CHAPTER VIII

A TOUCH OF SYMPATHY

"This son of mine was a self-willed youth, always too ready to utter his unchastised fancies.... He got the spur when he should have had the rein.... He, therefore, helped to fill the markets with that unripe fruit which abounds in the marts of his native country."--OLIVER WENDELL HOLMES.

Felix had been sent by his employers up to Basingstoke Station to bring down some parcels of rivets and special nails arriving by goods train that evening. As he stood on the platform waiting, the boat train from Southampton came rushing in, and stopped to put down a solitary passenger. This was a tall, wiry, hatchet-faced man, of about forty, with black hair, brown skin, and soft, melting dark brown eyes--eyes you would not have expected to see in that face, unless you were familiar with the Slav type.

This man gave his directions to the porters in very hesitating English. He was so like the type to which Felix had been accustomed in the dynamite brotherhood, that the sight of him was actively unpleasant. And yet the young man could not help being fascinated, too.

The stranger said, in painstaking English, "I wish this trunk put upon the hotel omnibus."

The porter, understanding this, cheerfully shouldered the trunk and disappeared, the traveler meanwhile lighting a cigarette and gazing round the station at the town beyond with a look of interest.

"Now, sir," said the porter, returning, "what are we to do with all this stuff?"

It looked like machinery--curiously shaped, spiky packages sewn up in canvas.

"I wish that put--how do you say?--ah, yes--_en consigne, s'il vous plait_--pardon, I would mean--_en consigne_--hein?"

The porter looked blank. "No parly frongsay," he remarked, resentfully.

"Wants you to cloak it, fathead," said Felix, unable to hold his tongue.

"To cloak it--eh? Why in blazes don't 'e say so, then. This way, mounseer."

"Le mettre en consigne pendant quelques jours, monsieur," cried the foreigner, eagerly pouncing on Felix. "Malheureusement je ne puis pas dire--je ne sais pas pour quel temps--combien faut-il payer maintenant?"

Felix turned good-naturedly to him. "You want to cloak it, and you do not know for how long?" he said in French. "That's all right, you take a ticket now, nothing to pay, and when you want it out, you produce the ticket and pay so much for each day."

The man was delighted. "I am indebted to you, sir, I am truly. I was told my English was enough to take me through; but it breaks down at every turn. You speak French admirably--that is not so with all your countrymen--hein?"

"No," said Felix, "we are not great linguists, taken as a nation. But I have lived abroad."

"Ah! By chance now--you speak German also?"

"Assez bien, monsieur."

The stranger literally clutched him. Was he at liberty? Would he come up to the hotel and make terms for him? Could he do some translating--a letter, the sense of which he could not discover, though he had looked out all the words in a dictionary?

Felix explained that he was anything but at leisure, but that he had to await the arrival of a goods train, and while waiting was very glad to translate the letter in question into comprehensible French. After safely consigning the luggage, which, so the stranger said, consisted of models of machinery, they repaired to the bar--since the weird regulations of England forbade one to smoke in the waiting-room--and Felix made all plain to the perplexed inventor, who described himself as a Russian,--an engineer employed in a vast mining enterprise in Siberia. He had perfected an invention for the ventilation of deep-level mines, by which he hoped to make his fortune. He had appointed to meet, at Basingstoke, the manager of one of the largest Welsh mines, who happened to be returning from abroad, and promised to break his journey there, in order to have an interview.

He launched into a description of his invention, and Felix, who had always had a fancy for machinery, grew deeply interested. Finally, the eager inventor extracted a promise from his new friend to come to supper with him at the hotel, though Felix owned with regret that he had no decent clothes; and they parted for a time with a mutual desire to meet again.

Mr. Doggett, in the expansion of his heart, had offered Felix his "grub" free if he would sleep aboard the _Sarah Dawkes_ and mind her while the owner spent these few nights in the bosom of his family--a thing he could not have done otherwise. Thus obtaining free, though rough, board and lodging, the young fellow had all his wages as clear profit, and he had ventured upon the purchase of such trifles as a comb and a tooth-brush, and even six pocket-handkerchiefs. He was, however, very doubtful as to how he should obtain the suit of decent clothes which he felt to be indispensable if he was to convey Rona by train to the North of England. He was plunged into the consideration of the problem of how to buy a suit out of three weeks' wages at fifteen shillings a week, and leave enough for railway fares, when chance sent him running up against the Russian engineer.

The fee paid by lawyers for the translation of a letter is ten shillings; and after Felix had translated four or five for his new friend he did not refuse this fee when warmly pressed upon him.

As the evening passed the two grew very friendly. Felix said he had known many Russians. He had been a member of a society in London many of whose adherents belonged to that nationality. One had been quite a pal of his.

The engineer--whose name was Vronsky--eagerly begged to know the name of Felix's friend. It was Loris Levien Ivanovitch.

Vronsky was much agitated. "Why, he was imprisoned, in London, for belonging to a dynamite society--unhappy boy, not to be warned!" His mother was Vronsky's own cousin. It had been heartbreak to her. But she had left her home and country and gone to meet her son in Styria, when he came out of prison. There they had made a home together, and the young man had found work. He had a fine tenor voice.

Felix made a gesture, as of one smitten by an overpowering memory. He began to sing, at first with hesitation, but with increasing confidence, a Russian song, full of the essential melancholy of the Slav peoples. A certain thrilling tenderness, mingled with the plaintive despondency of the national outlook, found expression in the strange cadences. The Russian sat with his head bowed, his clenched hand lying on the table. His eyes were heavy with tears, his whole heart was wrung by this song of his native land. When it was done he raised his head and looked intently at the singer.

"You must often have heard Loris sing that song?"

"Often and often. Very often," said Felix, his mind traveling back across old memories. He set his lips firmly, and looked his new friend straight in the eyes. "I was there--in prison--with Loris Ivanovitch," he said, steadily.

Vronsky gazed at him in pure sympathy. His eyes were still soft with tears. "My poor lad," he said, softly. "Poor, misguided child. You have suffered."

It was the first time that any soul had pitied Felix Vanston for his downfall. The whole world had said to him: "You have sinned." Not one human soul had said: "You have suffered."

"I have suffered," he said, slowly, "and through all my future I must suffer. I am branded, I am a marked man. I have disgraced my father's name. And yet I meant no harm. I entered upon the thing not knowing what I did. I was full of compassion and of thoughts about brotherhood. _Brotherhood!_"--he broke off with a sneer that was half a cry. "Do you know that now the very word brotherhood means to me something that is ruthless, terrible, secret--something that strikes in the dark--something that will reach you and punish you, however distant. That was what it seemed to Loris and to me. We were caught and held in its meshes. We might struggle, we could not get free. His sentence was six months shorter than mine. He went away to Styria the moment his ticket-of-leave expired. The Brotherhood let you alone as long as the ticket-of-leave lasts, for they do not want the police to know anything of their movements; and as long as you are under surveillance they lie low. I shall be free of the police in a week from now. And then--then I have to reckon with the Brotherhood."

"Go abroad," said Vronsky. "You are a good linguist, you should do well abroad."

"Yes," said Felix, "but there is something I must do first; something that counts before my own safety."

The Russian looked sympathetic. "A woman?"

"My sister," said Felix, laying the stump of his cigarette down in his plate, and watching it sedulously. "She got into bad hands during my imprisonment. I have to put her in a place of safety. She is in hospital now--the result of an accident."

"Take her abroad with you--why not?"

"The old unanswerable argument--£ s. d.," said Felix, with a sad smile. "It costs twice as much--more than twice as much--to take a girl about with you."

The conversation had been in French from the beginning.

Now the young man stood up. "I must go," he said. "My job is not over. I have to be on the premises at night and keep watch. Many thanks for your good entertainment. This dinner has bucked me up."

"Yes," said Vronsky, in an interested way. "They told me that in England they never cook at all, and that one eats food raw or goes without. But I have dined here well to-night."

"So have I; and as it is the first time for very many nights, it leaves me most grateful to you for all your kindness."

"Shall I see you again? I hope so. Stroll down after your work to-morrow, and have coffee with me and a smoke."

"It ought to be my turn to-morrow," said Felix. "I don't like sponging. But I literally have not a halfpenny to spend just now. Good-night. I was glad to hear that about Loris Levien. About his being safe with his mother. But chiefly I am grateful to you for not looking on me as an outcast. Here, in my own country, I have done for myself, once and for all. My own brother won't speak to me. It is--but there! how can you tell what it feels like, to be taken by the hand by a man who knows your record and does not despise you for it?"

"My boy, in Russia one has more sympathy for these things. In England, I own, it is hard to see why boys take up such notions. But with us few families are altogether free of the taint. For myself I was never touched with the desire to make men good and happy by burning and killing. I do not think terror ever begot love. I know that it always begets hate. I am an engineer and a rough fellow. But I believe in God and in Him I put my trust for Russia and her future. Want of faith, my boy, that is what ails Russia. Good-night. God keep you. Come to me to-morrow."

Felix walked home to his couch in the cabin of the _Sarah Dawkes_ with his heart full of gratitude to the new friend so accidentally thrown in his way.

The next morning, on his way to work, he went to the post-office, and, to his joy, was handed a letter addressed to David Smith.

"DEAR DAVID,--Thank you for your letter. I was so very glad to get it, and I am pleased to say that I am getting better very fast now. I am still in bed, but they let me sit up and do knitting, and Mr. Denzil Vanston comes to see me. He is the Squire, Sister Agnes says, and she thinks I am a lucky girl. He has given me a kitten, and he reads to me out loud. Do you know the first day he came in I thought he was you! I can't think what made me so silly, for he is not a bit like you really, but fair, with a little neat light brown mustache. He is very kind.

"They say yes, I may certainly stay three weeks, and by that time I ought to be quite well. I shall look forward to seeing you and starting for Sempleton. Do you think it would be best to write to the Reverend Mother or not? I think not, because it is just possible she might think she ought to tell Uncle Rankin.

"Miss Rawson is making me a new frock; it is brown. I think this is all my news, so I will only add my love, and my thanks too, for all you did for me. When I think how you wanted to die, and went on living to take care of me, I do feel ashamed of myself. I hope you are quite well. Mind and tell me when to expect you, and write again soon. I have not let anybody see your letter, though they are all most inquisitive about our affairs!--With my love, I remain your affectionate sister--RONA SMITH."

This letter lifted David right up to the clouds. Since Rona was carried away from him in Miss Rawson's motor, he had not felt such a lightening of his spirits. She was happy; she was getting well; she wanted to see him again. His heart swelled up in a gush of tenderness, hitherto unknown to him. In his solitary youth, full of queer cults and crazes, and stunted by his lamentable prison experience, he had never thought about girls. This one, so unlike the girls in love stories, appealed to him on a side where he was easily touched. All the protective manhood had awoke in him when first he felt her desperate clutch upon his arm, and looked up to see her enemies in pursuit.

He could not help being disquieted by the idea of his brother's attentions to her. But he decided that there was nothing at all to connect David Smith with Felix Vanston in the mind of the owner of Normansgrave. He had followed the papers with eagerness ever since his flight, and had noted with great interest that the police had had no notification of the disappearance of Rona. On thinking it over, he was not much surprised. He could understand that the two villains would prefer to hold their tongues respecting her incarceration. But doubtless they were putting detectives on the job on their own account; and might they not be watching for the moment when the girl emerged from hospital and was joined by him?

He was very doubtful as to what would be their best way of getting off, and inclined to think that he should advise Rona to slip away at night and meet him at some given spot close to the hospital. He did not want to appear, both because of any possible watchers and because of his brother Denzil.

Miss Rawson had not recognized him, as was natural enough. But no disguise, no counterfeit Cockney talk, could prevent Denzil from knowing him, if they met face to face. And if Denzil knew him the first thing that he would decree would be that Felix was no fit companion for his supposed "sister."

For the first time the delicate nature of the situation occurred to him. It filled him with a queer tumult of indignation and championship. He was to be trusted to take care of her, this white flower, which a tempest had blown against his heart! He felt himself filled with the spirit of knight-errantry. His courage rose and a new sense of joy filled all his veins. Perhaps the hard work, the country air, and Vronsky's hospitality had something to do with the dawning of his new interest in life. But to him it seemed that it was all Rona.

He did a fine day's work that day, and when it was over he bought his usual halfpenny paper, saw that there was no mention in it of himself or the girl, and went on to the hotel, where he found Vronsky happy over a telegram from the mine manager whom he expected, to say that he was crossing to Southampton the following day.

Meanwhile, he had received letters from two mine owners in England, full of cruelly hard words. His dictionary lay before him, and a transcript of the frantic attempt he had made to decipher their contents. It was very evident that he needed not only a translator but an amanuensis, if he was to reply to his correspondents.

Felix buckled down to the work. He translated with care, wrote out a French version of the letters received, and drafted answers in English from the engineer's French dictation.

Then he turned his attention to a German letter, which proved to be the most interesting of all. The writer of this was extremely anxious to be first in the field, and to make all the new machinery if the market were fairly sure. He was too busy to come to England, but implored Vronsky to come over to Hamburg at his expense, that they might converse together over the matter.

This was a difficult journey for Vronsky, who, though he spoke French fluently, and could also speak Turkish and Arabic, knew hardly a word of either German or English. He said he would go if Felix would come with him as his secretary. He was not a rich man, but he would give him a pound a week, and advance money for clothes. It would take him out of the country, away from the Brotherhood--it would give him a new start.

Felix was terribly tempted. But he stood firm. He should not be here, where he was, were it not for Rona. It was she who had kept him back from the miserable, cowardly end he had planned for himself. As he sat, in the cheerful coffee-room, a good cigar in his mouth, a glass of fine ale at his side, and watched the prosperous life of the quiet town flowing along in the irregular, unpretending street, he felt that the world was a pleasant place, and wondered that he could have thought of quitting it. Here he was, and, such as he was, he was hers.

He looked sadly at the kind, intense face of Vronsky and shook his head. He could not go without his sister.

"Tiens!" replied Vronsky, "let us not be rash. Who knows? My business may detain me here longer than I expect. Then you may go and fetch your sister and bring her too."

Felix's eyes lit up. But almost immediately clouded again. He felt there might be inconveniences in traveling about with a sister who is not your sister. He accepted the fee for his secretarial work, and after much pressing consented to dine again with his friend, as it seemed churlish to decline, thereby condemning him to an evening of solitude and silence. They parted on more friendly terms than ever.

There was no moon that night, the dark face of heaven was powdered with stars, Jupiter hanging like a diamond low in the sky as Felix made his way down to the canal wharf. It was not until he got close up to the barge that he noticed a man standing by her, smoking, his hands in his pockets.

"Fine night," said the man, pleasantly.

"That's quite right," replied Felix, heartily, aloud. Inwardly he told himself, "London man--look out."

"Know much of the barge owners down these parts--eh?" said the stranger, wistfully.

"Can't say as I do," replied Felix in his natural tones, with no assumed accent. "Want work?"

The man sighed. "P'raps I do."

"Better go to the Company's office," suggested Felix.

"So I did. They told me old man Doggett, of the _Sarah Dawkes_, was wanting a boy. But there's nobody aboard her."

"No. His boy's ill. I'm sleeping in her to oblige the Old Man."

"Oh!" The stranger could not wholly keep his sudden access of interest out of his voice. "Are you the chap that took on the boy's job?"

Felix laughed his scorn. "No, thank yer, mate. I work up in the town. I only oblige the old man while he's ashore."

"Humph! Suppose you don't know what become of the chap as he brought down from Limehouse with him, do yer?"

Felix was quite sure now. He betrayed no surprise. "Want a character of the old man out of him before you sign on to the job?" he said, playfully.

"That's about the size of it--yes."

"Well, I did hear he was tramping it to Plymouth. Wanted to get out of England," said Felix, slowly.

There was a pause. "Got a light?" said the stranger at last.

Felix produced a match. "So long, mate," said he, moving to the gang-plank.

"Say--you couldn't let me sleep aboard, could you?" asked the unemployed.

"Daren't risk it, mate. Hope you won't take it hard, but I can't. Clean against orders, and the night-watchman is a terror. I don't mean losing my job, even if it was to help you to get one."

"Not likely. Hold hard a minute. Tell me--did you see the chap that came up on the _Sarah Dawkes_?"

"Never. Casual, picked up in the streets, I gather."

"And his sister with him?" said the man, urgently, in a low tone. "See here, there's money in this--what can you tell me about 'em?"

Felix was aboard of the barge, and looked up from the deck with a smile. "Money from a right-to-worker?" he mocked. "Plank it down, and I'll invent sisters for you as fast as you like."

"Thanks," said the man, with a change of tone. "I got out of you what I want without the money. She wasn't here when they got to Basingstoke. That's just what I thought. But where in thunder is she?"

"Oh, go to blazes--you're drunk," said Felix.

He turned on his heel and entered his dark sleeping-hole, trembling in every limb.