CHAPTER VI
Mr. John P. Dunster opened his eyes upon strange surroundings. He foundhimself lying upon a bed deliciously soft, with lace-edged sheets andlavender-perfumed bed hangings. Through the discreetly opened upperwindow came a pleasant and ozone-laden breeze. The furniture in theroom was mostly of an old-fashioned type, some of it of oak, curiouslycarved, and most of it surmounted with a coat of arms. The apartment waslofty and of almost palatial proportions. The whole atmosphere of theplace breathed comfort and refinement. The only thing of which he didnot wholly approve was the face of the nurse who rose silently to herfeet at his murmured question:
"Where am I?"
She felt his forehead, altered a bandage for a moment, and took hiswrist between her fingers.
"You have been ill," she said. "There was a railway accident. You are tolie 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 beardand gold-rimmed glasses. Mr. Dunster, in this first stage of hisconvalescence, was perhaps difficult to please, for he did not like thelook of the doctor, either.
"Please tell me where I am?" he begged.
"You have been in a railway accident," the doctor told him, "and youwere brought here afterwards."
"In a railway accident," Mr. Dunster repeated. "Ah, yes, I remember! Itook 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 doctorassured him. "Don't talk too much. The nurse is bringing you some beeftea."
"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 headstill 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 houseto which you have been brought."
Mr. Dunster lay for a time with knitted brows. Once more the name ofFentolin seemed somehow familiar to him, seemed somehow to bring with itto his memory a note of warning. He looked around the room fretfully.He looked into the nurse's face, which he disliked exceedingly, and helooked 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 doctortold him. "The young gentleman with whom you were travelling is hisnephew."
"Can I send a telegram?" Mr. Dunster asked, a little abruptly.
"Without a doubt," the doctor replied. "Mr. Fentolin desired me to askyou 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. Therewas surely something familiar about that name. Was it his fevered fancyor was there also something a little sinister?
The nurse, who had glided from the room, came back presently withsome telegraph forms. Mr. Dunster held out his hand for them and thenhesitated.
"Can you tell me any date, Doctor, upon which I can rely upon leavinghere?"
"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 payfor these."
"Is there anything more," the doctor asked, "that can be done for yourcomfort?"
"Nothing at present," Mr. Dunster replied. "My head aches now, but Ithink that I shall want to leave before three days are up. Are you thedoctor in the neighbourhood?"
Sarson shook his head.
"I am physician to Mr. Fentolin's household," he answered quietly. "Ilive here. Mr. Fentolin is himself somewhat of an invalid and requiresconstant medical attention."
Mr. Dunster contemplated the speaker steadfastly.
"You will forgive me," he said. "I am an American and I am used toplain speech. I am quite unused to being attended by strange doctors. Iunderstand that you are not in general practice now. Might I ask if youare fully qualified?"
"I am an M.D. of London," the doctor replied. "You can make yourselfquite easy as to my qualifications. It would not suit Mr. Fentolin'spurpose 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 tobe a hammering inside his head, and from somewhere back in his obscuredmemory the name of Fentolin seemed to be continually asserting itself.From somewhere or other, the amazing sense which sometimes gives warningof danger to men of adventure, seemed to have opened its feelers. Herested because he was exhausted, but even in his sleep he was ill atease.
The doctor, with the telegrams in his hand, made his way down a splendidstaircase, past the long picture gallery where masterpieces of Van Dyckand Rubens frowned and leered down upon him; descended the final stretchof broad oak stairs, crossed the hall, and entered his master's rooms.Mr. Fentolin was sitting before the open window, an easel in front ofhim, 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. Hebrings with him the odour of the sick room. For a moment or two, justfor a moment, dear friend, do not disturb me. Do not bring any alienthoughts into my brain. I am absorbed, you see--absorbed. It is astrange problem of colour, this."
He was silent for several moments, glancing repeatedly out of the windowand back to his canvas, painting all the time with swift and delicateprecision.
"Meekins, who stands behind my chair," Mr. Fentolin continued, "evenMeekins is entranced. He has a soul, my friend Sarson, although youmight not think it. He, too, sees sometimes the colour in the skies, theglitter upon the sands, the clear, sweet purity of those long stretchesof virgin water. Meekins, I believe, has a soul, only he likes better tosee these things grow under his master's touch than to wander about andsolve their riddles for himself."
The man remained perfectly immovable. Not a feature twitched. Yet itwas a fact that, although he stood where Mr. Fentolin could not possiblyobserve him, he never removed his gaze from the canvas.
"You see, my medical friend, that there has been a great tide in thenight, following upon the flood? Even our small landmarks are shifted.Soon, in my little carriage, I shall ride down to the Tower. I shall sitthere, and I shall watch the sea. I think that this evening, with theturn of the tide, the spray may reach even to my windows there. Ishall paint again. There is always something fresh in the sea, youknow--always something fresh in the sea. Like a human face--angry orpleased, sullen or joyful. Some people like to paint the sea at itscalmest and most beautiful. Some people like to see happy faces aroundthem. It is not every one who appreciates the other things. It is notquite like that with me, eh, Sarson?"
His hand fell to his side. Momentarily he had finished his work. Heturned 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 oneof the vulgar herd who love to consort with pleasure and happiness. Youare 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 ofthose a
ngels of the great Italian master.
"How well you know me!" he murmured. "My humble effort, Doctor--how doyou like it?"
The doctor bent over the canvas.
"I know nothing about art," he said, a little roughly. "Your work seemsto me clever--a little grotesque, perhaps; a little straining after thehard, 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. Nevermind, 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, Ishould say that he had the constitution of an ox. I have told him thathe will be up in three days. As a matter of fact, he will be able, if hewants to, to walk out of the house to-morrow."
Mr. Fentolin shook his head.
"We cannot spare him quite so soon," he declared. "We must availourselves of this wonderful chance afforded us by my brilliant youngnephew. We must keep him with us for a little time. What is it that youhave in your hands, Doctor? Telegrams, I think. Let me look at them."
The doctor held them out. Mr. Fentolin took them eagerly between histhin, delicate fingers. Suddenly his face darkened, and became like theface of a spoilt and angry child.
"Cipher!" he exclaimed furiously. "A cipher which he knows so well as toremember it, too! Never mind, it will be easy to decode. It will amuseme during the afternoon. Very good, Sarson. I will take charge ofthese."
"You do not wish anything dispatched?"
"Nothing at present," Mr. Fentolin sighed. "It will be well, I think,for the poor man to remain undisturbed by any communications from hisfriends. Is he restless at all?"
"He wants to get on with his journey."
"We shall see," Mr. Fentolin remarked. "Now feel my pulse, Sarson. Howam I this morning?"
The doctor held the thin wrist for a moment between his fingers, and letit go.
"In perfect health, as usual," he announced grimly.
"Ah, but you cannot be sure!" Mr. Fentolin protested. "My tongue, if youplease."
He put it out.
"Excellent!"
"We must make quite certain," Mr. Fentolin continued. "There are somany people who would miss me. My place in the world would not be easilyfiled. Undo my waistcoat, Sarson. Feel my heart, please. Feel carefully.I can see the end of your stethoscope in your pocket. Don't scamp it.I fancied this morning, when I was lying here alone, that there wassomething almost like a palpitation--a quicker beat. Be very careful,Sarson. Now."
The doctor made his examination with impassive face. Then he steppedback.
"There is no change in your condition, Mr. Fentolin," he announced. "Thepalpitation you spoke of is a mistake. You are in perfect health."
Mr. Fentolin sighed gently.
"Then," he said, "I will now amuse myself by a gentle ride down to theTower. You are entirely satisfied, Sarson? You are keeping nothing backfrom me?"
The doctor looked at him with grim, impassive face. "There is nothing tokeep back," he declared. "You have the constitution of a cowboy. Thereis no reason why you should not live for another thirty years."
Mr. Fentolin sighed, as though a weight had been removed from his heart.
"I will now," he decided, reaching forward for the handle of hiscarriage, "go down to the Tower. It is just possible that a few days'seclusion might be good for our guest."
The doctor turned silently away. There was no one there to see hisexpression as he walked towards the door.
The Vanished Messenger Page 6