The Riddle of the Sands
“Father said you would be safe,” she remarked, with decision—a slight
excess of decision, I thought. And at that turned to some rope or block
and pursued her questioning. She found the compass impressive, and the
trappings of that hateful centreboard had a peculiar fascination for
her. Was this the way we did it in England? was her constant query.
Yet, in spite of a superficial freedom, we were all shy and
constrained. The descent below was a welcome diversion, for we should
have been less than human if we had not extracted some spontaneous fun
from the humours of the saloon. I went down first to see about the tea,
leaving them struggling for mutual comprehension over the theory of an
English lifeboat. They soon followed, and I can see her now stooping in
at the doorway, treading delicately, like a kitten, past the
obstructive centreboard to a place on the starboard sofa, then taking
in her surroundings with a timid rapture that broke into delight at all
the primitive arrangements and dingy amenities of our den. She explored
the cavernous recesses of the Rippingille, fingered the duck-guns and
the miscellany in the racks, and peeped into the fo’c’sle with dainty
awe. Everything was a source of merriment, from our cramped attitudes
to the painful deficiency of spoons and the “yachtiness” (there is no
other word to describe it) of the bread, which had been bought at
Bensersiel, and had suffered from incarceration and the climate. This
fact came out, and led to some questions, while we waited for the water
to boil, about the gale and our visit there. The topic, a pregnant one
for us, appeared to have no special significance to her. At the mention
of von Brüning she showed no emotion of any sort; on the contrary, she
went out of her way, from an innocent motive that anyone could have
guessed, to show that she could talk about him with dispassionate
detachment.
“He came to see us when you were here last, didn’t he?” she said to
Davies. “He often comes. He goes with father to Memmert sometimes. You
know about Memmert? They are diving for money out of an old wreck.”
“Yes, we had heard about it.”
“Of course you have. Father is a director of the company, and Commander
von Brüning takes great interest in it; they took me down in a
diving-bell once.”
I murmured, “Indeed!” and Davies sawed laboriously at the bread. She
must have misconstrued our sheepish silence, for she stopped and drew
herself up with just a touch of momentary _hauteur_, utterly lost on
Davies. I could have laughed aloud at this transient little comedy of
errors.
“Did you see any gold?” said Davies at last, with husky solemnity.
Something had to be said or we should defeat our own end; but I let him
say it. He had not my faith in Memmert.
“No, only mud and timber—oh, I forgot——”
“You mustn’t betray the company’s secrets,” I said, laughing;
“Commander von Brüning wouldn’t tell us a word about the gold.”
(“There’s self-denial!” I said to myself.)
“Oh, I don’t think it matters much,” she answered, laughing too. “You
are only visitors.”
“That’s all,” I remarked, demurely. “Just passing travellers.”
“You will stop at Norderney?” she said, with naïve anxiety. “Herr
Davies said——”
I looked to Davies; it was his affair. Fair and square came his answer,
in blunt dog-German.
“Yes, of course, we shall. I should like to see your father again.”
Up to this moment I had been doubtful of his final decision; for ever
since our explanation at Bensersiel I had had the feeling that I was
holding his nose to a very cruel grindstone. This straight word, clear
and direct, beyond anything I had hoped for, brought me to my senses
and showed me that his mind had been working far in advance of mine;
and more, shaping a double purpose that I had never dreamt of.
“My father?” said Fräulein Dollmann; “yes, I am sure he will be very
glad to see you.
There was no conviction in her tone, and her eyes were distant and
troubled.
“He’s not at home now, is he?” I asked.
“How did you know?” (a little maidenly confusion). “Oh, Commander von
Brüning.”
I might have added that it had been clear as daylight all along that
this visit was in the nature of an escapade of which her father might
not approve. I tried to say “I won’t tell,” without words, and may have
succeeded.
“I told Mr Davies when we first met,” she went on. “I expect him back
very soon—to-morrow in fact; he wrote from Amsterdam. He left me at
Hamburg and has been away since. Of course, he will not know your yacht
is back again. I think he expected Mr Davies would stay in the Baltic,
as the season was so late. But—but I am sure he will be glad to see
you.”
“Is the _Medusa_ in harbour?” said Davies.
“Yes; but we are not living on her now. We are at our villa in the
Schwannallée—my stepmother and I, that is.” She added some details, and
Davies gravely pencilled down the address on a leaf of the log-book; a
formality which somehow seemed to regularise the present position.
“We shall be at Norderney to-morrow,” he said.
Meanwhile the kettle was boiling merrily, and I made the tea—cocoa, I
should say, for the menu was changed in deference to our visitor’s
tastes. “This _is_ fun!” she said. And by common consent we abandoned
ourselves, three youthful, hungry mariners, to the enjoyment of this
impromptu picnic. Such a chance might never occur again—_carpamus
diem._
But the banquet was never celebrated. As at Belshazzar’s feast, there
was a writing on the wall; no supernatural inscription, but just a
printed name; an English surname with title and initials, in cheap gilt
lettering on the back of an old book; a silent, sneering witness of our
snug party. The catastrophe came and passed so suddenly that at the
time I had scarcely even an inkling of what caused it; but I know now
that this is how it happened. Our visitor was sitting at the forward
end of the starboard sofa, close to the bulkhead. Davies and I were
opposite her. Across the bulkhead, on a level with our heads, ran the
bookshelf, whose contents, remember, I had carefully straightened only
half an hour ago, little dreaming of the consequence. Some trifle,
probably the logbook which Davies had reached down from the shelf,
called her attention to the rest of our library. While busied with the
cocoa I heard her spelling out some titles, fingering leaves, and
twitting Davies with the little care he took of his books. Suddenly
there was a silence which made me look up, to see a startled and
pitiful change in her. She was staring at Davies with wide eyes and
parted lips, a burning flush mounting on her forehead, and such an
expression on her face as a sleep-walker might wear, who wakes in fear
he knows not where.
Half her mind was far away, labouring to construe some hideous dream of
the past; half was in the present, cringing before some sickening
reality. She remained so for perhaps ten seconds, and then—plucky girl
that she was—she mastered herself, looked deliberately round and up
with a circular glance, strangely in the manner of Davies himself, and
spoke. How late it was, she must be going—her boat was not safe. At the
same time she rose to go, or rather slid herself along the sofa, for
rising was impossible. We sat like mannerless louts, in blank
amazement. Davies at the outset had said, “What’s the matter?” in plain
English, and then relapsed into stupefaction. I recovered myself the
first, and protested in some awkward fashion about the cocoa, the time,
the absence of fog. In trying to answer, her self-possession broke
down, poor child, and her retreat became a blind flight, like that of a
wounded animal, while every sordid circumstance seemed to accentuate
her panic.
She tilted the corner of the table in leaving the sofa and spilt cocoa
over her skirt; she knocked her head with painful force against the
sharp lintel of the doorway, and stumbled on the steps of the ladder. I
was close behind, but when I reached the deck she was already on the
counter hauling up the dinghy. She had even jumped in and laid hands on
the sculls before any check came in her precipitate movements. Now
there occurred to her the patent fact that the dinghy was ours, and
that someone must accompany her to bring it back.
“Davies will row you over,” I said.
“Oh no, thank you,” she stammered. “If you will be so kind, Herr
Carruthers. It is your turn. No, I mean, I want——”
“Go on,” said Davies to me in English.
I stepped into the dinghy and motioned to take the sculls from her. She
seemed not to see me, and pushed off while Davies handed down her
jacket, which she had left in the cabin. Neither of us tried to better
the situation by conventional apologies. It was left to her, at the
last moment, to make a show of excusing herself, an attempt so brave
and yet so wretchedly lame that I tingled all over with hot shame. She
only made matters worse, and Davies interrupted her.
“_Auf Wiedersehen_,” he said, simply.
She shook her head, did not even offer her hand, and pulled away;
Davies turned sharp round and went below.
There was now no muddy Rubicon to obstruct us, for the tide had risen a
good deal, and the sands were covering. I offered again to take the
sculls, but she took no notice and rowed on, so that I was a silent
passenger on the stern seat till we reached her boat, a spruce little
yacht’s gig, built to the native model, with a spoon-bow and tiny
lee-boards. It was already afloat, but riding quite safely to a rope
and a little grapnel, which she proceeded to haul in.
“It was quite safe after all, you see,” I said.
“Yes, but I could not stay. Herr Carruthers, I want to say something to
you.” (I knew it was coming; von Brüning’s warning over again.) “I made
a mistake just now; it is no use your calling on us to-morrow.”
“Why not?”
“You will not see my father.”
“I thought you said he was coming back?”
“Yes, by the morning steamer; but he will be very busy.”
“We can wait. We have several days to spare, and we have to call for
letters anyhow.”
“You must not delay on our account. The weather is very fine at last.
It would be a pity to lose a chance of a smooth voyage to England. The
season——”
“We have no fixed plans. Davies wants to get some shooting.
“My father will be much occupied.”
“We can see _you_.”
I insisted on being obtuse, for though this fencing with an unstrung
girl was hateful work, the quest was at stake. We were going to
Norderney, come what might, and sooner or later we must see Dollmann.
It was no use promising not to. I had given no pledge to von Brüning,
and I would give none to her. The only alternative was to violate the
compact (which the present fiasco had surely weakened), speak out, and
try and make an ally of her. Against her own father? I shrank from the
responsibility and counted the cost of failure—certain failure, to
judge by her conduct. She began to hoist her lugsail in a dazed,
shiftless fashion, while our two boats drifted slowly to leeward.
“Father might not like it,” she said, so low and from such tremulous
lips that I scarcely caught her words. “He does not like foreigners
much. I am afraid . . . he did not want to see Herr Davies again.”
“But I thought——”
“It was wrong of me to come aboard—I suddenly remembered; but I could
not tell Herr Davies.”
“I see,” I answered. “I will tell him.”
“Yes, that he must not come near us.”
“He will understand. I know he will be very sorry, but,” I added,
firmly, “you can trust him implicitly to do the right thing.” And how I
prayed that this would content her! Thank Heaven, it did.
“Yes,” she said, “I am afraid I did not say good-bye to him. You will
do so?” She gave me her hand.
“One thing more,” I added, holding it, “nothing had better be said
about this meeting?”