Complete Works of F Marion Crawford

by F. Marion Crawford

  The Captain understood and kept his countenance.

  ‘Now, I want to know one thing,’ continued the new owner. ‘What’s the nearest sea-port to Bayreuth, Bavaria?’

  ‘Venice,’ answered the Captain without the least hesitation, and so quickly that Mr. Van Torp was immediately suspicious.

  ‘If that’s so, you’re pretty smart,’ he observed.

  ‘You can telephone to Cook’s office, sir, and ask them,’ said the Captain quietly.

  The instrument was on the table at Mr. Van Torp’s elbow. He looked sharply at the Captain, as he unhooked the receiver and set it to his ear. In a few seconds communication was given.

  ‘Cook’s office? Yes. Yes. This is Mr. Van Torp, Rufus Van Torp of New York. Yes. I want to know what’s the nearest sea-port to Bayreuth, Bavaria. Yes. Yes. That’s just what I want to know. Yes. I’ll hold the wire while you look it up.’

  He was not kept waiting long.

  ‘Venice, you say? You’re sure you’re right, I suppose? Yes. Yes. I was only asking. No thank you. If I want a ticket I’ll look in myself. Much obliged. Good-bye.’

  He hung the receiver in its place again, and turned to his Captain with a different expression, in which admiration and satisfaction were quite apparent.

  ‘Well,’ he said, ‘you’re right. It’s Venice. I must say that, for an Englishman, you’re quite smart.’

  The Captain smiled quietly, but did not think it worth while to explain that the last owner with whom he had sailed had been Wagner-mad and had gone to Bayreuth regularly. Moreover, he had judged his man already.

  ‘Am I to proceed to Venice at once, sir?’ he asked.

  ‘As quick as you can, Captain.’

  The Englishman looked at his watch deliberately, and made a short mental calculation before he said anything. It was eleven in the morning.

  ‘I can get to sea by five o’clock this afternoon, sir. Will that do?’

  Mr. Van Torp was careful not to betray the least surprise.

  ‘Yes,’ he said, as if he were not more than fairly satisfied, ‘that’ll do nicely.’

  ‘Very well, sir, then I’ll be off. It’s about three thousand miles, and she’s supposed to do that at eighteen knots with her own coal. Say eight days. But as this is her maiden trip we must make allowance for having to stop the engines once or twice. Good-morning, sir.’

  ‘Good-day, Captain. Get in some coal and provisions as soon as you arrive in Venice. I may want to go to Timbuctoo, or to Andaman Islands or something. I’m that sort of a man. I’m not sure where I’ll go. Good-bye.’

  The Captain stopped at the first telegraph office on his way to the Waterloo Station and telegraphed both to his chief engineer, Mr. M’Cosh, and his chief mate, Mr. Johnson, for he thought it barely possible that one or the other might be ashore.

  ‘Must have steam by 4 P.M. to-day to sail at once long voyage. Coming next train. Owner in hurry. Send ashore for my wash. Brown, Captain.’

  When the clocks struck five on shore that afternoon, and the man at the wheel struck two bells from the wheel-house, and the look-out forward repeated them on the ship’s bell, all according to the most approved modern fashion on large steamers, the beautiful Lancashire Lass was steaming out upon Southampton Water.

  Out of the merest curiosity Mr. Van Torp telegraphed to Cowes to be informed of the exact moment at which his yacht was under way, and before six o’clock he had a message.

  ‘Yacht sailed at four thirty-nine.’

  The new owner was so much pleased that he actually smiled, for Captain Brown had been twenty-one minutes better than his word.

  ‘I guess he’ll do,’ thought Mr. Van Torp. ‘I only hope I may need him.’

  He was not at all sure that he should need the Lancashire Lass and Captain Brown; but it has often been noticed that in the lives of born financiers even their caprices often turn out to their advantage, and that their least logical impulses in business matters are worth more than the sober judgment of ordinary men.

  As for Captain Brown, he was a quiet little person with a rather pink face and sparkling blue eyes, and he knew his business. In fact he had passed as Extra Master. He knew that he was in the service of one of the richest men in the world, and that he commanded a vessel likely to turn out one of the finest yachts afloat, and he did not mean to lose such a berth either by piling up his ship, or by being slow to do whatever his owner wished done, within the boundaries of the possible; but it had not occurred to him that his owner might order him to exceed the limits of anything but mere possibility, such, for instance, as those of the law, civil, criminal, national, or international.

  Mr. Van Torp had solid nerves, but when he had sent his yacht to the only place where he thought he might possibly make use of it, he realised that he was wasting valuable time while Logotheti was making all the running, and his uncommon natural energy, finding nothing to work upon as yet, made him furiously impatient. It seemed to hum and sing in his head, like the steam in an express engine when it is waiting to start.

  He had come over to England on an impulse, as soon as he had heard of Cordova’s engagement. Until then he had not believed that she would ever accept the Greek, and when he learned from Lady Maud’s letter that the fact was announced, he ‘saw red,’ and his resolution to prevent the marriage was made then and there. He had no idea how he should carry it out, but he knew that he must either succeed or come to grief in the attempt, for as long as he had any money left, or any strength, he would spend both lavishly for that one purpose.

  Yet he did not know how to begin, and his lack of imagination exasperated him beyond measure. He was sleepless and lost his appetite, which had never happened to him before; he stayed on in London instead of going down to his place in Derbyshire, because he was always sure that he meant to start for the Continent in a few hours, with an infallible plan for success; but he did not go.

  The most absurd schemes suggested themselves. He was disgusted with what he took for his own stupidity, and he tried to laugh at the sentimental vein that ran through all his thoughts as the thread through a string of beads. He grew hot and cold as he recalled the time when he had asked Margaret to marry him, and he had frightened her and she had fled and locked herself into her own room; his heart beat faster when he thought of certain kindly words she had said to him since then, and on which he built up a great hope now, though they had meant nothing more to her than a general forgiveness, where she really had very little to forgive. A genuine offer of marriage from a millionaire is not usually considered an insult, but since she had chosen to look at it in that light, he was humble enough to be grateful for her pardon. If he had not been so miserably in love he would have been even more amazed and alarmed at his own humility, for he had not shown signs of such weakness before. In a life which had been full of experience, though it was not yet long, he had convinced himself that the ‘softening’ which comes with years, and of which kind people often speak with so much feeling, generally begins in the brain; and the thought that he himself was growing less hard than he had been, already filled him with apprehension. He asked himself why he had withdrawn from the Nickel Trust, unless it was because his faculties were failing prematurely. At the mere thought, he craved the long-familiar excitement of making money, and risking it, and he wished he had a railway or a line of steamers to play with; since he could not hit upon the scheme for which he was racking his brains. For once in his life, too, he felt lonely, and to make it worse he had not received a line from his friend Lady Maud since she had abruptly left him in her own drawing-room. He wondered whether she had yet made up her mind to help him.

  He was living in a hotel in London, though he did not like it. Americans, as a rule, would a little rather live in hotels than in houses of their own, perhaps because it is less trouble and no dearer, at least not in American cities. Housekeeping in New York can be done with less risk by a company than by an individual, for companies do not succumb to nervous prostration, whatever may
happen to their employees.

  But Mr. Van Torp was an exception to the rule, for he liked privacy, and even solitude, and though few men were better able to face a newspaper reporter in fair fight, he very much preferred not to be perpetually on the look-out lest he should be obliged to escape by back stairs and side doors, like a hunted thief. He felt safer from such visits in London than in New York or Paris, but only relatively so.

  He was meditating on the future one morning, over an almost untouched breakfast, between nine and ten o’clock, when his man Stemp brought a visiting card.

  ‘Reporter?’ he inquired, without looking up, as he leaned far back in his chair, his gaze riveted on the cold buttered toast.

  ‘No, sir. It’s some sort of a foreigner, and he talks a heathen language.’

  ‘Oh, he does, does he?’ The question was asked in a tone of far-away indifference.

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  A long silence followed. Mr. Van Torp still stared at the buttered toast and appeared to have forgotten all about the card. Stemp endeavoured very tactfully to rouse him from his reverie.

  ‘Shall I get you some more hot toast, sir?’ he inquired very gently.

  ‘Toast? No. No toast.’

  He did not move; his steady gaze did not waver. Stemp waited a long time, motionless, with his little salver in his hand. At last Van Torp changed his position, threw his head so far back that it rested on the top of the chair, thrust his hands deep into the pockets of his trousers and stared at the ceiling as intently as he had gazed at the plate. Then he spoke to his man again.

  ‘Stemp.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘What do you suppose that fellow wants, now, Stemp? Do you suppose he thinks I speak his heathen language? What does he come bothering me for? What’s the good?’

  ‘Well, sir,’ answered Stemp, ‘I can’t quite say, but I believe there’s something written on the card if you care to look at it, sir, and he has a person with him that speaks a little English. Shall I throw him out, sir?’

  Stemp asked the question with such perfect gravity that, being an Englishman, he might very well have been thought to mean the words literally. But he did not. He merely adopted Mr. Van Torp’s usual way of expressing that the master was not at home.

  ‘I’ll look at the card, anyway.’

  He stretched out one hand without turning his eyes towards it; the careful Stemp promptly brought the little salver into contact with the large fingers, which picked up the card and raised it deliberately to the line of vision. By this means Mr. Van Torp saved himself the trouble of turning his head.

  It was a rather large card, bearing in the middle two or three odd-looking signs which meant nothing to him, but underneath them he read in plain characters the single work ‘Barak.’

  ‘Barrack!’ grumbled the American. ‘Rubbish! Why not “teapot,” or “rocking-horse,” or anything else that’s appropriate?’

  As he paused for an answer, Stemp ventured to speak.

  ‘Can’t say, sir. P’rhaps it’s the only word he knows, sir, so he’s had it printed.’

  Van Torp turned his head at last, and his eyes glared unpleasantly as he examined his valet’s face. But the Englishman’s features were utterly impassive; if they expressed anything it was contempt for the heathen person outside, who only knew one word of English.

  Mr. Van Torp seemed satisfied and glanced at the card again.

  ‘I guess you didn’t mean to be funny,’ he said, as if acknowledging that he had made a mistake.

  ‘Certainly not, sir,’ answered Stemp, drawing himself up with an air of injured pride, for he felt that his professional manners were suspected, if not actually criticised.

  ‘That’s all right,’ observed Mr. Van Torp, turning the card over. ‘Oh, the writing’s on the back, I see. Yes. Now, that’s very curious, I must say,’ he said, after reading the words. ‘That’s very curious,’ he repeated, laying strong and equal emphasis on the last two words. ‘Ask him to walk in, Stemp.’

  ‘Yes, sir. With the man who speaks English for him, I suppose, sir?’

  ‘No. He can wait outside till I want him, and you can go away too. I’ll see the man alone.’

  ‘Very good, sir.’

  As the valet went out Mr. Van Torp turned his chair half round without getting up, so that he sat facing the door. A moment later Stemp had ushered in the visitor, and was gone.

  A slim youth came forward without boldness, but without the least timidity, as if he were approaching an equal. He had an oval face, no moustache, a complexion like cream, short and thick black hair and very clear dark eyes that met the American’s fearlessly. He was under the average height, and he wore rather thin, loose grey clothes that had been made by a good tailor. His hands and feet were smaller than a European’s.

  ‘So you’re Mr. Barrack,’ Mr. Van Torp said, nodding pleasantly.

  The young face smiled, and the parted lips showed quite perfect teeth.

  ‘Barak,’ answered the young man, giving the name the right sound.

  ‘Yes, I understand, but I can’t pronounce it like you. Take a chair, Mr. Barrack, and draw up to the table.’

  The young man understood the gesture that explained the speech and sat down.

  ‘So you’re a friend of Mr. Logotheti’s, and he advised you to come to me? Understand? Logotheti of Paris.’

  Barak smiled again, and nodded quickly as he recognised the name. The American watched his face attentively.

  ‘All right,’ he continued. ‘You can trot out your things now, right on the table-cloth here.’

  He had seen enough of Indians and Mexicans in his youth to learn the simple art of using signs, and he easily made his meaning clear to his visitor. Barak produced a little leathern bag, not much bigger than an ordinary purse, and fastened with thin thongs, which he slowly untied. Mr. Van Torp watched the movements of the delicate fingers with great interest, for he was an observant man.

  ‘With those hands,’ he silently reflected, ‘it’s either a lady or a thief, or both.’

  Barak took several little twists of tissue paper from the bag, laid them in a row on the table-cloth, and then began to open them one by one. Each tiny parcel contained a ruby, and when the young man counted them there were five in all, and they were fine stones if they were genuine; but Mr. Van Torp was neither credulous nor easily surprised. When Barak looked to see what impression he had produced on such a desirable buyer, he was disappointed.

  ‘Nice,’ said the American carelessly; ‘nice rubies, but I’ve seen better. I wonder if they’re real, anyway. They’ve found out how to make them by chemistry now, you know.’

  But Barak understood nothing, of course, beyond the fact that Mr. Van Torp seemed indifferent, which was a common trick of wily customers; but there was something about this one’s manner that was not assumed. Barak took the finest of the stones with the tips of his slender young fingers, laid it in the palm of his other hand, and held it under Mr. Van Torp’s eyes, looking at him with an inquiring expression. But the American shook his head.

  ‘No rubies to-day, thank you,’ he said.

  Barak nodded quietly, and at once began to wrap up the stones, each in its own bit of paper, putting the twists back into the bag one by one. Then he drew the thongs together and tied them in a neat sort of knot which Mr. Van Torp had never seen. The young man then rose to go, but the millionaire stopped him.

  ‘Say, don’t go just yet. I’ll show you a ruby that’ll make you sit up.’

  He rose as he spoke, and Barak understood his smile and question, and waited. Mr. Van Torp went into the next room, and came back almost immediately, bringing a small black morocco case, which he set on the table and unlocked with a little key that hung on his watch-chain. He was not fond of wearing jewellery, and the box held all his possessions of that sort, and was not full. There were three or four sets of plain studs and links; there were half a dozen very big gold collar-studs; there was a bit of an old gold chain, apparently cu
t off at each end, and having one cheap little diamond set in each link; and there was a thin old wedding-ring that must have been a woman’s; besides a few other valueless trinkets, all lying loose and in confusion. Mr. Van Torp shook the box a little, poked the contents about with one large finger, and soon found an uncut red stone about the size of a hazel-nut, which he took out and placed on the white cloth before his visitor.

  ‘Now that’s what I call a ruby,’ he said, with a smile of satisfaction. ‘Got any like that, young man? Because if you have I’ll talk to you, maybe. Yes,’ he continued, watching the Oriental’s face, ‘I told you I’d make you sit up. But I didn’t mean to scare you bald-headed. What’s the matter with you, anyway? Your eyes are popping out of your head. Do you feel as if you were going to have a fit? I say! Stemp!’

  Barak was indeed violently affected by the sight of the uncut ruby, and his face had changed in a startling way; a great vein like a whipcord suddenly showed itself on his smooth forehead straight up and down; his lids had opened so wide that they uncovered the white of the eye almost all round the iris; he was biting his lower lip so that it was swollen and blood-red against the little white teeth; and a moment before Mr. Van Torp had called out to his servant, the young man had reeled visibly, and would perhaps have collapsed if the American had not caught the slender waist and supported the small head against his shoulder with his other hand.

  Stemp was not within hearing. He had been told to go away, and he had gone, and meant to be rung for when he was wanted, for he had suffered a distinct slight in being suspected of a joke. Therefore Mr. Van Torp called to him in vain, and meanwhile stood where he was with his arm round Barak, and Barak’s head on his shoulder; but as no one came at his call, he lifted the slim figure gently and carried it towards the sofa, and while he was crossing the large room with his burden the palpable truth was forced upon him that his visitor’s slimness was more apparent than real, and an affair of shape rather than of pounds. Before he had quite reached the lounge, however, Barak stirred, wriggled in his arms, and sprang to the floor and stood upright, blinking a little, like a person waking from a dream, but quite steady, and trying to smile in an apologetic sort of way, though evidently still deeply disturbed. Mr. Van Torp smiled, too, as if to offer his congratulations on the quick recovery.