Works of Robert W Chambers

by Robert W. Chambers

  “You promised that I should arrive safely at Trois Fontaines. It doesn’t matter whether you accompany me. Please — please don’t. I had rather you did not go.”

  He said, gravely: “I know how you must feel about travelling as my wife — —”

  “It isn’t that.”

  “What is it then?” he asked, surprised.

  “I don’t wish you to take the risk of travelling with me.”

  “What risk? The worst that could happen to you would be your arrest and detention. If you are not a spy, you can not be proven one.”

  Her blue eyes gazed absently out across the sunny landscape through which they were speeding.

  “You are not a spy,” he replied; “what risk do you run — or I?”

  She said, still gazing into the sunlit distance: “What is done to spies — if they are caught?”

  “It usually means death, Miss Girard.”

  “I have—” she swallowed, caught her breath, breathed deeply; then— “I have heard so.... It is possible that I might be suspected and detained.... I had rather you did not attempt to go with me.... Because — I do not wish you to get into any difficulty — on my — account.”

  “Nothing serious could happen to either you or me through anything that you have done.”

  “I am not sure.”

  “I am,” he said. And added in a lower voice: “It is very generous of you — very kind.”

  Her own voice was lower still: “Please don’t go with me, Mr. Guild. Let me go to the wharf alone. Let me take my chances alone. If there is any difficulty they will arrest you, too. And if I — were convicted — —”

  “You could not be. That is utterly impossible. Don’t think of such things, Miss Girard.”

  “I must think of them. Will you tell me something?” She turned and looked at him curiously, almost wistfully.

  “I want to ask you something. You — you said to me that if you thought me a spy, you would not help me to escape from England. You said so, didn’t you?”

  “Yes.”

  “You mean it, don’t you?”

  “I am afraid I do.”

  “Why? You are not English. You are an American. America is neutral. Why are you an enemy to Germany?”

  “I can’t tell you why,” he said.

  “Are you an enemy to Germany?”

  “Yes — a bitter one.”

  “And if I were a spy, trying to escape from England — trying to escape — death — you would refuse to help me?”

  She had turned entirely toward him on the seat beside him; her child-like hands clasped on the robe over her knees, her child-like face, pale, sweet, wistful, turned to his.

  “Would you abandon me?” she asked.

  “The situation is impossible — —”

  “Yes, but tell me.”

  “I don’t care to think of such a — —”

  “Please answer me. Is your partisanship so bitter that you would wash your hands of me — let me go to my death? — go to your own, too, rather than help me?”

  “Miss Girard, you are losing your composure — —”

  “No; I am perfectly composed. But I should like to know what you would do under such circumstances with a girl nineteen years old who stood in danger of death.”

  “I can’t tell you,” he said, perplexed and impatient. “I can’t tell now what I might do.”

  “Would you denounce me?”

  “No, of course not.”

  “Would you feel — sorry?”

  “Sorry!” He looked at her; “I should think I would!”

  “Sorry enough for me to help me get away?”

  “Yes.”

  “Even if I carried military information to Germany?”

  He looked into her eyes searchingly for a moment. “Yes,” he said; “I’d do what I could for you to get you out of England.”

  “Even if I had lied to you?”

  “You couldn’t lie to anybody.”

  “But if I could? If I have lied and you found it out, would you still try to help me to get away?”

  “You are asking something that — —”

  “Yes, you can answer it. You can think a while first and then answer. I want you to answer. I want to know what you’d do with me.”

  “You make it a personal matter?”

  “Yes. I don’t want to know what you’d do in theory; I wish you to tell me what you, personally, would do with me, Karen Girard, if you believed me to be a spy, and if you came to the conclusion that I had lied to you.”

  “Why do you ask all this? You are over-wrought, unstrung — —”

  “I am absolutely mistress of myself. And I wish to know what you would do with me? Would you let me die?”

  “No.”

  “You’d stand by me still?”

  “Yes. There’s no use mincing matters. Yes, I would.”

  “You’d help me to leave England?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  There fell a silence between them, and his face slowly reddened.

  “I am not sure why,” he said slowly.

  “I am. Shall I tell you?”

  “Yes, tell me,” he said, forcing himself to meet her clear gaze.

  “Very well, I’ll tell you. It is because we are friends. And that is the real truth. I realize it. From the very beginning it was a friendship, without effort, instantly and mutually understood. Is it not true?”

  “Yes.”

  “And that — the instant liking — was the basis for our confidence in each other. Was it not?”

  “It must have been. I trusted you without hesitation.”

  “And I you.... And I did tell you the truth.... But not all of it.”

  “What have you left untold?” he asked.

  “Enough to — to frighten me — a little. I am beginning to be afraid — just enough afraid to feel troubled — rather deeply troubled about — you.”

  “About me!”

  “Because — we are friends. I don’t understand how it has happened so quickly. But it has happened to us — hasn’t it?”

  “Yes,” he said, “it has. I — I am already — devoted to — our friendship.”

  “I am, too. It seems odd, doesn’t it. I have had no friends among men. This is new to me. I don’t know what to do about it. I want to be so loyal about it — I wish to be what a man — such a man as you are — desires of a friend — what he requires of friendship.... Do you understand? I am really a trifle bewildered — with the surprise and pleasure of friendship — and with its obligations.... But I am very sure that unselfishness is one of its obligations and that truth is another.”

  “Both are part of you.”

  “They seem to be now. And so — because we are friends — don’t go to the wharf with me. Because I think I may be — arrested. And if I am — it may go hard with me.”

  She said it so gently, and her eyes were so clear and sweet that for a moment he did not grasp the subtler significance of her appeal.

  “You can’t be involved seriously,” he insisted.

  “I’m afraid it is possible.”

  “How?”

  “I can only guess how. I may be wrong. But I dare not risk involving you.”

  “Can’t you tell me a little more?”

  “Please don’t ask.”

  “Very well. But I shall not leave you.”

  “Please.”

  “No. You ask too little of friendship.”

  “I do not wish to ask too much. Let me get clear of this affair if I can. If I can’t — let me at least remember that I have not involved you in my — ruin.”

  “Your ruin!”

  “Yes. It may come to that. I don’t know. I don’t know exactly what all this tangle means — what really threatens me, what I have to dread. But I am afraid — afraid!” Her voice became unsteady for a moment and she stared straight ahead of her at the yellow haze which loomed nearer and nearer above the suburbs of London.

&nbs
p; He slipped one arm under hers, quietly, and his hand fell over both of hers, where they rested clasped tightly on her lap.

  “This won’t do,” he said coolly. “You are not to be frightened whatever happens. We must go through with this affair, you and I. I know you have plenty of courage.”

  “Yes — except about you — —”

  “I stand or fall with you.”

  “Please, you must not — —”

  “I must and shall. Within the next few minutes you must regain your composure and self-command. Will you?”

  “Yes.”

  “Because our safety may depend on your coolness.”

  “I know it.”

  “Will you remember that we are married?”

  “Yes.”

  “Will it be difficult for you to carry out that rôle?”

  “I — don’t know what to do. Could you tell me?”

  “Yes. If you speak to me call me by my first name. Do you remember it?”

  “Kervyn,” she said.

  “You won’t forget?”

  “No.”

  “I think you had better say ‘no, dear.’ Try it.”

  “No — dear.”

  “Try it again.”

  “No, dear.”

  “Letter perfect,” he said, trying to speak lightly. “You see you look about seventeen, and it’s plain we couldn’t have been married very long. So it’s safer to say ‘yes, dear,’ and ‘no, dear,’ every time. You won’t forget, Karen, will you?”

  She flushed a trifle when her name fell from his lips. “No, dear,” she said in a low voice.

  “And if anybody addresses you as Mrs. Guild — will you try to be prepared?”

  “Yes — dear. Yes, I will — Kervyn.”

  He laughed a trifle excitedly. “You are perfect — and really adorable in the part,” he said. And his nervous excitement in the imminence of mutual danger subtly excited her.

  “I ought to do it well,” she said; “I have studied dramatic art and I have had some stage experience. It’s a part and I must do it well. I shall, really — Kervyn, dear.”

  He laughed; the dangerous game was beginning to exhilarate them both, and a vivid colour began to burn in her delicate cheeks.

  Suddenly the blond chauffeur pulled the car up along the curb in a crowded street and stopped.

  “It is better, sir, to take a hansom from here to the wharf.”

  “Do you think so?”

  “Yes, sir.... Pardon, sir, here are passports for madam and yourself.” And he handed the papers very coolly to Guild.

  The young man changed colour, realizing instantly that the papers were forged.

  “Had I better take these?” he asked under his breath.

  “Yes, sir,” said Bush, smiling his eternal smile and opening the car door for them.

  Guild descended. Bush set the luggage on the curb, touched his cap, and said: “Walk south, sir, until a cabby hails you. Good-bye, sir. A pleasant trip, madam.” And he sprang back into the car, started it, and rolled away grinning from ear to ear.

  Guild took the luggage in both hands; Karen walked beside him. At the end of the square the driver of a hansom held up one hand inquiringly, then smiled and drew in to the curb.

  “Fresh Wharf, sir?” asked the cabby.

  “Yes,” said Guild, calmly, red with surprise.

  “Thanks, sir. I understand all about it.”

  CHAPTER VII

  THE SATCHEL

  It was only a short drive to Fresh Wharf by London Bridge. A marching column of kilted Territorials checked them for a while and they looked on while the advanced guard of civilians surged by, followed by pipers and then by the long leaf-brown column at a smart swinging stride.

  When the troops had passed the hansom moved on very slowly through the human flotsam still eddying in the wake of the regiment; and after a few more minutes it pulled up again and Guild sprang out, lifted the young girl to the sidewalk, and handed the fare to the driver.

  The latter leaned over and as he took the coins he thrust a parcel into Guild’s hands. “Your change, sir,” he said genially, touched his top hat and drove off, looking right and left for another fare.

  Guild’s surprised eyes fell on the packet. It contained two steamer tickets strapped together by a rubber band.

  Pushing through the throng where policemen, wharf officials and soldiers in khaki were as numerous as civilians, Guild finally signalled a porter to take the luggage aboard. Karen retained her satchel. A brief scrutiny of his tickets detained them for a moment, then the porter led them up the gang-plank and aboard and a steward directed them to their stateroom. At the same moment a uniformed official stepped up to Guild.

  “Sorry to trouble you, sir,” he said politely, “but may I have your name?”

  “My name is Kervyn Guild.”

  The official glanced over the steamer list. “You have papers of identification, Mr. Guild?”

  Guild handed him his forged passports. The official took them, glanced at Karen, at the luggage which the porter bore.

  “Where do you go from Amsterdam, Mr. Guild?”

  “Through Holland.”

  “Naturally. And then?”

  “To the Grand Duchy.”

  “Luxembourg?”

  “Yes.”

  “Where in Luxembourg?”

  “I have been invited to visit friends.”

  “Where?”

  “At Lesse Forest.”

  “Where is that?”

  “Partly in the Duchy, partly in Belgium.”

  “Who are your friends?”

  “Mrs. and Miss Courland of New York and a Mr. Darrel.”

  “Madam goes with you?”

  “Yes.”

  The official began to unfold the passports, while he looked sideways at the luggage. Holding the passports partly open in one hand he pointed to Karen’s satchel with the other.

  “Please open that,” he said, and began to examine the passports. A deadly pallour came over the girl’s face; she did not stir. Guild turned to glance at her and was stricken dumb. But she found her speech. “Dear,” she said, with white lips, “would you mind stepping ashore and getting me something at a chemist’s?” And under her breath, pressing close to him: “Go, for God’s sake. I am afraid I shall be arrested.” A terrible fear struck through him.

  “The satchel!” he motioned with his lips.

  “Yes. Go while you can. Go — go — dear.”

  “I’ll be back in a moment, Karen,” he said, coolly took the satchel from the porter, turned with it toward the gang-plank.

  The official raised his eyes from the passport he was scanning.

  “One moment, sir,” he said.

  “I’ll be back directly,” returned Guild, continuing on his way.

  “Where are you going, Mr. Guild?”

  “To a chemist’s.”

  “Be kind enough to leave that satchel and remain here until I have finished,” said the official coldly. And to Karen: “Mrs. Guild, will you kindly open that bag?”

  “Certainly. I have the key somewhere” — searching in her reticule. And as she searched she lifted her eyes to Guild. Her face was dead white.

  “Dearest,” she said in a steady voice, “will you go to the chemist’s while I am opening my bag. I must have something for this headache.”

  Her agonized eyes said: “Save yourself while you can; I am caught!”

  But Guild turned and came back to her, close, standing beside her.

  “I’ll open the luggage,” he said quietly. “You had better step ashore and get what you need.” And, in a whisper: “Go straight to the American Ambassador and tell him everything.”

  She whispered: “No; I beg of you go. I beg of you, Kervyn.”

  He shook his head and they stood there together; he grave and silent, assailed by a terrible premonition; she white as death, mechanically fumbling in her reticule with slim, childish fingers.

  The official was deeply imme
rsed in the passports and continued so even when Karen’s tremulous fingers held the key. “Give it to me,” whispered Guild.

  “No—” She beckoned the porter, took the satchel, and at the same moment the official looked up at her, then holding both passports, came over to where they were standing.

  “Your papers are in order, Mr. Guild,” he said. “Now, Mrs. Guild, if you will open your satchel — —”

  “I’ll attend to that, Holden,” broke in a careless voice, and the satchel was taken out of Karen’s hands by a short, dark young man in uniform. “I want you to go forward and look at a gentleman for The Hague who has no papers. He’s listed as Begley. Do you mind?”

  “Right,” said Holden. “Here, Mitchell, these papers are satisfactory. Look over Mr. Guild’s luggage and come forward when you’re finished. What’s his name? Begley?”

  “Yes, American. I’ll be with you in a moment.”

  Holden hastened forward; Mitchell looked after him for a moment, then calmly handed back the unopened satchel to Karen and while she held it he made a mark on it with a bit of chalk.

  “I pass your luggage,” he said in a low voice, stooping and marking the suit-case and Guild’s sack. “You have nothing to fear at Amsterdam, but there are spies on this steamer. Best go to your cabin and stay there until the boat docks.”

  The girl bent her little head in silence; the porter resumed the luggage and piloted them aft through an ill-lighted corridor. When he came to the door of their cabin he called a steward, took his tip from Guild, touched his cap and went away.

  The steward opened the stateroom door for them, set the luggage on the lounge, asked if there was anything more he could do, was told that there was not, and took himself off.

  Guild locked the door after him, turned and looked down at the girl, who had sunk trembling upon the lounge.

  “What is there in that satchel?” he asked coldly.

  “I don’t know.”

  “What!” he said in a contemptuous voice.

  “Kervyn — my friend — I do not know,” she stammered.

  “You must know! You packed it!”

  “Yes. But I do not know. Can’t you believe me?”

  “How can I? You know what you put into that satchel, don’t you?”

  “I — put in toilet articles — night clothes — money.”

  “What else? You put in something else, didn’t you? Something that has made you horribly afraid!”