One glorious summer day, about two o'clock Vronsky was in bed, a most unwilling victim of a bout of fever. He lay in his pleasant room, under his mosquito net, smoking lazily and glancing at the papers. Presently, with a tap on the door, a young man entered in an English suit, brown shoes, and straw hat. A racquet was in his hand.
"Well, old man, I suppose you can't go to Nicolashof to-day? I must make your excuses to the Governor?" he said, lightly.
Vronsky grunted. "They won't mind my absence, if you don't fail them," he remarked, grimly, but with a twinkle in his eye. "Take my apologies to the Governor. He knows what fever is; and there is something else which you must take—something of more importance to you than my regrets—of a confounded deal more importance! Give me my dispatch-box."
The time which had elapsed since Felix Vanston and Vronsky first met at Basingstoke railway station had made a vast difference in the younger man. Felix had, even at that time, looked older than his age. Now this trait was more marked. But the lines upon his face were those traced by experience and discipline. This was a man who had himself well in hand. His boyhood lay far behind him; he had learnt in the school of adversity. The result was that Felix had become, in the fullest sense of the word—a Man. You looked at him, and instinctively you trusted him. There was strength in the expression of his mouth and truth in the steady light of his deep-set gray eyes. These eyes had humor in them of a quiet sort. They were the eyes of one who knew the harder side of life, and did not fear it: unlike those of the elder man. Vronsky's were the eyes of a dreamer, and beamed with the idealistic love which is the virtue of the Slav race. To him this young man was as a son. He had found him, taken him up out of despair, restored to him his self-respect, and given him, into the bargain, the love for lack of which the young man's soul had starved until that hour. Felix had satisfied the warmest hopes of his adopted father. He had proved clever, persevering, trustworthy. Together they had accomplished much, and meant to accomplish more.
Felix placed upon the bed the black tin dispatch-box. Vronsky felt under his pillow, drew forth a key, opened with care, and took out a far smaller box of the same kind. This he set down, and drew from his own neck a string upon which was suspended another key with which he opened the smaller box.
There was a sharp knock upon the door, and before Vronsky could cry out "Who's there?" a clerk had entered abruptly.
The man paused just inside the door, while Vronsky cried, angrily, "Get out, you fool! I am busy! Wait outside!"
Felix rose, went to the door, and closed it behind him. "What is it? Is it important?" he asked.
"They rang up from the mine to know if the No. 40 was dispatched," said the clerk, sulkily.
"When Mr. Vronsky is in bed, and I am in his room, you are never to enter without permission," said Felix, severely. "It is an order—do you understand?"