CHAPTER XII
COLONEL WEDEKIND
Tom was flustered.
He did not know what to say or how to behave with Bertha a few feet away looking on very disdainfully and very impatiently, evidently intent on not recognizing him.
He turned for moral support to Lord Vyvyan who had slipped away. He saw his broad-shouldered form disappear in the taxicab, the roof of which was piled high with an assortment of extremely British-looking luggage: from golf sticks to plaid roll, from pigskin Gladstone bag to a bundle of canes and umbrellas.
Tom's first idea was that Martin Wedekind must have cabled to his brother in Berlin. He could not have written, since Tom had taken the first steamer out of New York, and so there would not have been margin enough for a letter to go by the same ship, reach the German capital, and give the Colonel time to get to Bremen. Perhaps Martin Wedekind had included the news of his coming in the wire advising that of his daughter.
Tom was surprised at the thought. But he was even more surprised when the Uhlan's next words showed him that no such cable had been sent or received.
"Captain von Götz-Wrede told me you were coming, Mr. Graves."
"But … I didn't tell him when I was coming."
The Colonel laughed.
"My dear sir," he said, "you didn't have to. The famous owner of the no less famous Yankee Doodle Glory coming to Germany! Why, sir, the names on the passenger list have been cabled over here and your intended visit has been duly heralded in certain sections of our press. Charmed, my dear sir, charmed!"
And when the young Westerner, in want of something better to say, mentioned that Martin Wedekind in Spokane had given him a letter of introduction to his brother, searched in his pocketbook, found the note, and handed it to the German, the latter read it, ejaculated once more his favorite slogan of: "Charmed, my dear sir, charmed!" and linked his arm familiarly through that of Tom's.
"I have a compartment reserved for myself and my niece. Please do me the honor of sharing it."
Again Tom was not sure what to say. Lord Vyvyan had driven off. He was in a foreign land, for the first time in his life, and everything seemed topsy-turvy to him. Even as simple an action as calling a porter assumed the shape of an immense and embarrassing predicament. He would have liked to accept the Colonel's kindly offer.
On the other hand, there was Bertha, looking through him with stony eyes.
What excuse could he give?
He only knew that he could not tell the officer about the tiff he and the girl had had on shipboard. So he took a deep breath like a man about to risk a cold plunge, accompanied the other like a lamb led to the slaughter and positively quailed when Bertha acknowledged his greetings with an icy word.
A short drive through the Bremen streets brought them to the depot, where the Colonel excused him self for a few minutes to see about some telegraphic messages he had to send off.
Tom was alone with Bertha. He looked at her, and she looked at him. Both were silent, until Tom could stand it no longer.
And he spoke:
"Say, Bertha!"
"Yes, Mr. Graves?" haughtily.
He was going to go back to the old subject which had caused the misunderstanding on shipboard, to explain, but when he opened his mouth, the first words which came were:
"Say, I'm just crazy about you! Just plumb crazy!"
The words were spoken. More came. He could not restrain them. So he gave up the attempt and surrendered himself to his passion, poured out in a riotous torrent of speech, flavored with the deep, decent, clean love that was his, flavored, too, with the tang of the range … and it sounded strange here, amidst the brassy, pompous, unpersonal efficiency of the German railway depot, with the head station master, in a military uniform, bullying the sergeant of police, girded and armed like a warrior about to step forth to savage combat, the sergeant bullying the policemen, the latter transferring the compliment to the public, who continued it on to the railway porters, the latter passing the disciplinary buck to the cab drivers who, seeing nobody whom they could bully in safety, took it out of their horses' hides.
Amidst the roar and riot of it Tom's words seemed homely, simple. They seemed out of place and tinged with a certain nostalgic melancholia, and it was perhaps that which went to the young girl's heart and caused her to droop her eyelids.
"Why, Tom," she said, faltering a little, "you must not …"
"Mustn't I? You just bet I must! How do you know what's going on in my heart, Bertha? Say—at times my love fairly, oh, chokes me, and …" He collected himself. He had spoken with a louder voice than he had intended, and some of the Augsburg's passengers had stopped and chattered, pointing and giggling, amongst themselves. "And there's something else I got to tell you," he went on in lower tones. "I had no idea you were going to Germany. I didn't mean to persecute you. Honest to God, I didn't! Won't you believe me please?"
She looked at him. She saw the honest purpose, the honest dignity, the honest truth in his eyes, and she inclined her head.
"Yes, Tom. I do believe you!"
"Bully!" was his simple comment as he squeezed her hand. "And say, won't you …"
The rest of his sentence was swallowed in the suck and rush of the incoming train and a moment later the Colonel returned, smiling, officious, over-polite, and bundled the two young Americans into a first-class compartment marked: "Reservirt."
The last Tom saw was Lord Vyvyan entering the next carriage. He turned as if to address him, but the Englishman winked rapidly and shook his head.
It was clear that he did not want the other to speak to him or recognize him just then.
But Tom did not mind.
For he sat next to Bertha, and with a little shy pressure of her soft hand she told him that she had forgiven him, woman like, for something he had not been guilty of.