Kerry (14 page)

Again there came a break in the writing and then:

There was a wider space here and then in words almost indecipherable:

The line was obviously unfinished, and then below written with evident care and great weakness,

K
erry sat quite still. She heard the booming of the waves outside, she heard the monotonous throb of the engine, she heard the soft splashing of her tears as they dropped on the stiff manila envelope in which the letter had been found, but she seemed to hear above it all her father’s voice across the darkness of the valley through which he had passed away from her sight. And his voice in the words she had just read was almost as clear to her ear as the waves beating outside, or as the engine down below, or as her own tears that flowed without her will.

They were arresting words, words that seemed to clear away all earthly restraints, and bring clearer vision.

That her father, who had the years been a devotee of science, and had taught her to think it the final authority, should be suddenly shouting at her from his tomb that he had found in his last hour that there was a greater than science! It was incredible!

Over and over again she read the precious words, thrilling anew at each endearment for herself, wondering if at the gracious humbleness of the scholar! After a little it came to her that she must make a copy of this writing. She must not risk a chance of losing it. Rather that the whole book should be lost than this precious last words!

She got out her typewriter and made a copy, putting it into the envelope. But the original of the letter itself she folded inside a soft bit of linen handkerchief and pinned carefully inside her dress. She would wear it next to her heart at least until she should be in a place where she could put it away more safely.

She found herself longing to show it to McNair. He would understand. He would be pleased. He loved the old Book, too. He believed in it. But she could see the sneer on the face of Dawson if he could read it. He did not believe in the Bible. Only yesterday, at the dinner table she had heard him say to Mrs. Somers, whose husband was professor of biblical literature in a great American university, that in ten years more there would be no such departments in the thoroughly up-to-date universities. He said that even now nobody believed in the Bible except as an out-of-date piece of literature that had occupied a unique position in the world for a most amazing time. He stated in clear caustic tones that the fact that people were getting away from superstitions and dropping off the Bible as a standard of living showed that real education was dawning and the next generation would begin to show a far more highly developed race of beings!

Kerry put her hand over her heart and pressed the soft crackling paper in its sheath of linen, pressed until she could hear her own heart tick with the voice of the paper. It was as if her heart throbs were answering her father’s written words, and promising him her loyalty in whatever he had said.

She had not been brought up to believe, nor yet to disbelieve the Bible. It had been a side issue. And now her father seemed to be pointing the way to a light he had found in the darkness just as the shadows of death were closing in around him. It was significant, too, that this his last word should come into her hands just when her own attention had been so startlingly turned to the subject.

Then she remembered that she had still some work to do on the book. She must follow out this his last direction, and take out all such sentences and words as he had referred to. It would be her last precious work for him and the book.

Blinded with tears, she got out the manuscript and went to work.

She did not have to read the whole thing over. She knew the subject matter so well that she could easily turn to such portions as would need changing. Somehow since reading her father’s last words there was a new thrill in working over the book again. It was as if she had a more vital part in it herself, and as if she were responsible not only to her father but to God for what she was doing.

When lunchtime came she wrapped up the manuscript and tucked it safely in her wooly bag, going down early to the table that she might get settled before the others arrived.

Dawson and McNair came in together, and for the first time she saw the gleam of a boyish smile on Dawson’s face. The PhD importance was for the time laid aside.

“We’re having a big battle,” announced McNair, “a tournament on. You ought all to come and see it! Dawson is one game ahead, but he’s going to lose it this afternoon!”

Kerry looked up in wonder at the chummy tone in which he spoke. He certainly was carrying out his part well. Had he perhaps forgotten all about her little affairs in the interest of the game?

But an instant later he said in a low tone, with a twinkle toward her, “How’s crops?”

“All safely in,” said Kerry in a cheerful little tone.

“Is that right?” he asked without seeming to move his lips or even turn toward her.

“Wonderfully right!” said Kerry jubilantly, as if she were talking about the weather.

“Well, don’t be surprised if you see me buddying up to the PhD,” he said under his breath. “I have a reason.”

The rest of the meal was a jovial one. Almost the entire table had been down watching the tennis during the morning and had much to say about the different plays. It was plain to be seen that Dawson was flattered at the attention he was receiving. He talked a good deal and laughed more in his sharp little cackle.

“Is he a fine player?” asked Kerry, wondering.

“Well, so-so,” said McNair. “Not much on serving, but sly as a fox. You have to watch him! He makes you have to watch him! He makes quick little unexpected movements. Tennis is a good way to size up a man, I find.”

Then McNair turned his attention to the professor’s wife who sat at his right. Kerry sat quietly, saying little. She only of the whole table seemed to have no part in the conversation, because she had not been present at the tournament that morning. By and by, she caught the little sinister eyes of Dawson watching her, keenly, warily, as if searching her face for reason of her silence. At last he spoke to her.

“You don’t play?” he asked, and his voice had a sharp little point to it like a gimlet.

“Yes,” said Kerry, “I used to play in school, but I’m out of practice.”

“Better come out and take a hand in the singles,” he challenged, watching her narrowly.

“Thank you,” said Kerry coolly. “I’m afraid I’m not interested enough.”

After that he said no more to her, but continued to watch her from time to time, and did she fancy it or was there a kind of glitter of triumph in those small black eyes?

She wondered if he had been to his room yet, and discovered his own loss. Probably not, for his air was too carefree for that. Well, she must guard her own countenance, too, and not look too carefree herself. It was just as well to gain all the time possible before he became alarmed on his own account.

So Kerry, when the meal was over, went directly to her room again. She saw the rest troop off cheerfully to meet again at tennis, with a kind of a pang of jealousy. McNair was still talking to the professor’s wife, telling her about some of his experiences in Switzerland, as he walked beside her from the dining room. He did not seem to see Kerry at all. Perhaps this was a part of his plan, but it left a desolate little feeling in her heart that warned her. Still, she excused herself, she had looked forward to telling him about her father’s letter. She had felt he would understand.

Then she caught sight of Dawson hurrying around the table toward her and hastened her steps to walk beside an old lady who sat at the head of the table, and so escaped his companionship. She felt that she wanted to keep as far away from Dawson as possible. He was like a snake. That was it! His eyes were reptile eyes. A reptile was even more repulsive, and far more deadly, than a louse!

She plunged into her work again, however, and forgot all except the joy of what she was doing, the delight in fulfilling her father’s last request.

By dinnertime she had been carefully over the whole manuscript and made the little changes her father had commanded, and she felt everything was ready for the publisher.

She heard footsteps down the corridor that sounded like Dawson’s quick, satisfied walk. She knew that his room was the last one on the corridor, for she had heard the steward and stewardess discussing it that morning. She could hear his weird little sibilant whistle, more like a child’s than a man’s. She wondered if he had discovered that the stolen paper was gone from his drawer, and with it a page or two of his own writing? Probably not. His stride was not that of a worried person. Perhaps he would not think to look after his papers until later in the evening, for it was very close to dinner hour.

Kerry found herself dreading the moment when she should look at him and know that he had discovered his loss. Well, it was inevitable of course. How glad she would be when this voyage was over, and the anxiety past. But yet—would she?

She wanted to ask McNair a lot of questions. She found a great longing in her heart to have a good long talk with him. The realization brought a sharp reproof from her better self. McNair was nothing to her. He must not be anything to her. She must not let her silly lonely fancy twine itself around an imaginary friendship just because a man had been kind to her. Hers was not to be a life of ease and happiness. She had work to do in the world, and must keep her mind clear and free from daydreams. Moreover she was not one of those silly girls who fall in love with any passing stranger. Love and marriage would probably not be for her. She would never find a man she could admire enough to marry who would even look at her, and she must stop being so pleased and interested in this fine man who had crossed her path for a day or two. He lived in a realm miles above her, and his small kindnesses meant absolutely nothing in his life. She positively must put a stop to this unseemly eagerness for his company.

So she dressed for dinner in her same little quiet dark chiffon, perhaps the only woman in the whole ship’s dining room that did not don a different evening garb every night, and went demurely down, her little wooly bag slipped over her arm, and her vivid green shawl trailing brightly over the bag, and redeeming the somber outfit.

McNair did not appear at the table at all while she was there. Dawson came late, and looked as if he had gotten ready for dinner elaborately. He still eyed her furtively with that glitter of triumph in his gaze, and she decided that he had not investigated his papers yet. He seemed to be enjoying his laurels. By the talk that swirled around her in little drifts and eddies, she judged that Dawson had won the tournament but by a very small margin. The ladies were congratulating him, and Dawson was smirking and smiling, and taking it all delightedly, just eating it up. Yes, that was the matter with Dawson; he wanted to be in the limelight. At all odds he meant to be there. And that of course was the secret of his wish to steal her father’s writing, and get himself before the world.

She was quiet again at dinner. For in spite of her great relief that the missing page had come back, and that she had in her possession proof of what the enemy had been going to do; in spite of the great elation that had filled her that morning when she read her dear father’s letter, and while she had been working over this precious writing, she now found herself filled with a great depression. Probably she was tired. Probably so much excitement was bringing a reaction. She had been working too hard. Her brain was in a whirl! She would not own to herself that part of the depression was due to the absence of McNair. She would not allow such a thing in herself. She must not.

She slipped away from the table while the others were still busy with their dessert, and again she felt the gimlet eyes of Dawson upon her as she left, although she did not turn back to see.