The funnel smoke blew low, burying the afterdecks, and a hurricane of scud and spindrift swept everything forward, drenching the plunging steamer to the bridge. Stanchions, davits, hatches were all a-dip, decks a-wash, and the Dutch ensign whipping aloft in a thick grey sky that seemed to speed astern as though in chase of the heaving grey waste of waters that fled away beneath.
Here and there a trawler tossed and rocked; lean, melancholy wanderers on the face of the waters; twice the raking stacks of destroyers, smothered in foam, dashed eastward running full speed on some occult trail twixt sky and sea.
The grey world grew duller, duller; one by one the blinding searchlights on coast-guard ships broke out, sweeping sky and ocean as though in desperate appeal to the God above and in menacing warning to the devils that lurked below.
For they said the North Sea was full of them; legions of them tossed broadcast from the black hell of some human mind. And beneath them, deeper, lying as stillas death on the Channel's floor, waited the human submarines in unseen watery depths—motionless, patient, awaiting the moment to strike.
Night came; the white level glare of searchlights flooded the steamer, lingered, shifted, tossed their dazzling arms heavenward as though imploring the Most High, then swept unseen horizons where the outermost waters curve with the curving globe.
Only one light burned in the stateroom, but the port was not covered.
Karen lay on the bed, unstirring save for a slight tremor of her shoulders now and then. Her brown hair, half loosened, had fallen in thick burnished curls on the pillow; one hand covered her eyes, palm outward. Under it the vivid lips, scarcely parted, rested on each other in a troubled curve.
Guild brooded silently on the lounge under the port. Sometimes his sombre gaze rested on her, sometimes on the locked satchel which had rolled to the side of the bed.
Every time the arrowy beam of light from a warship flooded the cabin with swift white splendour his heart seemed to stop, for the menace of the wireless was always a living dread; and the stopping of a neutral ship and the taking from it of suspects had become a practice too common even to excite comment, let alone protest.
Twice they were stopped; twice Ardoise signals twinkled; but no cutter came alongside, and no officerboarded them. It was an eternity of suspense to Guild, and he stood by the open port, listening, the satchel in his hand ready to fling it out into the turmoil of heaving waters.
The steward came, and Guild ordered something served for them both in the stateroom. Karen had not awakened, but her hand had slipped from her eyes and it lay across the edge of the bed.
On the bridal finger glimmered the plain gold band—his credentials to her from her father.
He went over and looked down into the white, childish face. Faultless, serene, wonderful as a flower it seemed to him. Where the black lashes rested the curve of the cheek was faintly tinted with colour. All else was snowy save for the vivid rose of the scarcely parted lips.
Nineteen!—and all those accomplishments which her dim living-room at Westheath had partly revealed—where books in many languages had silently exposed the mind that required them—where pictures, music—all the unstudied and charming disorder of this young girl's intimate habitation had delicately revealed its tenant.
And what her living-room had foreshadowed was only, after all, but a tinted phantom of the girl he had come to know in the flesh—the real mistress of that dim room quickened to life—a warm, living, breathing reality, low-voiced, blue-eyed, winsome and sweet with the vague fragrance of youth incarnate clinging to her, to every gesture, every movement, every turn of herhead—to her very skirts it seemed—youth, freshness, purity unblemished.
As he stood there he tried to realize that she was German—this young girl with her low and charming English voice and her accentless English speech.
He had listened in vain for any flaw, any indication of alien birth. Nothing betrayed her as a foreigner, except, possibly, a delightfully quaint formality in accepting any service offered. For when he asked her whether she desired this or that, or if he might do this or that for her, always her answer in the affirmative was, "Yes, please," like a little girl who had been carefully taught to respect age. It amused him; for modern English young women are less punctilious with modern youth.
There came a dull clatter of crockery from the passageway; Guild turned and opened the door. The waiter produced a folding table, spread it, and arranged the dishes.
"That will be all," whispered Guild. "Don't knock again; I'll set the tray outside."
So the waiter went away and Guild closed the door again and turned back to the bed where Karen lay. Her delicate brows were now slightly knitted and the troubled curve of her lips hinted again of a slumber not wholly undisturbed by subconscious apprehension.
"Karen," he said in a low voice.
The girl opened her eyes. They had that starry freshness that one sees in the eyes of waking children. For a moment her confused gaze met his without expression,then a hot flush stained her face and she sat up hurriedly. Down tumbled the thick, burnished locks and her hands flew instinctively to twist them up.
"I didn't realize that I had been asleep. Please, will you turn your back"—her glance fell on the table—"I shall be ready in a moment—Kervyn."
"Had I not better give you the place to yourself?"
"Yes, please."
"I'll do a sentry-go in the corridor," he said. "Open the door when you're quite ready."
So he went out and walked up and down until the stateroom door opened and her low voice summoned him.
"I can't eat," she said.
"Do you feel the sea?"
"No"—she smiled faintly—"but the excitement of the day—the anxiety——"
"We'll have some tea, anyway," he said.
They ate a little after all, and the hot and rather vile tea stimulated her. Presently he set tray and table outside in the corridor and came slowly back to where she had gathered herself in a corner of the sofa.
"The sea is rather rough," he said. "You seem to be a good sailor."
"Yes, I am. My father had a yacht and my mother and I always went when he cruised."
This slightest glimpse of personal history—the first she had vouchsafed—the first slight lifting of the curtain which hung between them, aroused his latent curiosity.
What else lay behind that delicate, opaque veil which covered the nineteen years of her? What had been the childhood, the earlier life of this young girl whom he had found living alone with a maid and a single servant at an obscure heath outside of London?
Gently born, gently bred young girls of aristocratic precedents, don't do that sort of thing. Even if they desire to try it, they are not permitted. Also they don't go on the stage, as a rule.
Neither the sign manual, the sign visible of the theatre, nor yet that occult indefinable something characteristic of the footlights appeared to taint her personality.
Talented as she was undoubtedly, cultured and gently nurtured, the sum total of all her experience, her schooling, her development, and her art had resulted only in a charming harmony, not a personality aggressively accented in any single particular. Any drawing-room in any country might have contained this young girl. Homes which possess drawing-rooms breed the self-possession, the serenity, the soft voice, the winsome candour and directness of such girls as she.
She was curled up in the corner of the sofa where he had placed behind her the two pillows from the bed, and her winning blue eyes rested every few minutes upon this young man whom she had known only a few hours and whom she already, in her heart and in her mind, was calling a friend.
She had never had any among young men—never even among older men had she experienced the quietsecurity, the untroubled certainty of such a friendship as had begun now—as had suddenly stepped into her life, new, yet strangely familiar—a friendship that seemed instantly fully developed and satisfactory.
There appeared to be no room for doubt about it, no occasion for waiting, no uncertainty in her mind, no inclination and no thought of the lesser conventionalities which must strew elaborately the path of first acquaintance with the old, old-fashioned garlands—those prim, stiff blossoms of discretion, of propriety, of self-conscious concession to formula and tradition.
No; when her eyes first fell on him her mind and heart seemed to recognize what neither had ever before beheld—a friend. And from that moment the girl had accepted the matter as settled, as far as she herself was concerned. And she had lost very little time in acquainting herself with his views upon the subject.
That he had responded to the friendship she had so naïvely offered did not surprise her. She seemed to have expected it—perhaps in the peril of the moments when they were nearing London and doubt and suspicion in her mind concerning the contents of her satchel were becoming an agony to her as they grew more definite—perhaps even then the sudden and deep sense of gratitude for his response had made courage a new necessity and had armoured her against panic—for friendship's sake.
All she realized in that moment was that this friendship, so sudden, so vital, was already so strong in her,so real, that even in the terror of that instant she thought of the danger to him, and asked him to let her go on alone.
Perhaps they both were thinking of these things—she, curled up in her corner, looking thoughtfully at him; he, knees crossed, gazing restlessly from object to object in the unsteady stateroom, but his eyes always reverting to her.
Then the duet of silence ended for a while. He said: "You must not suppose that I am not keenly alive to the kindness, the fearless generosity you have shown me all through this affair. What you suffered is lodged forever in my mind—and in my heart."
"What you have done for me is in my—heart," she said in her sweetly modulated voice.
"I have done very little——"
"You would not leave me!"
"My own life was forfeit if I did——"
"No! You did not reason that way! Besides, had I managed to get through alone, you should have had your life back again to do with as you pleased. No; you did not reason that way. You stood by a friend in peril—at your own peril."
She drew a deep, tremulous breath. "More than that," she said, "you stood by me when you almost believed I had lied to you—lied shamefully."
"I had my plans ready—in that event," he said, forcing a laugh.
"Youdiddoubt me?"
"Yes."
She bent her head, looked thoughtfully at her hands, which clasped one knee, then, lifting her eyes: "I forgive you," she said gravely.
He flushed: "I did not know you—did not realize—what you are——"
"You were slower than I."
"What?"
"I trustedyou—from the first."
He was silent; she watched him for a few moments, then:
"When you concluded that I had lied to you, what plans had you ready?"
"I had rather not say——"
"Please do."
He bit his lip: "I had decided to take your satchel from you."
"Against my wishes?" she asked, amazed.
"Yes."
There was no resentment, only a childish surprise: "Why?"
"I told you that I am an enemy to your country."
"Yes, I know——"
"I told you that I would not knowingly permit you to take out of England anything which might be detrimental to England's interests. And I made up my mind that if you had deceived me—and although I stood by you—because you are only a young girl—and were in danger from those who make no allowance for youth and sex—nevertheless, as soon as you were in personal safety, I meant to take from you whateveryou had concealed from me and which might have been of service to England's enemies."
"Would you have done that?"
"Yes, if you had been untruthful to me."
She bent her head, thoughtfully; then looking up at him: "Yes; that would have been just.... But I have not been untruthful."
His perplexed and slightly careworn eyes met hers.
"I can't doubt you," he said. "I know you have been truthful. But—whatisin that satchel? Forgive me, Imustask you. Because there is evidently enough there to terrify you at the thought of British eyes inspecting it."
"Kervyn—can't you believe me when I tell you that I don'tknowwhat is in that satchel?"
"Idobelieve you. But tell me what you are afraid it might be."
"I can't—truly I can't tell you. Don't you understand? Don't you realize that I must have promised?"
"Promised?"
"Yes—not to unlock or open the satchel. Ididpromise."
"To whom did you make that promise?" And, as she did not reply: "Was the promise made to anybody I ever met?"
She looked at him in a distressed way, but his face darkened and his determination increased.
"Did you make that promise to a German? An officer? Did you make it to General von Reiter?"
"Yes."
"I see. And therearepapers in that satchel!"
"Yes."
"Where did you get them?"
"From—Mr. Grätz."
"You were accustomed to receive papers from Mr. Grätz?"
"Sometimes."
"At certain intervals?"
"I don't know. Whenever Mr. Grätz telephoned, Anna, my maid, went to London and usually brought back the—the plans."
"Plans!"
"Yes. I understood that they were plans of a new automobile which was being designed by the Edmeston Agency for their Berlin branch. Mr. Grätz mentioned it as the Bauer-Schroeder car."
"To whom were these plans to go, ultimately?"
"I sent them to New York."
"To whom?"
"To Schimmel and Company, Broadway."
"Have you any idea where Schimmel and Company sent those plans?"
"Yes. I never thought much about it then, but today I realized that sooner or later the plans were sent to General von Reiter—in Berlin."
"You are sure?"
"Yes. I saw them when I was there last April. He said that those were the plans which I had sent to Schimmel and Company."
"Yousawthe plans?"
"Yes."
"Were they plans of an automobile?"
"I—thought so then. They were on very thin paper. I supposed them to be drawings of detached machinery in sections. They looked to me like fragments of something."
"And now—in the light of what happened today—what do you believe those drawings represented?"
"I have no idea—really I haven't. Only—" She hesitated, troubled, twisting her fingers on her knees.
"Only—" he prompted her.
She said, with a tremulous intake of breath: "I think I had better tell you, Kervyn. This is what frightened me—what the experience of today seemed to suddenly make plain to me—I mean your coming to Westheath, Mr. Grätz telephoning about obeying you, and informing me of the arrest of my maid—these things, and the war, and what I have read about German spies in England—all this flashed up in my mind at the same time when you turned from the telephone and asked me such terrible questions.
"It made clear to me, or seemed to, something else that I had not understood at the time—" She hesitated, her gaze concentrated as though in an effort to recollect and visualize some scene—
"It was last April, in Berlin.... General Baron von Reiter said something to me as I was waiting for his car to take me to the station—I was departing for England again—and he said—he said——"
"Yes, Karen?"
"He said something about war—the possibility of it. And he said that in case war ever came while I was in England, and if, when it came, I had in my possession any automobile plans from the Edmeston Agency—from Mr. Grätz—that I was to bring them with me to Germany—not to show them to anybody, not to send them by mail, but to bring them back and deliver them to him."
"Yes, Karen."
"I promised.... He made me promise again. He was very serious. He said that on my obedience in this matter might depend the lives of many people. I had no idea what he meant by that—until today.... And what I fear has happened is that Anna, who went yesterday to London because Mr. Grätz telephoned, was arrested while in possession of papers delivered to her by Mr. Grätz.... And that these papers werenotwhat I had always supposed. And that is why I was suddenly afraid—afraid—Oh, Kervyn!—I cannot describe the fear that leaped up and seized me when you asked me those dreadful questions! Suddenly everything, every detail in the entire matter seemed to grow clear and terrible to me.... I—I went into my dressing-room—and steadied myself against the wall—feeling faint for a moment.
"Then I took from my dressing-table the papers which I had from Anna's last visit to Mr. Grätz. They had remained there in the drawer because I had been told not to mail them, and no word had come for me to go back to Berlin. So I had them on my hands.But until you came I gave them no thought—merely conscious that I had promised to take them back with me.
"But—in that terrible moment when I stood there leaning against the wall, I remembered what was said to me about the lives of many people depending upon my keeping my promise. It was a hideous thing to remember at such a time.... But I could not break my word—for the sake of these imperilled people also—could I, Kervyn?... So I took the papers and locked them in my satchel. And afterward I—Iaskedyou to leave—" Her voice quivered; she bent her head and sat twisting her slim fingers on her lap.
"That is all I know," she faltered—"all I know about it. I have tried to be true to my word, and loyal to—you."
Her emotion was reflected in his own face; he bent forward, laid his hand over her restless fingers.
"Karen," he said, "you are the pluckiest, straightest, whitest woman I ever knew."
"I'm only—honest," she whispered.... "And I want you to think me so."
"I do!—Karen, dearest, sincerest, most fearless of women!"
"Do you believe me—that?"
"Karen, I——"
A sharp knocking at the door cut him short. They looked at each other, startled. At the same moment he realized that the ship had stopped.
"Could it be the stewardess?" she whispered.
"I don't know."
He rose, picked up the satchel and went to the open port.
"If a British guard-ship has stopped us to search us, we can't have this thing found," he said.
She stared at him in frightened silence.
"They may have found those men we tied up and left in your house at Westheath!" he whispered. "A wireless would set a score of warships ready to intercept us. If they board us they must not find that satchel."
The sharp, loud rapping came again.
Guild went to the open port, pushed the satchel through it, leaned out himself. As he did so something brushed his head, and, looking up, he saw a rope's end dangling there.
In an instant he had tied it to the handle of the satchel, stepped back, screwed the heavy glass fast, and then, motioning Karen to fling herself on the bed, he went to the door, opened it, and stood yawning in the face of a ship's officer.
"Don't wake my wife," he said drowsily. "What is the trouble?"
"The trouble is," replied the officer coldly, "that a British cruiser has signalled us to stop, and has asked whether an American named Guild is aboard."
"Well," said Guild coolly, "have you any idea what a casual British cruiser might want ofme?"
"I have not," said the officer, "so perhaps you had better tellmewhat is wanted of yourself and your wife by the captain of that warship. It might save some argument between him and our own captain. We are due in Amsterdam at noon tomorrow," he added meaningly.
"Do you mean to say that the officer in command of this British ship desires to speak to my wife?"
"His signals stopped us and his wireless told us to detain you and your wife."
"What ship is it?" demanded the young man, so nervous now that he scarcely knew what he was saying.
The Dutch officer remained icy and precise: "The ship is the light cruiserWyvern, of the 'Monster' class. Her consorts yonder are theHippogriffandBasalisk—if this information enlightens you, Mr. Guild."
"It does not. But I know this much: You can't detain an American! Neither can that British captaintake a neutral from a neutral ship! And that settles the matter."
"Be good enough to come on deck," said the Hollander in his correct and fluent English. "The captain desires to speak with you."
"Very well. I'll follow you in a moment"—and turning to Karen: "Dearest, are you awake?"
"Yes, dear."
"The captain wishes to see me. I'll be back directly." He stepped out into the corridor, hesitated, excused himself to the officer, and returned to Karen, closing the door and locking it.
She was sitting up on the bed, very still and white, and when he came over to her she instinctively laid both chilled hands in his. He held them in a firm and reassuring clasp; but he was terribly disconcerted.
"Listen, dear. I think a British officer is coming aboard for us. I don't know whether he has any right to take us off this ship, but I'm afraid that the law in the matter won't worry him.
"Now listen to me, dear. If I come back and knock and call to you by name, open. If somebody knocks, and there is no voice—or if it is not my voice, go to that port, open it, untie your satchel, which is hanging outside at a rope's end, take out the papers, and drop them into the sea. And not until you have done this shall you open the door to anybody."
"Yes, Kervyn."
"Then," he said, "if we've got to go back to England on a warship, we'll go clean-handed."
"Yes."
"And you had better take these passports, too." He drew them from his breast pocket. "They're forged. Throw them out with the other papers."
"Yes, I will."
"Then—I'm going.... Don't worry—dear. Don't tremble so, Karen—dear Karen——"
"I'll try not to. I'll not be cowardly. It—it has been a long—day.... I'm thinking of Anna, too. You know, if she had any papers, she was bringing them to me. That will be against me."
"I forgot that," he said, appalled. Then he squared his shoulders and forced a smile: "Anyway, whatever faces you faces usboth!... Dear—keep every atom of courage you have. I shall stand by you, always. But I must go now. Do you promise me to keep up courage?"
"Yes—dear——"
They were excited, their every nerve now stretched to the breaking, yet both were striving for self-control in the instant menace of this new peril confronting them. Neither knew just what they said or did; he bent over her; she lifted her face to his, closing her eyes as his lips touched her forehead. Then he went away swiftly, and she sprang to the floor and locked the stateroom door. The next moment the awful flare of a searchlight turned the room to a pit of silvery fire, and she cringed against the bed under the fierce white glory, covering her bloodless face with both hands.
On deck, the Dutch captain, who was awaiting Guildat the companionway, came forward hastily and drew him aside.
"They've boarded us already," he said; "there comes their lieutenant over the side. Tell me, Mr. Guild, are your papers in order and your conscience clear? Can I make a fight over this affair?"
"I have no papers, but my conscience is in order. Don't let them take us if you can help it."
"You have no papers?"
"None that can help me or my wife."
"Then it's no use fighting."
"Fight all the same!" whispered Guild, as they both turned to meet the young naval officer who had just stepped aboard. He and the Dutch captain exchanged civilities stiffly, then Guild stepped forward into the lantern light.
"Kervyn Guild!" exclaimed the slim young officer in surprise. "Is ityou!"
"Jamison!" ejaculated Guild, astonished. "Well this is lucky! I'm tremendously glad! I am indeed!"
They exchanged a warm impulsive hand-clasp, smiled at each other—then the quick smile on the youthful lieutenant's features altered, and his face fell.
"Guild," he said soberly, "I am afraid I shall have to inconvenience you and—your wife. I'm afraid I shall have to ask you to come aboard theWyvernwith me. I'm sorry; I know it must inconvenience you fearfully——"
"Jamison! Wecan'tgo aboard your ship! What on earth are you thinking of?"
"Orders," returned the young fellow gravely. "I've no discretion, you see."
As by common consent they had stepped aside from the group of ships' officers and, standing in the shadow of a lifeboat, they now gazed at each other very seriously.
Guild said: "There must be some mistake about this. I have no wife on board this boat."
"Did you not board this boat in company with your wife?" asked Jamison in a low voice.
"No."
"Our information is otherwise."
"Jamison, you know whether I am likely to lie to you. And I say to you on my word of honour that I did not come aboard this boat with my wife."
"Is she not on board?"
"She is not."
Jamison said regretfully: "No good, old fellow. We know she is not your wife. But we want her. I think you had better prepare her to come with us."
"Jamison, will you listen to me and believe me?"
"Yes, of course."
"Then, on my word of honour, the woman you have come to take from this ship is absolutely innocent of any—intentional—crime."
"I take your word for it, Guild."
"You can guessmysentiments in regard to this war, can't you?" insisted Guild.
"I think I can."
"Then listen, Jamison. I pledge you my word thatthrough this young girl, and through me, nothing shall ever happen that could in any manner be detrimental to your country or its allies. Don't press this matter, for God's sake!"
"Guild," he said quietly, "I believe you absolutely. But—both you and this young lady must come aboard theWyvernwith me. Those are my orders, old fellow. I can't go back on them; I have no discretion in this matter. You know that, don't you?"
"Yes."
After a silence, Guild linked his arm in the gold-laced arm of his old-time friend and walked back to where the captain stood fidgeting.
"I won't go, Jamison," he said, loudly but pleasantly. "I am not obliged to go aboard your ship. Captain Vandervelde, I claim the protection of your flag for myself and for my wife."
"Captain Vandervelde knows that it means only trouble for him," said Jamison, forcing a smile. "He is not likely to defy theWyvern, I think."
They all turned in the sudden glitter of theWyvern'ssearchlight and gazed across the darkness where the unseen cruiser was playing on them from stem to stern.
"Will you come with me, Guild?" asked Jamison quietly.
"No, Jamison, I'm hanged if I do.... And that's too close to the truth to be very funny," he added, laughingly.
"TheWyvernwill merely send a guard for you. It's no good bluffing, Guild. You know it yourself."
"International law is no bluff!"
"International law is merely in process of evolution just now. It's in the making. And we are making it."
"That remark is very British."
"Yes, I'm afraid it is. I'm sorry."
"Well, I won't go aboard theWyvern, I tell you. I'vegotto stay on this ship! I—" he leaned over and said under his breath—"it may mean death to me, Jamison, to go aboard your ship. Not because of anything I have to fear fromyourpeople. On the contrary. But they'll shoot me in Germany. Can't you tell your captain I'm trustworthy?"
"What is the use, Guild?" said the young man gently. "I have my orders."
Guild looked at him, looked about him at the grave faces of the captain and the second officer, looked out across the black void of water where the long beam of the searchlight had shifted skyward, as though supplicating Heaven once more.
Only a miracle could save Karen. He knew that as he stood there, silent, with death in his heart.
And the miracle happened. For, as he stood staring at the heavenward beam of the unseen cruiser's searchlight, all at once the ship herself became grotesquely visible, tilted up oddly out of the sea in the centre of a dull reddish glow. The next instant a deadened boom sounded across the night as though from infinite depths; a shaft of fire two hundred feet high streamed skyward.
"That ship has been torpedoed! Oh, my God!" said a voice.
"TheWyvernhas hit a mine!" roared the Dutch captain. "I'm going to get out of thisnow!"
Jamison's youthful face was marble; he swayed slightly where he stood. The next instant he was over the side like a cat, and Guild heard him hailing his boat in an agonized voice which broke with a dry, boyish sob.
From everywhere out of the blackness searchlights stretched out tremulous phantom arms toward theWyvern, and their slender white beams crossed and recrossed each other, focussing on the stricken warship, which was already down by the stern, her after deck awash, and that infernal red glow surrounding her like the glow of hell around a soul in torment.
Passengers, seamen, stewards crowded and crushed him to the rail, shouting, struggling, crying out in terror or in pity.
Guild caught an officer by his gold sleeve. "We ought to stand by her," he said mechanically. "Her magazine is afire!"
"There are boats a-plenty to look after her," returned the officer; "the British destroyers are all around her like chicks about a dying hen. She's their parent ship; and there go their boats, pulling hell for sweeps! God! If it was a mine, I wish we were at Amsterdam, I do!"
The steamer was already under way; electric signals sparkled from her; signals were sparkling everywhere in the darkness around them. And all the while the cruiser with her mortal wound, enveloped in her redaura, agonized there in the horrible sombre radiance of her own burning vitals.
Far away in the black void a ship began to fire star-shells.
As the awed throng on the moving liner's decks gazed out across the night, the doomed cruiser split slowly amidships, visibly, showing the vivid crack of her scarlet, jagged wound. For a second or two she fairly vomited hell-fire; lay there spouting it out in great crimson gouts; then she crashed skyward into incandescent fragments like a single gigantic bomb, and thunderous blackness blotted out sea and sky once more.
He knocked sharply at the stateroom door and called, "Karen! It is I! Open!"
She flung open the door, satchel in hand, and he entered, closed the door, relocked it, and dropped down on the lounge, staring at space.
"Kervyn! What is it?" she asked faintly, one hand against her breast.
"It is all right," he said—"as far as we are concerned—for the present, anyway. God! I can't realize it—I can't get over it——"
"What, Kervyn?" she faltered, kneeling on the lounge beside the half dazed man. "What happened? Why are you so ghastly pale? Are we really quite safe? Or are you trying to make it easier for me——"
"No; you and I are safe enough for the moment," he said. "But men are dying out yonder. The sea is full of dead men, Karen. And—I saw it all."
"I heard guns. What has happened?"
"I don't know. It was a mine perhaps, perhaps a torpedo. A ship has been blown up." He lifted his head and turned to her: "But you are not to say sucha thing to anybody—after I leave you at Trois Fontaines."
"No, Kervyn."
"Not to anybody. Not even to your father. Do you understand me, Karen?"
"No. But I won't tell anybody."
"Because," he explained wearily, "the Admiralty may have reasons for concealing it. If they mean to conceal it, this ship of ours will be stopped again and held for a while in some French or British port."
"Why?"
"So that the passengers cannot talk about what they saw tonight."
His haunted glance fell on the satchel at their feet. "As for that," he said, "I've had enough of it, and I'll take no further chances. Where are our passports?"
"Locked in with the other papers. I was all ready to throw them out of the port when you knocked."
"Unlock the bag now. I'll get rid of the whole business," he said bluntly.
"Kervyn—I can't do that."
"What?" he exclaimed.
"I can't destroy those papers if there is a chance of getting through with them. I gave my promise, you know."
The dull surprise in his eyes changed gradually to impatience.
"If another ship stops us, they'll have to go overboard, anyway."
"We may not be stopped again. If we are, we have time."
"Karen."
"Yes—dear?"
A slight flush came into his haggard face; he hesitated, looked up at her where she was kneeling on the sofa beside him. "Dear," he said gently, "I have never intended that you should carry those papers to your father, or to anybody else."
"I don't quite understand you."
"Try to understand. I am a friend to England—even a closer friend to—Belgium."
"I know. But you aremyfriend, too."
"Devotedly, Karen." He took hold of her hand; she slipped down to the sofa and settled there beside him with a little air of confidence which touched and troubled him.
"Iamyour friend," he said. "But there is another friendship that demands first of all the settlement of prior obligations. And, if these obligations conflict with any others, the others must give way, Karen."
"What do you mean?"
"The obligations of friendship—of—of affection—these must give way before a duty more imperative."
"What duty?"
"Allegiance."
"To—whom?"
"To the country in which my race had its origin."
"Yes.... But America is neutral, Kervyn."
"I mean—Belgium," he said in a low voice.
"Belgium! Are you then Belgian?" she asked, amazed.
"When Belgium is in trouble—yes."
"How can you be loyal to two countries?"
"By being loyal to my own manhood—and to the God who made me," he answered in a low voice.
"You feel so deeply about this war?"
"Nothing on earth could stir me as deeply, Karen. Unless—America were in danger."
"I—I can't understand."
"Let me help you. My family was Belgian. For many years we have been good and loyal Americans. America means home. But, nevertheless, we inherit obligations toward the country of our origin which, so far, time has not extinguished.... When I became of military age I went to Belgium and served my time in the Belgian army. Then I went—home. My father did it before me. My grandfather before him. My younger brother will do it, God willing. It is our custom to fulfill our obligations," he added with a faint smile, "even when those obligations seem to others a trifle fanciful and old-fashioned."
She bent her fair head in silence, considering for a space, her hand resting rather lifelessly in his. And, after a few moments: "But how does all this interfere with our friendship?" she asked innocently.
"It does not.... Only I could not let you take those papers to Germany, Karen."
"But I've promised."
"You promised to do it if it were possible." Helifted her hand to his lips. "But—it has become impossible, Karen."
"Another ship may not interfere."
"No. But I must—interfere."
"You!Kervyn!"
"Dear—Imust."
"Betrayme?"
"Karen! Karen! What are you saying?"
"If you take my papers away you betray our friendship!"
"I have told you that there is a higher obligation than friendship. Evenyourfriendship, Karen."
"You—you mean to take my papers from me?"
"Yes, dear."
"By—byviolence?"
"Karen! Look at me!"
She gave him a white, breathless glance, wrenched her hand from his, stooped suddenly, seized the satchel, and, gathering it against her breast, clasped both arms around it. Then she looked him straight in the eyes.
"Yes," he said, "that is the only way. You must keep your word to the last and do your best. Only—remember that what I do now has no bearing whatever upon our friendship. I—I care for you—at this moment—more than I ever did. So—forgive me—Karen——"
"I never shall! Kervyn! Kervyn—think what you are doing!——"
He encircled her with his left arm, and with his right hand he gathered both of her slender wrists in his graspand held them. The satchel rolled from her knees to the floor.
"Kervyn!" she cried, "think what you are doing!" She looked up into his set face where he held her crushed against his shoulder. "I am your friend. Think what you are doing! I—I care—so much—for you!"
"And I for you, Karen.... Is that the key around your neck on that blue ribbon?"
"You shall not have it. Oh, Kervyn! Kervyn!" she gasped—"what are you doing to our friendship! What are you doing!"