Works of Robert W Chambers

by Robert W. Chambers

  “That deck steward is a spy, but I don’t understand how he could have known that I had taken the papers from you.”

  “I don’t know either,” she said excitedly. “But everybody knew everything on board that ship. It was a nest of spies.”

  His grim features relaxed. “I’m sorry I charged you with untruth, Karen. I never shall again. But — what was I to think?”

  “When I tell you a thing — that is what you are to think,” she said crisply.

  “Yes.... I realize that now. I am sorry. May I ask your forgiveness?”

  “Yes — please.”

  “Then — I do ask it.”

  “Accorded.”

  “May I ask a little more?” he continued.

  “What?”

  “May I ask you to tell me what you did with those papers after the deck steward gave them to you?”

  “I shall not tell you.”

  “Then I am afraid that I shall have to tell you how you disposed of those papers. You first went to the stewardess and borrowed a needle and thread and then asked permission to sit in her room and do a little necessary sewing — —”

  The girl blushed hotly: “The contemptible creature!” she exclaimed.

  “A little sewing,” repeated Guild, coolly. “And,” he continued, “you sewed those papers to your clothing. The stewardess saw you do it.”

  “Very well! Suppose I did.”

  “You have them on you now.”

  “And then?”

  “Why it was a silly thing to do, Karen.”

  “Silly? Why?”

  “Because,” he said calmly, “I must have them, and it makes it more awkward for us both than if you had merely put them back into your satchel.”

  “You — you intend — to — —” Her amazement checked her, then flashed out into wrath.

  “Do you know,” she said, “that you are becoming impudent?”

  “Karen,” he retorted very quietly, “a man of my sort isn’t impudent. But, possibly, he might be insolent — if he chooses. And perhaps I shall choose.”

  Checked, her lips still quivering, the girl, despite her anger, understood what he meant — knew that she was confronting a man of her own caste, where insolence indeed might happen, but nothing more plebeian.

  “I — spoke to you as though you were an American,” she said slowly. “I forgot — —”

  “I am answering you as an American!” he interrupted drily. “Make no mistake about that country; it breeds plenty of men who have every right to answer you as I do!”

  She bit her lip; her eyes filled and she averted her face. Presently the cab stopped.

  “We’re at the station,” he said briefly.

  Whether Guild had paid for the entire compartment or whether it happened so she did not inquire, but they had the place to themselves, so far.

  Guild paid no further attention to her except to lay a couple of Tauchnitz novels beside her on the seat. After that he opened a newspaper which he had brought away with him from the Consulate, and began to read it without troubling to ask her permission.

  As the paper hid his perfectly expressionless face she ventured to glance at it from time to time. It was the New York Herald and on the sheet turned toward her she was perfectly able to read something that interested her and sent faint shivers creeping over her as she ended it:

  PASSPORT REFORM STIRS AMERICANS

  ABROAD AND DEALS HARD

  BLOW TO SPIES

  CITIZENS OF THE UNITED STATES RECOGNIZE NECESSITY

  FOR NEW ORDER, BUT DEMAND TO

  KNOW WHO WAS RESPONSIBLE FOR

  ISSUANCE OF FRAUDULENT PAPERS

  [Special Cable to the Herald]

  Herald Bureau,

  No. 130 Fleet Street,

  London, Tuesday.

  The United States Government’s sweeping new order requiring every American travelling in Europe to go through a cross-examination before an American diplomatic or consular officer came as a bolt from the blue today. It caused widespread comment, though it is recognized that the measure is necessary to checkmate German spies impersonating American travellers.

  There is no criticism of this drastic order, which it is recognized is probably issued to comply with Sir Edward Grey’s communication concerning German secret agents posing as American citizens. But many Americans want to know who is responsible for the apparent wholesale issuance of fraudulent American passports to Germans. The result is that now an American passport is not worth the paper it is written on unless backed up by a photograph of the bearer, a description of where he is going, what he is going for, how long he is going to stay and so forth.

  American embassies in European capitals today are circulating broadcast warnings to all Americans to consult the nearest diplomatic or consular officer before undertaking any voyage.

  All Americans must understand that henceforth a passport does not mean permission to travel in Europe. They must have written and vouched for proof that they are not German spies before they can feel safe.

  It is all the result of too free issuance of American passports at the outbreak of the war, coupled with German quickness to profit by American leniency in this respect.

  Before the train started a commissionaire appeared, hurrying. He opened the door of their compartment, set a pretty basket inside, which was to be removed at the first station beyond.

  The basket contained a very delicious luncheon, and Karen looked up shyly but gratefully as Guild set about unpacking the various dishes. There was salad, chicken, rolls and butter, a pâté, some very wonderful pastry, fruit, and a bottle of Moselle that looked like liquid sunshine.

  There was one pasteboard box which Guild gave to her without opening it. She untied the violet ribbon, opened it, sat silent. He seemed to pay no attention to what she was doing.

  After a moment she lifted out the cluster of violet-scented orchids, drew the long pin from them, and fastened them to her blouse.

  “Thank you — very much,” she said shyly.

  “Do you care for orchids?”

  “Yes ... I am a little — surprised.”

  “Why?”

  “That you should — think to offer them — to me — —”

  He looked up, and his grey eyes seemed to be laughing, but his mouth — that perplexing, humorous, inscrutable mouth of his remained grave and determined.

  “Karen,” he said, “if you only understood how much I do like you, you wouldn’t perhaps deal so mercilessly with me.”

  “I? Merciless?”

  “You are. You made me use force with you when you should not have resisted. And now you have done something more merciless yet.”

  “W — what, Kervyn?”

  “You know ... I must have those papers.”

  “Kervyn!”

  “Dear — look at me. No — in the eyes. Now look at me while I say, as seriously and as gently as I know how, that I am going to have those papers!... You know I mean what I say.... That is all — dear.”

  Her eyes fell and she looked at her orchids.

  “Why do you speak that way to me — after giving me these?”

  “What have orchids to do with a man’s duty?”

  “Why did you give them to me?”

  “Why? Because we are friends, if you will let us be.”

  “I was willing — am still — in spite of — everything. You know I am. If I can forgive you what you did to me in our stateroom last night, surely, surely Kervyn, you won’t take any more chances with my forgiveness — will you?”

  He said: “I shall have to if you force me to it. Karen — I never liked any woman as much as I like you. We have known each other two days and a night. But in that time we both have lived a long, long time.”

  She nodded, thoughtfully.

  “Then — you know me now as well as you ever will know me. Better than any other woman has ever known me. When my mind is made up that a certain thing is to be done, I always try to do it, Karen.... And I know t
hat I ought to have those papers.... And that I am going to have them. Is that clear — Karen, dear?”

  She remained silent, brushing her orchids with her finger-tips, absent-eyed, serene. After a moment he thought that the ghost of a smile was hovering on her lips, but he was not sure.

  Presently she looked up:

  “Shall we lunch?” she asked.

  CHAPTER XIII

  THE DAY OF WRATH

  Three times they were obliged to change cars after passing through Utrecht. Night fell; the last compartment into which they had been crowded was filled with Dutch cavalry officers, big, talkative fellows in their field uniforms and jingling equipments, civil to Guild, courteous to Karen, and all intensely interested in the New York newspaper which Guild offered them and which they all appeared to be quite able to read.

  They all got out at Maastricht, where the lantern-lit platform was thronged with soldiers; and, when the train started, the two were alone together once more.

  They had been seated side by side when the officers were occupying the compartment; they remained so when the train rolled out of the station, neither offering to move, perhaps not thinking to move.

  Karen’s Tauchnitz novel lay open on her lap, her eyes brooded over the pages, but the light was very dim and presently she lay back, resting her arm on the upholstered window ledge.

  Guild had been sitting so very still beside her that she suspected he was asleep. And when she was sure of it she permitted herself closer scrutiny of his features than she had ever ventured.

  Curiosity was uppermost. To inspect at her leisure a man who had so stirred, so dominated, so ruled and misruled her was most interesting.

  He looked very boyish, she thought, as he lay there — very clear cut and yellow-haired — very kind — except for the rather square contour of the chin. But the mouth had relaxed from its sternly quiet curve into pleasant lines.

  One hand lay on his knees; it was clenched; the other rested inert on the cushioned seat beside her, listless, harmless.

  Was that the hand of iron that had closed around her shoulders, pinning both her arms helpless? Were these the hands that had mastered her without effort — the hands which had taken what they chose to take, gently violent, unhurried, methodical and inexorable?

  How was it that her swift hatred had not endured in the wake of this insolent outrage? Never before had a hand been laid on her in violence — not even in reproof. How was it that she had endured this? Every womanly instinct had been outraged. How was it that she was enduring it still? — acquiescing in this man’s presence here in the same compartment with her — close beside her? She had resented the humiliation. She resented it still, fiercely — when she remembered it. Why didn’t she remember it more frequently? Why didn’t she think of it every time she looked at him? What was the trouble with her anger that she seemed to forget so often that she had ever been angry?

  Was she spiritless? Had his violence then crippled her pride forever? Was this endurance, this submission, this tacit condoning of an unforgivable offense to continue?

  There was colour in her cheeks now as she sat there gazing at him and remembering her wrongs, and industriously fanning the rather sickly flames of her wrath into something resembling a reasonable glow.

  But more fuel seemed to be needed for that; the mental search for it seemed to require a slight effort. But she made it and found her fuel — and a brighter colour stained her face.

  Dared he lay hands on her again! What did his recent threat mean? He was aware that she had sewed the papers to her clothing. What did he mean by warning her that he would take them by violence again if necessary? It was unthinkable! inconceivable! She shivered unconsciously and cast a rather scared glance at him — this man was not a Hun! She was no Sabine! The era of Pluto and Proserpine had perhaps been comprehensible considering the times — even picturesque, if the galleries of Europe correctly reflected the episode. But such things were not done in 1914.

  They were not only not done but the mere menace of them was monstrous — unbelievably brutal. She needed more fuel, caught her breath, and cast about for it to stoke the flames before her flushed cheeks could cool.

  And to think — to think that she, Karen, was actually at that moment wearing his orchids — here at her breast! Her gloved hand clenched and she made a gesture as though to tear the blossoms from her person.... And did not.... They were so delicate, so fresh, so fragrant.... After all the flowers were innocent. It was not these lovely, scented little things she should scorn and punish but the man — this man here asleep beside her ——

  Her heart almost ceased for a moment; he moved, opened his eyes, and lay looking at her, his lids still heavy with sleep.

  “You are horribly tired — aren’t you?” she faltered, looking into his worn face which two days’ lack of sleep had made haggard.

  He nodded, watching her.

  “I’ll move across the way and let you stretch out,” he said.

  “No — you need not.”

  “You look dead tired.”

  “I couldn’t sleep that way. You — need not — move.”

  He nodded; his eyes closed. After he had been asleep a little while, watching him, she wondered what he might be dreaming, for a ghost of a smile edged his lips.

  Then, sleeping, his arm moved, encircled her, drew her shoulder against his. And she found herself yielding, guided, relaxing, assenting, until her cheek lay against his shoulder, resting there. And after a while her eyes closed.

  The fuel had given out. After a little while the last spark died. And she slept.

  CHAPTER XIV

  HER ENEMY

  The dim light fell on them where they slept seated upright, unconscious, swaying as the car swayed. Unseen forests swept past on either side under a dark sky set with stars; low mountains loomed in the night, little rivers sparkled under trestles for a second and vanished in the dull roar of the rushing train.

  The man, sunk back against the upholstered seat, lay as though dead.

  But after a while the girl dreamed. It was the frontier toward which they were rushing through the night — a broad white road running between meadows set with flowers, such as she had often seen.

  Two painted sentry boxes stood on either side of the boundary; the one on her side was empty, but in the other she realized that her enemy was on guard, hidden, watching her.

  She desired to cross. In all her life never had she so longed for anything as she longed to cross that still, sunny, flower-bordered frontier.

  She dared not. Her enemy stood hidden, armed, watching her from within that painted sentry box. She knew it. She was afraid. She knew that her enemy would step out with weapon levelled and challenge her the instant she set foot across that flowering frontier. She was afraid of his challenge, afraid even to learn what her enemy might look like.

  Yet she must cross. Something had to be done — something had to be done while the sun was shining and the breeze in the meadow set the flowers all swaying. She looked desperately at the silent sentry box. Nothing moved. Yet she knew her enemy was watching her.

  Then, frightened, she set one foot across the line — took one more step, very timidly.

  “Halt! Who goes there?”

  She knew it — she knew it! It had come — it had happened to her at last!

  “F-friend!” she faltered— “but I do not know the countersign.”

  “Pass, friend, without the countersign!”

  Could she believe her ears!

  She listened again, her hand resting against her heart. But she only heard a child laughing inside the sentry box, and the smothered ruffle of preening wings.

  Her dream partly awoke her; she lay very still, vaguely conscious of where her cheek was resting, then closed her eyes to seek her enemy again among her dreams.

  CHAPTER XV

  IN CONFIDENCE

  They awoke with a light shining in their eyes; the guard stood on the running rail, one hand on the knob of the
door.

  “The frontier,” he said. “Descend if you please for the customs, and kindly have your papers ready.”

  The girl’s blue eyes were sleepy and humorous as she rested her hand on his arm to rise.

  “Are we ever to have a good night’s sleep again?” she murmured as he aided her to descend in the lantern-lit darkness.

  “It’s our punishment,” he said.

  “For what, please?”

  “For ever doubting each other.”

  She said nothing. A soldier picked up their luggage and carried it across the platform where another train stood waiting.

  And all at once Guild realized that the soldiers around the station and custom-house were not Belgians but Germans. He had forgotten that, and it gave him a distinct shock.

  As he and Karen, following the soldier, entered the long room in the custom-house, an officer all in sea-grey from the shrouded spike on his helmet to his ankles came forward and saluted; and Guild coolly lifted his cap.

  “Have I by chance the honour of addressing Herr Guild?” asked the officer.

  “I am Herr Guild.”

  “And — gnädiges Fräulein?” — at salute and very rigid.

  “Fräulein Girard.”

  “The gracious young lady has credentials? — a ring, perhaps?”

  Karen drew off her glove, slipped the ring from her finger. A soldier held up a lantern; the lieutenant adjusted a single eye-glass, scrutinized the ring, returned it with a tight-waisted bow.

  “Papers in order!” he said, turning to the customs officials. “Pass that luggage without inspection!”

  He was very polite. He escorted them to the Belgian train, found an empty compartment for them, thanked them with empressement, and retired into the darkness which had hatched him.

  As the train started Karen said in a low voice: “Would you care to call that officer a barbarian, Kervyn?”

  “You haven’t seen Louvain. But probably that officer has — through his monocle.”