CHAPTER III
There was a more assured light in Major Withers' eyes when he nextcame as a visitor into the prison quarters, and the heartiness of hishand clasp was in itself a congratulation.
"The thing was carried up to the president himself," he declared."Washington is sick of you, Spurrier. Because of you miles of red tapehave been snarled up. Departments have worked overtime until thesingle hope of the United States government is that it may never hearof you again. You don't go to prison, after all, my boy."
"You mean I am pardoned?"
Then, remembering that the rose of his bringing carried a sharp thornthe senior proceeded with a note of concern sobering his voice.
"The red tape has not only been tangled because of you--but it hastangled you in its meshes, too, Spurrier. Yes, you are pardoned. Youare as free as I am--but 'in view of the gravely convincing evidence,et cetera, et cetera'--it seems that some sort of compromise wasdeemed necessary."
Spurrier stood where he had risen from his seat and his eyes heldthose of his informant with a blending of inquiry and suspense.
"What sort of compromise, major?"
"You leave the army with a dishonorable discharge. The world is opento you and you've got an equipment for success--but you might aswell recognize from the start that you're riding with a heavyimpost in your saddle clothes, my boy." He paused a moment and then,dropping his race-track metaphor, went hurriedly on: "For myself, Ithink you're guilty or innocent and you ought to be hanged orclean-shriven. I don't get this dubious middle ground of freedom witha tarnished name. It's going to crop up to crab things for you justwhen they hang in the balance, and I'm damned if I can see itsfairness! It will cause men to look askance and to say 'he was savedfrom rope-stretching only by wire-pulling.'"
The major ended somewhat savagely and Spurrier made no answer. He wasgazing out at the patch of blue that blazed hotly through the high,barred window and, seeing there reminders of the bars sinister thatwould henceforth stand between himself and the sky.
The battalion chief interrupted the long pause to suggest:
"The _Empress_ sails on Tuesday. If I were you I'd take passage onher. I suppose you will, won't you?"
"That depends," answered the liberated man hesitantly. "I've got tothank the senator--and, though she hasn't sent me any message, there'sa question to ask a girl."
"It's none of my business, of course, Spurrier," came the advisingvoice quietly. "But the Beverlys have engaged passage on the_Empress_. If I were you, I'd drop a formal note of gratitude andleave the rest until you meet them aboard."
After a moment's thought the other nodded. "I'll follow thatsuggestion. It may be less embarrassing for--them."
"The other fellows are going to send a sort of a hamper down to theboat. There won't be any cards, but you'll know that a spirit ofGodspeed goes with the stirrup cup."
For an instant Spurrier looked puzzled and the major, whose note ofembarrassment had been growing until it seemed to choke him, nowspluttered and sought to bury his confusion under a forced paroxysm ofcoughing.
Then impulsively he thrust out his hand and gripped that of the man ofwhom just now he could remember only gallant things; soldierlyqualities and gently bred charm.
"In a fashion, Jack, you must shake hands with all of them through me.I come as their proxy. They can't give you a blowout, you know. Theycan't even come to see you off. I can say what I like now. The papersaren't signed up yet, but afterward--well, you know! Damn it, I forgetthe exact words that the Articles of War employ--about an officer whogoes out--this way."
"Don't bother, major. I get your meaning." Spurrier took the profferedhand in both his own. "No officer can give me social recognition. Ibelieve the official words are that I shall be 'deemed ignominious.'Tell the boys I understand."
On the sailing day John Spurrier, whose engagingly bold eyes had notyet learned to evade the challenge of any glance, timed his arrival onboard almost as surreptitiously as a stowaway. It was from behind theclosed door of his own stateroom that he listened to the deckcommotion of laughter and leave-taking and heard, when the whistle hadshrieked its warning to shore-going visitors, the grind of anchorchain on winch and windlass.
That evening he dined in an inconspicuous corner by arrangement withthe dining-saloon steward, and bolted his meal with nervous haste.
From afar, as he had stood in a companionway, he had glimpsed apanama-hatted girl--a girl who did not see him, and who had shown onlybetween the shifting heads and shoulders of the crowd. He could nothave told even had he been closer whether her gloved left hand stillwore upon its third finger the ring that he had put there--beforethings had happened.
He must face the issue of questioning her and being questioned, and hehoped that he might have his first meeting with her alone--free fromthe gaze of other eyes that would torture him, and perhaps mortifyher.
So when the moon had risen and the band had begun its evening concerthe slipped out on deck and took up his station alone at the sternrail. It was not entirely dark even here, but the light was mercifullytempered, and upon the promenaders he turned his back, remaining in aseclusion from which, with sidewise glances, he appraised each figurethat drifted by.
Once his eyes encountered those of a tall and elderly gentleman inuniform upon whose shoulder straps glittered the brigadier's singlestar.
For an instant Spurrier forgot the sadly altered color of his statusand his hand, answering to instinct, rose in salute, while his lipsparted in a smile.
But the older man, who fortunately was alone, after an embarrassedinstant went on, pretending an absent-mindedness that ignored thesalutation. Spurrier could feel that the general was scarcely morecomfortable than himself.
Slowly, at length, he left his outlook over the phosphorescent wakeand drifted isolatedly about the decks, giving preference to the spotswhere the shadows lay heaviest. But when his wandering brought himagain to the place he had abandoned at the stern, he found that it hadbeen preempted by another. A figure stood there alone and so quietthat at first he hardly distinguished it as separate from the blackcontour of a capstan.
But with the realization he recognized a panama hat, from under whosebrim escaped a breeze-stirred strand of dark hair, and promptly hestepped to the rail, his rubber-soled shoes making no sound.
The girl did not hear him, nor did she, as he found himselfreflecting, feel his presence as lovers do in romances, and turn togreet him before he announced himself. But as she stood there in theshadow, with moonlight and starlight around her, his pulses quickenedwith an insupportable commotion of mingled hope and fear.
Her beauty was that of the aristocrat. It was this patrician qualitywhich had first challenged his interest in her and answered to his owninordinate pride of self-confidence.
He had liked the lightness with which her small feet trod the earthand the prideful tilt of her exquisitely modeled chin.
After all, he had known her only a short time--and now he realizedthat he did not know her well: certainly not well enough to estimatewith any surety how they would meet again, after an interval which hadtarnished the name that had come to him from two generations ofaccrued distinction.
He bent forward, and, in a low voice, spoke her name, and she turnedwithout a start so that she stood looking into his eyes.
"I suppose you know," he began, and for once he spoke withoutself-assurance, "that I didn't hunt you out sooner because I wanted tospare you embarrassment. I knew you were sailing by this boat--and soI took it, too."
She nodded her head, but remained silent. Her eyes met his andlingered, but they were like curtained windows and told him nothing.It was as if she wished to let him pitch the plane of their meetingwithout interference, and he was grateful.
"I don't suppose," he began, forcing himself to speak with forthrightdirectness, "I need protest my innocence to you--and I don't suppose Ineed confess that the stigma will stick to me--that in--somequarters--it will mean ostracism. I wanted to meet you the first
timealone as much for your sake as my own."
"I know----" she agreed faintly, but there was no rush of confidence,of sympathy that thought only of the black situation in which hestood.
"I know, too," he went on with the same steadiness, "that but for yourfather's efforts I should have had to spend the rest of my life inprison. Above all, I know that your father made those efforts becauseyou ordained it."
"It was too horrible," she whispered with a little shudder. "It wasinconceivable."
"It still is," he reminded her. "There is a question, then, to beasked--a question for you to answer."
The girl's hands dropped on the rail and her fingers tightened as hereyes, deeply pained, went off across the wake. She seemed unable tohelp him, unable to do more than give back monosyllabic responses tothe things he said.
"Of course, I can't assume that the promise you gave me--before allthis--still stands, unless you can ratify it. I'm the same man, yetquite a different man."
At last she turned, and he saw that her lashes were wet with tears.
"Some day," she suggested almost pleadingly, "some day surely you willbe able to clear your name--now that you're free to give yourself toit."
He shook his head, "That is going to be the purpose of my life," heanswered. "But God only knows----"
"When you have done that," she impetuously exclaimed, "come back tome. I'll wait."
But Spurrier shook his head and stiffened a little, not indignantly,but painfully, and his face grew paler than it had yet been.
"That is generous of you," he said slowly. "That is the best I had theright to hope for--but it's not enough. It would be a false positionfor you--with a mortgage of doubt on your future. I've got to facethis thing nakedly. I've got to depend only on those people who don'tneed proof--who simply know that I must be innocent of--of _this_because it would be impossible for me to be guilty of it--people," headded, his voice rising with just a moment's betrayal of boyishpassion, "who will take the seeming facts, just as they are, and stillsay, 'Damn the facts!'"
"Can I do that?" She asked the question honestly, with eyes in whichsincere tears glistened, and at last words came in freshet volume."Can I ignore the fact that father is in public life, where hisaffairs and those of his family are public property? You know he istalked of as presidential timber. Can I ask him to move heaven andearth to give you back your liberty--and then have his critics saythat it was all for a member of his own family--a private use ofpublic power?"
"Then you want your promise back?" he demanded quietly.
Suddenly the girl carried her hands to her face, a face all thelovelier for its distress. "I don't--know what--I want," she gasped.
Her lover stood looking down at her, and his temples grew coldly moistwhere the veins stood out.
"If you don't know what you want, dear, I know one thing that youcan't do," he said. "Under these circumstances, your only chance ofhappiness would lie in your wanting one thing so much that the restwouldn't count." He paused, and then he, too, moved aside and stoodwith her, leaning on the rail while in the phosphorescent play of thewater and the broken reflections of the low-hung stars he seemed tofind a sort of anodyne.
"I said that what you offered was the most I had the right to hopefor. That was true. Your father's objections are legitimate. I owe youboth more than I can ever pay--but I won't add to that debt."
"I thought," said the girl miserably, "that I loved you--enough foranything. The shock of all this--has made my mind swirl so thatnow--I'm not sure of anything."
"Yes," he said dully, "I understand."
Yet perhaps what he understood, or thought he understood, just thenwas either more or less than implied in the deferential compliance ofhis voice. This girl had given her promise to an officer and agentleman with two generations of gallant army record behind him and apromising future ahead. She was talking now to one who, in the wordsof the Articles of War was neither an officer nor a gentleman and whohad been saved from life imprisonment only by influence of her ownimportuning.
Her own distress of mind and incertitude were so palpable and patheticthat the man had spoken with apology in his voice, because through himshe had been forced into her dilemma. Yet, until now, he had beenyoung enough and naive enough to believe in certain tenets ofromance--and, in romance, a woman who really loved a man would not beweighing at such a time her father's aspirations toward the WhiteHouse. In romance, even had he been as guilty as perdition, he wouldhave stood in her eyes, incapable of crime. Palpably life and romancefollowed variant laws and, for a bitter moment, Spurrier wished thatthe senator had kept hands off, and left him to his fate.
He had heard the senator himself characterized as a man cold-bloodedlyambitious and contemptuous of others and, having seen only the genialside of that prominent gentleman, he had resentfully denied suchstatements and made mental comment of the calumny that attaches tocelebrity.
Yet, Spurrier argued to himself, the girl was right. Quite probably ifhe had a sister similarly placed, he would be seeking to show her theneed of curbing impulse with common sense.
From a steamer chair off somewhere at their backs came a low peal oflaughter, and the orchestra was busy with a fox trot. For perhaps fiveminutes neither of them spoke again, but at last the girl twisted thering from her finger. At least her loyalty had kept it there until shecould remove it in his presence. She handed it to him and he turned itthis way and that. The moonlight teased from its setting a jet of coldradiance.
Then Spurrier tossed it outward and watched the white arc of itsbright vanishing. He heard a muffled sob and saw the girl turn andstart toward the companionway door. Instinctively he took a stepforward following, then halted and stood where he was.
Later, Spurrier forced himself toward the smoke room where alreadyunder cigar and cigarette smoke, poker and bridge games were inprogress, and where in little groups those men who were not playingdiscussed the topics of East and West. He was following no urge ofpersonal fancy in entering that place, but rather obeying a resolutionhe had made out there on deck. Now that he had asked his question andhad his answer there was nothing from which he could afford to hide.He knew that he came heralded by the advance agency of gossip and thatit behooved him from the start to meet and give back glance forglance: to declare by his bearing that he had no intention ofskulking, and no apologies to make.
Yet, having reached the entrance from the deck, he hesitated, andwhile he still stood, with his back to the lighted door of the smokeroom, he reeled under a sudden impact and was thrown against the rail.Recovering himself with an exclamation of anger, Spurrier foundhimself confronting a man rising from his knees, whose awkwardness hadcaused the collision.
But the stumbling person having regained his feet, stood seeminglyshaken by his fall, and after a moment, during which Spurrier eyed himwith hostile silence, exclaimed:
"Plunger Spurrier!"
"That is not my name, sir," retorted the ex-officer hotly. "And it'snot one that I care to have strangers employ."
The man drew back a step, and the light from the doorway fell across aface a little beyond middle age; showing a broad forehead and stronglychiseled features upon which sat an expression of directness andforce.
"My apology is, at least, as ready as was my exclamation," declaredthe stranger in a pleasant voice that disarmed hostility. "The termwas not meant offensively. I saw you at Oakland one day when a racewas run, and I've heard certain qualities of yours yarned about atmess tables in the East. I ask your pardon."
"It's granted," acceded Spurrier of necessity. "And since you've heardof me, you doubtless know enough to make allowances for my shorttemper and excuse it."
"I _have_ heard your story," admitted the other man frankly. "My nameis Snowdon. It's just possible you may have heard of me, too."
"You're not Snowdon the engineer: the Panama Canal man, the Chineserailway builder, are you?"
"I had a hand in those enterprises," was the answer, and with a slightbow the gentleman went his
way.
The spot where the two men had stood talking was far enough aft tolook down on the space one deck lower and one degree farther astern,where, as through a well space, showed the meaner life of thesteerage. There was a light third-class list on this voyage, and whenSpurrier moved out of the obscurity which had been thrown over him bythe life boat's shadow, he stood gazing idly down on an emptyprospect. He gazed with an interest too moodily self-centered for easyinciting.
He himself stood now clear shown under the frosted globe of anoverhead light and, after a little, roused to a tepid curiosity, hefancied he could make out what seemed to be a human figure that clungto the blackest of the shadows below him.
He even fancied that in that lower darkness he caught the momentarydull glint of metal reflecting some half light, and an impression offurtive movement struck in upon him. But after a moment's scrutiny,which failed to clarify the picture, he decided that his imaginationhad invented the vague shape out of nothing more tangible than shadow.If there had been a man there he seemed to have dissolved now.
So Spurrier turned away.
Had his eyes possessed a nearer kinship to those of the cat, which canread the dark, he would have altered his course of action from thatinstant forward. He would, first, have gone to the captain anddemanded permission to search the steerage for an ex-private of theinfantry company that had lately been his own; a private against whosename on the muster roll stood the entry: "Dead or deserted."
Yet when he turned on his heel and passed from the lighted area heunconsciously walked out of range of a revolver aimed at hisbreast--thereby temporarily settling for the man who fingered thetrigger his question, "to shoot or not to shoot."
For Private Grant, a fleeing deserter, convalescent from fever andlunacy, had been casting up the chances of his own life just then anddebating the dangers and advantages of letting Spurrier live.Recognizing his former officer as he himself looked out of his hiding,his first impulse had been one of panic terror and in Spurrier he hadseen a pursuer.
The finger had twitched nervously on the trigger--then while hewavered in decision the other had calmly walked out of range. Now, ifhe kept out of sight until they reached Frisco, the deserter toldhimself, a larger territory would spread itself for his escape thanthe confines of a steamer, and he belonged to a race that can bide itstime.