Ships That Pass
Let us go back a few months to the little, windswept platform of a
railway station in northern Wisconsin. The smoke of forest fires hangs
low over the surrounding landscape, its acrid fumes smarting the eyes
of a little party of six who stand waiting the coming of the train that
is to bear them away toward the south.
Professor Archimedes Q. Porter, his hands clasped beneath the tails of
his long coat, paces back and forth under the ever-watchful eye of his
faithful secretary, Mr. Samuel T. Philander. Twice within the past few
minutes he has started absent-mindedly across the tracks in the
direction of a near-by swamp, only to be rescued and dragged back by
the tireless Mr. Philander.
Jane Porter, the professor’s daughter, is in strained and lifeless
conversation with William Cecil Clayton and Tarzan of the Apes. Within
the little waiting room, but a bare moment before, a confession of love
and a renunciation had taken place that had blighted the lives and
happiness of two of the party, but William Cecil Clayton, Lord
Greystoke, was not one of them.
Behind Miss Porter hovered the motherly Esmeralda. She, too, was happy,
for was she not returning to her beloved Maryland? Already she could
see dimly through the fog of smoke the murky headlight of the oncoming
engine. The men began to gather up the hand baggage. Suddenly Clayton
exclaimed.
“By Jove! I’ve left my ulster in the waiting-room,” and hastened off to
fetch it.
“Good-bye, Jane,” said Tarzan, extending his hand. “God bless you!”
“Good-bye,” replied the girl faintly. “Try to forget me—no, not that—I
could not bear to think that you had forgotten me.”
“There is no danger of that, dear,” he answered. “I wish to Heaven that
I might forget. It would be so much easier than to go through life
always remembering what might have been. You will be happy, though; I
am sure you shall—you must be. You may tell the others of my decision
to drive my car on to New York—I don’t feel equal to bidding Clayton
good-bye. I want always to remember him kindly, but I fear that I am
too much of a wild beast yet to be trusted too long with the man who
stands between me and the one person in all the world I want.”
As Clayton stooped to pick up his coat in the waiting room his eyes
fell on a telegraph blank lying face down upon the floor. He stooped to
pick it up, thinking it might be a message of importance which some one
had dropped. He glanced at it hastily, and then suddenly he forgot his
coat, the approaching train—everything but that terrible little piece
of yellow paper in his hand. He read it twice before he could fully
grasp the terrific weight of meaning that it bore to him.
When he had picked it up he had been an English nobleman, the proud and
wealthy possessor of vast estates—a moment later he had read it, and he
knew that he was an untitled and penniless beggar. It was D’Arnot’s
cablegram to Tarzan, and it read:
Finger prints prove you Greystoke. Congratulations.
D’ARNOT.
He staggered as though he had received a mortal blow. Just then he
heard the others calling to him to hurry—the train was coming to a stop
at the little platform. Like a man dazed he gathered up his ulster. He
would tell them about the cablegram when they were all on board the
train. Then he ran out upon the platform just as the engine whistled
twice in the final warning that precedes the first rumbling jerk of
coupling pins. The others were on board, leaning out from the platform
of a Pullman, crying to him to hurry. Quite five minutes elapsed before
they were settled in their seats, nor was it until then that Clayton
discovered that Tarzan was not with them.
“Where is Tarzan?” he asked Jane Porter. “In another car?”
“No,” she replied; “at the last minute he determined to drive his
machine back to New York. He is anxious to see more of America than is
possible from a car window. He is returning to France, you know.”
Clayton did not reply. He was trying to find the right words to explain
to Jane Porter the calamity that had befallen him—and her. He wondered
just what the effect of his knowledge would be on her. Would she still
wish to marry him—to be plain Mrs. Clayton? Suddenly the awful
sacrifice which one of them must make loomed large before his
imagination. Then came the question: Will Tarzan claim his own? The
ape-man had known the contents of the message before he calmly denied
knowledge of his parentage! He had admitted that Kala, the ape, was his
mother! Could it have been for love of Jane Porter?
There was no other explanation which seemed reasonable. Then, having
ignored the evidence of the message, was it not reasonable to assume
that he meant never to claim his birthright? If this were so, what
right had he, William Cecil Clayton, to thwart the wishes, to balk the
self-sacrifice of this strange man? If Tarzan of the Apes could do this
thing to save Jane Porter from unhappiness, why should he, to whose
care she was intrusting her whole future, do aught to jeopardize her
interests?
And so he reasoned until the first generous impulse to proclaim the
truth and relinquish his titles and his estates to their rightful owner
was forgotten beneath the mass of sophistries which self-interest had
advanced. But during the balance of the trip, and for many days
thereafter, he was moody and distraught. Occasionally the thought
obtruded itself that possibly at some later day Tarzan would regret his
magnanimity, and claim his rights.
Several days after they reached Baltimore Clayton broached the subject
of an early marriage to Jane.
“What do you mean by early?” she asked.
“Within the next few days. I must return to England at once—I want you
to return with me, dear.”
“I can’t get ready so soon as that,” replied Jane. “It will take a
whole month, at least.”
She was glad, for she hoped that whatever called him to England might
still further delay the wedding. She had made a bad bargain, but she
intended carrying her part loyally to the bitter end—if she could
manage to secure a temporary reprieve, though, she felt that she was
warranted in doing so. His reply disconcerted her.
“Very well, Jane,” he said. “I am disappointed, but I shall let my trip
to England wait a month; then we can go back together.”
But when the month was drawing to a close she found still another
excuse upon which to hang a postponement, until at last, discouraged
and doubting, Clayton was forced to go back to England alone.
The several letters that passed between them brought Clayton no nearer
to a consummation of his hopes than he had been before, and so it was
that he wrote directly to Professor Porter, and enlisted his services.
The old man had always favored the match. He liked Clayton, and, being
of an old southern family, he put rather an exaggerated value on the
advantages of a title, which meant little or nothing to his daughter.
Clayton urged that the professor accept his invitation to be his guest
in London, an invitation which included the professor’s entire little
family—Mr. Philander, Esmeralda, and all. The Englishman argued that
once Jane was there, and home ties had been broken, she would not so
dread the step which she had so long hesitated to take.
So the evening that he received Clayton’s letter Professor Porter
announced that they would leave for London the following week.
But once in London Jane Porter was no more tractable than she had been
in Baltimore. She found one excuse after another, and when, finally,
Lord Tennington invited the party to cruise around Africa in his yacht,
she expressed the greatest delight in the idea, but absolutely refused
to be married until they had returned to London. As the cruise was to
consume a year at least, for they were to stop for indefinite periods
at various points of interest, Clayton mentally anathematized
Tennington for ever suggesting such a ridiculous trip.
It was Lord Tennington’s plan to cruise through the Mediterranean, and
the Red Sea to the Indian Ocean, and thus down the East Coast, putting
in at every port that was worth the seeing.
And so it happened that on a certain day two vessels passed in the
Strait of Gibraltar. The smaller, a trim white yacht, was speeding
toward the east, and on her deck sat a young woman who gazed with sad
eyes upon a diamond-studded locket which she idly fingered. Her
thoughts were far away, in the dim, leafy fastness of a tropical
jungle—and her heart was with her thoughts.
She wondered if the man who had given her the beautiful bauble, that
had meant so much more to him than the intrinsic value which he had not
even known could ever have meant to him, was back in his savage forest.
And upon the deck of the larger vessel, a passenger steamer passing
toward the east, the man sat with another young woman, and the two idly
speculated upon the identity of the dainty craft gliding so gracefully
through the gentle swell of the lazy sea.
When the yacht had passed the man resumed the conversation that her
appearance had broken off.
“Yes,” he said, “I like America very much, and that means, of course,
that I like Americans, for a country is only what its people make it. I
met some very delightful people while I was there. I recall one family
from your own city, Miss Strong, whom I liked particularly—Professor
Porter and his daughter.”
“Jane Porter!” exclaimed the girl. “Do you mean to tell me that you
know Jane Porter? Why, she is the very best friend I have in the world.
We were little children together—we have known each other for ages.”
“Indeed!” he answered, smiling. “You would have difficulty in
persuading any one of the fact who had seen either of you.”
“I’ll qualify the statement, then,” she answered, with a laugh. “We
have known each other for two ages—hers and mine. But seriously we are
as dear to each other as sisters, and now that I am going to lose her I
am almost heartbroken.”
“Going to lose her?” exclaimed Tarzan. “Why, what do you mean? Oh, yes,
I understand. You mean that now that she is married and living in
England, you will seldom if ever see her.”
“Yes,” replied she; “and the saddest part of it all is that she is not
marrying the man she loves. Oh, it is terrible. Marrying from a sense
of duty! I think it is perfectly wicked, and I told her so. I have felt
so strongly on the subject that although I was the only person outside
of blood relations who was to have been asked to the wedding I would
not let her invite me, for I should not have gone to witness the
terrible mockery. But Jane Porter is peculiarly positive. She has
convinced herself that she is doing the only honorable thing that she
can do, and nothing in the world will ever prevent her from marrying
Lord Greystoke except Greystoke himself, or death.”
“I am sorry for her,” said Tarzan.
“And I am sorry for the man she loves,” said the girl, “for he loves
her. I never met him, but from what Jane tells me he must be a very
wonderful person. It seems that he was born in an African jungle, and
brought up by fierce, anthropoid apes. He had never seen a white man or
woman until Professor Porter and his party were marooned on the coast
right at the threshold of his tiny cabin. He saved them from all manner
of terrible beasts, and accomplished the most wonderful feats
imaginable, and then to cap the climax he fell in love with Jane and
she with him, though she never really knew it for sure until she had
promised herself to Lord Greystoke.”
“Most remarkable,” murmured Tarzan, cudgeling his brain for some
pretext upon which to turn the subject. He delighted in hearing Hazel
Strong talk of Jane, but when he was the subject of the conversation he
was bored and embarrassed. But he was soon given a respite, for the
girl’s mother joined them, and the talk became general.
The next few days passed uneventfully. The sea was quiet. The sky was
clear. The steamer plowed steadily on toward the south without pause.
Tarzan spent quite a little time with Miss Strong and her mother. They
whiled away their hours on deck reading, talking, or taking pictures
with Miss Strong’s camera. When the sun had set they walked.
One day Tarzan found Miss Strong in conversation with a stranger, a man
he had not seen on board before. As he approached the couple the man
bowed to the girl and turned to walk away.
“Wait, Monsieur Thuran,” said Miss Strong; “you must meet Mr. Caldwell.
We are all fellow passengers, and should be acquainted.”
The two men shook hands. As Tarzan looked into the eyes of Monsieur
Thuran he was struck by the strange familiarity of their expression.
“I have had the honor of monsieur’s acquaintance in the past, I am
sure,” said Tarzan, “though I cannot recall the circumstances.”
Monsieur Thuran appeared ill at ease.
“I cannot say, monsieur,” he replied. “It may be so. I have had that
identical sensation myself when meeting a stranger.”
“Monsieur Thuran has been explaining some of the mysteries of
navigation to me,” explained the girl.
Tarzan paid little heed to the conversation that ensued—he was
attempting to recall where he had met Monsieur Thuran before. That it
had been under peculiar circumstances he was positive. Presently the
sun reached them, and the girl asked Monsieur Thuran to move her chair
farther back into the shade. Tarzan happened to be watching the man at
the time, and noticed the awkward manner in which he handled the
chair—his left wrist was stiff. That clew was sufficient—a sudden train
of associated ideas did the rest.
Monsieur Thuran had been trying to find an excuse to make a graceful
departure. The lull in the conversation following the moving of their
position gave him an opportunity to make his excuses. Bowing low to
Miss Strong, and inclining his head to Tarzan, he turned to leave them.
“Just a moment,” said Tarzan. “If Miss Strong will pardon me I will
accompany you. I shall return in a moment, Miss Strong.”
Monsieur Thuran looked uncomfortable. When the two men had passed out
of the girl’s sight, Tarzan stopped, laying a heavy hand on the other’s
shoulder.
“What is your game now, Rokoff?” he asked.
“I am leaving France as I promised you,” replied the other, in a surly
voice.
“I see you are,” said Tarzan; “but I know you so well that I can
scarcely believe that your being on the same boat with me is purely a
coincidence. If I could believe it the fact that you are in disguise
would immediately disabuse my mind of any such idea.”
“Well,” growled Rokoff, with a shrug, “I cannot see what you are going
to do about it. This vessel flies the English flag. I have as much
right on board her as you, and from the fact that you are booked under
an assumed name I imagine that I have more right.”
“We will not discuss it, Rokoff. All I wanted to say to you is that you
must keep away from Miss Strong—she is a decent woman.”
Rokoff turned scarlet.
“If you don’t I shall pitch you overboard,” continued Tarzan. “Do not
forget that I am just waiting for some excuse.” Then he turned on his
heel, and left Rokoff standing there trembling with suppressed rage.
He did not see the man again for days, but Rokoff was not idle. In his
stateroom with Paulvitch he fumed and swore, threatening the most
terrible of revenges.
“I would throw him overboard tonight,” he cried, “were I sure that
those papers were not on his person. I cannot chance pitching them into
the ocean with him. If you were not such a stupid coward, Alexis, you
would find a way to enter his stateroom and search for the documents.”
Paulvitch smiled. “You are supposed to be the brains of this
partnership, my dear Nikolas,” he replied. “Why do you not find the
means to search Monsieur Caldwell’s stateroom—eh?”
Two hours later fate was kind to them, for Paulvitch, who was ever on
the watch, saw Tarzan leave his room without locking the door. Five
minutes later Rokoff was stationed where he could give the alarm in
case Tarzan returned, and Paulvitch was deftly searching the contents
of the ape-man’s luggage.
He was about to give up in despair when he saw a coat which Tarzan had
just removed. A moment later he grasped an official envelope in his
hand. A quick glance at its contents brought a broad smile to the
Russian’s face.
When he left the stateroom Tarzan himself could not have told that an
article in it had been touched since he left it—Paulvitch was a past
master in his chosen field. When he handed the packet to Rokoff in the
seclusion of their stateroom the larger man rang for a steward, and
ordered a pint of champagne.
“We must celebrate, my dear Alexis,” he said.
“It was luck, Nikolas,” explained Paulvitch. “It is evident that he
carries these papers always upon his person—just by chance he neglected
to transfer them when he changed coats a few minutes since. But there
will be the deuce to pay when he discovers his loss. I am afraid that
he will immediately connect you with it. Now that he knows that you are
on board he will suspect you at once.”
“It will make no difference whom he suspects—after to-night,” said
Rokoff, with a nasty grin.
After Miss Strong had gone below that night Tarzan stood leaning over
the rail looking far out to sea. Every night he had done this since he
had come on board—sometimes he stood thus for an hour. And the eyes
that had been watching his every movement since he had boarded the ship
at Algiers knew that this was his habit.
Even as he stood there this night those eyes were on him. Presently the
last straggler had left the deck. It was a clear night, but there was
no moon—objects on deck were barely discernible.
From the shadows of the cabin two figures crept stealthily upon the
ape-man from behind. The lapping of the waves against the ship’s sides,
the whirring of the propeller, the throbbing of the engines, drowned
the almost soundless approach of the two.
They were quite close to him now, and crouching low, like tacklers on a
gridiron. One of them raised his hand and lowered it, as though
counting off seconds—one—two—three! As one man the two leaped for their
victim. Each grasped a leg, and before Tarzan of the Apes, lightning
though he was, could turn to save himself he had been pitched over the
low rail and was falling into the Atlantic.
Hazel Strong was looking from her darkened port across the dark sea.
Suddenly a body shot past her eyes from the deck above. It dropped so
quickly into the dark waters below that she could not be sure of what
it was—it might have been a man, she could not say. She listened for
some outcry from above—for the always-fearsome call, “Man overboard!”
but it did not come. All was silence on the ship above—all was silence
in the sea below.
The girl decided that she had but seen a bundle of refuse thrown
overboard by one of the ship’s crew, and a moment later sought her
berth.