CHAPTER IV.ESCAPE.
M
ythe 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 makeeverything 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 stepthen. 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 cansoon 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. Hecannotthen 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, purportingto 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, andask 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 thelower 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 hisrôlein 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 andwiry 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 emptysalonof 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 thesalon, 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 courteoushost, 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 verytriste?’
‘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 myway 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 theentréeof 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 ameeting 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 mereacquaintance 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!’