THE CRISIS
On the _Nevski_, the lookout forward walked slowly back and forth. Once
or twice he shook his head. But a few moments before the yacht had run
down a small boat, he had reported the matter, and--the _Nevski_ had
continued ahead, full speed. She had not even slackened long enough to
make the usual futile pretense of extending assistance to the
unfortunate occupant, or occupants. His excellency, Prince Boris,
evidently did not wish, or had no time, to bother with blunderers; if
they got in his way so much the worse for them. The lookout, pausing to
stare once more ahead, suddenly started. Though apathetic, like most of
the lower class of his countrymen, he uttered a faint guttural of
surprise and peered over the bow. A voice had seemed to rise from the
very seething depths of the sea. Naturally superstitious, he made the
sign of the cross on his breast while tales of dead seamen who came back
played through his dull fancy.
Once more he heard it--that voice that seemed to mingle with the wailing
tones of the deep! The little swinging lantern beneath the bowsprit
played on his bearded face as he bent farther forward, and, with growing
wonder not unmixed with fear, now made out something dark clinging to
one of the steel lines that ran from the projecting timber to the ship.
It took the lookout a few moments to realize that this dark object that
had a voice--albeit a faint one--could not be other than a recent
occupant of the small boat he had seen disappear. This person must have
leaped upward at the critical moment, and caught one of the taut strands
upon which he had somehow managed to hoist himself and to which he now
clung desperately. It was a precarious position and one that the motion
of the yacht made but briefly tenable.
Satisfied that the dark object was a reality and not an unwonted
visitation, the lookout began deliberately to unloosen a gasket. Moments
might be eternity to the man below, but Muscovite slowness is not to be
hurried. The yacht's bow poised in mid air a breathless instant; chaos
seemed leaping upward toward Mr. Heatherbloom, when something--a
line--struck and rubbed against his cheek. He seized and trusted himself
to it eagerly. The sailor was strong; he pulled in the rope. Mr.
Heatherbloom came up, but his strength was almost gone. He would have
let go when iron fingers closed on his wrists, and after that he
remembered no more.
He awoke in a berth in a fo'castle, and it was daylight. Through a
partly-opened hatch he could see the fine spray that came over the side
of the yacht. Amid misty particles touched by the sun shone a tiny
segment of rainbow. This Mr. Heatherbloom watched with a kind of
childish interest; then stretched himself more luxuriously on the hard
bunk. It was very fine having nothing more important and arduous to do
than watching prismatic hues; his thoughts floated back to long
forgotten wonder-days when he had possessed that master-marvel of toys,
a kaleidoscope, and on occasion had importantly permitted the
golden-haired child in the big house on the top of the hill to--
The dream was abruptly dispelled by some one laying a tarry hand on his
shoulder. Mr. Heatherbloom raised himself. The person had a
characteristic Russian face. For a moment the young man stared at the
stolid features, then looked around him. He saw the customary
furnishings of such a place; hammocks, bags and chests, several of the
last marked with Russian characters. A trace of color sprang to Mr.
Heatherbloom's face; he realized now what boat he was actually on, and
what it all meant to him. He could hardly believe, however, and
continued to regard the upside down odd lettering, when the sailor, who
had so unceremoniously disturbed him, motioned him to get out. Mr.
Heatherbloom obeyed; he felt very stiff and somewhat light-headed, but
he steadied himself against the woodwork. The sailor drew a dipperful
of hot tea from a samovar and thrust it into his hand. He drank with
avidity; after which the sailor made him to understand he was to follow.
The young man hesitated--a new risk confronted him. To whom would he be
taken? The prince? He had once been standing in the area way of the Van
Rolsen house when the nobleman had approached. Had the distinguished
visitor then been so absorbed in the sight of Miss Dalrymple coming down
the steps that he had utterly failed to observe the humble caretaker of
canines? Possibly--and again possibly not. In the former contingency he
might yet have a brief breathing-spell to think--to plan for the future,
unless--There was another to reckon with--the woman he had met in the
park, whose automobile he had attempted to follow. She, too, was on the
boat! He had been her dupe once. Was he now to become her victim?
The young man's jaw set. There was no holding back now, however; he had
to go on--and he did, with seeming indifference and bold enough step.
At the top of the ladder the sailor passed him on to some one else--an
officer--who led him this way and that until they reached a secluded
part of the deck, where, near the rail, stood a tall dark figure, glass
in hand. Until the last moment Mr. Heatherbloom had hoped it might be
only the captain he would be called on to encounter, and that that
august person would summarily dispose of him, ordering him somewhere out
of sight, below, to work his passage in the sailors' galley, perhaps. He
would have welcomed the most ignominious service to have found now a
respite--to be enabled to escape discovery a little longer. But the
wished-for contingency had not arisen. He faced the inevitable.
"The man, your Excellency!"
His excellency looked. He had been scanning the horizon and his
expression was both moody and preoccupied. Mr. Heatherbloom bent
slightly forward; his lids fell to conceal a sudden glitter in his eyes;
his hand touched something hard in his pocket. If his excellency
recognized him--There was one way--a last mad desperate way to serve,
to save her. It would be the end-all for him, but his life was a very
small thing to give to her. He did not value it greatly--that physical
self that had been such an ill servant. He gazed at the prince now with
veiled expectancy, his attitude seemingly relaxed, innocent of
strenuosity. Would the prince's gaze flare back with a spark of
remembrance? If in that tense instant it had done so, then--
But his excellency regarded Mr. Heatherbloom blankly; his eyes were
emotionless.
"You mean the fellow we ran down?" The prince spoke as if irritated by
the intrusion.
"The same, Excellency!" The officer stepped back. Mr. Heatherbloom did
not move.
"What did you get in our way for?" The prince's voice had a metallic
ring; he towered, harshly arrogant, over his uninvited passenger. "Don't
you know enough to get out of the way?"
"It appears not, sir." Heatherbloom wondered at the sound of his own
voice. It seemed to come, small and quiet, from so far off. His
excellency had not recognized him, but was he suspicious? Maybe not. No
one would be fool enough to get deliberately in the way of the
fast-steaming _Nevski_. Small craft were numerous in the bay and
accidents to them would happen. There was nothing so out of the ordinary
for a big boat to run down a tiny craft. It was somewhat uncommon for
any one in the wee boat to save himself, truly, but even in this feature
of the present case the prince experienced but a mild interest.
"Who are you?" he said. "A fisherman?"
"Not exactly," answered Mr. Heatherbloom, "though sometimes I crab. I
was crabbing yesterday."
As he spoke his gaze swept beyond to not far-distant cabin doors and
windows. He and the prince were standing on the starboard side of the
boat; it was this side that had faced the island when the young man had
gazed down upon the yacht from the big sand-hill, and fancied he had
seen--
"What am I going to do with you?" The prince seemed more out of temper
now. "My crew are all Russians and I don't want any of your--" He
stopped; shifting lights played ominously in his gaze; a few
dissatisfied lines on his face deepened. "I didn't ask you to come
aboard," he ended with an angry gesture.
"Sorry to intrude!" Mr. Heatherbloom spoke at random. "But I really
couldn't help it, don't you know. No time to ask permission."
His excellency frowned. Did he suspect in these words an attempt at that
insidious American humor he had often vainly endeavored to fathom? Mr.
Heatherbloom gazed at him now with seemingly innocent but really very
attentive eyes.
A superb specimen of over six feet of masculinity, the prince was
picturesquely attired in Russian yachting-garb while a Cossack cap
adorned a visage as bold and romantic as any young woman might wish to
gaze upon. And gazing upon it himself--that rather stunning picture the
prince presented on his own yacht--a sudden chill ran through Mr.
Heatherbloom. This titled paragon refused by Miss Dalrymple? A feudal
lord who made your dapper French counts and Hungarian barons appear but
small fry indeed, by contrast! The light of the sea seemed suddenly to
dazzle Mr. Heatherbloom. A wild thought surged through his brain. Betty
Dalrymple, bewildering, confusing, made up of captivating
inconsistencies, had sometimes been accused by people of a capacity for
doing the wildest things. Had she for excitement--or any other
reason--eloped with the prince? Were they, perhaps, married even now? He
dismissed the thought quickly. All the circumstances pointed against
this theory; his original one was--must be--correct.
"Well, now you are here, I suppose I've got to keep you." The prince had
again spoken.
"I suppose so," said Mr. Heatherbloom absently. He was studying now the
near-by cabin windows. One, with beautiful lace and glimpses of pink
beyond, caught his glance.
"What can you do?" Sharply.
"Oh, a lot of things!" Had the curtain waved? His heart thumped hard--he
scarcely saw the prince now.
"Not manage a sail-boat, I'm convinced." He forced himself to turn
again, as through a mist was aware of his excellency's sneering
countenance. "Judging from your recent performance!"
"That was hardly a fair test," Mr. Heatherbloom replied anyhow. His
thoughts were keyed to a straining-point; his glance _would_ swerve; he
strove his best to control it. She was there--there--Shrouds and stays
seemed to sing the words. He would have sworn he caught the flash of a
white wrist.
"Why not?" Was the prince still examining, questioning him? Again a
primal impulse was suppressed, though his muscles were like whipcords.
He yet compelled himself to endure the ordeal. What was the query about?
Ah, he remembered.
"Well, you see, I must have lost my head." It was not a bright answer
but he did not care; it was the best that occurred.
The prince strode restlessly away a few paces, then returned. "Were you
ever at sea before?"
"I once owned a y----" Mr. Heatherbloom paused--with an effort resumed
his part and a smile somewhat strained: "I once went on a cruise on a
gentleman's yacht." Some one _was_ in the state-room; was overhearing.
His head hummed; the refrain of the taut lines rang louder.
"What as? Cabin-boy, cook?"
"Why, you see--" The prince certainly did not see him--he was once more
staring away, over the dark water--"I acted in a good many capacities.
Kind of general utility, as it were. Doing this, that, and the other!"
"'The other', I should surmise." Contemptuously.
Mr. Heatherbloom moved; the curtain had moved again. "Where are you
going?" he asked a little wildly. "You see I might have important
business on shore." Foolish talk,--yet it fitted in as well as anything.
The prince, for his part, did not at first seem to catch the other's
words; when he did he laughed loudly, sardonically. "That is good;
excellent! _You_ have 'important business'!"
"Yes; important," repeated Mr. Heatherbloom. "I--" He got no further.
His eyes met another's at the window, rested a moment on a woman's face
which then suddenly vanished. But not before he realized that she, too,
had seen him--seen and recognized. He had caught in that fleeting
instant, wonder, irony, incredulity--a growing understanding! Then he
heard a soft laugh--a musical but devilish laugh--Sonia Turgeinov's!