The French liner, bearing Lew Alban, docked in New York at noon of this day. Lew, having been exceedingly seasick, greeted Art Slengel rather listlessly and received, with no enthusiasm whatever, invitation to a party that night. He went to his apartment and did not encourage Art to linger, after having paid for the cab.
Lew slept for a couple of hours, and as the recuperation from seasickness is remarkable for its rapidity and completeness, he awoke greatly refreshed. He felt hollow, and, not having enterprised with food recently, he experimented with coffee and grapefruit with such reassuring results that he decided to dine, satisfyingly, a little later—and he did not want to dine alone.
His fancy flitted from girl to girl of those whom he might summon or Art send to him. None of them met his mood of the day; they seemed coarse, too bold and eager. His memory of them displeased him; he had come from Paris.
A face and a figure, never coarse, never bold or eager and very, very pleasing to him lay in Lew's reverie; moreover, there was a matter of doubt whether, if summoned, she would come to him. No harm trying.
Lew phoned Ralph Armiston's office and her voice replied, pleasantly exciting him. "This is Miss Powell?" he formally inquired, to make sure of 'her, and she recognized him.
"I'm back," he said. "Is there anything particularly for my attention to-day?"
Ellen was alone, except for the girl who assisted her. Mr. Armiston and Jay both were out and either might, or might not, return to the office. They were working on Howarth.
They had endeavored, earlier, to get in touch with Lew but had been put off, she knew; and she knew very well that neither expected anything of him. Moreover, it was plain, at Lew's immediate, careful inquiry for herself, that this was a personal call with personal implications.
"We've several things that have been waiting for you," Ellen replied, not consciously preparing what she said.
"Do you want to bring them over to me to-day?"
"Yes," said Ellen.
"I am not at my office. I didn't go to the office. You remember my home address?"
"Yes."
"Will you bring those matters to me here?"
Ellen could not quickly reply; she had to gather herself. "At once," she said; then she did not permit herself to delay to think. She bundled into an envelope several papers for him, scarcely selecting them. He was in no hurry for these, she knew. She put on her hat and coat and went down to the street.
There was wind and it was colder; in the west, and especially in the northwest, it was much colder. "Men on the Mast Freezing," proclaimed the black newsheads of the papers. Ellen bought one and, forgetting Lew, she stepped into a vestibule to spread and read it. Cold had come over Lake Superior; Ellen knew what that meant!
The men on the mast could not be seen to move, except one who kept his arms free and seemed to be beating at his comrades, in their lashings, to arouse them. It was clear weather—clear except for the spray flying before the gale. The wind, for all the prayers—and in the little church at Brebeuf, there was constant praying—did not diminish.
The Gilbert Ramsay, convinced of the utter hopelessness of giving aid, had gone on, but the Donagon and Loring and two other steamers, tossing far out in deep water, did not desert the dying men on the mast. The ships could do nothing but at least they could stand by. The crowd on the shore could do nothing but light fires for the freezing men, on the mast, to see.
Ellen read and, reading, she saw it as none of the others, stopping to spread and read, could see. Tightness drew in her throat so that it hurt her. She bundled the newspaper under her arm. What was this big envelope? Oh, yes; for Mr. Alban—Lew Alban who had sent for her.
She stepped to the curb and entered a cab, for she was shaking so; she gave Lew's address, after a moment's thought, for she had forgotten it.
Lew saw her pay off the cab. He lived on the third floor and he had been watching from the window, and the sight of her, even on the walk, pleased him. She hadn't the clothes and furs of other girls but she had a trimness, a slenderness and delicacy unmistakable and appreciated by Lew three floors up. He was very glad that just now he had put off Slengel again.
He opened his door for her, and when he had closed it behind her, she dropped the envelope and the newspaper from under her arm.
"You were very quick," he complimented her.
"I came as soon as I could," said Ellen, and her fright, before facing him, was fled. He looked sick and slack. He was recently shaved, recently dressed, but the trimness of his toilet only accentuated his debility.
"Glad to hear from me?" he asked her.
"Yes," said Ellen.
"You were, eh?" He put his hands on her shoulders, pulling off her coat; he put his hands on her arms and slipped up to her shoulders, grasping her and swaying her slightly. "Did you ever call me before I went away?"
"No."
"Why didn't you?"
Ellen wanted to thrust off his hands but she was not afraid of him. "I didn't," she replied.
"Why?" he persisted, holding her, tightening and relaxing the pressure of his fingers. "You knew I wanted you to."
Ellen permitted his grasp and gazed at him. "You're the only one I called; you're the only one I gave a damn to see, when I landed," he admitted to her, his eyes roving up and down her body.
By her body, she knew, she attracted him, but if it were only that, he would never have sought her so. It was what inhabited her body—it was herself, her soul and spirit which had been keeping him off and defying him, which allured him and which to-day especially tempted him. He had set himself to break the inhabitant of her body and bend her to him; and Ellen was not afraid of him, trying that.
"Are you clear for me to-night?" he demanded of her. Clear? How much did he mean?
She nodded. "I've no engagement."
"I kept clear for you. Slengel is slinging a party but I'll pass him up."
"Will you?" asked Ellen.
Lew kissed her, hugging her to him. "You beat anybody in Paris! . . . What'll we do first?"
Ellen freed herself from him and stepped back over the envelope she had dropped. She stooped quickly and picked it up. "Here's what I brought you."
He took it from her and tossed it away and laughed. She picked up the newspaper. "Seen this?" she spread it before him and he caught her, with an arm about her, and glanced at the type.
"I thought of you right away when I saw it," he said. "I looked for the name of the ship; it wasn't your father's."
"No," said Ellen. "I don't know where father is, since I've been in New York. In Chicago, I always knew."
"You know it's not his ship," repeated Lew; he wanted her to stop thinking about it. "It's not even an ore-vessel." He tried to take the paper away but she clung to it. "You don't think you know any of those men, do you?"
"Not those men," said Ellen. "I don't know the Gant; but I know the place where they are; I can see them."
"So can I," retorted Lew, "but that doesn't do them any good." He possessed himself of the paper, but it had given her a chance to turn their talk. Though he had his arm again about her, she tantalized him with questions—personal questions, indeed, about himself, but about himself far away. She asked him about Paris, about his passage and about the ocean steamer.
He could not return her satisfactorily to her feeling for him—or what he had imagined to be her feeling for him—of their first minutes.
"What's on your mind?" he complained, finally. "Think somebody'll come in?"
"No; but I'm expected at the office."
"Get it off your mind. Kiss me."
"I've got to close it."
"You've got to get into less clothes, too," said Lew, objecting with his hands to her office dress. "We're going to dinner; then I'll dance with you! Dance with you!" he emphasized, kissing her.
She had lied about the office; she did not have to close it; no one had waited for her; no one had known where she had gone. Her little lie, however, helped her to regain the street where she bought another paper and read of the men on the mast. Their situation had not changed; slowly and in the order of their strength, the men must die this night while the world watched them.
Ellen longed to be in the throng on the shore; it would be terrible to stand there, actually seeing and able to do nothing; but the throng about the bonfires, and those going in and out of the little church, were her own people. She longed to stand with her own; she longed for escape from New York this night.
She longed, that meant, to dodge again Lew Alban; but for her, to-night, Lew would "pass up" Slengel; it pleased him to pass up Slengel for her. To-morrow and later—for how much longer, she could not hazard—Lew might prefer her. Ellen reckoned on no impending danger. Even Di, she remembered, for a long time had looked out for herself at parties.
Ellen, in her own room in Washington Square, was returned to the room in her home where she had made the bed upon which Jay had slept, and where she had determined to come to New York to help "hold," as long as she could, Lew Alban.
"This's a slow shop," complained Lew.
"It's early yet," said Ellen.
"Sure," agreed Lew, "but this'll never wake up. We'll move along."
Ellen studied him across the little table at which he had dined and filled himself full. Marvelously, the meal, with its attendant drink, had restored him; his cheeks no longer were slack, his body listless. Banished was the debilitated Lew of a few hours ago. He had slept during the day; now he had eaten and drunk; also he had danced—danced with Ellen, pressing her close to him, danced cheek close to hers, with her little, lithe body under his hand. But the "shop," though of his own choosing, was slow; he arose from the table.
"I like it here," said Ellen.
"I don't." Lew had lost, with his sudden restoration, something of his suavity. He put a hand under her arm and helped her up.
They sampled another dance shop but with only deeper dissatisfaction for Lew. It was early—too early, because Lew had not been willing to wait dinner too long. Besides, no public dance shop suited Lew's mood after his meal. He preferred a place to-night where he would be more in control of conditions, as at a party—Slengel's party, for choice, where at his appearance everything would be speeded to his mood, whatever the hour. Art had not called it off; Art had insisted on expecting him.
Lew did not name or describe to Ellen their destination. "There's a private party in here," he said, escorting her.
Mr. Slengel had obtained, for his temporary uses, a large, luxuriously furnished apartment. A single, great room was its distinguishing feature. This was high in the ceiling, as tall as two floors; doors opened from the big room at the lower level, communicating to a small den, a dressing-room, a bedroom and a kitchen. A stairway was an architectural feature, leading up one side of the room to a broad balcony running the entire width of the big room and from this opened other doors to chambers on the second floor level.
Ellen, entering with Lew, saw only the big room and its company. The orchestra was not playing so the center of the room was clear, its ordinary furniture—chairs, couches, tables and piano—pushed to the edges.—The piano was under the balcony and about it clustered the band—saxophone, trombone, violin and drum. The company clustered about a tray of bottles and glasses and ice on a big table; others, by couples, sat on the stairs. Some leaped up, as the drum beat and the brasses brayed; others pressed to the balustrade and let them pass, holding their own places close together.
Ellen recognized no one. She knew Art Slengel by sight but he was not visible, at the moment; she did not yet know it was his party, but she recognized at once that this must be "a party." The men proclaimed it, too familiar or too frightened (one or two of them) in the clasp of their partners; the girls banished any lingering doubt.
They were very young, every one younger than Ellen. They ogled the men, clung to the men, pouted provokingly. One appeal they made to the men and that they were paid for, as Di had been paid.
Ellen went into the dressing-room and, emerging, she saw Mr. Slengel; he was with Lew, having welcomed him. Slengel looked at her but did not recognize her; she was to him the girl whom Lew had brought. Nobody else had brought a girl, Ellen guessed; and she guessed that, though Slengel did not identify her, he would have liked it better if Lew had come alone.
His particular point was to please Lew to-night and with entertainment of his own providing. This party would have proceeded without Lew, but it had been prepared in hope of him, as another party in Chicago, prepared for Sam Metten, had capped the campaign which had taken the Metten account away from Rountree.
So Art Slengel preferred to supply Lew with partners; but Lew offered his arms to Ellen and she accepted them and danced. She felt, dancing, a change in his way with her; she felt, dancing, that she classed herself to him with these girls who sought him; she felt them regarding her as a rival; she felt upon her the eyes of other men.
Lew held her by the hands, after the music stopped, and rushed her beside him up the stairs, pressing past couples seated on the steps; he plumped her down upon a couch on the balcony and himself close beside her.
A big radio adorned one of the corners below and, in the interval, some one turned it on to raucous jazz; but jazz, with a band in the room, was ordinary and a twist of the dial caught and intensified a speaking voice. The news crier, it was, with night announcements: In Europe, a prince was born. Somebody cheered; nearly everybody else laughed. The girl at the radio let it shout the news as long as it was amusing, but it turned to an earthquake in Japan; the men on the wreck in Lake Superior still in the same situation. The radio dial twisted to a sentimental song which a girl on the stairs caught and parodied to yells of applause. She had to sing it again. At the tom-tom beat of the drum, everybody scrambled up and piled to the dance-floor.
The girl who had sung the parody had cast off her partner and she tried to entrap Lew. She pushed Ellen aside and Ellen, flushing, resisted. At that, Lew clutched her and tremendously elated, he bore her to the dance. "That's the spunk; stick with me! . . . I'll stick with you!"
Spunk. For the moment, pushed aside, she had felt it; she had resisted; for the moment, she had won; but she danced in his arms, sick with her triumph. He backed her close to the radio horn which had shouted the song in its great, magnified voice, and, the minute before, had told of the men in Lake Superior.
Lew ignored other girls as he pulled Ellen up the stairs, again, after the dance. The radio was roaring, tuned to a jig being broadcast somewhere. A couple of girls were swung to a table-top to clog and jig and kick.
From Lew's arms, in the next dance, Ellen watched the other men; business, some of them represented, undoubtedly; and others, probably not. Di had divulged to her some of the habits of these affairs. The host invited a few men important to him, and filled in with pleasing acquaintances of no business significance but who could be counted upon, with the help of the paid girls, to keep the party going.
There was a very good-looking, quiet, dark-haired young man who had dropped in, evidently, later than Lew and Ellen. He danced but he seemed to be looking on, mostly. He represented business; for Art Slengel was giving him a lot of attention. Slengel also closely followed Lew; indeed, between this quiet young man and Lew, the host oscillated.
Lew lost interest in dancing. He did not want another partner; he dragged Ellen back to the balcony during a dance. They were out of sight of the floor, on the couch in the corner; they were in sight of another couple on the balcony, arms about each other, kissing. The other couple did not care; Lew did not care.
Ellen cared scarcely whether she was seen. She preferred, indeed, to be kept in sight of other people. Lew would like to take her out of sight of everyone. She opposed him, fending off his hands stubbornly and silently. She would cry out, but what a maudlin stampede she would start up the stairs! And it would be the end of her with Lew; but if not, what for her?
The music stopped. It was something of a relief. More couples stumbled up. There was the roar of the radio again and the magnified voice shouted above static: . . . "clear with a few storm clouds blowing in the gale with the moon breaking through. There is moonlight some of the time to help the searchlights in this attempt."
The shout suddenly was cut off; the dial had been turned.
Ellen ceased her struggle with Lew; she was tense and stiff in his arms. What was that about? What storm and searchlights were sent on the radio to-night? What attempt did it mean?
A song started but someone turned it off. She heard a man's voice requesting in the room below: "Can we get that voice back?"
"Certainly," called Art Slengel quickly, "certainly." The quiet, dark-haired young man had asked it, whom Slengel particularly wished to please. "Turn it back," ordered Slengel; and the shout above static filled the room:
". . . the vessel coming up is an ore-vessel of the large, modern type; but she is light, being in ballast, for she comes from the east and south. She has come from the Soo . . ."
Ellen was on her feet, having shaken off Lew, how she did not know. She was at the rail of the balcony and she saw at the radio the quiet young man whom she'd liked. He bent, turning not the tuner but the intensifier so that the same voice spoke but ceased to roar.
For a few seconds, Ellen lost it in the chatter below; then the young man looked at Slengel, who called out, "Be quiet, please, everybody; something's coming in!"
And for a moment, everybody obliged; those who weren't obedient were curious, sober or drunk. They could see the intentness of the dark-haired young man at the radio and wanted to know what it was all about.
"This is from the shore near the village of Brebeuf opposite the sunken wreck," spoke the radio; and the young man straightened and his quiet voice thrilled:
"It's the relay!" he said. "The relay the radio people had arranged all day, if they saw a ship making a try to get those men from the wreck. They've been watching with the relay ready to hook in, if something started. We're hearing from the shore!"
Ellen clung to the rail and Lew grabbed at her arm. "Come back here," he demanded. "Come here."
She looked at him. "It's an ore-vessel, they said; an ore-vessel that's come up," she whispered to him.
"What?" mouthed Lew. "What d'you say?"
"Father'd never pass them, never, never," she cried. "The radio is speaking from the shore of Superior, Lew—Lew Alban," she said to him. "They had a relay arranged, waiting for a ship to make a try for the men; and they see a ship doing it. She's an ore-carrier that's come up, in ballast, from the Soo!"
Lew kept his hands from her; he appreciated that much. "What you say about father?" he asked her, thickly. "You want t' listen to that," said Lew. "All right; listen to 't." He bent at the railing beside her and called down to Slengel. "We want t'hear that, too."
Slengel was busy before the dials, and the voice vanished.
"Trying to tune out static," he explained to the dark-haired young man.
"Turn it back," came the quiet, thrilling reply. "That's not static; he's speaking from the water edge; that's the roar of Lake Superior in his microphone."
The voice, above the roar, spoke again. "—You are on the southern shore of Lake Superior on a cliff looking north over the lake," spoke the strange, invisible voice in a tone, independent of its transmission and intensification, which carried the leap of the speaker's heart with it and bore his excitement. "A gale has been blowing for three days, one of the most violent storms known to this section. There has been no let up in the weather; the wind is from the northwest so this is a lee shore. The water for a mile is greenish-white under the moon. You look over white, wild water to the mast of the Gideon Gant, which sank off this point on the first day of the storm.
"Further out you see the lights of three steamers—the Loring, which tried a rescue, and the Donagon, which later tried and has been standing by, with the Loring, ever since. The third steamer standing by is the Sarrant which came up to-day. The ship that is making the try is east of these and standing much farther in. The Donagon plays its searchlights on her and on the water before her to aid her; the Loring tries to keep its searchlight on the mast. The ships are tossing so that the searchlight beams skip across and across, but you see the mast for a few seconds; and you see five specks on it—the men!
"It is plain from the height out of the water that the ore-carrier is empty and probably has been pumping out her ballast, as she came up, to be ready for this. She is long and big but very light. She has been recognized. 'The ships are exchanging wireless signals which are read here. The ship standing in is the ore-carrier Blenmora of Duluth, which passed the Soo northward bound this morning."
The voice rested and there roared in the loud speaker the surf of Lake Superior.
Ellen was below, before the diaphragm resounding with the thunder of waters a thousand miles away whereon, light and high with its ballast pumped out, rode her father's ship, standing in, far in, toward the mast.
Lew had followed her; Lew was near her but she did not know exactly where. He was not touching her. "We're going to hear this," announced Lew, with thick authority, "we're going to hear this all."
His command was not necessary; the room was listening. Not everyone yet understood what the voice in the radio told but its tone could not be mistaken.
"The Blenmora is coming in slowly. The moon is clear again and the Donagon keeps its searchlight on the Blenmora and the waters directly ahead. She is in very heavy seas and, being light, she rolls; water is flying over her. . . . On the mast, as some of you know, there is a man who had been seen all day beating at his comrades to keep them active and alive. As you look at him in the glass, he seems to move; but you can't be sure; it may be shadows from the swinging searchlight of the Loring!"
The awe of the voice filled the room; the speaker was standing in the presence of a tremendous and sublime attempt of man to aid man and no one, drunk or sober, could confuse it. It struck the room silent as the wives of Belshazzar at the apparition of the hand which wrote upon the wall.
"The Blenmora seems to be swinging off a little. No! no! It was only the waves for a minute. She is standing in again and coming on slowly. She is very well handled. She rolls but advances steadily. The wind and the water both bear her toward the shore.
"She has to stand out! She is carried in too far! She will have to stand out and circle and try again, for the waves have driven her too far in. But she's not doing it. . . . She's not standing out! She is coming on steadily.
"Powell—I hear he's her master—Powell is keeping on. It was his intention to be borne in; he steered in. He is making his try not on the outside, where the others found it useless; he is bringing his ship on the inside between the wreck and the shoals!"
Ellen clung to the cabinet, straining. She saw not the room at all; she saw her father and his ship; she could feel the sway and swing of the ship. Forward, far forward on the narrow bridge, her father stood in the open with the water flying over him. The window to the wheelhouse was up; he stood in front of the wheel. His best wheelsman—Denny, beyond doubt—had his hands on the big wheel; his strong, steady, obedient hands. Denny looked out to her father.
"Right a little . . . Left a little! Steady!" her father said. "Meet her now! Meet her, Paul! Steady! Ease her—ease her! A little more!"
She could hear the bells; the clear, clanging bells beating in the engine-room calling attention to the dial directions: "Ahead! Full! Slow! Stop! . . . Astern! Half! Full! Stop!"
She could see the engine-room crew in their hot, closed room below, staring at each other, sweating and swearing with the strain or, wordless, springing to the levers to make each change, at each beat of the gong, which determined the difference between life and death for all. She could see them standing, strained and blind in their room, listening as the steel at their feet rose and feeling it drop to strike at any second and tear out the bottom—and the seas rush in over them.
"The Blenmora is beside the wreck! There is no doubt that the men are alive! They are dropping to the Blenmora! Powell has brought his bow beside the mast and under it so that the men on the mast who had the most strength have hacked the others free and dropped them to the ship. Two have dropped—three. They all seem to be gone! Now can Powell get out?
"He's moving ahead . . . moving . . . he's not aground. He's fouled the mast. His mast has fouled it and broken it off but he moves ahead! . . . He swings out! He's clear and free! . . . He has deep water!"
The voice ceased and Ellen sat on the floor, with eyes shut. She put her hands to the floor beside her to steady her. Clear . . . and deep water! He was safe; they all were safe. It was over.
"I will give you in a minute the report of the men rescued," resumed the voice. "The Blenmora is wirelessing and we are reading it ashore. The Blenmora is calling Ashland, which is nearer than Duluth. Evidently, for the sake of the men, she will put in there. The Blenmora is saying:
"Ashland. Have surgeons and hospital for five men. Have taken from wreck of Gant, Henry Clapaugh, seaman, home Manistique; Frank Kerry, assistant engineer, Escanaba; Jim Pakker, oiler, Fort William; Otto Lore, oiler, and Lars Anderson, mate, both of Duluth.
"Powell," Ellen heard repeated beside her. "Powell," announced Lew's voice. "That's her name. This is the daughter of that man who did that. She comes from there. That Powell's her father!"
Many hands were helping Ellen; sobered, gentle hands. Girls' lips kissed her; girls brought her cloak to her.
Lew helped her into it. Lew was outdoing in solicitude all the others. Lew had become her cavalier.
"I take her home now," Lew announced. "I take you home," he told her.
Slengel and the quiet young man, who had been beside 'her throughout at the radio, went down with Lew and her to the door. In the cab, Lew remained her cavalier; and he left her at her room.