A VISIT TO GERMANY.
But no, the letter was not from Phil; but in the crabbed, minute
writing of the German brain-doctor.
Tor opened the envelope with haste, and ran his eyes rapidly over its
contents, a look of impatience and dismay crossing his face as he did
so.
The letter was in German, and was somewhat floridly worded; but its
meaning was only too plain.
Phil was no better—was in fact worse; that is to say, the prolonged
insensibility was an unfavourable sign. But Dr. Schneeberger was not
despondent. On the contrary, he still held to his original statement
that he believed time and patience would effect a cure; but he strongly
advocated a different method of treatment. He was, in fact, very
anxious to send his patient away on a sea voyage, feeling confident
that the change, the sea air and easy motion of the sailing vessel,
would do him much good. A friend of his was just about to start on a
cruising expedition in the Pacific, and had volunteered to take charge
of ‘Herr Torwood.’ He was a medical man, a friend of Dr. Schneeberger,
who was going himself for rest and change, and would be absent only
four months. Four months might do wonders for the patient, and he was
most anxious that the experiment should be tried. Both doctors were in
its favour, and they only awaited Mr. Debenham’s consent.
Tor read the letter thoughtfully, and looked at the case in all its
bearings. Just once the doubt crossed his mind, whether it would not
be better to bring Phil home as he was, tell the whole story, and let
him await his recovery in his own house, and in his rightful position;
but a little thought decided him against such a step. Were Phil brought
home in that state, Mr. and Mrs. Belassis, as next of kin, would have
great power; and their first step would doubtless be to prosecute Tor
for his ‘felony and forgery.’ Matters had now gone too far for such a
step to be practicable, and the game had not grown so desperate yet
that Tor felt in any way obliged to throw it up. Indeed, since his late
discoveries with regard to the rectitude of both Mr. and Mrs. Belassis,
he had felt strengthened in his position, through the sense of having
his enemies to a certain extent in his power.
On mature consideration, Tor decided that it would be best to allow
the experiment of the sea voyage. Should it succeed, as the doctors
seemed convinced that it would, all would be well; and if not, no
risk was run, so far as he could see, and matters would be in no
worse state than they were now. Meantime, it might be rather a relief
than otherwise to feel that Phil was safely away at sea, because Mrs.
Belassis was certainly suspicious of something—of what, Tor did not
know; and if by chance her prying eyes discovered Dr. Schneeberger’s
address, and she took a fancy to visit him and see his patient, there
was no knowing what unpleasant results might not ensue.
This idea had struck Tor when he realized how his locks had been
tampered with, and it was not a welcome thought. Mrs. Belassis was
anything but a stupid woman; and once let her get a clue into her
hands, she would pursue it relentlessly and sagaciously to the bitter
end. Therefore, it might be no bad move to get Phil quickly and quietly
out of her reach.
Tor therefore wrote his consent, but determined to see Phil and the
doctor before the plan was put into execution; and, to Maud’s despair,
announced that he was going to start for Germany at once.
‘Oh, Phil!’
‘Well, Maud, I thought you were so anxious for me to go and see Tor.’
‘Are you going to see him? Are you going to bring him here?’
‘The doctor recommends a sea voyage—you can see what he says if you can
read his German hieroglyphics. I must go over and see about it.’
Maud tried to decipher the letter, but ended by bringing it across for
Tor to translate. She looked half-pleased, half-disappointed to hear of
the plan. Tor left out the piece where the ‘prolonged insensibility’
was mentioned. He did not wish the nature of his friend’s malady to be
generally known. The reason for his reticence on this point was simply
this. If Mrs. Belassis got hold of the right idea as regards Phil and
his friend, and knew that one man was in a state of helpless torpor, it
would at once be plain how easily a clever deception might be practised
by the other. But if both were in possession of their senses, it was
evident that what was done must be by mutual agreement; and so long
as this was the case, nobody but the man concerned had any right to
interfere with the part his friend was playing.
‘I wish he had suggested sending him to England instead. I believe
English doctors could cure him.’
‘Well, if this little fellow fails, we will employ the faculty here;
but I’m inclined to try this sea voyage first. The doctors speak with
confidence, and one does not like to thwart them on such a point.’
‘But why does he write to ask you? Can’t Mr. Torwood decide for
himself?’
‘I’m afraid by this that he’s not so well again, and that he has
referred them to me to judge for him. He always threw the management
and responsibility of things upon me at the best of times. He is sure
to do so more than ever now. I must certainly go over and see about it.’
So Tor went, and Maud was left alone; and in the afternoon, when she
had seen him off upon the coach, she drove to the Merediths, and
dismissed the carriage, so that she might spend some time with the
blind man and his daughter.
Tor had been a little less frequent in his visits since the strange
proposition on behalf of his daughter which Mr. Meredith had made to
him about ten days before; and his journey to Yorkshire and this sudden
call to Germany explained his absence most satisfactorily.
‘Alone, Maud?’ said Mr. Meredith, as he heard the girl’s step in the
room. ‘I thought you would have surely brought Philip with you to-day.’
‘I have just taken Phil to the coach. He sent me to explain matters
to you. Phil has to go to Germany to see his friend, who is ill. I’m
afraid he will be gone a whole week.’
‘Gone away again!’ echoed Mr. Meredith, in a tone of disappointment.
‘Why, we have not seen anything of him for five whole days!’
‘He has been in Yorkshire, you know, on his friend’s business, and only
came back the night before last. Then, to-day came another letter,
which sent him tearing off again. I’m afraid his friend is a sad plague
to him just now—though, of course, he owes ever so much to him.’
‘A good friend—a good brother,’ said Michael Meredith, with his slow
satisfied smile. ‘Such a man will make a good husband, too—eh, Maud?’
‘Do you mean Phil, Uncle Michael? Oh yes; I should think he would make
the best husband in the world. He is so good and kind and considerate
to everyone. But I don’t much fancy he means to get married—not yet, at
any rate.’
‘Ah, Maud, sisters are not always their brothers’ confidantes on such
subjects.’
Maud looked rather nettled.
‘I’m sure Phil would tell me directly; he tells me everything about
himself.’
‘He is a wonderful brother, then,’ said Meredith; but his own face
had clouded over somewhat, and by-and-by he asked, with a touch of
sharpness in his tone:
‘Has he never spoken to you, then, of his engagement?’
‘His engagement?’
‘Yes; are you so much astonished? Did you not know that he was
half-engaged?’
Maud calmed down a little after her first amazement. She knew that the
blind man was given to romancing, but she could not yet understand the
bearing of such a remark as this.
‘No, Mr. Meredith. I don’t know anything about it. To whom is he
half-engaged?’
‘To Roma.’
This was said with an air of such pride and satisfaction that Maud
nearly smiled. She wondered if it could be true. Phil had been to see
the blind man and his daughter a great deal, and had of late seemed
more interested in Roma; but certainly Maud had seen no traces of
anything like a romantic attachment.
‘Phil engaged to Roma!’ she repeated. ‘He never said a word to me!’
‘Well,’ returned Meredith slowly, half-ready to retract what he had
said, now that he had produced the desired effect, ‘perhaps I should
hardly say “engaged,” because there has been no pledge asked or given
on either side, as yet. I do not wish the quiet current of Roma’s young
life disturbed, and your brother can afford to wait. But words have
passed between him and me; I have read his inmost heart, and have found
it loyal and true—as his father’s was before him; and now we understand
one another, and he is prepared to abide by my wishes as to the time of
probation.’
For by this time Michael Meredith had fully persuaded himself that the
delay was of his own making, that the young man was eager and willing
to come forward to claim Roma’s hand, but that he withheld him, in
order that his daughter’s young heart should not be too early or too
roughly awakened from its sleep of happy childhood. This Meredith fully
believed, and Maud half-believed it too.
It was a good thing for Tor that Mr. Meredith had so deceived himself,
as it had saved him from any further allusions to a subject not at all
agreeable to him. Maud pondered awhile over these words, and finally
said:
‘Is Roma so very young? I always thought her so wise for her age.’
‘Roma is twenty-five. She may be wise in some things, I do not deny it;
in others, she is innocent as a child.’
‘Is she?’
‘Certainly. Have you not observed it for yourself?’ asked Meredith.
‘I don’t know. I have never thought Roma at all childish.’
‘She is a child in all matters that refer to the heart,’ said Michael
Meredith, in his sententious way. ‘A child to love.’
‘Well, but is it not time——’ began Maud.
‘Not yet—not yet,’ answered Meredith, anticipating her. ‘I hold her
sleeping heart in my hand; when I bid, it shall awaken.’
Maud considered this great nonsense. That a girl of Roma’s age should
be treated so like a child or a baby was manifestly absurd, and she
thought that Mr. Meredith was very foolish and very wrong. If Phil
wanted Roma, he ought to be allowed to propose sensibly, as other men
did; and be accepted or refused, as they were. What was the use of
waiting? Roma was surely old enough to know her own mind.
Mr. Meredith was acute enough to read dissatisfaction in her silence,
and a few questions brought out the cause. Without the least intention
of doing any mischief, she infused her own feelings into Mr. Meredith’s
mind, and he began to wonder what was the use of this delay, and to
grow fretful and impatient.
Maud soothed him down, as she knew well how to do; but Michael Meredith
was not easily satisfied that day.
‘You must go and talk to Roma,’ he said. ‘You said she would know her
own mind by this time, and would accept or refuse Philip. She shall not
refuse him—I will not have it. Go and find out what she feels, and tell
her I will not have her do anything foolish. When he asks her, she is
to marry him; I have made up my mind, and she must not disappoint me.’
Maud went to seek Roma in her studio. She had no fear that any sane
person would reject her idolized Phil; and on the whole, she was not
sorry that he had turned his thoughts in her direction. For Maud was
sincerely fond of Roma.
She had constituted herself a kind of ‘guide, philosopher and friend’
to this lonely girl who led so secluded a life, and so seldom mingled
in any kind of society. Maud’s experiences were not very wide, nor her
philosophy very deep; still she had a certain share of shrewd worldly
wisdom, and a warm, affectionate nature; and Roma had fallen into the
way of giving and receiving confidences when Maud came to see her,
which would have been impossible to her with any other companion.
‘Now, Roma,’ began Maud, when preliminary matters had been disposed of,
‘I have come to say something, and of course I shall go straight to the
point at once. Is Phil in love with you?’
‘No, certainly not.’
‘Are you sure?’ asked Maud archly.
‘Perfectly sure,’ answered Roma quietly.
Maud looked rather blank. Something in Roma’s manner carried conviction
with it.
‘I suppose father has been talking to you,’ she said. ‘I wish he would
not. It is one of his fancies, Maud, that your brother is to marry me;
but he never will. He does not care for me, nor I for him—in that way.’
‘But your father said he had spoken about it—Phil, I mean.’
A look of pain crossed Roma’s face.
‘That means, I suppose, that father has spoken to Mr. Debenham—I wish
he would not. Your brother is kind, and humours him because agitation
is so bad for him. Please do not talk to me any more about it. It is a
horrid state of affairs. But you may be quite sure that your brother
and I will never marry.’
‘Would you refuse him if he asked you?’
‘He never will ask me.’
‘But suppose he did,’ urged Maud. ‘You know he might, Roma; he likes
you very much.’
The girl clasped her hands tightly together, with a look of keen pain
upon her face.
‘I suppose then, I should have to say yes, for my father’s sake. I
cannot—_cannot_ go against him—not even to save my own life. Some day,
Maud, I will try and tell you why. Oh! I hope and trust it may not be,
for I must do my father’s bidding.’
Maud was able to give Mr. Meredith the required assurance, and to
leave him in a state of placid tranquillity; but she left the house in
a dissatisfied frame of mind, and wished that she had never been there.
She could not believe that Phil would be so weak as to let Mr. Meredith
cajole him into a marriage that he was not anxious to make; and it was
very hard upon him to have to humour the old man because it was bad for
him to be vexed. Altogether Maud felt annoyed and disturbed—vexed with
herself for what she had said to Mr. Meredith, with him for being so
foolish and irrational, and with Roma for talking and looking as though
marriage with Phil would be the most dreadful thing in the world.
She thought things had come to an odd sort of pass, and determined
that she would not go to the house again until Phil had come back, and
could tell her the true state of the case. For in spite of all that Mr.
Meredith had implied, she knew her brother would be frank with her.
* * * * *
Meantime Tor was travelling rapidly towards Freyburg, at which place he
arrived one evening, about twelve hours later than his letter had done.
From the hotel he walked straight up to Dr. Schneeberger’s house, and
was met by the lively little Gretchen, who welcomed him with volubility
and warmth, and was genuinely delighted to see him.
But she shook her head in mournful fashion over the helpless state of
his poor friend, and lamented its sadness. Such a fine handsome young
man—everyone said that who saw the Herr Torwood. Ah, it was what nobody
could understand, that he should be struck down like that.
Tor asked for the doctor, who quickly appeared, looking just as dried
up as ever, but somewhat more anxious and constrained in manner, from
which Tor feared he had formed an unfavourable opinion of his friend’s
case. But he spoke more hopefully than before, and seemed to have great
confidence in the sea voyage. He had taken other opinions, and all
had agreed that the experiment should be tried. Once or twice he had
fancied he detected some faint return of mental power, but it had never
lasted. Still there seemed some probability that the change of air,
the movement and the stir, might awaken the dormant faculties.
The little doctor talked rapidly and energetically, and Tor quietly
acquiesced in all he said. Then he asked to see his friend, and was
taken up to the little clean, bare room that he so well remembered, and
which he could fancy he had only quitted yesterday.
Phil lay upon the bed, just as he had done before, his eyes closed,
his breath coming somewhat heavily through the parted lips. His hair
and beard had grown, and were wild and tangled. Tor was almost glad
that the sheet half-concealed the lower part of the face. The brow and
eyes and upper part belonged to the familiar face of his chosen friend
and companion. Those were Phil’s well-known, well-cut features. He
did not care to look below, where the changes induced by illness had
given an air of neglect to the once carefully trimmed moustache and
smooth-shaven cheeks.
He looked down upon the unconscious face before him with an honest,
manly compassion.
‘Poor old fellow! Poor old—Tor!’ he muttered (the little doctor stood
opposite looking at him, so he must not trip, even in English).
‘Well, mein Herr,’ said the doctor, ‘what think you of your friend?’
‘I don’t know what to think. He looks just the same to me. I suppose
it’s no good my speaking to him? He wouldn’t hear?’
‘You can try,’ answered Dr. Schneeberger with a dim interest in his
tone.
‘If only he would go!’ thought Tor, but he could not suggest this, and
it sounded a mockery to address the unconscious Phil by a false name.
Still, he bent over him, and called rather loudly:
‘Tor! Torwood! wake up, old fellow! Don’t you know me—Phil Debenham?
Tor, I say!’
Perhaps there was the faintest motion of the eyelashes—neither Tor nor
the doctor could be certain; but the eyes remained fast closed, and no
other words evoked the slightest sign of life.
Tor gave one last long look, and turned away with a sigh. He almost
wished he had never come. It was so melancholy to see the friend lie
there helpless and vacant, whose help he needed so much.
That evening was spent in consultation with the doctor, and on the
morrow Tor left for England again. He would gladly have been Phil’s
travelling companion upon this voyage, but affairs at Ladywell would
not permit of his prolonged absence. So he had to leave Phil in the
care of the kindly Germans, who gave him many hopeful assurances, that
when next he saw his friend he would be restored to health and strength.
Tor sincerely hoped that they would prove right.