The Vanished Messenger

by E. Phillips Oppenheim

  CHAPTER XXVIII

  Mr. Fentolin, his carriage drawn up close to the beach, was paintingsteadily when Hamel stood once more by his side. His eyes moved onlyfrom 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 lookedup at Hamel.

  "My dear sir," he exclaimed, "how can I apologise! Of course she hasgone out to lunch. She has gone out to Lady Saxthorpe's. I remember thesubject being discussed. I myself, in fact, was the instigator of hergoing. I owe you a thousand apologies, Mr. Hamel. Let me make whatamends 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 madefor lovers. Sunshine and blue sky, a salt breeze flavoured just a littlewith that lavender, and a stroll through my spring gardens, where myhyacinths are like a field of purple and gold, a mantle of jewels uponthe brown earth. Ah, well! One's thoughts will wander to the beautifulthings of life. There were once women who loved me, Mr. Hamel."

  Hamel looked doubtfully at the strange little figure in the chair. Wasthis genuine, he wondered, a voluntary outburst, or was it some subtleattempt to incite sympathy? Mr. Fentolin seemed almost to have read histhought.

  "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 infirmitymakes inevitable. No one in the world who lives to grow old, and who hasloved and felt the fire of it in his veins, can pass that line withoutsorrow, 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 solitudeis to me if once I take the brush between my fingers--solitude naturaland 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 otherside 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 eleveno'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. Ican make a picture there, even though my fingers refuse to move. You arenot an aesthete, I think, Mr. Hamel? The study of beauty does not meanto you what it did to your father, and my father, and, in a smaller wayto me."

  "Perhaps not," Hamel confessed. "I believe I feel these thingssomewhere, because they bring a queer sense of content with them. I amafraid, though, that my artistic perceptions are not so keen as somemen's."

  Mr. Fentolin looked at him thoughtfully.

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

  His head sank, his chin rested upon his chest. He had all the appearancenow of a man who talks in bitter earnest. Yet Hamel wondered. He lookedtowards the Tower; there was no sign of Meekins. The sea-gulls wentscreaming above their heads. Mr. Fentolin never moved. His eyes seemedhalf closed. It was only when Hamel rose to his feet that he lookedswiftly up.

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

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

  "I have sometimes thought," he went on, "that it would be glorious tofind 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 itmyself, to steer it down the narrow path into the arms of the sea. Thefirst touch of the salt waves, the last touch of life. Why not? Onesleeps without fear."

  He lifted his head suddenly. Meekins had appeared, coming round from theback of the Tower. Instantly Mr. Fentolin's whole manner changed. He satup in his chair.

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

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

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

  Hamel read steadily for the remainder of the morning. It was past oneo'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 waslaid for luncheon in the little sitting-room, but there were no signsof Hannah Cox. He passed on into the kitchen and came to a suddenstandstill. Once more the memory of his own work passed away from him.Once more he was back again among that queer, clouded tangle of strangesuspicions, of thrilling, half-formed fears, which had assailed him attimes 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 nosound.

  Hannah Cox was kneeling on the stone floor. Her ear was close to thecrack of the door which led into the boat-house. Her face, half turnedfrom it, was set in a strange, concentrated passion of listening; herlips were parted, her eyes half closed. She took no more notice of Hamelor his arrival than if he had been some useless piece of furniture.Every faculty seemed to be absorbed in that one intense effort oflistening. There was no need of her out-stretched finger. Hamel fellin at once with a mood so mesmeric. He, too, listened. The small clockwhich she had brought with her from the village ticked away upon themantelpiece. The full sea fell with placid softness upon the high beachoutside. Some slight noise of cooking came from the stove. Save forthese things there was silence. Yet, for a space of time which Hamelcould never have measured, they both listened. When at last the womanrose to her feet, Hamel, finding words at last, was surprised to findthat 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 witha small saucepan, and her back was turned towards him.

  "I spend my life, sir," she said, "listening and waiting. One neverknows when the end may come."

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

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

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

  She turned from the fire and looked at him for a moment. Her eyes werecolourless, 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, asI live, in a quiet place, hears things so often that other folk neverlisten to. There's always something in my ears, night or day. SometimesI am not sure whether it's in this world or the other. It was like thatwith
me just then. It was for that reason I listened. Your luncheon'sready, sir."

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

  "If there's anything you want, sir," she said, "I shall hear you at aword. 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, perhapsa fancy, which made you go down on your knees in the kitchen. Tell mewhat it was."

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

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