ESCAPE.
By the time Phil had finished his story, his listener was quite
convinced that he was in his right mind, and that he spoke the truth.
He had tested him by questions likely to confuse a mind not perfectly
clear, but Phil had answered everything with perfect readiness, and had
avoided any of those blunders or contradictions which any hallucination
must have occasioned.
Dr. Schneeberger, though simple-minded, was a shrewd observer of human
nature, and he was convinced that Phil’s story was true, and that he
was the victim of gross injustice at the hands of his supposed friend.
Tor, he said to himself, just looked like a man who would dare
anything, and make everything and everybody give way before him. He
had been pleased before by his open, authoritative manner; but now it
struck him as an index to a wild, unregulated nature.
Friendship was a sacred thing in the eyes of this little German, and he
was much horrified at this cruel desecration just revealed to him.
‘Dr. Schneeberger,’ said Phil, ‘you see, I think, that it is necessary
for me to escape from the power of this false friend.’
‘Are you in his power?’
‘I fear I shall find myself so. He will compass everything rather than
give me liberty to speak the truth before the world. Can you not see
for yourself how he has manœuvred to keep me in his power? He told you
I was given to delusions as to my identity. He urged you to send for
him the moment I showed any glimmer of consciousness. Does it not all
point to the one conclusion that his aim is to make me out an imbecile,
and so retain control over my movements?’
‘It may be so,’ answered the doctor slowly; ‘but yet he did not look
like playing so base a part.’
‘No; he had barely taken the first step then. Now he has plunged
recklessly into the mire of treachery and deceit. Think for yourself,
doctor—if he is capable of assuming my name and my inheritance, is he
not capable also of doing much to keep me from exposing him?’
Dr. Schneeberger shook his head gravely.
‘I cannot say it is impossible. I fear you have only too good cause for
all you say.’
‘You would indeed say so more emphatically still, did you but know Mr.
Torwood’s strength of will, and his power of bending circumstances and
individuals to it. I stand in no small danger—of that I am convinced;
and I must act at once, and that secretly. I have a plan, but I shall
want your help in carrying it out. Will you stand my friend, doctor?’
‘I will, mein Herr, as far as possible.’
‘Your part is simple. All you have to do is to let me leave your roof,
without letting the would-be Mr. Debenham know. He must suppose me to
be here, whilst really I shall be watching him at close quarters.’
‘Watching him! Will you then run into danger by going near to him?’
‘I shall go disguised. I have money: I can soon so alter myself that
none will know me. My beard has grown, and that in itself is a great
disguise. I hardly knew myself when I saw my own reflection for the
first time. I must watch the enemy at close quarters before I can
strike. I must find out his weak points, and see if there are any in
my old neighbourhood who will stand my friends. I must be on the spot;
but it must be impossible for him to suspect who I am. You must write
from time to time to say that I am here, and continue in the same
unconscious state. He _cannot_ then suspect.’
Dr. Schneeberger considered this proposition awhile, and then slowly
shook his head.
‘It will not do,’ he said. ‘It would be dangerous for us both. Any
time the Herr might take it into his head to come over and visit you—I
wonder he has not done so already. Suppose he came and found you away,
what then would happen?’
Phil looked blank as this idea was propounded. The suggestion was
reasonable enough, and showed him more and more how much of a prisoner
he was.
‘What, then, can be done?’
The doctor sat in deep thought. This time it was from him that the
suggestion came.
‘Mein Herr, does your friend know much of the science of medicine?’
‘Not an atom, I should imagine.’
‘Then it would not occur to him, perhaps, as an odd method of treating
supposed compression of the brain, to send the patient upon a
sea-voyage?’
Phil’s eyes brightened slowly.
‘No, doctor; I don’t suppose it would. Go on.’
‘Anyone who had studied the subject would not be likely to approve such
an experiment; but if your friend does not understand these matters, I
could easily lead him to suppose that such a course of treatment would
be beneficial to you, and he might be willing for you to go.’
‘And then?’ questioned Phil eagerly.
‘And then, mein Herr, whilst you were supposed to be sailing over the
wide ocean, under the care of a medical friend of mine own, you could
in reality be playing the part you have laid down for yourself; whilst
I, for my part, could forward to the Herr letters, purporting to come
from my friend, with accounts of Herr Torwood’s health. As they would
be written to me, no envelopes need be sent; and I could fabricate the
date, and the port from which it was written, as easily as the letter
itself with its medical details.’
‘Doctor,’ said Phil solemnly, ‘you are a brick!—if you know what that
is. Write to Ladywell this afternoon; don’t lose a single day nor hour.
Propound this idea of the sea-voyage, and urge it so that in common
humanity he can hardly refuse.’
‘I will,’ answered the doctor, who could be a warm partizan when he
once espoused a cause. ‘And now, mein Herr, I think you had better
return to your former state of torpor. It will not be well for Gretchen
or the Mädchen to know that this change has taken place; only we
ourselves must be in the secret. But I will write at once to Herr
Debenham.’
Tor’s answer came as quickly as post could bring it, and contained the
information that he was following his letter with all speed.
For one moment Phil was filled with a great longing to meet his old
friend face to face, and ask him, then and there, what was the meaning
of this strange treachery; but soon the new fear and distrust rose up
again within him—the knowledge of the power Tor always had exercised
over him (to which in old days he had loved to submit, and which had
always been generously exercised) came back to his memory, and made him
fear to meet him; for there could be no doubt that the old generosity
and friendliness must all have vanished, and given place to a malice
and treachery which would make him a most dangerous enemy.
And yet Phil’s heart misgave him sometimes, and smote him for the part
he was about to play. True, he had been greatly wronged, ruthlessly
betrayed and deceived; but did that justify him in deceiving, in his
turn, the man to whom he owed so much?
Phil felt restless and miserable as he turned over the question in his
mind.
‘If he calls me “Phil” again, as he used to do, I don’t believe I can
hold out. Oh, Tor, Tor! why are you treating me like this?’
Sounds in the hall below announced the arrival of the expected guest.
Phil, with a hasty movement, drew the sheet over the lower part of his
face, so as to hide the beard, upon which he was to rely in a great
measure for his disguise. Then he lay motionless and rigid, with closed
eyes and set face.
He knew that Tor was standing over him, but he moved not an eyelash,
although his heart beat so loud as to drown the sense of what was
passing between the two men who stood beside the bed.
‘He is going to speak to me,’ said Phil to himself, when first he was
able to grasp the meaning of words uttered in that familiar voice.
‘What will he say?’
‘Tor—Torwood! wake up, old fellow! Don’t you know me—Phil Debenham?
Tor, I say!’
Phil’s heart seemed turned to stone, and he lay still and motionless.
Hope died within him as suddenly as it had leapt up. Tor had adopted
his _rôle_ in earnest, and he would abide by his choice. By stratagem,
not by force, was he now to be overcome.
On the following day Tor departed, and upon the next, Phil did the
same. Greatly to his relief, no mention had been made of the money
so strangely left in the pocket-book. Either Tor had forgotten the
matter, or else he had his own reasons for keeping silence. Phil cared
little as to that, so long as he retained in his hands the necessary
funds for his enterprise.
He was carried from the doctor’s house like a log, and his host
accompanied him in the carriage. By the time he reached the wayside
inn, where a halt was called, the doctor assisted him to alight and
dismissed the driver, who merely observed that the sick man had
recovered somewhat during the drive. He was not the man usually
employed by Dr. Schneeberger, and knew nothing about him or his charge.
Once at the inn, Phil recovered rapidly, and by four o’clock the doctor
and he bid each other a cordial adieu; and the former returned to his
house, to give the innocent Gretchen a graphic account of the journey,
and to tell her that his patient had been duly handed over to the
mythical medical friend, who was to convey him down to the ship.
As for Phil, he felt like a bird escaped from the snare of the fowler,
rejoicing once again in the full use of his liberty.
He remained that night where he was, for he had a vague fear that too
rapid travelling might bring him into collision with Tor, and he was
anxious above all things not to risk an encounter with him, until the
right moment had arrived.
His disguise occupied much of his thought and attention, and he
determined to go to Paris to obtain it; having unbounded faith in
French art.
He made a wise choice; and Paris certainly turned him out a vastly
altered man.
First, his brown beard was cut in truly foreign fashion, and dyed an
inky black. A costly wig of raven-black hair, of distinct Italian
style, so altered the character of brow and face, that Phil hardly knew
his own reflection in the glass. Art had no difficulty in darkening his
eyebrows and giving them an arch not actually intended by nature; and a
pair of gold-rimmed glasses with smoked lenses gave a totally altered
expression to the one feature he feared would betray him.
One or two carefully padded coats, of distinct Parisian cut, gave a
breadth and solidity of figure quite unlike Phil’s own slight and wiry
proportions, and transformed him into a foreigner quite as much as did
the Italian hair.
‘Well, I’m not a bad-looking fellow, at any rate,’ said he, carefully
surveying his reflected image, when all his preparations were complete.
‘But I’m hanged if I should know myself if I were to meet myself in
the street. A few more applications of that fellow’s wash will produce
a clear olive complexion, and I don’t think I need be afraid then of
Tor or anybody else. I look most like an Italian, so an Italian I’ll
be. I think I’m equal to the language. I was always told I spoke it
like a native, and I don’t feel as if I could easily be puzzled. Yes,
I’ll be an Italian, and my name shall be—shall be—say Pagliadini, Marco
Pagliadini; that will do as well as any other.’
Since his metamorphosis, he had left his first hotel, and just arrived
at a second, in the empty _salon_ of which he now stood, surveying
himself in the long mirrors.
A confusion of tongues became audible in the hall without, and a waiter
put his head into the _salon_, and then advanced with a bow.
‘Is it possible that Monsieur is an Italian?’ he asked obsequiously.
‘Yes, certainly,’ answered Phil, with a half-smile at his own readiness.
‘Then might I solicit the aid of Monsieur for one of his compatriots,
who cannot make himself to be comprehended in our language? If Monsieur
would have the complaisance to go to his assistance, I am sure he would
receive a thousand thanks.’
Phil assented readily, and found a fine-looking old Italian in the
hall, vainly trying to make known his wishes to the mistress of the
hotel; but his command of the French tongue was not great enough
to make her understand that he had been taking photographs of some
neighbouring landscapes, and was now anxious to expose his negatives in
a dark cellar.
With Phil’s assistance, however, the matter soon became amicably
settled, and the Italian, in his gratitude to his young countryman,
insisted on his company at dinner that night.
Phil spent a very pleasant evening with Signor Mattei, his intelligent
and courteous host, who, after much talk of art, during which Phil
rose higher and higher in his estimation, began to question him a
little as to his own plans.
‘I am going to England,’ Phil told him candidly. ‘I have not been there
since I was quite a child. I am curious to see something of so great a
country.’
‘Are you going to visit friends?’
‘No; I go simply as a traveller, bent on pleasure and instruction.’
‘But you surely have introductions?’
‘No, not even an introduction. I shall be a stranger to everyone I
meet.’
‘Surely that will be very _triste_?’
‘If so, I can but return.’
Signor Mattei pulled his long white moustache and considered awhile.
‘You have done me a very kind service, young Signor,’ he said. ‘I
should like, if it were possible, to be of some service to you; but
unfortunately I know little of England or the English.’
‘I am exceedingly obliged by your kind wish, Signor; but pray do not
give any anxiety to such a matter. I shall make my way excellently, I
have no doubt. I am not afraid.’
Still Signor Mattei seemed to ponder.
‘I suppose, Signor, you will not be going into remote parts—into the
West-country, for instance, where the scenery is said to be very
beautiful?’
‘Well, yes; I am thinking of visiting Devonshire. I was there as a
child, and should like to see the country again.’
‘In that case I might perhaps be of use to you. A very good friend and
relative of mine (by marriage, you understand, for he is an Englishman)
lives in that country, at a place called Ladywell. His name is Michael
Meredith, and when my niece, his wife, died, he returned to his native
country, to live near an old patron of his, a Mr. Debenham, who also
lived there. He is a great lover of art, and of all that belongs to
our country. He is blind, which is a sad trial to him, and would make
a visit from one of our nation doubly grateful. If you would accept an
introduction to him, I am sure it would be doing a kindness to him, and
might be advantageous to yourself.’
This marvellous coincidence had almost taken Phil’s breath away.
Michael Meredith’s name was dimly remembered by him; and he accepted
with alacrity the offered introduction.
What wonderful luck he had!
The one difficulty he had seen looming before him was now overcome.
He had wondered how he should be able to gain the first footing amongst
the people he was so anxious to watch.
He could not hang about the place for ever, though sketching or fishing
might give colour to a good deal of loitering round. But, as a rule,
foreigners do not remain very long in isolated country villages, for no
ostensible reason. Suspicion might be attracted to him, which he was
most anxious to avoid; and it might be very difficult for him to gain
the _entrée_ of his own house.
Now, however, his way was made plain. He would appear at Ladywell as
Michael Meredith’s friend. Not a ghost of a suspicion could attach to
him, unless he chose to arouse it. Tor, as a supposed Debenham, must be
acquainted with his father’s old friend, and a meeting would be easily
contrived. Nothing more fortunate could have been conceived, and Phil
felt as if victory was almost attained, when Signor Mattei handed over
to him a very cordial note of introduction to Michael Meredith.
‘I trust it may be of use to you, Signor,’ he said politely.
‘I have no doubt of it,’ answered Phil, as calmly as he could. ‘I shall
make an early expedition to Devonshire to see the Signor Meredith.’
‘You will do him a great kindness, I am convinced,’ said Signor Mattei.
‘And myself also,’ responded Phil truthfully enough; and the elder man
bowed and smiled, and was all the more favourably impressed by the
courteously-worded thanks of his young friend.
The two ‘compatriots’ parted soon afterwards upon the best of terms.
When Phil read through the open letter which the Signor had given him,
he was pleased to find it so worded, as to give the impression that
Signor Pagliadini was no mere acquaintance of an hour, but a friend of
some standing. Signor Mattei, with a somewhat exaggerated wish to speak
well of his young friend, had thought it best not to give any hint as
to the length of time the friendship had lasted, and leave the date of
its commencement to the imagination of his relative. From what he said
of Phil’s knowledge of art, and his taste upon all questions relating
to painting and sculpture, one would certainly imagine that the two
men had been acquainted for some time. He had also omitted to date the
letter from Paris, and so it might naturally be supposed to come from
Florence, where, as Phil had discovered, the Signor habitually resided.
‘It’s not a matter of much importance, I suppose,’ he said to himself:
‘still, it’s as well to throw as much dust in people’s eyes as one
easily can. It might just as well be supposed that I have come direct
from Florence, so that if Tor should ask questions he will not learn
the truth.’
He paced up and down, speaking from time to time to himself.
‘I won’t be harder upon him than I can—I don’t want to disgrace him.
He has been a good friend to me; and I will be as generous as he will
let me. But I cannot stand by altogether and see myself supplanted. I
cannot change myself into Torrington Torwood because he has chosen to
make himself Phil Debenham.
‘I will feel my way carefully. I will say that I have known the two
abroad. Perhaps I will even greet him as Torwood, and see what he says.
That might be a good thought, and might give him an opening to confess
the truth. I might put the same doubt into other people’s minds, and
let an uncomfortable state of uncertainty fall upon them in regard to
his position. I am sure I shall not be recognised. I will speak no
English, only Italian, and then my voice will be in a great measure
disguised. I will haunt him and trouble him, and give him every chance
to retract his false step and tell the truth; but if he will not yield,
even when he finds that I know the truth, then I must take up arms in
my own defence; and he must look to himself.
‘Oh, Tor! Tor!’ cried Phil, with sudden, irrepressible bitterness. ‘Why
do you drive me into such a course? Why do you make an enemy of me—I
who have so loved you? Oh, Tor! Tor! Mine own familiar friend!’