. Esther chanced to be away. We have encouraged her
absence for a few more hours."

"I hope, Mrs, Fentolin," Hamel said simply, " that you will give
her to me. I am not a rich man, but I am fairly well off. I should
be willing to live exactly where Esther wishes, and I would do my
best to make her happy."

Mrs, Fentolin opened her lips once and closed them again. She
laughed a little - a high-pitched, semi-hysterical laugh. The hand
which gripped her fan was straining so that the blue veins stood out
almost like whipcord.

"Esther is very young, Mr. Hamel. We must talk this over. You have
known her for such a very short time."

A servant announced dinner, and Hamel offered his arm to his hostess.

"Is Gerald away, too?" he asked.

"We do indeed owe you our apologies," Mr. Fentolin declared.
"Gerald is spending a couple of days at the Dormy House at
Brancaster - a golf arrangement made some time back."

"He promised to play with me to-morrow," Hamel remarked thoughtfully.
"He said nothing about going away."

"I fear that like most young men of his age he has little memory,"
Mr. Fentolin sighed. "However, he will be back to-morrow or the
next day. I owe you my apologies, Mr. Hamel, for our lack of young
people. We must do our best to entertain our guest, Florence. You
must be at your best, dear. You must tell him some of those capital
stories of yours."

Mrs, Fentolin shivered for a moment. Hamel, as he handed her to her
place, was struck by a strange look which she threw upon him, half
furtive, full of pain. Her hand almost clung to his. She slipped a
little, and he held her tightly. Then he was suchdenly conscious
that something hard was being pressed into his palm. He drew his
hand away at once.

"You seem a little unsteady this evening, my dear Florence," Mr.
Fentolin remarked, peering across the round table.

She eyed him nonchalantly enough.

"The floor is slippery," she said. "I was glad, for a moment, of
Mr. Hamel's strong hand. Where are those dear puppies? Chow-Chow,"
she went on, "come and sit by your mistress at once."

Hamel's fingers inside his waistcoat pocket were smoothing out the
crumpled piece of paper which she had passed to him. Soon he had
it quite flat. Mrs, Fentolin, as though freed from some anxiety,
chattered away gaily.

"I don't know that I shall apologise to Mr. Hamel at all for the
young people being away," she declared. "Just fancy what we have
saved him from - a solitary meal served by Hannah Cox! Do you know
that they say she is half-witted, Mr. Hamel?"

"So far, she has looked after me very well," Hamel observed.

"Her intellect is defective," Mr. Fentolin remarked, "on one point
only. The good woman is obsessed by the idea that her husband and
sons are still calling to her from the Dagger Rocks. It is almost
pitiful to meet her wandering about there on a stormy night. The
seacoasts are full of these little village tragedies - real
tragedies, too, however insignificant they may seem to us."

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