Part 2

I thought this over. Now that the story was plain in my mind, I could easily interpret that short, strange message. But what would I have made of it, seated on a lounge in sight of swiftly moving engines, with the boom of a tempest roaring overhead and only this faintest of glimmers to light up the darkness in the soul of a man who was ruthlessly carrying me to destruction? I shook my head.

Gorham went on composedly:

“At dawn we still had six miles to drag the _Western Pacific_. The line still held, because of Owen’s extraordinary seamanship. That was his hold on his crew. I am convinced that no other man afloat could have kept his men at work as Harry did. And what work!

“The gale had piled up a sea that ran irresistibly from horizon to horizon, which lifted the _Shearwater_ up to dizzy heights, flung her savagely to one side, dropped her into vast hollows that resounded like caverns. And as the vessel disintegrated under our feet, we patched her up. I tell you we labored like men possessed to keep that wretched old packet alive, to keep her going--to keep the steady pull on the hawser that meant safety for those hundreds on the liner. Yet no help came. The carpenter reported three feet of water in the hold, seams opening up in the wooden topsides, beams buckling below under the terrific strain.

“The gale died slowly. At noon it was a breeze; then it shifted to a brisk offshore wind and the _Western Pacific_, as jaunty as ever, signaled she was all right. The wireless reported that within a couple of hours all kinds of assistance would arrive. And before the final cheering message had come our engines suddenly stopped. The _Shearwater_ was sinking, and sinking fast. The pumps were choked; every sea that broached over us poured its tons down into the holds through the shattered decks.

“Harry Owens turned the wheel over to a hand and came out, to see his crew crowding the decks. He gave a brusque order to cast off the hawser and listened quietly to the chief officer and the engineer.

“‘A bad run of sea yet,’ was all he said, and went into his own cabin. I followed him, leaving the officers to get the boats ready for launching. Sheila was still crouched in that great chair, her fingers set into its leather arms. Harry looked at her and remarked very simply, ‘The ship is sinking. We shall have to take to the boats. There is time yet. You’ll find yourself quite comfy on the _Western Pacific_.

“She rose with a single movement. ‘This ship is going down?’ she cried. Then flared up wildly. ‘The only decent ship you ever had, and you let her sink!’

“Harry met her eyes calmly. ‘Poor Sheila!’ he said in a tuneless voice. Then he lighted a cigar and left for the deck, where the crew were sweating about the boats and life rafts. He went to a little group of passengers and told them briefly that he was sending them off to the liner, now riding easily and rather pompously a mile away to the drag of the hawser we had let go. Then he drew me aside.

“‘I shall send you in charge of one of the boats,’ he told me. ‘You will take Sheila with you.’ He twisted his lips into a wry smile. ‘Poor Sheila!’ he croaked.

“I was dumfounded. I scrutinized the man carefully. He was as sober and as collected as we are now. His eyes were steady. A blob of sea broke over the shattered bulwarks and flooded to our knees. He did not notice it.

“‘You saved the _Western Pacific_,’ I said, ‘and you have ruined yourself. Man, man!’

“I was terribly angry with him. Yet he stood in the midst of that tragedy like one who had succeeded, not failed. He dominated us all, a kind of heroic and pitiable figure.

“So we got into the boats--the sea was going down rapidly, and the _Western Pacific_ sent over four boats to help out. Into the last boat we put Sheila, dry eyed, cold, almost, one might say, frozen in her expression. Harry handed her over the broken rail with a kind of gentle compassion. He did not say anything to her. It happened that it was one of the liner’s boats and the mate in charge stared up at Owen expectantly. The _Shearwater_ was almost awash. Still Harry made no movement to get into the boat. Instead, he thrust me in and I found myself seated with Sheila.

“‘Hurry up, sir!’ cried the mate in our boat.

“But Harry shook his head with a firm and determined movement.

“‘Shove off!’ he ordered, and the men obeyed like children. But their officer bawled out, again and again, vainly. Harry Owen stared at us all, rising and falling on the spumy seas, and then turned away and went into his own cabin. As he closed the door the _Shearwater_ dipped her battered bows deeply. A surge overran her. She lurched to starboard, righted herself and slowly went down. She seemed to stop when the water was halfway up the deckhouse and floated a moment, half submerged. I think we all stared at Harry Owen’s door.

“It did not open.

“As I told you, Sheila did not utter a cry; but her fingers were set in my flesh so I had the impression of some one screaming. A moment later the _Shearwater_ vanished.

“In that instant I was enormously puzzled. I had seen a riddle set and staged before my eyes and I had no answer to it. I do not remember the men pulling the lifeboat over to the _Western Pacific_--I recall nothing but the darkness of that tremendous and tragic problem and the incessant pressure of Sheila’s fingers into my arm. But when we reached the liner’s deck, I supporting Sheila, I saw a woman standing in a little recess of the deckhouse. It was Kitty Melrose. She was as lovely and witching as ever, her eyes shining, her lips parted gently.

“How do women know? I cannot tell. But Sheila caught sight of her and thrust through the crowd to her and peered into her beautiful and shining eyes with a kind of terror. Kitty’s expression never changed; she stood there with pearls of spray in her hair and a look of childlike, glorious amazement on her face, which was turned toward the dreary spot where a few bits of wreckage showed above the grave of the _Shearwater_. And do you know what Sheila said?”

Gorham laid his pipe aside and lowered his eyes.

“She said, quite simply, ‘Nobody would ever tell me.’”

He stopped and picked up his pipe again.

“At that moment the skipper of the _Western Pacific_ came bustling along.

“‘Where is Captain Owen?’ he bawled.

“The chief officer of the _Shearwater_ answered that question: ‘With his ship,’ he said in an ugly, injured tone.

“I assure you that that captain, faultlessly dressed, quite magnificent and self-confident, now that his own vessel was safe, hadn’t a word to say. The _Shearwater’s_ engineer turned on him with a snarling, ‘Captain Owen ran his own ship under to save yours.’

“But, while that was the bald truth, I felt no interest in the affair on that side. I was looking at Kitty Melrose. Sheila’s queer, plaintive, ‘Nobody would ever tell me,’ sounded in my ears. In my pocket was that message that Harry had wirelessed across the night before. What would Kitty say? Nothing, of course. She stood remote and fine and composed in a little space surrounded by anxious and curious and respectful men and women. Yet I saw in her gaze, still fixed on the spot amid the tumbling seas where Harry Owen had gone to his death, something”--Gorham fumbled around a bit, scratched a match, blew it out, glanced at me with a gloomy eye, finished his sentence in a voice suddenly husky--“something Harry must have dreamed of seeing.”

“They said he was crazy,” I remarked lifelessly.

“Women drive men mad,” Gorham returned with amazing earnestness. “Harry’s madness was--it was something you and I would give our souls for.”

“I looked down at the flimsy bit of paper on the table, and sighed. It was Owen’s final message. It read:

Miss Katherine Melrose, SS _W. Pacific_. You cannot say no this time. Harry Owen, Master _Shearwater_.

“Yes,” said Gorham slowly, “I saw her hand rest lightly on her bosom and I knew that Harry’s message lay there.”

“But she never answered it!” I cried.

My companion stared at me.

“Oh, yes, she answered it. As such women do. That night she came to my room and said abruptly, ‘They tell me he--Harry--Harry Owen went into his cabin and closed the door.’

“‘That is true,’ I told her.

“‘And he did not open the door again?’ she insisted.

“‘No,’ I said.

“She lifted her bright and luminous eyes to mine and tried to smile, gallantly.

“‘He wouldn’t,’ she said quietly. ‘It was like Harry to close a door--and never open it again.’

“Then she slipped out of my room without a sound.”

[Transcriber’s Note: This story appeared in the October 1922 issue of Ainslee’s magazine.]