The Black Bag - Louis Joseph Vance (best reads of all time txt) 📗

a strange

land. A week ago,—had he known her then,—he had been free to tell her of

his love, to offer her the protection of his name as well as his devotion;

to-day he was an all but penniless vagabond, and there could be no dishonor

deeper than to let her know the nature of his heart’s desire.

 

Was ever lover hedged from a declaration to his mistress by circumstances

so hateful, so untoward! He could have raged and railed against his fate

like any madman. For he desired her greatly, and she was very lovely in his

sight. If her night’s rest had been broken and but a mockery, she showed

few signs of it; the faint, wan complexion of fatigue seemed only to

enhance the beauty of her maidenhood; her lips were as fresh and desirous

as the dewy petals of a crimson rose; beneath her eyes soft shadows lurked

where her lashes lay tremulous upon her cheeks of satin…. She was to him

of all created things the most wonderful, the most desirable.

 

The temptation of his longing seemed more than he could long withstand. But

resist he must, or part for ever with any title to her consideration—or

his own. He shut his teeth and knotted his brows in a transport of desire

to touch, if only with his finger-tips, the woven wonder of her hair.

 

And thus she saw him, when, without warning, she awoke.

 

Bewilderment at first informed the wide brown eyes; then, as their

drowsiness vanished, a little laughter, a little tender mirth.

 

“Good morning, Sir Knight of the Somber Countenance!” she cried, standing

up. “Am I so utterly disreputable that you find it necessary to frown on me

so darkly?”

 

He shook his head, smiling.

 

“I know I’m a fright,” she asserted vigorously, shaking out the folds of

her pleated skirt. “And as for my hat, it will never be on straight—but

then you wouldn’t know.”

 

“It seems all right,” he replied vacantly.

 

“Then please to try to look a little happier, since you find me quite

presentable.”

 

“I do…”

 

Without lifting her bended head, she looked up, laughing, not ill-pleased.

“You’d say so… really?”

 

Commonplace enough, this banter, this pitiful endeavor to be oblivious of

their common misery; but like the look she gave him, her words rang in his

head like potent fumes of wine. He turned away, utterly disconcerted for

the time, knowing only that he must overcome his weakness.

 

Far down the railway tracks there rose a murmuring, that waxed to a

rumbling roar. A passing porter answered Kirkwood’s inquiry: it was the

night boat-train from Ostend. He picked up their bags and drew the girl

into the waiting-room, troubled by a sickening foreboding.

 

Through the window they watched the train roll in and stop.

 

Among others, alighted, smirking, the unspeakable Hobbs.

 

He lifted his hat and bowed jauntily to the waiting-room window, making it

plain that his keen eyes had discovered them instantly.

 

Kirkwood’s heart sank with the hopelessness of it all. If the railway

directorates of Europe conspired against them, what chance had they? If the

night boat-train from Ostend had only had the decency to be twenty-five

minutes late, instead of arriving promptly on the minute of 4:45 they two

might have escaped by the 5:09 for Dunkerque and Calais.

 

There remained but a single untried ruse in his bag of tricks; mercifully

it might suffice.

 

“Miss Calendar,” said Kirkwood from his heart, “just as soon as I get you

home, safe and sound, I am going to take a day off, hunt up that little

villain, and flay him alive. In the meantime, I forgot to dine last night,

and am reminded that we had better forage for breakfast.”

 

Hobbs dogged them at a safe distance while they sallied forth and in a

neighboring street discovered an early-bird bakery. Here they were able to

purchase rolls steaming from the oven, fresh pats of golden butter wrapped

in clean lettuce leaves, and milk in twin bottles; all of which they

prosaically carried with them back to the station, lacking leisure as they

did to partake of the food before train-time.

 

Without attempting concealment (Hobbs, he knew, was eavesdropping round the

corner of the door) Kirkwood purchased at the ticket-window passages on

the Dunkerque train. Mr. Hobbs promptly flattered him by imitation; and

so jealous of his luck was Kirkwood by this time grown, through continual

disappointment, that he did not even let the girl into his plans until they

were aboard the 5:09, in a compartment all to themselves. Then, having with

his own eyes seen Mr. Hobbs dodge into the third compartment in the rear of

the same carriage, Kirkwood astonished the girl by requesting her to follow

him; and together they left by the door opposite that by which they had

entered.

 

The engine was running up and down a scale of staccato snorts, in

preparation for the race, and the cars were on the edge of moving,

couplings clanking, wheels a-groan, ere Mr. Hobbs condescended to join them

between the tracks.

 

Wearily, disheartened, Kirkwood reopened the door, flung the bags in, and

helped the girl back into their despised compartment; the quicker route to

England via Ostend was now out of the question. As for himself, he waited

for a brace of seconds, eying wickedly the ubiquitous Hobbs, who had popped

back into his compartment, but stood ready to pop out again on the least

encouragement. In the meantime he was pleased to shake a friendly foot at

Mr. Kirkwood, thrusting that member out through the half-open door.

 

Only the timely departure of the train, compelling him to rejoin Dorothy at

once, if at all, prevented the American from adding murder to the already

noteworthy catalogue of his high crimes and misdemeanors.

 

Their simple meal, consumed to the ultimate drop and crumb while the

Dunkerque train meandered serenely through a sunny, smiling Flemish

countryside, somewhat revived their jaded spirits. After all, they were

young, enviably dowered with youth’s exuberant elasticity of mood; the

world was bright in the dawning, the night had fled leaving naught but an

evil memory; best of all things, they were together: tacitly they were

agreed that somehow the future would take care of itself and all be well

with them.

 

For a time they laughed and chattered, pretending that the present held no

cares or troubles; but soon the girl, nestling her head in a corner of the

dingy cushions, was smiling ever more drowsily on Kirkwood; and presently

she slept in good earnest, the warm blood ebbing and flowing beneath

the exquisite texture of her cheeks, the ghost of an unconscious smile

quivering about the sensitive scarlet mouth, the breeze through the open

window at her side wantoning at will in the sunlit witchery of her hair.

And Kirkwood, worn with sleepless watching, dwelt in longing upon the dear

innocent allure of her until the ache in his heart had grown well-nigh

insupportable; then instinctively turned his gaze upwards, searching his

heart, reading the faith and desire of it, so that at length knowledge and

understanding came to him, of his weakness and strength and the clean love

that he bore for her, and gladdened he sat dreaming in waking the same

clear dreams that modeled her unconscious lips secretly for laughter and

the joy of living.

 

When Dunkerque halted their progress, they were obliged to alight and

change cars,—Hobbs a discreetly sinister shadow at the end of the

platform.

 

By schedule they were to arrive in Calais about the middle of the forenoon,

with a wait of three hours to be bridged before the departure of the Dover

packet. That would be an anxious time; the prospect of it rendered both

Dorothy and Kirkwood doubly anxious throughout this final stage of their

flight. In three hours anything could happen, or be brought about. Neither

could forget that it was quite within the bounds of possibilities for

Calendar to be awaiting them in Calais. Presuming that Hobbs had been acute

enough to guess their plans and advise his employer by telegraph, the

latter could readily have anticipated their arrival, whether by sea in the

brigantine, or by land, taking the direct route via Brussels and Lille. If

such proved to be the case, it were scarcely sensible to count upon the

arch-adventurer contenting himself with a waiting r�le like Hobbs’.

 

With such unhappy apprehensions for a stimulant, between them the man and

the girl contrived a make-shift counter-stratagem; or it were more accurate

to say that Kirkwood proposed it, while Dorothy rejected, disputed, and

at length accepted it, albeit with sad misgivings. For it involved a

separation that might not prove temporary.

 

Together they could never escape the surveillance of Mr. Hobbs; parted, he

would be obliged to follow one or the other. The task of misleading the

Alethea’s mate, Kirkwood undertook, delegating to the girl the duty of

escaping when he could provide her the opportunity, of keeping under

cover until the hour of sailing, and then proceeding to England, with the

gladstone bag, alone if Kirkwood was unable, or thought it inadvisable, to

join her on the boat.

 

In furtherance of this design, a majority of the girl’s belongings were

transferred from her traveling bag to Kirkwood’s, the gladstone taking

their place; and the young man provided her with voluminous instructions, a

revolver which she did not know how to handle and declared she would never

use for any consideration, and enough money to pay for her accommodation at

the Terminus H�tel, near the pier, and for two passages to London. It was

agreed that she should secure the steamer booking, lest Kirkwood be delayed

until the last moment.

 

These arrangements concluded, the pair of blessed idiots sat steeped in

melancholy silence, avoiding each other’s eyes, until the train drew in at

the Gare Centrale, Calais.

 

In profound silence, too, they left their compartment and passed through

the station, into the quiet, sun-drenched streets of the seaport,—Hobbs

hovering solicitously in the offing.

 

Without comment or visible relief of mind they were aware that their fears

had been without apparent foundation; they saw no sign of Calendar, Stryker

or Mulready. The circumstance, however, counted for nothing; one or all of

the adventurers might arrive in Calais at any minute.

 

Momentarily more miserable as the time of parting drew nearer, dumb with

unhappiness, they turned aside from the main thoroughfares of the city,

leaving the business section, and gained the sleepier side streets,

bordered by the residences of the proletariat, where for blocks none but

children were to be seen, and of them but few—quaint, sober little bodies

playing almost noiselessly in their dooryards.

 

At length Kirkwood spoke.

 

“Let’s make it the corner,” he said, without looking at the girl. “It’s a

short block to the next street. You hurry to the Terminus and lock yourself

in your room. Have the management book both passages; don’t run the risk of

going to the pier yourself. I’ll make things interesting for Mr. Hobbs, and

join you as soon as I can, if I can.”

 

“You must,” replied the girl. “I shan’t go without you.”

 

“But, Dor—Miss Calendar!” he exclaimed, aghast.

 

“I don’t care—I know I agreed,” she declared mutinously. “But I won’t—I

can’t. Remember I shall wait for you.”

 

“But—but perhaps—”

 

“If you have to stay, it will be because there’s danger—won’t it? And

what would you think of me if I deserted you then, af-after all y-you’ve

done?… Please don’t waste time arguing. Whether you come at one to-day,

to-morrow, or a week from to-morrow, I shall be waiting…. You may be

sure. Good-by.”

 

They had turned the corner,