So Spurrier sailed and, having arrived on European soil, took up the work that threw him into relations with men of large caliber in Capel Court and Threadneedle Street. His mission carried him to the continent as well; from Paris to Brussels and from Brussels to Hamburg and Berlin, where the quaint customs of the Kentucky Cumberlands seemed as remote as the life of Mars—remote but, to Spurrier, as alluring as the thought of salvation to a recluse who has foresworn the things of earth.
In terms of dead reckoning, Berlin is as far from Hemlock Mountain as Hemlock Mountain is from Berlin, but in terms of human relations Glory felt the distance as infinitely greater than did her husband. To him the Atlantic was only an ocean three thousand miles wide; often crossed and discounted by familiarity. To her it was a measureless waste separating all she knew from another world. To him continental dimensions were reckoned in hours of commonplace railway journeying, but to her the “measured mile” 270 was both lengthwise and perpendicular, and when she passed old friends she fancied that she detected in their glances either pity for her desertion or the smirk of “I-told-you-so” malevolence.
It even crept to her ears that “some folks” spoke of her as “the widder Spurrier” and that Tassie Plumford had chuckled, “I reckon he’s done gone off an’ left her fer good an’ all this time. Folks says he’s fled away cl’ar acrost ther ocean-sea.”
Glory told herself that she had promised faith and that she was in no danger of faltering, but as the weeks lengthened into months and the months followed each other, her waiting became bitter.
In Berlin John Spurrier passed as a British subject, bearing British passports. That had been part of the careful plan to prevent discovery of what American interests he represented and it had proven effective. He had almost accomplished the difficult task of self-redemption, set him by the man whose confidence he had strained.
Then came the bolt out of heaven. The inconceivable suddenness of the war cloud belched and broke, but he remained confident that he would have a chance to finish up before the paralysis cramped bourse and exchange.
England would not come in, and he, the seeming British subject, would have safe conduct out of Germany.
Now he must get back. This would mean the soaring of oil prices, and along new lines the battle must be pitched back there at home, before it was too late.
So Spurrier finished his packing. He was going out 271 onto the streets to watch the upflame of the war spirit and to make railway reservations.
There was a knock at the door and the man opened it. Stiffly erect, stood a squad of military police and stiffly their lieutenant saluted.