The Vanished Messenger

by E. Phillips Oppenheim

  CHAPTER VIII

  Richard Hamel, although he certainly had not the appearance of a personafflicted with nerves, gave a slight start. For the last half-hour,during which time the train had made no stop, he had been alone in hiscompartment. Yet, to his surprise, he was suddenly aware that the seatopposite to him had been noiselessly taken by a girl whose eyes, also,were fixed with curious intentness upon the broad expanse of marshlandand sands across which the train was slowly making its way. Hamel hadspent a great many years abroad, and his first impulse was to speak withthe unexpected stranger. He forgot for a moment that he was in England,travelling in a first-class carriage, and pointed with his left handtowards the sea.

  "Queer country this, isn't it?" he remarked pleasantly. "Do you know,I never heard you come in. It gave me quite a start when I found that Ihad a fellow-passenger."

  She looked at him with a certain amount of still surprise, a look whichhe returned just as steadfastly, because even in those few seconds hewas conscious of that strange selective interest, certainly unaccountedfor by his own impressions of her appearance. She seemed to him, at thatfirst glance, very far indeed from being good-looking, according to anyof the standards by which he had measured good looks. She was thin, toothin for his taste, and she carried herself with an aloofness to whichhe was unaccustomed. Her cheeks were quite pale, her hair of a softshade of brown, her eyes grey and sad. She gave him altogether animpression of colourlessness, and he had been living in a land wherecolour and vitality meant much. Her speech, too, in its very restraint,fell strangely upon his ears.

  "I have been travelling in an uncomfortable compartment," she observed."I happened to notice, when passing along the corridor, that yours wasempty. In any case, I am getting out at the next station."

  "So am I," he replied, still cheerfully. "I suppose the next station isSt. David's?"

  She made no answer, but so far as her expression counted for anything atall, she was a little surprised. Her eyes considered him for a moment.Hamel was tall, well over six feet, powerfully made, with good features,clear eyes, and complexion unusually sunburnt. He wore a flannel collarof unfamiliar shape, and his clothes, although they were neat enough,were of a pattern and cut obviously designed to afford the maximum ofease and comfort with the minimum regard to appearance. He wore, too,very thick boots, and his hands gave one the impression that theywere seldom gloved. His voice was pleasant, and he had the easyself-confidence of a person sure of himself in the world. She put himdown as a colonial--perhaps an American--but his rank in life mystifiedher.

  "This seems the queerest stretch of country," he went on; "long spits ofsand jutting right out into the sea, dikes and creeks--miles and milesof them. Now, I wonder, is it low tide or high? Low, I should think,because of the sea-shine on the sand there."

  She glanced out of the window.

  "The tide," she told him, "is almost at its lowest."

  "You live in this neighbourhood, perhaps?" he enquired.

  "I do," she assented.

  "Sort of country one might get very fond of," he ventured.

  She glanced at him from the depths of her grey eyes.

  "Do you think so?" she rejoined coldly. "For my part, I hate it."

  He was surprised at the unexpected emphasis of her tone--the first time,indeed, that she had shown any signs of interest in the conversation.

  "Kind of dull I suppose you find it," he remarked pensively, lookingout across the waste of lavender-grown marshes, sand hummocks piledwith seaweed, and a far distant line of pebbled shore. "And yet, I don'tknow. I have lived by the sea a good deal, and however monotonous it mayseem at first, there's always plenty of change, really. Tide and wind dosuch wonderful work."

  She, too, was looking out now towards the sea.

  "Oh, it isn't exactly that," she said quietly. "I am quite willing toadmit what all the tourists and chance visitors call the fascinationof these places. I happen to dislike them, that is all. Perhaps it isbecause I live here, because I see them day by day; perhaps because thesight of them and the thought of them have become woven into my life."

  She was talking half to herself. For a moment, even the knowledge of hispresence had escaped her. Hamel, however, did not realise that fact. Hewelcomed her confidence as a sign of relaxation from the frigidity ofher earlier demeanour.

  "That seems hard," he observed sympathetically. "It seems odd tohear you talk like that, too. Your life, surely, ought to be pleasantenough."

  She looked away from the sea into his face. Although the genuineinterest which she saw there and the kindly expression of his eyesdisarmed annoyance, she still stiffened slightly.

  "Why ought it?"

  The question was a little bewildering.

  "Why, because you are young and a girl," he replied. "It's natural to becheerful, isn't it?"

  "Is it?" she answered listlessly. "I cannot tell. I have not had muchexperience."

  "How old are you?" he asked bluntly.

  This time it certainly seemed as though her reply would contain somerebuke for his curiosity. She glanced once more into his face, however,and the instinctive desire to administer that well-deserved snubpassed away. He was so obviously interested, his question was askedso naturally, that its spice of impertinence was as though it had notexisted.

  "I am twenty-one," she told him.

  "And how long have you lived here?"

  "Since I left boarding-school, four years ago."

  "Anywhere near where I am going to bury myself for a time, I wonder?" hewent on.

  "That depends," she replied. "Our only neighbours are the Lorneybrookesof Market Burnham. Are you going there?"

  He shook his head.

  "I've got a little shanty of my own," he explained, "quite close to St.David's Station. I've never even seen it yet."

  She vouchsafed some slight show of curiosity.

  "Where is this shanty, as you call it?" she asked him.

  "I really haven't the faintest idea," he replied. "I am looking for itnow. All I can tell you is that it stands just out of reach of the fulltides, on a piece of rock, dead on the beach and about a mile from thestation. It was built originally for a coastguard station and meant tohold a lifeboat, but they found they could never launch the lifeboatwhen they had it, so the man to whom all the foreshore and most ofthe land around here belongs--a Mr. Fentolin, I believe--sold it to myfather. I expect the place has tumbled to pieces by this time, but Ithought I'd have a look at it."

  She was gazing at him steadfastly now, with parted lips.

  "What is your name?" she demanded.

  "Richard Hamel."

  "Hamel."

  She repeated it lingeringly. It seemed quite unfamiliar.

  "Was your father a great friend of Mr. Fentolin's, then?" she asked.

  "I believe so, in a sort of way," he answered. "My father was Hamel theartist, you know. They made him an R.A. some time before he died. Heused to come out here and live in a tent. Then Mr. Fentolin let him usethis place and finally sold it to him. My father used often to speak tome about it before he died."

  "Tell me," she enquired, "I do not know much about these matters, buthave you any papers to prove that it was sold to your father and thatyou have the right to occupy it now when you choose?"

  He smiled.

  "Of course I have," he assured her. "As a matter of fact, as none of ushave been here for so long, I thought I'd better bring the title-deed,or whatever they call it, along with me. It's with the rest of my trapsat Norwich. Oh, the place belongs to me, right enough!" he went on,smiling. "Don't tell me that any one's pulled it down, or that it'sdisappeared from the face of the earth?"

  "No," she said, "it still remains there. When we are round the nextcurve, I think I can show it to you. But every one has forgotten, Ithink, that it doesn't belong to Mr. Fentolin still. He uses it himselfvery often."

  "What for?"

  She looked at her questioner quite steadfastly, quite quietly,speechlessly. A curious uneasiness crept into
his thoughts. There weremysterious things in her face. He knew from that moment that she, too,directly or indirectly, was concerned with those strange happenings atwhich Kinsley had hinted. He knew that there were things which she waskeeping from him now.

  "Mr. Fentolin uses one of the rooms as a studio. He likes to paint thereand be near the sea," she explained. "But for the rest, I do not know. Inever go near the place."

  "I am afraid," he remarked, after a few moments of silence, "that Ishall be a little unpopular with Mr. Fentolin. Perhaps I ought to havewritten first, but then, of course, I had no idea that any one wasmaking use of the place."

  "I do not understand," she said, "how you can possibly expect to comedown like this and live there, without any preparation."

  "Why not?"

  "You haven't any servants nor any furniture nor things to cook with."

  He laughed.

  "Oh! I am an old campaigner," he assured her. "I meant to pick up a fewoddments in the village. I don't suppose I shall stay very long, anyhow,but I thought I'd like to have a look at the place. By-the-by, what sortof a man is Mr. Fentolin?"

  Again there was that curious expression in her eyes, an expressionalmost of secret terror, this time not wholly concealed. He could havesworn that her hands were cold.

  "He met with an accident many years ago," she said slowly. "Both hislegs were amputated. He spends his life in a little carriage which hewheels about himself."

  "Poor fellow!" Hamel exclaimed, with a strong man's ready sympathy forsuffering. "That is just as much as I have heard about him. Is he adecent sort of fellow in other ways? I suppose, anyhow, if he has reallytaken a fancy to my little shanty, I shall have to give it up."

  Then, as it seemed to him, for the first time real life leaped intoher face. She leaned towards him. Her tone was half commanding, halfimploring, her manner entirely confidential.

  "Don't!" she begged. "It is yours. Claim it. Live in it. Do anything youlike with it, but take it away from Mr. Fentolin!"

  Hamel was speechless. He sat a little forward, a hand on eitherknee, his mouth ungracefully open, an expression of blank and utterbewilderment in his face. For the first time he began to have vaguedoubts concerning this young lady. Everything about her had been sostrange: her quiet entrance into the carriage, her unusual manner oftalking, and finally this last passionate, inexplicable appeal.

  "I am afraid," he said at last, "I don't quite understand. You say thepoor fellow has taken a fancy to the place and likes being there. Well,it isn't much of a catch for me, anyway. I'm rather a wanderer, and Idare say I shan't be back in these parts again for years. Why shouldn'tI let him have it if he wants it? It's no loss to me. I'm not a painter,you know, like my father."

  She seemed on the point of making a further appeal. Her lips, even, wereparted, her head a little thrown back. And then she stopped. She saidnothing. The silence lasted so long that he became almost embarrassed.

  "You will forgive me if I am a little dense, won't you?" he begged. "Totell you the truth," he went on, smiling, "I've got a sort of feelingthat I'd like to do anything you ask me. Now won't you just explain alittle more clearly what you mean, and I'll blow up the old place skyhigh, if it's any pleasure to you."

  She seemed suddenly to have reverted to her former self--the cold andcolourless young woman who had first taken the seat opposite to his.

  "Mine was a very foolish request," she admitted quietly. "I am sorrythat I ever made it. It was just an impulse, because the little buildingwe were speaking of has been connected with one or two very disagreeableepisodes. Nevertheless, it was foolish of me. How long did you think ofstaying there--that is," she added, with a faint smile, "providing thatyou find it possible to prove your claim and take up possession?"

  "Oh, just for a week or so," he answered lightly, "and as to regainingpossession of it," he went on, a slightly pugnacious instinct stirringhim, "I don't imagine that there'll be any difficulty about that."

  "Really!" she murmured.

  "Not that I want to make myself disagreeable," he continued, "but theTower is mine, right enough, even if I have let it remain unoccupied forsome time."

  She let down the window--a task in which he hastened to assist her.A rush of salt, cold air swept into the compartment. He sniffed iteagerly.

  "Wonderful!" he exclaimed.

  She stretched out a long arm and pointed. Away in the distance, on thesummit of a line of pebbled shore, standing, as it seemed, sheer overthe sea, was a little black speck.

  "That," she said, "is the Tower."

  He changed his position and leaned out of the window.

  "Well, it's a queer little place," he remarked. "It doesn't look worthquarrelling over, does it?"

  "And that," she went on, directing his attention to the hill, "is Mr.Fentolin's home, St. David's Hall."

  For several moments he made no remark at all. There was somethingcuriously impressive in that sudden sweep up from the sea-line; thestrange, miniature mountain standing in the middle of the marshes, withits tree-crowned background; and the long, weather-beaten front of thehouse turned bravely to the sea.

  "I never saw anything like it," he declared. "Why, it's barely a quarterof a mile from the sea, isn't it?"

  "A little more than that. It is a strangely situated abode, isn't it?"

  "Wonderful!" he agreed, with emphasis. "I must study the geologicalformation of that hill," he continued, with interest. "Why, it looksalmost like an island now."

  "That is because of the floods," she told him. "Even at high tide thecreeks never reach so far as the back there. All the water you seestretching away inland is flood water--the result of the storm, Isuppose. This is where you get out," she concluded, rising to her feet.

  She turned away with the slightest nod. A maid was already awaiting herat the door of the compartment. Hamel was suddenly conscious of the factthat he disliked her going immensely.

  "We shall, perhaps, meet again during the next few days," he remarked.

  She half turned her head. Her expression was scarcely encouraging.

  "I hope," she said, "that you will not be disappointed in yourquarters."

  Hamel followed her slowly on to the platform, saw her escorted to avery handsome motor-car by an obsequious station-master, and watchedthe former disappear down the stretch of straight road which led to thehill. Then, with a stick in one hand, and the handbag which was his soleluggage in the other, he left the station and turned seaward.