Who Goes There!

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 quiet security, 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.

"You did doubt 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 trusted you– 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.