FELIX TAKES ADVICE
The Pilgrim said, "Peace be with you,
Lady"; and bent his knees.
She answered, "Peace."
Her eyes were like the wave within;
Like water-reeds the poise
Of her soft body, dainty thin;
And like the water's noise
Her plaintive voice.
--D. G. ROSSETTI.
The scene as Felix entered the parlor of the hotel was of a most
unusually animated description. The models had all been taken out of
"_consigne_" earlier in the day, and Vronsky had laid them out upon
the table.
Although he could not succeed in making the mine owner understand his
English, he left him in no doubt of his engineering ability. The
model was of so ingenious a nature that everybody present in the
place was attracted to the scene, and quite a crowd stood round the
table, where, by means of a cord, switched to the electric light
button, the blast from the wonderful fans was successfully driven
through miniature galleries and tunnels, and the strong draught blew
upon the offered cheeks of the amused and admiring spectators.
The deep, soft eyes of the Russian glowed with the creative pride of
the inventor, as his dexterous hands manipulated his mechanism.
He hastened to the young man as he entered, with a cry of relief, and
seizing him by the arm, dragged him forward to be introduced to the
Great Man, and poured out a volley of French explanation which was to
be passed on to the mystified Briton.
Felix had no difficulty in making an intelligent translation. The
mine owner asked a few questions--questions which showed how far he
had made up his mind; and upon hearing the answers, given by Vronsky
and translated by Felix, he said he had determined to try the
experiment, and that, if it were successful, he would like the
complete system installed as soon as it could be produced.
It became evident that Vronsky would have to proceed forthwith to
Hamburg, to arrange for the manufacture of his patent.
But that he should go without Felix was to him a thing impossible.
Not only was the young man indispensable, owing to his linguistic
proficiency, there was more. Vronsky had taken a fancy to him; and
he was a man who made friends with difficulty, being shy, and slow to
adapt himself to any strange person or custom.
When the mine owner, who had been traveling for forty-eight hours,
had tramped heavily upstairs to bed, the Russian turned to his
secretary with a passionate gesture.
"It is simply that it must, that thou accompaniest me."
Felix stood breathing hard in excitement. The sight of the detective
had jarred him more than he felt able to explain. To leave England
at once and without warning seemed likely to be the safest plan for
the protection of the girl who was the pivot of all his thought. He
was quite certain that, the hunt being up, she would not be safe in
the north, at the Convent School. That was, as Comrade Dawkes had
justly observed, the very place where they would be likely to look
for her. In fact, it was the only place she might conceivably make
for, since it was the only place in wide England which she knew.
"Will you walk down with me to the wharf?" asked he hesitatingly and
wistfully of Vronsky. "I am going to make a clean breast of things
to you."
Ever since he had realized how simple and affectionate a soul the
Russian was, he had been approaching nearer and nearer to the
conviction that it would be best to confide in him. The appearance
of the detective made him desperate. He literally must have somebody
with whom to discuss the engrossing and difficult subject.
To his relief, Vronsky, with the remark that a breath of air was what
he wanted, willingly took down his hat from the peg, and together
they sauntered through the quiet town, which already, though it was
not much past nine o'clock, showed signs of going to bed.
As they walked, Felix told him his whole story, from beginning to
end. He told him his real name, and how, by a curious coincidence,
the girl Rona was being befriended by his own people. He gave him
the chronicle of his gradual drawing in to the toils of the
Brotherhood--of his despair and attempted suicide; and of the fateful
precipitation of Rona into the horizon of his landscape.
Vronsky listened with a deep and absorbed interest. His mind was
itself of so simple and romantic a turn, that he believed
instinctively and without difficulty everything that Felix said, and
thus went right where a much cleverer man might have blundered. He
comprehended the temperament which would be likely to err as Felix
had erred--he sympathized with it and understood it, as not one
Englishman in a thousand could have done.
With all his simplicity, he was a citizen of the world; and the jail
stigma was nothing to him, the revolutionary tendencies less than
nothing. Thus, in his experience, were most young, ardent, generous
souls at such an age as that of Felix.
As the recital went on his heart went out more and more towards the
boy who had never been understood. He loved his eager voice, his
quick sensitive moods, the candor with which he avowed that his worst
fault was the cowardly attempt to turn his back upon his difficulties.
But, the story told, there came the further question, What were the
runaway boy and girl to do?
Having heard the circumstances, Vronsky was as convinced as Felix
that to cast Rona to the wolves was a thing not to be considered for
a moment.
But, the uncle was Rona's guardian. The only witness to his cruel
intentions was a youth whose ticket-of-leave had just expired, and
who was believed by the police to have made away with himself.
Thus it was vital that young Vanston should leave England--should get
clear away before the police left off assuming his death: and Rona
could be saved only by a secret flight.
Vronsky was wise enough to see that his own nationality was a
complication of the difficulty.
"In your country," he remarked simply, "they think all Russians are
Nihilists. If you are in close company with a Russian, this spy will
think that you are certainly the man whom he seeks, with exactly the
companion one would imagine that you would choose. There is one good
thing: you speak French so uncommonly well. All the men in the hotel
parlor this evening heard you. They will all find it hard to believe
that you are English. If I am questioned, I shall say you are my
nephew."
Felix eagerly promised to adhere to this statement, if necessary; and
an outline of their imaginary history and proceedings for the past
few months was then agreed upon.
As regards the more complex question of Miss Leigh, the Russian felt
that he must have more time to reflect upon this. She was,
apparently, too young to be married, yet old enough to make it
unseemly that she should go about under the protection of two men,
both of whom were strangers to her.
It was a matter upon which he would find it difficult to decide.
The serious way in which he started to grapple with it gave Felix a
feeling of deep satisfaction. Vronsky seemed to assume, with artless
directness, that his affairs and those of the friendless young
English couple were bound up together. There was no impatience of an
inconvenient complication, of an obstacle to their plans. He
sincerely contemplated and carefully weighed the whole situation: and
nothing could have more availed to endear him to Felix than his
attitude upon this delicate question.
There was no sign of the spy hanging about the wharf; and after
thoroughly talking out the subject, they said good-night; and when he
had seen Felix safely aboard, and the gang-plank taken up, Vronsky
walked back to the hotel, his mind still wrestling with the problem.
When he entered the parlor he found that three or four men were still
left, hanging absorbed above his model mine, and discussing the
details of its working with the interest for mechanics so strongly
developed in Englishmen.
Vronsky was a man brought up in an atmosphere of spying and police
surveillance. His glance traveled with mildness but keen observation
over the figures round the table. They were all strangers to him,
and none answered very exactly to the description given by Felix of
the detective. But this was nothing. To elicit information at a
superior inn, the make-up must be very different from that required
as a loafer in search of a job.
He sat down, and quietly but easily entered into chat. The first
remark made by a man with a fair mustache, upon the knowledge of
French displayed by the young man who had acted as interpreter, put
him on the alert.
"Ah, yes," he said, smiling with innocence. "He ver' good speak
tongues. He vat-you-call my neveu--you unnerstan' that vord?"
Yes, the man understood. Nephew was near enough.
"Smeet, de name. My seester make marriage wid Mons. Smeet. He my
neveu."
"Indeed? Was he brought up in England, then?"
"Brought up" was too idiomatic for Vronsky. When it had been
explained he said, "Part one, part de oder. Part England, part
France. His moder veuve depuis longtemps."
This likewise had to be explained.
"I would say she have no more a man," said Vronsky, making confusion
worse confounded by his explanation.
This difficulty, however, was also solved. And he went on to mention
casually that his nephew and he had come from France together about
six months before--a time when, as the detective, whose name, by the
bye, was Burnett, knew, Felix Vanston was in jail. There was an air
of genial simplicity about Vronsky, a kindliness in his beautiful
soft dark eyes, which was misleading. Burnett had found out from
inquiries that he was an engineer, an inventor, who had come to push
his patent. He did not see how he could be a member of the Anarchist
gang which had sucked poor Felix in. Moreover, probabilities
considered, he could hardly be at Basingstoke by appointment.
He owned candidly that he had risked all he had in order to bring his
patent to the notice of prominent English mine owners, so that his
"neveu" had been obliged to find work meanwhile to support himself.
Now he hoped that all was plain sailing. Then he wished them
good-night and went to bed, leaving Burnett pretty sure that he had
missed the clew somewhere, and determined to take the last train to
Plymouth, and try to pick it up there, before wasting more time in
Basingstoke.
He was nowhere to be seen when Felix stepped ashore next morning.
The young man hurried to his work, for he had sat up to write to Rona
and overslept in consequence. At the dinner-hour he went to the
post-office to see, before posting his letter, whether there was one
for him. The spy was still not in sight, and the glorious idea that
he had departed rejoiced the heart of Felix. There was a letter for
him. It was written on very thick paper, with a crest in purple upon
the envelope. He stared at the crest, which was his own. Rona's
clear, immature hand had addressed the letter; but it was obviously
written on Normansgrave stationery.
He had promised to look in on Vronsky at dinner-time, and have some
bread and cheese with him, so he hastened to the inn without opening
the letter, or posting his own. At the first possible moment he
broke the seal, and read the contents with surprise.
Rona was in his brother's house. She described it with rapture. She
was evidently treated as an equal, and as evidently found this quite
natural. They were very kind, she had never been so happy. She was
glad and thankful that David had pulled her back when she tried to
fling herself upon the railway.
Inclosed with her letter was a brief, kind note from Miss Rawson,
saying that they were much interested in Rona, and could see that the
two young people were guarding some kind of a secret. They were
ready to befriend the girl in a substantial way, but this must be
upon condition of perfect frankness on his part. They hoped that he
would come, on his return from Basingstoke, and explain to them in
confidence how he and his sister came to be in such a plight, as they
saw quite well that Rona was a well-brought-up girl, carefully
educated, and they realized that some strong reason for her
unaccountable destitution must exist.
Here was a dilemma for poor Felix. Rona urged him to allow her to
make a clean breast of things. He knew that she could not tell her
story without Denzil's becoming aware of his identity, since he must
have received the letter he had left for him upon the table of his
room at Hawkins Row.
He sat plunged in disquieting thought.
Vronsky was out, at the post-office, and Felix was alone in the
parlor, among the shrouded and bulky packages of model machinery.
With a new clear-sightedness, born of harsh experience, the young man
faced the thought of taking the girl away with him, out of England.
Every pulse in his newly-stirred manhood was urging him to this
course.
Till Rona fell into his arms he had had no object in life. Now she
was his object in life. A new kind of excitement, white and blazing,
flamed up in him. Let them be once married, no police, no
interfering uncles could part them. She was young, but not too young
for love. He could cherish her....
On a pound a week?
For a moment he saw the other side of the medal--saw the slender
figure bowed with household toil, the hands--which to him had seemed
like a child's hands--roughened with hard work.
Could he propose such a course? Would she agree? Suppose she
refused to marry him, what could be done in that case? Feeling as he
did, could he act the big-brotherly rôle? He told himself that he
could. He could do anything for her that she demanded of him.
... And she was there, at Normansgrave, under the roof which had
sheltered his infancy and boyhood! Why, she might even be sleeping
in his old room, for aught he knew to the contrary!
He could picture her, moving through the rooms, sitting in the hall,
crossing the trim lawns. It was the right home for her.
And it appeared that it was actually offered to her! Denzil and Miss
Rawson were willing, he gathered, to keep her there. If, as seemed
fairly certain, the detective Burnett did not know where she was,
were not their hands far more competent than his to guard her from
evil?
With such thoughts he was struggling when Vronsky came in. He
unreservedly told him all, and translated Miss Rawson's letter to
him. The Russian listened gravely, and was silent for a while. Then
he said, "But this seems the solution of the problem, does it not?"
"How?" asked Felix, hoping against hope, yet guessing that Vronsky's
answer would be:
"They offer to befriend her--ask them to do so--accept their offer,
until such time as you can keep the girl better than you can now."
He saw the light fade out of the young man's sensitive face, and he
sat down near him.
"My son, she is too young to marry you and to rough it. But she
cannot go about with you and me, unless you and she are married. You
see that?"
"I have been trying not to see it for the past hour," faltered Felix.
Then Vronsky grew eloquent. There was no doubt that these kind
English people had taken a fancy to the girl. Then he, Felix, with
his miserable record and doubtful prospects, had no right to
interfere. At Normansgrave she would be safe and happy. What he had
to do was just to disappear from view until he had retrieved himself.
He fought against argument, but he was contending against his own
better sense all the time.
By a most fortunate chance, the detective had missed the clew. And,
as he had done so, Veronica was most probably safer at Normansgrave
than anywhere else in England.
It may as well be mentioned here, that Mr. Burnett, on arriving at
Plymouth, heard of the embarkation of a couple answering with some
exactitude to those of whom he was in search, in a cargo boat, for
America. He asked his employers whether he should go to America in a
fast steamer and intercept them on landing; but this was too great an
expense for Rankin Leigh to undertake. The girl was gone. Well, he
was relieved of the necessity for keeping her. He called off the
pursuit, and there the matter rested.
Felix naturally did not know this. But he could see that, if he were
out of England, the risk of Veronica's being tracked was halved.
But on one point he was obstinate. He would, at all costs, see the
girl once more before he went away out of her life.
How could he know how she felt about it? Suppose she did not wish to
be left behind? If that were so, he vowed emphatically that he would
take her with him, prudence or no prudence.
Vronsky thought him mad, but sympathized with him in every fiber of
his emotional being. Together they evolved a plan. Felix knew every
nook and corner of the home which now sheltered his waif. He knew
the place where it would be safest to meet, he knew the hour when it
could be done with least risk.
Down at the far end of the shrubbery which skirted the paddock was an
old summer-house, long since passed out of use, which the gardener
each winter filled with the brushwood intended for pea-sticks next
year. It was in the most solitary part of the grounds, and the
approach to it, for one who knew as he knew every inch of the way,
was covered, all along from the entrance to the park. Every soul at
Normansgrave went to evening service at six o'clock on a Sunday
evening, except those who were left in charge of the house. He knew
Rona could not yet walk as far as the church, and that no power could
induce Denzil to have out the motor on Sunday evening.
He wrote to her, careful not to betray his own knowledge of the
grounds, skilfully suggesting that there might be some arbor wherein
a meeting could take place.
She sent a line in reply, describing what he knew so well, and saying
she would do her best to be there, should the evening be fine.
He received her answer on Saturday morning, and set about making his
final arrangements.
It became evident during the day that Burnett had left the town, and
this gave greater freedom to his movements.
He received his wages, told them at the timber-yard that he should
not be coming back on Monday, and went down to the abode of Old Man
Doggett, to make him a present and take leave of him. Doggett was
cordially pleased to hear of his good fortune in being given work by
the Russian engineer, and told him he would always do him a good turn
if it came his way.
That being so, Felix's request was at once preferred. Comrade Dawkes
was to know nothing of his movements. If he inquired, as he surely
would do, upon the next arrival of the _Sarah Dawkes_ at Limehouse
wharf what had become of the runaways, the story was to be the same
that he had given to the detective; namely, that Felix and the girl
had tramped to Plymouth and there embarked for America.
He earnestly assured Mr. Doggett that a consistent adherence to this
story might be worth quite a considerable amount of whisky and
tobacco.
The force of the argument seemed great, as thus stated; and Felix
wrote down the exact address of his late employer, in order to be
able to send a postal order when circumstances connected with his
exchequer should enable him to do so.
On Sunday morning Vronsky and he left Basingstoke with the model
machinery and all their other effects. At Weybridge the young man
left the train, Vronsky proceeding to London without him; and Felix
started upon his ten mile walk in some trepidation.
He was now respectably dressed, and might be recognized by any native
in the regions of his old home. But he was greatly altered. He had
not been to Normansgrave, except on the occasion of his mother's
funeral, since he was seventeen. He was now twenty-three, but looked
far older, with the strain of his disgrace printed in deep lines upon
his sensitive features. He had been clean-shaven, but the
difficulties connected with shaving on board the barge had induced
him to allow his beard and mustache to grow. The young, soft dark
beard gave him a foreign look.
The only thing upon which he ventured in the way of disguise was a
pair of blue-tinted spectacles. As a matter of fact, his eyesight
was perfect, and no one who had known him in boyhood would have
connected the idea of Felix and weak eyes.
He put on a necktie of a kind which in his own proper person he would
never have worn; and though he could not suppose that he could be
seen at close quarters by anybody who had known him well without
recognition, ultimate, if not instantaneous, he yet felt it possible
that even a friend should not know him at a glance.
From the police he thought the risk not great. He did not suppose
that Rankin Leigh had more than one agent, and his agent had left the
neighborhood. The police were not looking for Felix Vanston alive,
but for a corpse, which, if their theories were true, could not be in
the place where he now was. And even were they seeking for him
alive, they would not seek anywhere near his old home.
If he could pass unrecognized by any of the natives round about
Normansgrave, all would be well.
And well he knew the habits and haunts of the natives upon a fine
spring Sunday!
If he could not keep out of people's way, with his foot upon his
native heath, it was a pity!
And moreover, there was a point in his meditations, when risk ceased
to count, and a mounting excitement took his breath and made the
lovely landscape reel before his dazzled eyes. He was going to see
Rona--the girl who was a stranger--the girl who was everything--the
girl whom he had snatched from the wolves. Nothing else really
mattered. No considerations of prudence must be allowed to
intervene. Who knew what might, or might not, happen when they
actually met?
He had taken some food in his pockets, and on leaving the station he
made for the woods. They were full of Sunday strollers; but these,
like a flock of sheep, kept all to beaten tracks, and Felix knew
every wild hollow and deep thicket in the countryside. He plunged
away deep in the glorious spring woodland, amid a white smother of
wild cherry bloom, contrasting with the delicate bronze and purple of
the bursting hazel bushes. The pale green tips of the larches rose
as feathery and faint, as an exquisite dream. It was a wood of
fairyland.
There, hidden away, he lay in solitude, eating his bread and cheese,
drinking from a tiny spring which he knew like an intimate friend,
and trying to still the wild thoughts in his heart by reading a book
he had brought in his pocket. But his heart refused to be stilled.
He had had nothing to love for so long--nothing ever to love much,
for his feeling for his mother had been merely instinctive, and had
grown less with advancing intelligence. Now all of a sudden, he
loved--for no reason than because a helpless creature had sought his
protection. He was going to look once more into her "lost dog" eyes.
And to say good-by, after ... that was the bitter thing.
As afternoon faded into evening, he walked by hidden ways down to the
old home. The air was full of church bells. He knew every note, and
they cried out to him of his boyhood, of his days of innocence and
youth. He shook with emotion, he could have wept for the thought of
those two dread years cut from his wayward life.
As he approached the corner of the shrubbery he did not meet a soul.
All was whelmed in Sabbath peace and stillness. Then he noticed
something fresh. A young plantation of healthy-looking beech and
copper beech, fenced round from the cattle in the park. He stopped
to look at that; and as he halted he saw someone strolling along
through the pasture grass, apparently bound for an inspection of this
very plantation. It was his brother Denzil. He wore his Sunday
clothes, and a decorous hat, and held his Prayer Book under his arm.
He stood in contemplation of the promising growth of his new
venture--and his reprobate brother stood behind the trees of the
shrubbery in contemplation of him.
Then a voice called, "Denzil! Denzil! Are you coming?"
The sound of steps on the gravel sounded, not at all far from where
he stood. Miss Rawson was coming down the long drive, and by her
side, walking slowly, was a girl as tall as she herself, with
chestnut hair falling below her waist, and with a cloak wrapped about
her to shelter her from the keen air of the April evening.