Роберт Чамберс - Who Goes There!

"Have you had any news by wireless?" asked Guild.

"A little, sir. They've been fighting all night south of Ostend. Also, we had a wire from London that a German light cruiser, the Schmetterling , is at Valparaiso, and that a Japanese cruiser, the Geisha , and a French one, the Eventail , have been ordered after her."

Guild nodded carelessly, stretched his arms, yawned, and returned to the stateroom, knowing that now, at last, he was in possession of every item in the secret document.

For the Japanese dancing girl was the Geisha , the fan in her hand was the French cruiser Eventail and the butterfly fluttering about her was the German light cruiser Schmetterling —which in that agreeable language means "butterfly," and which no doubt had made an attempt upon the Geisha and had been repulsed.

And this warning was sent that the Schmetterling had better keep her distance, because the Eventail had now joined the Japanese ship, and the two meant mischief.

As for the drawing of the Pike, perhaps on the German naval list there might have been a vessel named the Hecht . He did not know. The symbol of the most ferocious fresh–water fish in Europe was sufficient to indicate the nature of the craft even had the flight of the "birds" not made it unmistakable. There could be no doubt about it that the Hecht with the three little Hechts following had been explicitly invited to cruise in the North Sea and have a look–in at Lough Swilly. And that was quite enough to understand.

He turned on the cabin light, went to Karen's side and looked at her.

She had moved, but only in her sleep apparently. The back of one hand lay across her forehead; her face was turned upward, and on the flushed cheeks there were traces of tears.

But she still slept. He arranged her coverings again, stood gazing at her for a moment more, then he extinguished the light and once more lay down on the bare mattress, using his arm for a pillow.

But sleep eluded him for all his desperate weariness. He thought of Grätz and of Bush and of the wretched woman involved by them and now a prisoner.

The moment he turned over these papers to the British Consul in Amsterdam the death warrant of Grätz and Bush was signed. He knew that. He knew also that the papers in his possession were going to be delivered to British authority. But first he meant to give Grätz and Bush a sporting chance to clear out.

Not because they had aided him. They cared nothing about him. It was Karen they had aided, and their help was given to her because of von Reiter.

No, it was not in him to do the thing that way. Had he been a British officer on duty it had been hard enough to do such a thing.

As it was he must give them their chance and he knew of only one way to do it. This point settled he dismissed it from his mind and, with a slight sigh, permitted his harassed thoughts to lead him where they seemed always now inclined to lead him when permitted—back to the young girl he had known only a few hours, but in whose company it seemed to him that he had already lived a century.

He was not a man given to easy friendships, not a man in whom sensations were easily stirred. Under ordinary circumstances, perhaps, neither the youthful beauty of this girl, nor her talents and accomplishments had stirred him to more than an amiably impersonal interest. He had known many women and had been friends with a few. But on his part the friendships had not been sentimental.

Women of all sorts and conditions he had known: fashionable idlers, professional women, domesticated women; women with ideas, women without them, busy women with leisure for mischief, mischievous women whose business was leisure, happy women, unhappy ones, calm ones, restless ones, clever ones, stupid ones and their even more irritating sisters who promised to amount to something and never did, all these varieties of the species he had known, but never a woman like this.

Usually he could place a woman after seeing her move and hearing her speak. He could only place Karen on a social par with any woman he had ever known, and he was afraid she didn't belong there, because well–born German Mädchens don't interne themselves in nun–like seclusion far from Vaterland, Vater, and maternal apron–strings, with intervals of sallying forth into the world for a few months' diversion as a professional actress on the stage.

At least Guild had never heard of any girls who did such things. But there remained the chance, of course, that Karen Girard was a perfectly new type to him.

One fact was evident; her father was a Prussian officer and belonged to the Prussian aristocracy. But gentlemen of these castes do not permit their daughters the freedom that Karen enjoyed.

There was a mystery about the matter, probably not an agreeable one. Antecedents, conditions and facts did not agree. There was no logic in her situation.

Guild realized this. And at the same time he realized that he had never liked any woman as much—had never come to care for any woman as easily, as naturally, and as quickly as he had come to care for Karen Girard.

It stirred him now to remember that this young girl had responded, frankly, fearlessly, naturally; had even met him more than half–way with a sweet sincerity and confidence that touched him again as he thought of it.

Truly he had never looked into such honest eyes, or into lovelier ones,—two clear, violet wells of light. And Truth, who abides in wells, could not have chosen for her dwelling place habitations more suitable.

She seemed to possess all qualities as well as all accomplishments and graces of mind and body. The quality of courage was hers—a courage adorable in its femininity. But there was nothing hard about it, only firmness—like the white firmness of her skin. And her intuitive generosity was as quick and melting as the exquisite motives which prompted it.

Never could he forget that in the dreadful peril of the moment, she had tried to give him a chance to escape the consequences of his companionship with her,—had tried to send him ashore at the last moment so that she alone might remain to face whatever there was confronting her.

It was a brave thing to do, generous, self–forgetful, merciful, and finely just. For though she had not tried to deceive him she had gradually realized that she herself might be deceived, and that she was in honour bound to warn him concerning her suspicions of the satchel's contents.

And now—in the end—and after danger was practically over, how did they stand, he and she? How had they emerged from the snarl of circumstances?

Had his gentle violence killed forever a very wonderful beginning of what they both had spoken of as friendship? And she—he reddened in the darkness as he remembered—she had begged him in the name of friendship not to violate it—had spoken of it, in the excitement of emotion, as more than friendship.

It had been the most difficult thing he ever had had to do.

Was it true that her friendship had turned to hatred?

He wondered, wondered at the dull unhappiness which the thought brought with it. And, wondering, fell asleep.

In the grey of dawn Karen sat up, wide–eyed, still tremulous from the dream of death that had awakened her.

Through the open port a grey sky glimmered. She rose to her knees and gazed out upon a grey waste of water heaving to the horizon.

Then she turned and looked across at the bed where Guild lay, his blond head cradled on one arm, asleep.

Her eyes rested on him a long while. Then she caught sight of her shoes and spats on the floor—looked down at the blankets and covers that had kept her warm. The next moment her eyes fell on her satchel where it stood open, the key still in the lock, and her silver toilet articles glimmering dully inside.