AT SEA
The funnel smoke blew low, burying the afterdecks, and a hurricane of
scud and spindrift swept everything forward, drenching the plunging
steamer to the bridge. Stanchions, davits, hatches were all a-dip, decks
a-wash, and the Dutch ensign whipping aloft in a thick grey sky that
seemed to speed astern as though in chase of the heaving grey waste of
waters that fled away beneath.
Here and there a trawler tossed and rocked; lean, melancholy wanderers
on the face of the waters; twice the raking stacks of destroyers,
smothered in foam, dashed eastward running full speed on some occult
trail twixt sky and sea.
The grey world grew duller, duller; one by one the blinding searchlights
on coast-guard ships broke out, sweeping sky and ocean as though in
desperate appeal to the God above and in menacing warning to the devils
that lurked below.
For they said the North Sea was full of them; legions of them tossed
broadcast from the black hell of some human mind. And beneath them,
deeper, lying as still as death on the Channel's floor, waited the human
submarines in unseen watery depths--motionless, patient, awaiting the
moment to strike.
Night came; the white level glare of searchlights flooded the steamer,
lingered, shifted, tossed their dazzling arms heavenward as though
imploring the Most High, then swept unseen horizons where the outermost
waters curve with the curving globe.
* * * * *
Only one light burned in the stateroom, but the port was not covered.
Karen lay on the bed, unstirring save for a slight tremor of her
shoulders now and then. Her brown hair, half loosened, had fallen in
thick burnished curls on the pillow; one hand covered her eyes, palm
outward. Under it the vivid lips, scarcely parted, rested on each other
in a troubled curve.
Guild brooded silently on the lounge under the port. Sometimes his
sombre gaze rested on her, sometimes on the locked satchel which had
rolled to the side of the bed.
Every time the arrowy beam of light from a warship flooded the cabin
with swift white splendour his heart seemed to stop, for the menace of
the wireless was always a living dread; and the stopping of a neutral
ship and the taking from it of suspects had become a practice too common
even to excite comment, let alone protest.
Twice they were stopped; twice Ardoise signals twinkled; but no cutter
came alongside, and no officer boarded them. It was an eternity of
suspense to Guild, and he stood by the open port, listening, the satchel
in his hand ready to fling it out into the turmoil of heaving waters.
The steward came, and Guild ordered something served for them both in
the stateroom. Karen had not awakened, but her hand had slipped from her
eyes and it lay across the edge of the bed.
On the bridal finger glimmered the plain gold band--his credentials to
her from her father.
He went over and looked down into the white, childish face. Faultless,
serene, wonderful as a flower it seemed to him. Where the black lashes
rested the curve of the cheek was faintly tinted with colour. All else
was snowy save for the vivid rose of the scarcely parted lips.
Nineteen!--and all those accomplishments which her dim living-room at
Westheath had partly revealed--where books in many languages had
silently exposed the mind that required them--where pictures, music--all
the unstudied and charming disorder of this young girl's intimate
habitation had delicately revealed its tenant.
And what her living-room had foreshadowed was only, after all, but a
tinted phantom of the girl he had come to know in the flesh--the real
mistress of that dim room quickened to life--a warm, living, breathing
reality, low-voiced, blue-eyed, winsome and sweet with the vague
fragrance of youth incarnate clinging to her, to every gesture, every
movement, every turn of her head--to her very skirts it seemed--youth,
freshness, purity unblemished.
As he stood there he tried to realize that she was German--this young
girl with her low and charming English voice and her accentless English
speech.
He had listened in vain for any flaw, any indication of alien birth.
Nothing betrayed her as a foreigner, except, possibly, a delightfully
quaint formality in accepting any service offered. For when he asked her
whether she desired this or that, or if he might do this or that for
her, always her answer in the affirmative was, "Yes, please," like a
little girl who had been carefully taught to respect age. It amused him;
for modern English young women are less punctilious with modern youth.
There came a dull clatter of crockery from the passageway; Guild turned
and opened the door. The waiter produced a folding table, spread it, and
arranged the dishes.
"That will be all," whispered Guild. "Don't knock again; I'll set the
tray outside."
So the waiter went away and Guild closed the door again and turned back
to the bed where Karen lay. Her delicate brows were now slightly knitted
and the troubled curve of her lips hinted again of a slumber not wholly
undisturbed by subconscious apprehension.
"Karen," he said in a low voice.
The girl opened her eyes. They had that starry freshness that one sees
in the eyes of waking children. For a moment her confused gaze met his
without expression, then a hot flush stained her face and she sat up
hurriedly. Down tumbled the thick, burnished locks and her hands flew
instinctively to twist them up.
"I didn't realize that I had been asleep. Please, will you turn your
back"--her glance fell on the table--"I shall be ready in a
moment--Kervyn."
"Had I not better give you the place to yourself?"
"Yes, please."
"I'll do a sentry-go in the corridor," he said. "Open the door when
you're quite ready."
So he went out and walked up and down until the stateroom door opened
and her low voice summoned him.
"I can't eat," she said.
"Do you feel the sea?"
"No"--she smiled faintly--"but the excitement of the day--the
anxiety----"
"We'll have some tea, anyway," he said.
They ate a little after all, and the hot and rather vile tea stimulated
her. Presently he set tray and table outside in the corridor and came
slowly back to where she had gathered herself in a corner of the sofa.
"The sea is rather rough," he said. "You seem to be a good sailor."
"Yes, I am. My father had a yacht and my mother and I always went when
he cruised."
This slightest glimpse of personal history--the first she had
vouchsafed--the first slight lifting of the curtain which hung between
them, aroused his latent curiosity.
What else lay behind that delicate, opaque veil which covered the
nineteen years of her? What had been the childhood, the earlier life of
this young girl whom he had found living alone with a maid and a single
servant at an obscure heath outside of London?
Gently born, gently bred young girls of aristocratic precedents, don't
do that sort of thing. Even if they desire to try it, they are not
permitted. Also they don't go on the stage, as a rule.
Neither the sign manual, the sign visible of the theatre, nor yet that
occult indefinable something characteristic of the footlights appeared
to taint her personality.
Talented as she was undoubtedly, cultured and gently nurtured, the sum
total of all her experience, her schooling, her development, and her art
had resulted only in a charming harmony, not a personality aggressively
accented in any single particular. Any drawing-room in any country might
have contained this young girl. Homes which possess drawing-rooms breed
the self-possession, the serenity, the soft voice, the winsome candour
and directness of such girls as she.
She was curled up in the corner of the sofa where he had placed behind
her the two pillows from the bed, and her winning blue eyes rested every
few minutes upon this young man whom she had known only a few hours and
whom she already, in her heart and in her mind, was calling a friend.
She had never had any among young men--never even among older men had
she experienced the quiet security, the untroubled certainty of such a
friendship as had begun now--as had suddenly stepped into her life, new,
yet strangely familiar--a friendship that seemed instantly fully
developed and satisfactory.
There appeared to be no room for doubt about it, no occasion for
waiting, no uncertainty in her mind, no inclination and no thought of
the lesser conventionalities which must strew elaborately the path of
first acquaintance with the old, old-fashioned garlands--those prim,
stiff blossoms of discretion, of propriety, of self-conscious concession
to formula and tradition.
No; when her eyes first fell on him her mind and heart seemed to
recognize what neither had ever before beheld--a friend. And from that
moment the girl had accepted the matter as settled, as far as she
herself was concerned. And she had lost very little time in acquainting
herself with his views upon the subject.
That he had responded to the friendship she had so naïvely offered did
not surprise her. She seemed to have expected it--perhaps in the peril
of the moments when they were nearing London and doubt and suspicion in
her mind concerning the contents of her satchel were becoming an agony
to her as they grew more definite--perhaps even then the sudden and deep
sense of gratitude for his response had made courage a new necessity and
had armoured her against panic--for friendship's sake.
All she realized in that moment was that this friendship, so sudden, so
vital, was already so strong in her, so real, that even in the terror of
that instant she thought of the danger to him, and asked him to let her
go on alone.
Perhaps they both were thinking of these things--she, curled up in her
corner, looking thoughtfully at him; he, knees crossed, gazing
restlessly from object to object in the unsteady stateroom, but his eyes
always reverting to her.
Then the duet of silence ended for a while. He said: "You must not
suppose that I am not keenly alive to the kindness, the fearless
generosity you have shown me all through this affair. What you suffered
is lodged forever in my mind--and in my heart."
"What you have done for me is in my--heart," she said in her sweetly
modulated voice.
"I have done very little----"
"You would not leave me!"
"My own life was forfeit if I did----"
"No! You did not reason that way! Besides, had I managed to get through
alone, you should have had your life back again to do with as you
pleased. No; you did not reason that way. You stood by a friend in
peril--at your own peril."
She drew a deep, tremulous breath. "More than that," she said, "you
stood by me when you almost believed I had lied to you--lied
shamefully."
"I had my plans ready--in that event," he said, forcing a laugh.
"You _did_ doubt me?"
"Yes."
She bent her head, looked thoughtfully at her hands, which clasped one
knee, then, lifting her eyes: "I forgive you," she said gravely.
He flushed: "I did not know you--did not realize--what you are----"
"You were slower than I."
"What?"
"I trusted _you_--from the first."
He was silent; she watched him for a few moments, then:
"When you concluded that I had lied to you, what plans had you ready?"
"I had rather not say----"
"Please do."
He bit his lip: "I had decided to take your satchel from you."
"Against my wishes?" she asked, amazed.
"Yes."
There was no resentment, only a childish surprise: "Why?"
"I told you that I am an enemy to your country."
"Yes, I know----"
"I told you that I would not knowingly permit you to take out of England
anything which might be detrimental to England's interests. And I made
up my mind that if you had deceived me--and although I stood by
you--because you are only a young girl--and were in danger from those
who make no allowance for youth and sex--nevertheless, as soon as you
were in personal safety, I meant to take from you whatever you had
concealed from me and which might have been of service to England's
enemies."
"Would you have done that?"
"Yes, if you had been untruthful to me."
She bent her head, thoughtfully; then looking up at him: "Yes; that
would have been just.... But I have not been untruthful."
His perplexed and slightly careworn eyes met hers.
"I can't doubt you," he said. "I know you have been truthful. But--what
_is_ in that satchel? Forgive me, I _must_ ask you. Because there is
evidently enough there to terrify you at the thought of British eyes
inspecting it."
"Kervyn--can't you believe me when I tell you that I don't _know_ what
is in that satchel?"
"I _do_ believe you. But tell me what you are afraid it might be."
"I can't--truly I can't tell you. Don't you understand? Don't you
realize that I must have promised?"
"Promised?"
"Yes--not to unlock or open the satchel. I _did_ promise."
"To whom did you make that promise?" And, as she did not reply: "Was the
promise made to anybody I ever met?"
She looked at him in a distressed way, but his face darkened and his
determination increased.
"Did you make that promise to a German? An officer? Did you make it to
General von Reiter?"
"Yes."
"I see. And there _are_ papers in that satchel!"
"Yes."
"Where did you get them?"
"From--Mr. Grätz."
"You were accustomed to receive papers from Mr. Grätz?"
"Sometimes."
"At certain intervals?"
"I don't know. Whenever Mr. Grätz telephoned, Anna, my maid, went to
London and usually brought back the--the plans."
"Plans!"
"Yes. I understood that they were plans of a new automobile which was
being designed by the Edmeston Agency for their Berlin branch. Mr. Grätz
mentioned it as the Bauer-Schroeder car."
"To whom were these plans to go, ultimately?"
"I sent them to New York."
"To whom?"
"To Schimmel and Company, Broadway."
"Have you any idea where Schimmel and Company sent those plans?"
"Yes. I never thought much about it then, but today I realized that
sooner or later the plans were sent to General von Reiter--in Berlin."
"You are sure?"
"Yes. I saw them when I was there last April. He said that those were
the plans which I had sent to Schimmel and Company."
"You _saw_ the plans?"
"Yes."
"Were they plans of an automobile?"
"I--thought so then. They were on very thin paper. I supposed them to be
drawings of detached machinery in sections. They looked to me like
fragments of something."
"And now--in the light of what happened today--what do you believe those
drawings represented?"
"I have no idea--really I haven't. Only--" She hesitated, troubled,
twisting her fingers on her knees.
"Only--" he prompted her.
She said, with a tremulous intake of breath: "I think I had better tell
you, Kervyn. This is what frightened me--what the experience of today
seemed to suddenly make plain to me--I mean your coming to Westheath,
Mr. Grätz telephoning about obeying you, and informing me of the arrest
of my maid--these things, and the war, and what I have read about German
spies in England--all this flashed up in my mind at the same time when
you turned from the telephone and asked me such terrible questions.
"It made clear to me, or seemed to, something else that I had not
understood at the time--" She hesitated, her gaze concentrated as though
in an effort to recollect and visualize some scene--
"It was last April, in Berlin.... General Baron von Reiter said
something to me as I was waiting for his car to take me to the
station--I was departing for England again--and he said--he said----"
"Yes, Karen?"
"He said something about war--the possibility of it. And he said that in
case war ever came while I was in England, and if, when it came, I had
in my possession any automobile plans from the Edmeston Agency--from Mr.
Grätz--that I was to bring them with me to Germany--not to show them to
anybody, not to send them by mail, but to bring them back and deliver
them to him."
"Yes, Karen."
"I promised.... He made me promise again. He was very serious. He said
that on my obedience in this matter might depend the lives of many
people. I had no idea what he meant by that--until today.... And what I
fear has happened is that Anna, who went yesterday to London because Mr.
Grätz telephoned, was arrested while in possession of papers delivered
to her by Mr. Grätz.... And that these papers were _not_ what I had
always supposed. And that is why I was suddenly afraid--afraid--Oh,
Kervyn!--I cannot describe the fear that leaped up and seized me when
you asked me those dreadful questions! Suddenly everything, every detail
in the entire matter seemed to grow clear and terrible to me.... I--I
went into my dressing-room--and steadied myself against the
wall--feeling faint for a moment.
"Then I took from my dressing-table the papers which I had from Anna's
last visit to Mr. Grätz. They had remained there in the drawer because I
had been told not to mail them, and no word had come for me to go back
to Berlin. So I had them on my hands. But until you came I gave them no
thought--merely conscious that I had promised to take them back with me.
"But--in that terrible moment when I stood there leaning against the
wall, I remembered what was said to me about the lives of many people
depending upon my keeping my promise. It was a hideous thing to remember
at such a time.... But I could not break my word--for the sake of these
imperilled people also--could I, Kervyn?... So I took the papers and
locked them in my satchel. And afterward I--I _asked_ you to leave--"
Her voice quivered; she bent her head and sat twisting her slim fingers
on her lap.
"That is all I know," she faltered--"all I know about it. I have tried
to be true to my word, and loyal to--you."
Her emotion was reflected in his own face; he bent forward, laid his
hand over her restless fingers.
"Karen," he said, "you are the pluckiest, straightest, whitest woman I
ever knew."
"I'm only--honest," she whispered.... "And I want you to think me so."
"I do!--Karen, dearest, sincerest, most fearless of women!"
"Do you believe me--that?"
"Karen, I----"
A sharp knocking at the door cut him short. They looked at each other,
startled. At the same moment he realized that the ship had stopped.
"Could it be the stewardess?" she whispered.
"I don't know."
He rose, picked up the satchel and went to the open port.
"If a British guard-ship has stopped us to search us, we can't have this
thing found," he said.
She stared at him in frightened silence.
"They may have found those men we tied up and left in your house at
Westheath!" he whispered. "A wireless would set a score of warships
ready to intercept us. If they board us they must not find that
satchel."
The sharp, loud rapping came again.
Guild went to the open port, pushed the satchel through it, leaned out
himself. As he did so something brushed his head, and, looking up, he
saw a rope's end dangling there.
In an instant he had tied it to the handle of the satchel, stepped back,
screwed the heavy glass fast, and then, motioning Karen to fling herself
on the bed, he went to the door, opened it, and stood yawning in the
face of a ship's officer.
"Don't wake my wife," he said drowsily. "What is the trouble?"
"The trouble is," replied the officer coldly, "that a British cruiser
has signalled us to stop, and has asked whether an American named Guild
is aboard."