Hildegarde von Essen returned reluctantly to Detroit late in June, some
two weeks before Potter Waite, his work in Washington having borne fruit
and the fruit been harvested, came to put in motion the gigantic new
industry which was to mean so much to his city--and to the whole world.
Hildegarde came home with dragging steps and black forebodings. For months
she had tried to forget Detroit, forget her father, put from her mind that
searing knowledge of her father's infamy. She had succeeded but poorly.
People at Palm Beach had found her eccentric--flighty they had called her.
She had been flighty. There was no absurdity she would not attempt in her
demand for excitement and restlessness; she caused talk; she attracted
few--even of the younger men, for, somehow, they felt uncomfortable in her
presence. She was never still, demanded action always, and cared little
how outrageous to convention that action might be. And she was changeable.
In an instant, without perceptible cause, she would descend from reckless
deviltry to somber moroseness. Even her beauty, her compelling magnetism,
her known wealth, did not suffice to hold admirers. One young man
announced his firm belief that she was a trifle balmy, and that, if she
weren't, he'd be hanged if her gait wasn't too tricky for him to harness
up to her. It was the general opinion. The same opinion prevailed later at
Pinehurst, at Old Point, in Washington. Who was there to guess that a
young girl was ridden by such an Old Man of the Sea?
Her father forbade her to come home without his permission, and she had
not intended to come home until that meeting with Potter Waite in
Washington had made Detroit a magnet with a power she could not resist, no
matter how much she dug in her little heels and hung back. . . . She must
be near him; must be where she could see him, feel his existence. He
called to her in his vexed heart and the call was carried to her own
heart.... So she went home.
She arrived without warning, and the arrival of her taxicab at her
father's door was the first indication that household had of her coming.
The servant who opened the door did not know her; he had appeared during
her absence. Other servants were new, and the whole aspect of the house
had changed. She did not like it. It held a promise of something not
allaying to her terrors. The very air of the house was heavy. As she went
up to her room she heard the strange manservant telephone her father,
"Your daughter has arrived," and presently he rapped on her door and said,
obsequiously, "It is your father's wish that you do not leave the house
until he arrives." She had a feeling of being surrounded, watched, shut
off from communication with the world.
She went to the telephone herself with intention to speak to some one,
some one outside that house, some friend, she cared little whom, but the
servant, still obsequious, intervened. "Your father directed, Miss von
Essen, that you were not to make use of the telephone."
She turned without a word and retired to her room. In half an hour Herman
von Essen came heavily up the stairs and rapped ungently on her door. He
did not wait for her summons to enter, but thrust the door open and
confronted her, purple with fury, roaring the instant his eyes beheld her:
"Who told you to come home?... What are you doing here?... I ordered you
to stay away with your meddling and spying. How dare you come back without
my permission?" He plunged toward her, with gross hands hungering to lay
themselves upon her with savage violence.
"Don't touch me," she said, her voice brittle and cold like arctic ice.
"Don't dare touch me.... I swore on the Bible, but if you touch me, if you
ever touch me with so much as the tip of your finger, I'll forget it.... I
can hang you," she said, and it seemed to him her eyes leaped into sudden
savagery, "and if you drive me too far I'll do it.... I'll forget what it
means to me--the disgrace and horror of it; I'll forget you're my father.
_Be careful!_"
"You would? You would, eh, you cat?... I'll show you. I'll cage you." He
was beside himself with anger, yet he was afraid. She saw it and despised
him the more.
"Have you kept your promise?" she demanded.
"Promise? What promise? What business is it of yours what I've done?"
"It is my business. It was a bargain. Have you kept it? Have you kept
clear of these spies? Have you thrown them out of the house? Have you
stopped your fires and your explosions and your murders?"
"Yes," he said.
She stared into his eyes a moment. "I don't believe you," she said; "I
don't believe you intended to." He snarled at her incoherently. "My
country is at war," she said, passionately, "and men like you have forced
her into war--you spies and traitors and murderers--your race of
murderers. Are you playing fair with me?"
"Yes," he said. "The war--I'm through with them. I'm an American citizen."
"If you hadn't said that I might have believed you. I know what sort of
American citizen you are!... You lied to me and got me out of the way....
What's a lie more or less among Germans?"
"I lied, did I? I'll show you how I lied." He was insane with passion. "I
_did_ lie.... Did you, a squalling cat of a girl, think you could
interfere? This damned country--a cat's-paw for England.... I'm a
German--a German, do you hear? And you're a German.... We fight for the
fatherland.... They think to make war! They think to crush the
fatherland!... We're teaching them a lesson. When the day is come--when
the call goes out--then I won't be a German in America, I'll be a German
in Germany!..." He stopped, his face the color of some unspeakable jungle
orchid nourished by steaming, poisonous vapors. He had said too much; his
rage had betrayed his tongue, and he looked at her with narrowed,
calculating eyes.
"I can 'tend to you," he said, softly. "I'll cage you. I'll keep your
mouth shut."
"You're--my--father," she said, slowly, incredulously. It was ghastly,
woven of nightmare threads, that this man, whose very physical presence
had become revolting, should be one of the authors of her existence. She
owed life to him. How gladly would she have blotted out the years to her
birth and waned into nothingness, non-existence!
"I'm your father," he repeated after her. "See you remember it.... You've
come back where you weren't wanted; now you'll stay where you don't want
to stay.... I've got my hands on you and I'll keep them there.... You
little fool! There's no danger in you." He laughed grossly. "I'll
quarantine you. You've caught a secret that's contagious, and I'll
quarantine you. You sha'n't leave this house; you sha'n't see anybody or
talk to anybody. I'm not giving you orders. You'll be watched day and
night.... If you think you can get out--try it."
"Get out of my room!" she cried, and, rushing past him, she threw open the
door. She stood crouching, tigerish, and he drew away from her as he
passed. In the hall he shook his fist at her.
"Try to get out!" he bellowed. "Try to send a word out of this house!"
She slammed the door, slammed it with all her strength, and locked it. Her
one thought was to injure her father--to hurt him physically. She wanted
to see him suffering, crying out in agony.... Wild plans for bringing
retribution down on his head flashed through her brain.... She could set
the house on fire. She could do this or do that.... It was wild,
unreasoning rage.
After a time she heard a sound at her door long continued. She snatched it
open and found the strange serving-man there on his knees, a basket of
tools at his side
"What are you doing?" she demanded.
"Your father's orders, Miss. I'm putting a lock on this door."
"To lock me in?"
"I can't say, Miss."
"What else would it be for?"
"I don't know, Miss."
"Are you a German spy, too?"
"I? Oh no, Miss. No, indeed, Miss."
"Wait...." She ran to her dressing-bag and found her well-filled purse. "I
need a friend in this house--and I can afford to pay for one. Will you
mail a letter for me? Here's fifty dollars."
"Fifty dollars?... Is that all you've got, Miss?"
"I've got two hundred," she said.
"Give it to me."
She thought he was hers and placed the money in his hand.
"Is this all? Are you sure this is all you've got?"
"Every penny."
"Very well, Miss. I shall hand it to your father. It might be, Miss, that
you'd find somebody you could bribe.... Now, Miss, if you'll go into your
room I'll finish my work."
There was something grim, something quiet and determined, about the man.
She was afraid of him, for he seemed not so much a man as an automaton,
not controlled by human emotions. She made no protest, but re-entered her
room and the door closed after her. Presently sounds of work ceased and
she tried the door. It was secured from the outside; she was a prisoner.
Her first impulse was to rush to the window from which she had once made
her escape to meet Potter Waite. She peered out. Below was a man with a
rake in his hand, ostensibly a gardener, but he was quick to see her in
the window. Without a smile he tipped his hat--and drew a step closer.
Hours later a rap came on her door.
"What is it?" she asked.
"Your dinner, Miss."
"Take it away," she said. She would not eat. She would starve
herself--starve herself to death. She could do that--and then there would
have to be explanations. The body of a young woman starved to death would
be something to arouse unpleasant curiosity. Well, she would provide the
body.... But she became calmer. Life was not alluring, but what good could
her death bring? Besides, she was helpless, and there were ways of forcing
one to eat.... She considered the indignity of it, of being tied down by
servants and forcibly fed.... No, when breakfast came she would eat....
Later she undressed and went to bed, but she could not sleep. She could
not endure that silent darkness, so she got up and put on a gown and
crouched in the corner of her window-seat. Outside she could see the black
figure of a man pacing up and down....
She was cooler now, almost calm--with the numb calmness of despair. She
was a chip caught in the undertow of monstrous events, drawn under,
carried into awful depths. She could see no future. For her life was at an
end; she could not look past to-morrow. The undertow had drawn her down
into the deep places of an ocean of horrors which submerged the earth, and
she could never hope again to reach the surface.... She was not
frightened, she was horrified and hopeless--and very lonely.... She moved
across the room to her dressing-table and took in her hands her mother's
picture, peering into that calm, dignified face, into those remembered
eyes, and striving with frantic eagerness to read some message there....
There was no message.
Once more she crouched on the window-seat and propped the photograph on
her knees--and there she fell asleep.
She did not deny her breakfast in the morning, nor did she refuse to eat
at noon.... Somehow she did not think about escape, did not care to
escape. She was better there, shut away from the world. It was peace of a
kind. If she escaped, what would she do with liberty? She did not know.
But one thing she did know--she would not inform upon her father. She
could not. No hatred, no love of country, could force her to do that thing
and bring down upon herself that indelible disgrace--to be looked at with
sidewise glances, to be pointed at all the remaining days of her life as
the daughter of a spy, a traitor....
It was mid-afternoon when the knock of the serving-man aroused her. She
knew his knock already, for there was something stealthy, furtive about
it.
"Yes," she said.
"A gentleman to see you, Miss." She heard him unlocking the outer
fastenings of the door.
"Who is it?"
"I was not told to say, Miss. You will find the gentleman in the library."
"What if I refuse to go down?"
"I should advise against that, Miss."
She had a vision of herself carried down, kicking, struggling, to be
pitched unceremoniously into some man's presence. It was unendurable.
"Say I will be down in a moment," she said.
"Thank you, Miss."
It was not her father, of course, but who could it be who was allowed to
see her? She could not imagine, and speculations were futile. In five
minutes she was descending the stairs. At the front door stood the new
servant, his eyes upon her respectfully. There obviously was to be no
chance to avoid the library for an attempt at the out-of-doors. She walked
to the library door and stepped inside. Cantor arose and stepped toward
her eagerly, hand extended, his winning smile lighting his face.
"Welcome home," he said. "I can't tell you how I've missed you all these
months."
"How do you do, Mr. Cantor?" she said, unsmiling and somehow unsurprised.
She had not expected to see him, yet that it should be he was not
astonishing. Indeed, thought she, who else could it have been if--if the
thing she had vague reasons for suspecting of this man were true?
"I called on your father this morning," he said. "He told me you were at
home--that you had run in and surprised him. I asked if he thought you
would be receiving so soon, and he was so good as to reassure me. I hope
I'm not intruding?"
"No," she said. "Won't you sit down?"
"Thank you. Shall we sit by the window here?" He looked at her and
laughed. "Your father seemed to be in a temper.... Actually he was peevish
at you. I really don't think he liked the idea of my coming to call, but I
smoothed him down splendidly. He thawed and admitted that you and he had
been having a little disagreement."
"Did he tell you what the disagreement was?" she said, directly.
"No, indeed," said Cantor, with lifted brows, "but I gather he was really
angry with you. Said something about shutting you up and that sort of
nonsense out of the Victorian era."
"If you could see the brand-new lock on my door you wouldn't call it
nonsense."
"Actually! Well, well, I knew he got pretty savage sometimes, but to lock
you in--well, I _am_ astonished. But I'm the prince come to rescue you
from the enchantment. Now do you regard me as a particularly steady and
trustworthy young man?"
"I've never thought about it," she said.
"I must be," he said, gaily, "for I suggested taking you for a motor ride,
and maybe to dinner some place in the country, and here I am. He was
crusty about it for a few minutes, but I convinced him you'd be safe with
me."
"Safe with you.... Yes, you must have convinced him of that. I'm sure he
wouldn't allow me to go out of the house with anybody he didn't trust
fully." She eyed him without enthusiasm. She was about to add something,
but thought better of it. Then: "Do you mean that father has constituted
you my escort? Is that it? That I'm to be allowed to go abroad with
you--to keep an eye on me?"
"That's not a pretty way to say it, Miss von Essen."
"It's the fact, isn't it?"
"I shouldn't say so. If I were describing the thing I'd say that your
father thought I was a reasonably decent fellow, and was willing to trust
you with me."
"My father is afraid to allow me at large?"
"Why, he seemed to want to keep you under his eye."
"For an excellent reason?"
"Undoubtedly he has a reason."
"If he is afraid I'll do something if I get out of the house, how does he
suppose you can prevent me?... Especially in a public place. Suppose I
were to decide I wanted to be alone--to leave you. How would you prevent
it?"
"He didn't appear to worry about that."
"Don't _you_ worry about it?"
"Not a bit."
"Why?"
"Now, Miss von Essen--I'm just the pleasant young man who is allowed to
run around with you. I don't know why I'm allowed, but I'm delighted that
it's so. I'm sure if your father trusted you to me you wouldn't do
anything to get me in bad with him."
He moved his chair closer and leaned forward. "You haven't seemed happy
with your father?"
"I'm not," she said, sharply.
"Why don't you get away from him, then?"
"Well," she said, with a wry smile, "there's the new lock, for one thing."
"I know something that will unlock it."
"For instance?"
"Marriage."
She stared at him, quite taken by surprise.
"Exactly," said he. "You know, Hildegarde, I've been attracted by you.
You've seen that.... You couldn't help it. I'd have told you before
this--that I love you and want you to marry me, but the moment never
seemed to come.... But I can tell you now.... You're unhappy here.
Something has gone very wrong.... I offer you a way out--and once married
to me, you are free of Herman von Essen--free of him forever.... Won't you
think about it, Hildegarde? I wouldn't be such a rotten husband, and I'm
mighty fond of you."
"You're--actually--proposing marriage?"
"I love you," he said.
Her eyes blazed. "Did you and father think marriage would close my mouth?"
"I don't understand you."
"You think if I were married to you you would have me safe. Oh, you
understand me, all right.... I'm not so blind. You know I've suspected
you, and now I know. I know.... This _proves_ it. I know who you are."
"Who am I but myself?"
"You are the man who was in this library talking to father. You are the
man who trapped him; who forced him to be a spy and a traitor.... Not that
he needed forcing past anything but his cowardice.... You're a German spy,
in command of German spies. You're the man who plans these explosions and
fires and murders--and sets tools to carry out your plans...."
"Nonsense!" said Cantor, with an easy laugh. "You've been having
nightmare. Why," he declared, "I'm French! At least I was born in
Alsace.... Wherever did you get such a notion?"
"It's the truth."
He laughed again. "Of course I can't prove that I'm not--any more than you
can prove that I am.... And meantime I love you very much indeed and am
asking you to be my wife.... Now don't refuse offhand. Take time to
consider.... You don't want to be shut up in your room for months, maybe
years. Your father seemed to have the notion of imprisonment for life." He
showed his teeth in a smile that seemed to say he appreciated the humor of
the whole thing. "I offer you a way out, and not a hard way.... You can't
dislike me so much, or you wouldn't have been willing to play around with
me the way you have. Just think it over and you'll see lots of
advantages.... Why, we can end this disagreeable situation this afternoon!
Throw a few things in a bag and come with me. We'll be married and
telephone your father. He'll rage, but you'll be out of his reach."
She sat silent, bewildered, more terrified by this new development than by
her father's rage and her imprisonment. She was afraid of Cantor's
suavity; she was afraid of his power, afraid of what he and her father
might plan and carry through with her as its victim. It was sinister,
threatening.... And what she knew of this man did not lead her to think of
him as a man who married.... As she was she might lose her life or her
reason, but something told her that if she became Cantor's she would lose
her soul.... Potter Waite arose before her, and her love for Potter
Waite--her love that could never come to fruition....
She pondered, and her keen, restless brain darted here and there like some
small imprisoned animal seeking a way of escape, but everywhere
encountering the bars of the cage.... One thing she saw--she must not
refuse Cantor with finality. She must leave him uncertain, with hope or
reason to believe he might find her malleable in his hands. She must not
offend him; she must put him off from day to day for her own safety,
hoping for the unexpected to intervene. They hoped to shut her mouth by
marriage. She would hold them in suspense and gain what advantage a moment
might vouchsafe to her. At any rate, Cantor meant liberties for her; meant
that she would be allowed to leave her room, to go about the city with
him, to divert herself, to find relief in gaieties and in matching her
wits against his.... This she saw.
"Not now--not to-day," she said. "Wait.... This is a new thought to me....
I don't know.... Will you go now and let me think. Please go now--and come
to-morrow."
"For my answer?"
"I won't promise that--but come."
He lifted her hand to his lips. "To hear is to obey," he said, gaily. "At
least I may hope."
She found herself alone and tired, so tired. "You can hope," she said to
the vanished Cantor, "but there's no hope for me--in all the world there's
not a ray of hope."