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A Woman Intervenes

R >> Robert Barr >> A Woman Intervenes




'Yes, Miss Brewster. I don't think anyone could misunderstand you.'

'Well, I am glad of that, because one can never tell how thickheaded some
people may be.'

'Do you think there is any parallel between your case and Mr.
Wentworth's?'

'Of course I do. We were each sent to do a certain piece of work. We
each did our work. We have both been offered a bribe to cheat our
employers of the fruits of our labour; only in my case it is very much
worse than in Wentworth's, because his employers would not have suffered,
while mine will.'

'This is all very plausible, Miss Brewster, but now allow me to tell you
that what you have done is a most dishonourable thing, and that you are a
disgrace to our common womanhood. You have managed, during a very short
acquaintance, to win the confidence of a man--there is a kind of woman
who knows how to do that: I thank Heaven I am not of that class; I prefer
to belong to the class you have just now been reviling. Some men have an
inherent respect for all women; Mr. Wentworth is apparently one of those,
and, while he was on his guard with a man, he was not on his guard with a
woman. You took advantage of that and you managed to secure certain
information which you knew he would never have given you if he had
thought it was to be published. You stole that information just as
disreputably as that man stole the documents from Mr. Kenyon's pocket.
_You_ talk of your honour and your truth when you did such a contemptible
thing! _You_ prate of unbribeableness, when the only method possible is
adopted of making you do what is right and just and honest! Your conduct
makes me ashamed of being a woman. A thoroughly bad woman I can
understand, but not a woman like you, who trade on the fact that you
_are_ a woman, and that you are pretty, and that you have a pleasing
manner. You use those qualities as a thief or a counterfeiter would use
the peculiar talents God had given him. How dare you pretend for a moment
that your case is similar to Mr. Wentworth's? Mr. Wentworth is an
honourable man, engaged in an honourable business; as for you and your
business, I have no words to express my contempt for both. Picking
pockets is reputable compared with such work.'

Edith Longworth was now standing up, her face flushed and her hands
clenched. She spoke with a vehemence which she very much regretted when
she thought of the circumstance afterwards; but her chagrin and
disappointment at failure, where she had a moment before been sure of
success, overcame her. Her opponent stood before her, angry and pale. At
first Edith Longworth thought she was going to strike her, but if any
such idea passed through the brain of the journalist, she thought better
of it. For a few moments neither spoke, then Jennie Brewster said, in a
voice of unnatural calmness:

'You are quite welcome to your opinion of me, Miss Longworth, and I
presume I am entitled to my opinion of Kenyon and Wentworth. They are
two fools, and you are a third in thinking you can control the actions of
a woman where two young men have failed. Do you think for a moment I
would grant to you, a woman of a class I hate, what I would not grant to
a man like Wentworth? They say there is no fool like an old fool, but it
should be said that there is no fool like a young woman who has had
everything her own way in this world. You are----'

'I shall not stay and listen to your abuse. I wish to have nothing more
to do with you.'

'Oh, yes! you will stay,' cried the other, placing her back against the
door. '_You_ came here at your own pleasure; you will leave at mine. I
will tell you more truth in five minutes than you ever heard in your life
before. I will tell you, in the first place, that my business is quite as
honourable as Kenyon's or Wentworth's. What does Kenyon do but try to get
information about mines which other people are vitally interested in
keeping from him? What does Wentworth do but ferret about among accounts
like a detective trying to find out what other people are endeavouring to
conceal? What is the whole mining business but one vast swindle, whose
worst enemy is the press? No wonder anyone connected with mining fears
publicity. If your father has made a million out of mines, he has made it
simply by swindling unfortunate victims. I do my business my way, and
your two friends do theirs in their way. Of the two, I consider my
vocation much the more upright. Now that you have heard what I have to
say, you may go, and let me tell you that I never wish to see you or
speak with you again.'

'Thank you for your permission to go. I am sure I cordially echo your
wish that we may never meet again. I may say, however, that I am sorry I
spoke to you in the way I did. It is, of course, impossible for you to
look on the matter from my point of view, just as it is impossible for me
to look upon it from yours. Nevertheless, I wish you would forget what I
said, and think over the matter a little more, and if you see your way to
accepting my offer it will be always open to you. Should you forego the
sending of that cablegram, I will willingly pay you three times what the
_New York Argus_ will give you for it. I do not offer that as a bribe; I
merely offer it so that you will not suffer from doing what I believe to
be a just action. It seems to me a great pity that two young men should
have to endure a serious check to their own business advancement because
one of them was foolish enough to confide in a woman in whom he
believed.'

Edith Longworth was young, and therefore scarcely likely to be a mistress
of diplomacy, but she might have known the last sentence she uttered
spoiled the effect of all that had gone before.

'Really, Miss Longworth, I had some little admiration for you when you
blazed out at me in the way you did; but now, when you coolly repeat
your offer of a bribe, adding one-third to it, all my respect for you
vanishes. You may go and tell those who sent you that nothing under
heaven can prevent that cablegram being sent.'

In saying this, however, Miss Brewster somewhat exceeded her knowledge.
Few of us can foretell what may or may not happen under heaven.




CHAPTER XI.


Edith Longworth went to her state-room and there had what women call 'a
good cry' over her failure. Jennie Brewster continued her writing, every
now and then pausing as she thought, with regret, of some sharp thing she
might have said, which did not occur to her at the time of the interview.
Kenyon spent his time in pacing up and down the deck, hoping for the
reappearance of Miss Longworth--an expectation which, for a time at
least, was the hope deferred which maketh the heart sick. Fleming, the
New York politician, kept the smoking-room merry, listening to the
stories he told. He varied the proceedings by frequently asking everybody
to drink with him, an invitation that met with no general refusal. Old
Mr. Longworth dozed most of his time in his steamer chair. Wentworth, who
still bitterly accused himself of having been a fool, talked with no one,
not even his friend Kenyon. All the time, the great steamship kept
forging along through the reasonably calm water just as if nothing had
happened or was going to happen. There had been one day of rain, and one
night and part of a day of storm. Saturday morning broke, and it was
expected that some time in the night Queenstown would be reached. Early
on Saturday morning the clouds looked lowering, as they have a right to
look near Ireland.

Wentworth, the cause of all the worry, gave Kenyon very little assistance
in the matter that troubled his mind. He was in the habit, when the
subject was referred to, of thrusting his hands into his hair, or
plunging them down into his pockets, and breaking out into language which
was as deplorable as it was expressive. The more Kenyon advised him to be
calm, the less Wentworth followed that advice. As a general thing, he
spent most of his time alone in a very gloomy state of mind. On one
occasion when the genial Fleming slapped him on the shoulder, Wentworth,
to his great astonishment, turned fiercely round and cried:

'If you do that again, sir, I'll knock you down.'

Fleming said afterwards that he was 'completely flabbergasted' by
this--whatever that may mean--and he added that the English in general
were a queer race. It is true that he gathered himself together at the
time and, having laughed a little over the remark, said to Wentworth:

'Come and have a drink; then you'll feel better.'

This invitation Wentworth did not even take the trouble to decline, but
thrust his hands in his pockets once more, and turned his back on the
popular New York politician.

Wentworth summed up the situation to John Kenyon when he said:

'There is no use in our talking or thinking any more about it. We can
simply do nothing. I shall take the whole blame on my shoulders. I am
resolved that you shall not suffer from my indiscretion. Now, don't talk
to me any more about it. I want to forget the wretched business, if
possible.'

So thus it came about quite naturally that John Kenyon, who was a good
deal troubled about the matter, took as his confidante Edith
Longworth, who also betrayed the greatest interest in the problem.
Miss Longworth was left all the more alone because her cousin had
taken permanently to the smoking-room. Someone had introduced him to
the fascinating game of poker, and in the practice of this particular
amusement Mr. William Longworth was now spending a good deal of his
surplus cash, as well as his time.

Jennie Brewster was seldom seen on deck. She applied herself assiduously
to the writing of those brilliant articles which appeared later in the
Sunday edition of the _New York Argus_ under the general title of 'Life
at Sea,' and which have more recently been issued in book form. As
everybody is already aware, her sketches of the genial New York
politician, and also of the taciturn, glum Englishman, are considered the
finest things in the little volume. They have been largely copied as
typical examples of American humour.

When Jennie Brewster did appear on deck, she walked alone up and down the
promenade, with a sort of half-defiant look in her eyes as she passed
Kenyon and Edith Longworth, and she generally encountered them together.

On this particularly eventful Saturday morning, Kenyon and Edith had the
deck to themselves. The conversation naturally turned to the subject
which for the last few days had occupied the minds of both.

'Do you know,' said the girl, 'I have been thinking all along that she
will come to me at the last for the money.'

'I am not at all sure about that,' answered Kenyon.

'I thought she would probably keep us on the tenterhooks just as long
as possible, and then at the last moment come and say she would accept
the offer.'

'If she does,' said Kenyon, 'I would not trust her. I would give her to
understand that a cheque would be handed to her when we were certain the
article had not been used.'

'Do you think that would be a safe way to act if she came and said she
would take the money for not sending the cablegram? Don't you think it
would be better to pay her and trust to her honour?'

Kenyon laughed.

'I do not think I would trust much to her honour.'

'Now, do you know, I have a different opinion of her. I feel sure that if
she said she would do a thing, she _would_ do it.'

'I have no such faith,' answered Kenyon. 'I think, on the contrary, that
she is quite capable of asking you for the money and still sending her
telegram.'

'Well, I doubt if she would do so. I think the girl really believes she
is acting rightly, and imagines she has done a creditable action in a
very smart way. If she were not what she calls "honest," she would not
have shown so much temper as she did. Not but that I gave a deplorable
exhibition of temper myself, for which there was really no excuse.'

'I am sure,' said Kenyon warmly, 'you did nothing of the kind. At all
events, I am certain everything you did was perfectly right; and I know
you were completely justified in anything you said.'

'I wish I could think so.'

'I want to ask you one question,' said Kenyon.

But what that question was will never be known. It was never asked; and
when Edith Longworth inquired about it some time later, the question had
entirely gone from Kenyon's mind. The steamship, which was ploughing
along through the waters, suddenly gave a shiver, as if it were shaken by
an earthquake; there were three tremendous bumps, such as a sledge might
make by going suddenly over logs concealed in the snow. Both Kenyon and
Miss Longworth sprang to their feet. There was a low roar of steam, and
they saw a cloud rise amidships, apparently pouring out of every aperture
through which it could escape. Then there was silence. The engines had
stopped, and the vessel heeled distinctly over to the port side. When
Edith Longworth began to realize the situation, she found herself very
close to Kenyon, clasping his arm with both hands.

'What--what is it?' she cried in alarm.

'Something is wrong,' said Kenyon. 'Nothing serious, I hope. Will you
wait here a moment while I go and see?'

'It is stupid of me,' she answered, releasing his arm; 'but I feel
dreadfully frightened.'

'Perhaps you would rather not be left alone.'

'Oh no, it is all over now; but when the first of those terrible shocks
came it seemed to me we had struck a rock.'

'There are no rocks here,' said Kenyon. 'The day is perfectly clear, and
we are evidently not out of our course. Something has gone wrong with the
machinery, I imagine. Just wait a moment, and I will find out.'

As Kenyon rushed towards the companion-way, he met a sailor hurrying in
the other direction.

'What is the matter?' cried Kenyon.

The sailor gave no answer.

On entering the companion-way door, Kenyon found the place full of steam,
and he ran against an officer.

'What is wrong? Is anything the matter?'

'How should I know?' was the answer, very curtly given. 'Please do not
ask any questions. Everything will be attended to.'

This was scant encouragement. People began crowding up the companion-way,
coughing and wheezing in the steam; and soon the deck, that but a moment
before had been almost without an occupant, was crowded with excited
human beings in all states of dress and undress.

'What is wrong?' was the question on every lip, to which, as yet, there
was no answer. The officers who hurried to and fro were mute, or gave
short and unsatisfactory replies to the inquiries which poured in upon
them. People did not pause to reflect that even an officer could hardly
be expected to know off-hand what the cause of the sudden stoppage of the
engine might be. By-and-by the captain appeared, smiling and bland. He
told them there was no danger. Something had gone amiss with the
machinery, exactly what he could not, at the moment, tell; but
there was no necessity for being panic-stricken, everything would
be all right in a short time if they merely remained calm. These,
and a lot of other nautical lies, which are always told on such
occasions, served to calm the fears of the crowd; and by-and-by one
after another went down to their state-rooms on finding the vessel was
not going to sink immediately. They all appeared some time afterward in
more suitable apparel. The steam which had filled the saloon soon
disappeared, leaving the furniture dripping with warm moisture. Finally,
the loud clang of the breakfast-gong sounded as if nothing had happened,
and that did more, perhaps, than anything else to allay the fears of the
passengers. If breakfast was about to be served, then, of course, things
were not serious. Nevertheless, a great many people that morning had a
very poor appetite for the breakfast served to them. The one blessing, as
everybody said, was that the weather kept so fine and the sea so calm. To
those few who knew anything about disasters at sea, the list of the ship
to the port side was a most serious sign. The majority of the passengers,
however, did not notice it. After breakfast people came up on deck. There
was a wonderful avoidance of hurry, alike by officers and sailors. Orders
were given calmly and quietly, and as calmly and quietly obeyed. Officers
were still up on the bridge, although there were no commands to give to
the man at the wheel and no screw turning. The helmsman stood at the
wheel as if he expected at any time the order to turn it port or
starboard. All this absence of rush had a very soothing effect on the
passengers, many of whom wanted only a slight excuse to become
hysterical. As the day wore on, however, a general feeling of security
seemed to have come upon all on board. They one and all congratulated
themselves on the fact that they had behaved in a most exemplary manner
considering the somewhat alarming circumstances. Nevertheless, those who
watched the captain saw that he swept the long line of the horizon
through his glass every now and then with a good deal of anxiety, and
they noticed on looking at the long level line where sea and sky met
that not a sail was visible around the complete circle. Up from the
engine-room came the clank of hammers, and the opinion was general that,
whatever was amiss with the engine, it was capable of being repaired. One
thing had become certain, there was nothing wrong with the shafts. The
damage, whatever it was, had been to the engine alone. All of the
passengers found themselves more or less affected by the peculiar
sensation of the steamer being at rest--the awe-inspiring and helpless
consciousness of complete silence--after the steady throb they had become
so accustomed to all the way across. That night at dinner the captain
took his place at the head of the table, urbane and courteous, as if
nothing unusual had happened; and the people, who, notwithstanding their
outward calmness, were in a state of anxious tension, noticed this with
gratified feelings.

'What is the matter?' asked a passenger of the captain; 'and what is the
extent of the accident?'

The captain looked down the long table.

'I am afraid,' said he, 'that if I went into technical details you would
not understand them. There was a flaw in one of the rods connected with
the engine. That rod broke, and in breaking it damaged other parts of
the machinery. Doubtless you heard the three thuds which it gave before
the engine was stopped. At present it is impossible to tell how long it
will take to repair the damage. However, even if the accident were
serious, we are right in the track of vessels, and there is no danger.'

This was reassuring; but those who lay awake that night heard the
ominous sound of the pumps, and the swishing of water splashing down
into the ocean.




CHAPTER XII.


Most of the passengers awoke next morning with a bewildering feeling of
vague apprehension. The absence of all motion in the ship, the unusual
and intense silence, had a depressing effect. The engines had not yet
started; that at least was evident. Kenyon was one of the first on deck.
He noticed that the pumps were still working at their full speed, and
that the steamer had still the unexplained list to port. Happily, the
weather continued good, so far as the quietness of the sea was concerned.
A slight drizzle of rain had set in, and the horizon was not many miles
from the ship. There would not be much chance of sighting another liner
while such weather continued.

Before Kenyon had been many minutes on deck, Edith Longworth came up the
companion-way. She approached him with a smile on her face.

'Well,' he said, 'you, at least, do not seem to be suffering any anxiety
because of our situation.'

'Really,' she replied, 'I was not thinking of that at all, but about
something else. Can you not guess what it is?'

'No,' he answered hesitatingly. 'What is it?'

'Have you forgotten that this is Sunday morning?'

'Is it? Of course it is. So far as I am concerned, time seemed to stop
when the engines broke down. But I do not understand why Sunday morning
means anything in particular.'

'Don't you? Well, for a person who has been thinking for the last two or
three days very earnestly on one particular subject, I am astonished at
you. Sunday morning and no land in sight! Reflect for a moment.'

Kenyon's face brightened.

'Ah,' he cried, 'I see what you mean now! Miss Brewster's cable message
will not appear in this morning's _New York Argus_.'

'Of course it will not; and don't you see, also, that when we do arrive
you will have an equal chance in the race. If we get in before next
Sunday, your telegram to the London people will go as quickly as her
cable despatch to New York; thus you will be saved the humiliation of
seeing the substance of your report in the London papers before the
directors see the report itself. It is not much, to be sure, but, still,
it puts you on equal terms; while if we had got into Queenstown last
night that would have been impossible.'

Kenyon laughed.

'Well,' he said, 'for such a result the cause is rather tremendous, isn't
it? It is something like burning down the house to roast the pig!'

Shortly after ten o'clock the atmosphere cleared, and showed in the
distance a steamer, westward bound. The vessel evidently belonged to one
of the great ocean lines. The moment it was sighted there fluttered up to
the masthead a number of signal-flags, and people crowded to the side of
the ship to watch the effect on the outgoing vessel. Minute after minute
passed, but there was no response from the other liner. People watched
her with breathless anxiety, as though their fate depended on her
noticing their signals. Of course, everybody thought she must see them,
but still she steamed westward. A cloud of black smoke came out of her
funnel, and then a long dark trail, like the tail of a comet, floated out
behind; but no notice was taken of the fluttering flags at the masthead.
For more than an hour the steamer was in sight. Then she gradually faded
away into the west, and finally disappeared.

This incident had a depressing effect on the passengers of the disabled
ship. Although every officer had maintained there was no danger, yet the
floating away of that steamer seemed somehow to leave them alone; and
people, after gazing toward the west until not a vestige of her remained
in the horizon, went back to their deck-chairs, feeling more despondent
than ever.

Fleming, however, maintained that if people had to drown, it was just as
well to drown jolly as mournful, and so he invited everybody to take a
drink at his expense--a generous offer, taken instant advantage of by all
the smoking-room frequenters.

'My idea is this,' said Fleming, as he sipped the cocktail which was
brought to him, 'if anything happens, let it happen; if nothing happens,
why, then let nothing happen. There is no use worrying about anything,
especially something we cannot help. Here we are on the ocean in a
disabled vessel--very good; we cannot do anything about it, and so long
as the bar remains open, gentlemen, here's to you!'

And with this cheerful philosophy the New York politician swallowed the
liquor he had paid for.

Still the swish of water from the pumps could be heard, but the metallic
clanking of steel on steel no longer came up from the engine-room. This
in itself was ominous to those who knew. It showed that the engineer had
given up all hope of repairing the damage, whatever it was, and the real
cause of the disaster was as much a mystery as ever. Shortly before lunch
it became evident to people on board the ship that something was about to
be done. The sailors undid the fastenings of one of the large boats, and
swung it out on the davits until it hung over the sea.

Gradually rumour took form, and it became known that one of the officers
and certain of the crew were about to make an attempt to reach the coast
of Ireland and telegraph to Queenstown for tugs to bring the steamer in.
The captain still asserted that there was no danger whatever, and it was
only to prevent delay that this expedient was about to be tried.

'Do you know what they are going to do?' cried Edith Longworth, in a
state of great excitement, to John Kenyon.

Kenyon had been walking the deck with Wentworth, who now had gone below.

'I have heard,' said Kenyon, 'that they intend trying to reach the
coast.'

'Exactly. Now, why should you not send a telegram to your people in
London, and have the reports forwarded at once? The chances are that
Miss Brewster will never think of sending her cablegram with the officer
who is going to make the trip; then you will be a clear day or two ahead
of her, and everything will be all right. In fact, when she understands
what has been done, she probably will not send her own message at all.'

'By George!' cried Kenyon, 'that is a good idea. I will see the mate at
once, and find out whether he will take a telegram.'

He went accordingly, and spoke to the mate about sending a message with
him. The officer said that any passenger who wished to send a telegraphic
message would be at liberty to do so. He would take charge of the
telegrams very gladly. Kenyon went down to his state-room and told
Wentworth what was going to be done. For the first time in several days
George Wentworth exhibited something like energy. He went to the steward
and bought the stamps to put on the telegram, while John Kenyon wrote it.

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