Book: The Vanished Messenger

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




Another wave broke, this time completely over them. They listened
with strained ears - the engine continued to beat. They still moved
slowly. Then there was a shock. The wheel had struck something in
the road - a great stone or rock. The chauffeur thrust the car out
of gear. The engine still beat. Gerald leaped from the car. The
water was over his knees. He crossed in front of the bonnet and
stooped down.

"I've got it!" he exclaimed, tugging hard. "It's a stone."

He moved it, rolled it on one side, and pushed at the wheel of the
car as his companion put in the speed. They started again. He
jumped back his place.

"We've done it, all right!" he cried. "Don't you see? It's getting
lower all the time."

The chauffeur had lost his nerve. His cheeks were pale, his teeth
were chattering. The engine, however, was still beating. Gradually
the pressure of the water grew less. In front of them they caught
a glimpse of the road. They drew up at the top of a little bridge
over one of the dikes. Gerald uttered a brief exclamation of triumph.

"We're safe!" he almost sobbed. "There's the road, straight ahead
and round to the right. There's no more water anywhere near."

They had left the main part of the flood behind them. There were
still great pools in the side of the road, and huge masses of
seaweed had been carried up and were lying in their track. There
was no more water, however. At every moment they drew nearer to
the strangely-shaped hill with its crown of trees.

"The house is on the other side," Gerald pointed out. "We can go
through the lodge gates at the back here. The ascent isn't so
steep."

They turned sharply to the right, along another stretch of straight
road set with white posts, ending before a red brick lodge and a
closed gate. They blew the horn and a gardener came out. He gazed
at them in amazement.

"It's all right," Gerald cried. "Let us through quickly, Foulds.
We've a gentleman in behind who's ill."

The man swung open the gate with a respectful salute. They made
their way up a winding drive of considerable length, and at last
they came to a broad, open space almost like a platform. On their
left were the marshes, and beyond, the sea. Along their right
stretched the long front of an Elizabethan mansion. They drew up
in front of the hail door. Their coming had been observed, and
servants were already waiting. Gerald sprang to the ground.

"There's a gentleman in behind who's ill," he explained to the
butler. "He has met with an accident on the way. Three or four
of you had better carry him up to a bedroom - any one that is ready.
And you, George," he added, turning to a boy, "get into the car and
show this man the way round to the garage, and then take him to the
servants' hall."

Several of the servants hastened to do his bidding, and Gerald did
his best to answer the eager but respectful stream of questions.
And then, just as they were in the act of lifting the still
unconscious man on to the floor of the hall, came a queer sound - a
shrill, reverberating whistle. They all looked up the stairs.

"The master is awake," Henderson, the butler, remarked, dropping
his voice a little.

Gerald nodded.

"I will go to him at once," he said.




CHAPTER V

Accustomed though he was to the sight which he was about to face,
Gerald shivered slightly as he opened the door of Mr. Fentolin's
room. A strange sort of fear seemed to have crept into his bearing
and expression, a fear of which there had been no traces whatever
during those terrible hours through which he had passed - not even
during that last reckless journey across the marshes. He walked
with hesitating footsteps across the spacious and lofty room. He
had the air of some frightened creature approaching his master.
Yet all that was visible of the despot who ruled his whole
household in deadly fear was the kindly and beautiful face of an
elderly man, whose stunted limbs and body were mercifully concealed.
He sat in a little carriage, with a rug drawn closely across his
chest and up to his armpits. His beautifully shaped hands were
exposed, and his face; nothing else. His hair was a silvery white;
his complexion parchment-like, pallid, entirely colourless. His
eyes were a soft shade of blue. His features were so finely cut
and chiselled that they resembled some exquisite piece of statuary.
He smiled as his nephew came slowly towards him. One might almost
have fancied that the young man's abject state was a source of
pleasure to him.

"So you are back again, my dear Gerald. A pleasant surprise,
indeed, but what is the meaning of it? And what of my little
commission, eh?"

The young man's face was dark and sullen. He spoke quickly but
without any sign of eagerness or interest in the information he
vouchsafed.

"The storm has stopped all the trains," he said. "The boat did not
cross last night, and in any ease I couldn't have reached Harwich.
As for your commission, I travelled down from London alone with the
man you told me to spy upon. I could have stolen anything he had
if I had been used to the work. As it was - I brought the man
himself."

Mr. Fentolin's delicate fingers played with the handle of his chair.
The smile had passed from his lips. He looked at his nephew in
gentle bewilderment.

"My dear boy," he protested, "come, come, be careful what you are
saying. You have brought the man himself! So far as my information
goes, Mr. John P. Dunster is charged with a very important diplomatic
commission. He is on his way to Cologne, and from what I know about
the man, I think that it would require more than your persuasions to
induce him to break off his journey. You do not really wish me to
believe that you have brought him here as a guest?"

"I was at Liverpool Street Station last night," Gerald declared.
"I had no idea how to accost him, and as to stealing any of his
belongings, I couldn't have done it. You must hear how fortune
helped me, though. Mr. Dunster missed the train; so did I
- purposely. He ordered a special. I asked permission to travel
with him. I told him a lie as to how I had missed the train. I
hated it, but it was necessary."

Mr. Fentolin nodded approvingly.

"My dear boy," he said, "to trifle with the truth is always
unpleasant. Besides, you are a Fentolin, and our love of truth is
proverbial. But there are times, you know, when for the good of
others we must sacrifice our scruples. So you told Mr. Dunster a
alsehood."

"He let me travel with him," Gerald continued. "We were all night
getting about half-way here. Then - you know about the storm, I
suppose?"

Mr. Fentolin spread out his hands.

"Could one avoid the knowledge of it he asked. "Such a sight has
never been seen."

"We found we couldn't get to Harwich," Gerald went on. "They
telegraphed to London and got permission to bring us to Yarmouth.
We were on our way to Norwich, and the train ran off the line."

"An accident?" Mr. Fentolin exclaimed.

Gerald nodded.

"Our train ran off the line and pitched down an embankment. Mr.
Dunster has concussion of the brain. He and I were taken to a
miserable little inn near Wymondham. From there I hired a motor-car
and brought him here."

"You hired a motor-car and brought him here," Mr. Fentolin repeated
softly. "My dear boy - forgive me if I find this a little hard to
understand. You say that you have brought him here. Had he nothing
to say about it?"

"He was unconscious when we picked him up," Gerald explained. "He
is unconscious now. Tbe doctor said he would remain so for at least
twenty-four hours, and it didn't seem to me that the journey would
do him any particular harm. The roof had been stripped off the inn
where we were, and the place was quite uninhabitable, so we should
have had to have moved him somewhere. We put him in the tonneau of
the car and covered him up. They have carried him now into a
bedroom, and Sarson is looking after him."

Mr. Fentolin sat quite silent. His eyes blinked once or twice, and
there was a curious curve about his lips.

"You have done well, my boy," he pronounced slowly. "Your scheme
of bringing him here sounds a little primitive, but success
justifies everything."

Mr. Fentolin raised to his lips and blew softly a little gold
whistle which hung from a chain attached to his waistcoat. Almost
immediately the door opened. A man entered, dressed somberly in
black, whose bearing and demeanour alike denoted the servant, but
whose physique was the physique of a prize-fighter. He was scarcely
more than five feet six in height, but his shoulders were
extraordinarily broad. He had a short, bull neck and long, mighty
arms. His face, with the heavy jaw and small eyes, was the face
of the typical fighting man, yet his features seemed to have become
disposed by habit into an expression of gentle, almost servile
civility.

"Meekins," Mr. Fentolin said, "a visitor has arrived. Do you happen
to have noticed what luggage he brought?"

"There is one small dressing-case, sir," the man replied; "nothing
else that I have seen."

"That is all we brought," Gerald interposed.

"You will bring the dressing-case here at once," Mr. Fentolin
directed, "and also my compliments to Doctor Sarson, and any
pocket-book or papers which may help us to send a message to the
gentleman's friends."

Meekins closed the door and departed. Mr. Fentolin turned back
towards his nephew.

"My dear boy," he said, "tell me why you look as though there were
ghosts flitting about the room? You are not ill, I trust?"

"Tired, perhaps," Gerald answered shortly. "We were many hours in
the car. I have had no sleep."

Mr. Fentolin's face was full of kindly sympathy.

"My dear fellow," he exclaimed, "I am selfish, indeed! I should not
have kept you here for a moment. You had better go and lie down."

"I'll go directly," Gerald promised. "Can I speak to you for one
moment first?"

"Speak to me Mr. Fentolin repeated, a little wonderingly. "My
dear Gerald, is there ever a moment when I am not wholly at your
service?"

"That fellow Dunster, on the platform, the first moment I spoke to
him, made me feel like a cur," the boy said, with a sudden access
of vigour in his tone. "I told him I was on my way to a golf
tournament, and he pointed to the news about the war. Is it true,
uncle, that we may be at war at any moment?"

Mr. Fentolin sighed.

"A terrible reflection, my dear boy," he admitted softly, "but, alas!
the finger of probability points that way."

"Then what about me Gerald exclaimed. "I don't want to complain,
but listen. You dragged me home from a public school before I could
even join my cadet corps. You've kept me banging around here with
a tutor. You wouldn't let me go to the university. You've stopped
my entering either of the services. I am nineteen years old and
useless. Do you know what I should do to-morrow if war broke out?
Enlist! It's the only thing left for me."

Mr. Fentolin was shocked.

"My dear boy !" he exclaimed. "You must not talk like that! I am
quite sure that it would break your mother's heart. Enlist, indeed!
Nothing of the sort. You are part of the civilian population of
the country."

"Civilian population be d-d!" the boy suddenly cried, white with
rage. "Uncle, forgive me, I have stood all I can bear. If you
won't let me go in for the army - I could pass my exams to-morrow
- I'm off. I'll enlist without waiting for the war. I can't bear
this idle life any longer."

Mr. Fentolin leaned a little forward in his chair.

"Gerald!" he said softly.

The boy turned his head, turned it unwillingly. He had the air of
a caged animal obeying the word of his keeper. A certain savage
uncouthness seemed to have fallen upon him during the last few
minutes. There was something almost like a snarl in his expression.

"Gerald!" Mr. Fentolin repeated.

Then it was obvious that there was something between those two, some
memory or some living thing, seldom, if ever, to be spoken of, and
yet always present. The boy began to tremble.

"You're a little overwrought, Gerald," Mr. Fentolin declared.
"Sit quietly in my easy-chair for a few moments. Walt until I have
examined Mr. Dunster's belongings. Ah! Meekins has been prompt,
indeed."

There was a stealthy tap at the door. Meekins entered with the
small dressing-case in his hand. He brought it over to his master's
chair. Mr. Fentolin pointed to the floor.

"Open it there, Meekins," he directed. "I fancy that the pocket-book
you are carrying will prove more interesting. We will just glance
through the dressing-case first. Thank you. Yes, you can lay the
things upon the floor. A man of Spartan-like life, I should imagine
Mr. Dunster. A spare toothbrush, though, I am glad to see. Pyjamas
of most unattractive pattern. And what a taste in shirts! Nothing
but wearing apparel and singularly little of that, I fancy."

The dressing-case was empty, its contents upon the floor. Mr.
Fentolin held out his hand and took the pocket-book which Meekins
had been carrying. It was an ordinary morocco affair, similar to
those issued by American banking houses to enclose letters of credit.
One side of it was filled with notes. Mr. Fentolin withdrew them
and glanced them through.

"Dear me!" he murmured. "No wonder our friend engages special
trains! He travels like a prince, indeed. Two thousand pounds, or
near it, in this little compartment. And here, I see, a letter, a
sealed letter with no address."

He held it out in front of him. It was a long commercial envelope
of ordinary type, and although the flap was secured with a blob of
sealing wax, there was no particular impression upon it.

"We can match this envelope, I think," Mr. Fentolin said softly.
"The seal we can copy. I think that, for the sake of others, we
must discover the cause for this hurried journey on the part of Mr.
John P. Dunster."

With his long, delicate forefinger Mr. Fentolin slit the envelope
and withdrew the single sheet of paper which it contained. There
were a dozen lines of written matter, and what appeared to be a
dozen signatures appended. Mr. Fentolin read it, at first with
ordinary interest. Then a change came. The look of a man drawn
out of himself, drawn out of all knowledge of his surroundings or
his present state, stole into his face. Literally he became
transfixed. The delicate fingers of his, left hand gripped the
sides of his little carriage. His eyes shone as though those few
written lines upon which they were riveted were indeed some message
from an unknown, an unimagined world. Yet no word ever passed his
lips. There came a time when the tension seemed a little relaxed.
With fingers which still trembled, he folded up the sheet and
replaced it in the envelope. He guarded it with both his hands and
sat quite still. Neither Gerald nor his servant moved. Somehow,
the sense of Mr. Fentolin's suppressed excitement seemed to have
become communicated to them. It was a little tableau, broken at
last by Mr. Fentolin himself.

"I should like," he said, turning to Gerald, "to be alone. It may
interest you to know that this docu which Mr. Dunster has brought
across the seas, and which I hold in my hands, is the most amazing
message of modern times."

Gerald rose to his feet.

"What are you going to do about it?" he asked abruptly. "Do you
want any one in from the telegraph room?"

Mr. Fentolin shook his head slowly.

"At present," he announced, "I am going to reflect. Meekins, my
chair to the north window - so. I am going to sit here," he went
on, " and I am going to look across the sea_and reflect. A very
fortunate storm, after all, I think, which kept Mr. John P. Dunster
from the Harwich boat last night. Leave me, Gerald, for a time.
Stand behind my chair, Meekins, and see that no one enters."

Mr. Fentolin sat in his chair, his hands still gripping the wonderful
document, his eyes travelling over the ocean now flecked with
sunlight. His eyes were fixed upon the horizon. He looked steadily
eastward.



CHAPTER VI

Mr. John P. Dunster opened his eyes upon strange surroundings. He
found himself lying upon a bed deliciously soft, with lace-edged
sheets and lavender-perfumed bed hangings. Through the discreetly
opened upper window came a pleasant and ozone-laden breeze. The
furniture in the room was mostly of an old-fashioned type, some of
it of oak, curiously carved, and most of it surmounted with a coat
of arms. The apartment was lofty and of almost palatial proportions.
The whole atmosphere of the place breathed comfort and refinement.
The only thing of which he did not wholly approve was the face of
the nurse who rose silently to her feet at his murmured question:

"Where am I?"

She felt his forehead, altered a bandage for a moment, and took his
wrist between her fingers.

"You have been ill," she said. "There was a railway accident. You
are to lie quite still and not say a word. I am going to fetch the
doctor now. He wished to see you directly you spoke."

Mr. Dunster dozed again for several moments. When he reopened his
eyes, a man was standing by his bedside, a short man with a black
beard and gold-rimmed glasses. Mr. Dunster, in this first stage of
his convalescence, was perhaps difficult to please, for he did not
like the look of the doctor, either.

"Please tell me where I am?" he begged.

"You have been in a railway accident," the doctor told him, "and
you were brought here afterwards."

"In a railway accident," Mr. Dunster repeated. "Ah, yes, I remember!
I took a special to Harwich - I remember now. Where is my
dressing-bag?"

"It is here by the side of your bed."

"And my pocket-book?"

"It is on your dressing-table."

"Have any of my things been looked at?"

"Only so far as was necessary to discover your identity," the doctor
assured him. "Don't talk too much. The nurse is bringing you some
beef tea."

"When," Mr. Dunster enquired, " shall I be able to continue my
journey?"

"That depends upon many things," the doctor replied.

Mr. Dunster drank his beef tea and felt considerably stronger. His
head still ached, but his memory was returning.

"There was a young man in the carriage with me," he asked presently.
"Mr. Gerald something or other I think he said his name was?"

"Fentolin," the doctor said. "He is unhurt. This is his relative's
house to which you have been brought."

Mr. Dunster lay for a time with knitted brows. Once more the name
of Fentolin seemed somehow familiar to him, seemed somehow to bring
with it to his memory a note of warning. He looked around the room
fretfully. He looked into the nurse's face, which he disliked
exceedingly, and he looked at the doctor, whom he was beginning to
detest.

"Whose house exactly is this?" he demanded.

"This is St. David's Hall - the home of Mr. Miles Fentolin," the
doctor told him. "The young gentleman with whom you were travelling
is his nephew."

"Can I send a telegram?" Mr. Dunster asked, a little abruptly.

"Without a doubt," the doctor replied. "Mr. Fentolin desired me to
ask you if there was any one whom you would like to apprise of your
safety."

Again the man upon the bed lay quite still, with knitted brows.
There was surely something familiar about that name. Was it his
fevered fancy or was there also something a little sinister?

The nurse, who had glided from the room, came back presently with
some telegraph forms. Mr. Dunster held out his hand for them and
then hesitated.

"Can you tell me any date, Doctor, upon which I can rely upon
leaving here?"

"You will probably be well enough to travel on the third day from
now," the doctor assured him.

"The third day," Mr. Dunster muttered. "Very well."

He wrote out three telegrams and passed them over.

"One," he said, "is to New York, one to The Hague, and one to London.
There was plenty of money in my pocket. Perhaps you will find it
and pay for these."

"Is there anything more," the doctor asked, "that can be done for
your comfort?"

"Nothing at present," Mr. Dunster replied. "My head aches now, but
I think that I shall want to leave before three days are up. Are
you the doctor in the neighbourhood?"

Sarson shook his head.

"I am physician to Mr. Fentolin's household," he answered quietly.
"I live here. Mr. Fentolin is himself somewhat of an invalid and
requires constant medical attention."

Mr. Dunster contemplated the speaker steadfastly.

"You will forgive me," he said. "I am an American and I am used to
plain speech. I am quite unused to being attended by strange
doctors. I understand that you are not in general practice now.
Might I ask if you are fully qualified?"

"I am an M.D. of London," the doctor replied. "You can make
yourself quite easy as to my qualifications. It would not suit
Mr. Fentolin's purpose to entrust himself to the care of any one
without a reputation."

He left the room, and Mr. Dunster closed his eyes. His slumbers,
however, were not altogether peaceful ones. All the time there
seemed to be a hammering inside his head, and from somewhere back
in his obscured memory the name of Fentolin seemed to be continually
asserting itself. From somewhere or other, the amazing sense which
sometimes gives warning of danger to men of adventure, seemed to
have opened its feelers. He rested because he was exhausted, but
even in his sleep he was ill at ease.

The doctor, with the telegrams in his hand, made his way down a
splendid staircase, past the long picture gallery where masterpieces
of Van Dyck and Rubens frowned and leered down upon him; descended
the final stretch of broad oak stairs, crossed the hail, and entered
his master's rooms. Mr. Fentolin was sitting before the open window,
an easel in front of him, a palette in his left hand, painting with
deft, swift touches.

"Ah!" he exclaimed, without looking around, "it is my friend the
doctor, my friend Sarson, M.D. of London, L.R.C.P. and all the
rest of it. He brings with him the odour of the sick room. For a
moment or two, just for a moment, dear friend, do not disturb me.
Do not bring any alien thoughts into my brain. I am absorbed, you
see - absorbed. It is a strange problem of colour, this."

He was silent for several moments, glancing repeatedly out of the
window and back to his canvas, painting all the time with swift and
delicate precision.

"Meekins, who stands behind my chair," Mr. Fentolin continued, "even
Meekins is entranced. He has a soul, my friend Sarson, although you
might not think it. He, too, sees sometimes the colour in the skies,
the glitter upon the sands, the clear, sweet purity of those long
stretches of virgin water. Meekins, I believe, has a soul, only he
likes better to see these things grow under his master's touch than
to wander about and solve their riddles for himself."

The man remained perfectly immovable. Not a feature twitched. Yet
it was a fact that, although he stood where Mr. Fentolin could not
possibly observe him, he never removed his gaze from the canvas.

"You see, my medical friend, that there has been a great tide in the
night, following upon the flood? Even our small landmarks are
shifted. Soon, in my little carriage, I shall ride down to the
Tower. I shall sit there, and I shall watch the sea. I think that
this evening, with the turn of the tide, the spray may reach even
to my windows there. I shall paint again. There is always
something fresh in the sea, you know - always something fresh in
the sea. Like a human face - angry or pleased, sullen or joyful.
Some people like to paint the sea at its calmest and most beautiful.
Some people like to see happy faces around them. It is not every
one who appreciates the other things. It is not quite like that
with me, eh, Sarson?"

His hand fell to his side. Momentarily he had finished his work.
He turned around and eyed the doctor, who stood in taciturn silence.

"Answer. Answer me," he insisted.

The doctor's gloomy face seemed darker still.

"You have spoken the truth, Mr. Fentolin," he admitted. "You are
not one of the vulgar herd who love to consort with pleasure and
happiness. You are one of those who understand the beauty of
unhappiness - in others," he added, with faint emphasis.

Mr. Fentolin smiled. His face became almost like the face of one
of those angels of the great Italian master.

"How well you know me!" he murmured. "My humble effort, Doctor
- how do you like it?"

The doctor bent over the canvas.

"I know nothing about art," he said, a little roughly. "Your work
seems to me clever - a little grotesque, perhaps; a little straining
after the hard, plain things which threaten. Nothing of the
idealist in your work, Mr. Fentolin."

Mr. Fentolin studied the canvas himself for a moment.

"A clever man, Sarson," he remarked coolly, "but no courtier. Never
mind, my work pleases me. It gives me a passing sensation of
happiness. Now, what about our patient?"

"He recovers," the doctor pronounced. "From my short examination,
I should say that he had the constitution of an ox. I have told
him that he will be up in three days. As a matter of fact, he will
be able, if he wants to, to walk out of the house to-morrow."

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