The Belovéd Traitor

by Frank L. Packard

For a moment he stood in the darkness, looking about him, listening. There was nothing—only the ship-sounds—only the confused voices and laughter of the passengers on the deck below—only, faint-borne, the music from the ship's saloon. And then, he crept across the deck to the rail; and, drawing himself back to give his arm full play, he hurled the bundle with all his strength far out over the ship's side—and as he hurled it, in requiem as it were for Jean Laparde, through the night there crashed, and boomed, and moaned, and whined anew the sullen blast of the siren.

It startled him momentarily; but the next instant he stooped and laid the ulster upon the deck beside the rail. It was perhaps fastidious in a suicide to remove his ulster, but the light from his room, when the door was opened, that would shine upon the white paper pinned on the sleeve, would disclose a sufficient motive!

It was done! In all the world now for him there was only one to share his life—a life whose future course he could not see, nor guess; but a life where, greatest of all gifts, most splendid of all splendours, was love. There was but one—only one—and that one out of all the world was she alone who cared for Jean Laparde. And she did not know yet that he was there, that he was going to her, that he would never leave her again—but in a moment she would know! In only another moment now I Ah, he could see the pure, beautiful face shine in welcome with the gladdest light it had ever known; the great eyes, deep, true and fearless, grow dim and misty in their wondrous smile; those lips, divine in contour, lift in tenderest passion to his; her arms stretch out, no more in cruel longing, in bitter emptiness, but stretch out—stretch out to him!

"Marie-Louise! Marie-Louise!"—like a prayer, softly, he breathed her name; and, thrilled, eager, his blood afire, he turned from the rail, and ran to the deck companionway.

Barring a possible encounter with a ship's officer who might stop and question him, he would have little trouble in reaching the steerage deck. He was not obliged to enter any part of the ship's saloons or alley-ways—he had only to descend to the deck below, and from there it was but a half dozen steps to the head of the ladder with its little sign "passengers forbidden" that led directly to the steerage deck. True, it was possible that some of the steerage passengers might notice him descending the ladder, but they would be too far away and it was too dark for them to see his face from any distance; and to them, in any event, unaccustomed to question, it would mean nothing more, if indeed they gave it any thought at all, than some one of the ship's crew in the ordinary performance of his duty.

At the head of the companionway Jean stopped to assure himself that the saloon passengers were still avoiding the wet, unsheltered portion of the deck beneath; and then, descending quickly, he stole across the deck-space below, gained the second ladder, and, boldly now, but with the swift agility born of the fishing days of Bernay-sur-Mer that any seaman might have envied, swung himself down to the steerage deck. And here, almost leisurely, he turned, and, seeking the darkest shadows, and so disappearing from the sight of any of the steerage passengers who, still huddled about the deck, might have noticed him, he stood motionless, close up against the ship's superstructure. It was perhaps an exaggerated precaution; but it would preclude the possibility of any one of them connecting him, when he eventually went amongst them, with the man who had come down the ladder and presumably had disappeared in some, to them mysterious, where all was mysterious, recess of the ship.

His heart was pounding, he could feel the hot blood flush his cheeks, as his eyes strained through the gloom and semi-darkness, searching the deck. Was she still there—somewhere? Surely, surely she had not yet gone below! For then it would be very hard, perhaps impossible, to find her until to-morrow, and he could not wait so long as that; for it was to-night that he was to take Marie-Louise in his arms again, and hold her there, and stand, they two, and look into each other's eyes, glad, beyond any gladness else, in the love that God had given back to them. To-morrow? No! To-night! To-night! It must be to-night! Surely she was still here! Yes—who was that, whose form he could just make out in the darkness at the ship's side far along the deck?

He moved quickly now, still keeping in the shadows, until he reached the side of the ship furthest away from the ladder by which he had descended, and then stepped out across the deck. He passed little knots of people, and voices in strange tongues that he had never heard before fell upon his ears; but he gave them no heed—there was only that figure, alone, apart, toward which he was hurrying. And now—yes—he was sure! Her back was turned, and, as before, she was leaning ever the ship's side, but—yes—yes—it was Marie-Louise!

He halted a yard away from her, trembling with an emotion that brought a strange weakness to his limbs, and reached out his arms—her name quivering, low and passionate, his soul in his voice, upon his lips.

"Marie-Louise!"