There was one pasteboard box which Guild gave to her without opening it. She untied the violet ribbon, opened it, sat silent. He seemed to pay no attention to what she was doing.
After a moment she lifted out the cluster of violet-scented orchids, drew the long pin from them, and fastened them to her blouse.
"Thank you—very much," she said shyly.
"Do you care for orchids?"
"Yes ... I am a little—surprised."
"Why?"
"That you should—think to offer them—tome——"
He looked up, and his grey eyes seemed to be laughing, but his mouth—that perplexing, humorous, inscrutable mouth of his remained grave and determined.
"Karen," he said, "if you only understood how much I do like you, you wouldn't perhaps deal so mercilessly with me."
"I? Merciless?"
"You are. You made me use force with you when you should not have resisted. And now you have done something more merciless yet."
"W—what, Kervyn?"
"You know ... I must have those papers."
"Kervyn!"
"Dear—look at me. No—in the eyes. Now look at me while I say, as seriously and as gently as I know how, thatI am going to have those papers!... You know I mean what I say.... That is all—dear."
Her eyes fell and she looked at her orchids.
"Why do you speak that way to me—after giving me these?"
"What have orchids to do with a man's duty?"
"Why did you give them to me?"
"Why? Because we are friends, if you will let us be."
"I was willing—am still—in spite of—everything. You know I am. If I can forgive you what you did to me in our stateroom last night, surely, surely Kervyn, you won't take any more chances with my forgiveness—will you?"
He said: "I shall have to if you force me to it. Karen—I never liked any woman as much as I like you. We have known each other two days and a night. But in that time we both have lived a long, long time."
She nodded, thoughtfully.
"Then—you know me now as well as you ever will know me. Better than any other woman has ever known me. When my mind is made up that a certain thing is to be done, I always try to do it, Karen.... And I know that I ought to have those papers.... And that I am going to have them. Is that clear—Karen, dear?"
She remained silent, brushing her orchids with her finger-tips, absent-eyed, serene. After a moment he thought that the ghost of a smile was hovering on her lips, but he was not sure.
Presently she looked up:
"Shall we lunch?" she asked.
Three times they were obliged to change cars after passing through Utrecht. Night fell; the last compartment into which they had been crowded was filled with Dutch cavalry officers, big, talkative fellows in their field uniforms and jingling equipments, civil to Guild, courteous to Karen, and all intensely interested in the New York newspaper which Guild offered them and which they all appeared to be quite able to read.
They all got out at Maastricht, where the lantern-lit platform was thronged with soldiers; and, when the train started, the two were alone together once more.
They had been seated side by side when the officers were occupying the compartment; they remained so when the train rolled out of the station, neither offering to move, perhaps not thinking to move.
Karen's Tauchnitz novel lay open on her lap, her eyes brooded over the pages, but the light was very dim and presently she lay back, resting her arm on the upholstered window ledge.
Guild had been sitting so very still beside her thatshe suspected he was asleep. And when she was sure of it she permitted herself closer scrutiny of his features than she had ever ventured.
Curiosity was uppermost. To inspect at her leisure a man who had so stirred, so dominated, so ruled and misruled her was most interesting.
He looked very boyish, she thought, as he lay there—very clear cut and yellow-haired—very kind—except for the rather square contour of the chin. But the mouth had relaxed from its sternly quiet curve into pleasant lines.
One hand lay on his knees; it was clenched; the other rested inert on the cushioned seat beside her, listless, harmless.
Was that the hand of iron that had closed around her shoulders, pinning both her arms helpless? Were these the hands that had mastered her without effort—the hands which had taken what they chose to take, gently violent, unhurried, methodical and inexorable?
How was it that her swift hatred had not endured in the wake of this insolent outrage? Never before had a hand been laid on her in violence—not even in reproof. How was it that she had endured this? Every womanly instinct had been outraged. How was it that she was enduring it still?—acquiescing in this man's presence here in the same compartment with her—close beside her? She had resented the humiliation. She resented it still, fiercely—when she remembered it. Why didn't she remember it more frequently? Why didn't she think of it every time she looked at him? What wasthe trouble with her anger that she seemed to forget so often that she had ever been angry?
Was she spiritless? Had his violence then crippled her pride forever? Was this endurance, this submission, this tacit condoning of an unforgivable offense to continue?
There was colour in her cheeks now as she sat there gazing at him and remembering her wrongs, and industriously fanning the rather sickly flames of her wrath into something resembling a reasonable glow.
But more fuel seemed to be needed for that; the mental search for it seemed to require a slight effort. But she made it and found her fuel—and a brighter colour stained her face.
Dared he lay hands on her again! What did his recent threat mean? He was aware that she had sewed the papers to her clothing. What did he mean by warning her that he would take them by violence again if necessary? It was unthinkable! inconceivable! She shivered unconsciously and cast a rather scared glance at him—this man was not a Hun! She was no Sabine! The era of Pluto and Proserpine had perhaps been comprehensible considering the times—even picturesque, if the galleries of Europe correctly reflected the episode. But such things were not done in 1914.
They were not only not done but the mere menace of them was monstrous—unbelievably brutal. She needed more fuel, caught her breath, and cast about for it to stoke the flames before her flushed cheeks could cool.
And to think—tothinkthat she, Karen, was actuallyat that moment wearing his orchids—here at her breast! Her gloved hand clenched and she made a gesture as though to tear the blossoms from her person.... And did not.... They were so delicate, so fresh, so fragrant.... After all the flowers were innocent. It was not these lovely, scented little things she should scorn and punish but the man—this man here asleep beside her——
Her heart almost ceased for a moment; he moved, opened his eyes, and lay looking at her, his lids still heavy with sleep.
"You are horribly tired—aren't you?" she faltered, looking into his worn face which two days' lack of sleep had made haggard.
He nodded, watching her.
"I'll move across the way and let you stretch out," he said.
"No—you need not."
"You look dead tired."
"I couldn't sleep that way. You—need not—move."
He nodded; his eyes closed. After he had been asleep a little while, watching him, she wondered what he might be dreaming, for a ghost of a smile edged his lips.
Then, sleeping, his arm moved, encircled her, drew her shoulder against his. And she found herself yielding, guided, relaxing, assenting, until her cheek lay against his shoulder, resting there. And after a while her eyes closed.
The fuel had given out. After a little while the last spark died. And she slept.
The dim light fell on them where they slept seated upright, unconscious, swaying as the car swayed. Unseen forests swept past on either side under a dark sky set with stars; low mountains loomed in the night, little rivers sparkled under trestles for a second and vanished in the dull roar of the rushing train.
The man, sunk back against the upholstered seat, lay as though dead.
But after a while the girl dreamed. It was the frontier toward which they were rushing through the night—a broad white road running between meadows set with flowers, such as she had often seen.
Two painted sentry boxes stood on either side of the boundary; the one on her side was empty, but in the other she realized that her enemy was on guard, hidden, watching her.
She desired to cross. In all her life never had she so longed for anything as she longed to cross that still, sunny, flower-bordered frontier.
She dared not. Her enemy stood hidden, armed,watching her from within that painted sentry box. She knew it. She was afraid. She knew that her enemy would step out with weapon levelled and challenge her the instant she set foot across that flowering frontier. She was afraid of his challenge, afraid even to learn what her enemy might look like.
Yet shemustcross. Something had to be done—something had to be done while the sun was shining and the breeze in the meadow set the flowers all swaying. She looked desperately at the silent sentry box. Nothing moved. Yet she knew her enemy was watching her.
Then, frightened, she set one foot across the line—took one more step, very timidly.
"Halt! Who goes there?"
She knew it—sheknewit! It had come—it had happened to her at last!
"F-friend!" she faltered—"but I do not know the countersign."
"Pass, friend, without the countersign!"
Could she believe her ears!
She listened again, her hand resting against her heart. But she only heard a child laughing inside the sentry box, and the smothered ruffle of preening wings.
Her dream partly awoke her; she lay very still, vaguely conscious of where her cheek was resting, then closed her eyes to seek her enemy again among her dreams.
They awoke with a light shining in their eyes; the guard stood on the running rail, one hand on the knob of the door.
"The frontier," he said. "Descend if you please for the customs, and kindly have your papers ready."
The girl's blue eyes were sleepy and humorous as she rested her hand on his arm to rise.
"Are we ever to have a good night's sleep again?" she murmured as he aided her to descend in the lantern-lit darkness.
"It's our punishment," he said.
"For what, please?"
"For ever doubting each other."
She said nothing. A soldier picked up their luggage and carried it across the platform where another train stood waiting.
And all at once Guild realized that the soldiers around the station and custom-house were not Belgians but Germans. He had forgotten that, and it gave him a distinct shock.
As he and Karen, following the soldier, entered thelong room in the custom-house, an officer all in sea-grey from the shrouded spike on his helmet to his ankles came forward and saluted; and Guild coolly lifted his cap.
"Have I by chance the honour of addressing Herr Guild?" asked the officer.
"I am Herr Guild."
"And—gnädiges Fräulein?"—at salute and very rigid.
"Fräulein Girard."
"The gracious young lady has credentials?—a ring, perhaps?"
Karen drew off her glove, slipped the ring from her finger. A soldier held up a lantern; the lieutenant adjusted a single eye-glass, scrutinized the ring, returned it with a tight-waisted bow.
"Papers in order!" he said, turning to the customs officials. "Pass that luggage without inspection!"
He was very polite. He escorted them to the Belgian train, found an empty compartment for them, thanked them with empressement, and retired into the darkness which had hatched him.
As the train started Karen said in a low voice: "Would you care to call that officer a barbarian, Kervyn?"
"You haven't seen Louvain. But probably that officer has—through his monocle."
She sighed. "Are we to—differ again? I amsosleepy."
This time he was entirely awake and responsible for his actions. So was she. But she was really very tired,she remembered, when conscience began to make her uncomfortable and call her to account.
But she was too weary to argue the point; her cheek rested unstirring against his shoulder; once or twice her eyes opened vaguely, and her hand crept toward the orchids at her breast. But they had not been crushed. Her white lids closed again. It was unfortunate that she felt no desire to sleep. Her conscience continued to meddle at intervals, too.
But of one thing she was quite certain—she would not have tolerated any such thing very long had she not been very sure that he had immediately gone to sleep.... And she was afraid that if she stirred he might awake.... And perhaps might not be able to go to sleep again.... He needed sleep. She told herself this several times.
"Karen?"
"What?" she said in consternation. And she felt her cheeks growing hot.
"Youwilllet me have those papers, won't you?"
She lay very still against his shoulder.
"Won't you?" he repeated in a low and very gentle voice.
"Please sleep," she said in a voice as low.
"Won't you answer me?"
"You need sleepsomuch!"
"Please answer me, Karen."
"You know," she said, "that unless you let me sleep I—couldn't rest—like this. Don't you?"
"Are you not comfortable?"
"Yes.... But that has nothing to do with it. You know it."
He murmured something which she did not catch.
"I don'tcareto rest this way if we are going to remain awake," she whispered.
"I am asleep," he replied, drowsily.
Whether or not he was, she could not be certain even after a long while. But, in argument with her conscience again, she thought she ought to take the chance that he was asleep because, if he were, it would be inhuman of her to lift her head and arouse him.
Meanwhile the train moved ahead at a fair speed, not very fast, but without stopping. Other trains gave it right of way, hissing on sidings—even military and supply trains which operated within the zone controlled by General von Reiter's division. The locomotive carried several lanterns of various colours. They were sufficient to clear the track for that train through that strip of Belgium to the Luxembourg frontier.
Hills, woods, mountain streams, stretches of ferny uplands, gullies set with beech and hazel flew by under the watching stars.
Over the fields to the west lay what had been Liège. But they swung east through Herve, past Ensival, then south by Theux, Stavelot, over the headwaters of the Ourthe.
Forest trees almost swept the window panes at times; lonely hamlets lay unlighted in darkened valleys. Karen's blue eyes were shut and she did not see these things. As for Guild he lay very still, wondering howhe was to get the papers—wondering, too, what it was about this girl that was making this headlong, nerve-racking quest of his the most interesting and most wonderful journey he had ever undertaken.
They were not asleep, but they should have been. And in separate corners. Conscience was explaining this to her and she was really trying to find relief in sleep. Conscience was less intrusive with him, except in regard to the papers. And when it had nagged him enough he ceased wondering how he was going to get them and merely admitted that he would do it.
And this self-knowledge disturbed him so that he could scarcely endure to think of the matter and of what must happen to their friendship in the end. Sorrow, dismay, tenderness possessed him by turns. She seemed like a slumbering child there on his shoulder, softly fragrant, trustful, pathetic. And he was pledged to a thing that might tear the veil from her eyes—horrify her, crush her confidence in man.
"I can bribe a couple of old women," he thought miserably—"but it's almost as bad as though I did it myself. Good Heavens!—was a man ever before placed in such a predicament?"
And when he couldn't stand his horrid reflections any longer he said, "Karen?" again. So humbly, so unhappily that the girl opened her blue eyes very wide and listened with all her might.
"Karen," he said, "in a comparatively short time you won't listen to me at all—you won't tolerate me. And before that time is upon us, I—I want to say a—few—wordsto you ... about how deeply I value our friendship.... And about my very real respect and admiration for you.... You won't let me say it, soon. You won't care to hear it. You will scorn the very mention of my name—hate me, possibly—no, probably.... And so now—before I have irrevocably angered you—before I have incurred your—dislike—I want to say—if I may—that I—never was as unhappy in all my life."
Lying very still against his shoulder she thought: "He does not really mean to do it."
"Karen," he went on, "if you don't find it in your heart to spare me this—duty—how can I spare myself?"
She thought: "Hedoesmean to do it."
"And yet—and yet——"
"He won't do it!" she thought.
"There never has been a coward in my race!" he said more calmly.
"Hedoesmean to do it!" she thought. "He is a barbarian, a Hun, a Visigoth, a savage! He is a brute, all through. And I—I don't know what I am becoming—resting here—listening to such—such infamy from him! I don't know what is going to become of me—I don't—Idon't!"
She caught her breath like a hurt child, hot tears welled up; she turned and buried her face against his arm, overwhelmed by her own toleration of herself and the man she was learning so quickly to endure, to fear, and to care for with all the capacity of a heart andmind that had never before submitted one atom of either mind or heart to any man.
What had happened to her? What possessed her? What was bewitching her that from the first instant she had laid eyes on him she seemed to realize she belonged with him—beside him! And now—now a more terrifying knowledge threatened, menaced her—the vague, obscure, formless idea that she belonged to him.
Did it mean she was in love! Wasthislove? It couldn't be. Love came differently. It was a happiness, a delight, a firm and abiding faith, a sunburst of self-revelation and self-knowledge. It wasn't tears and conscience and bewilderment, and self-reproach—and a haunting fear of self—and a constantly throttled dismay at her own capability for informality—the informality, for example, of her present attitude! And she wept anew at her own astounding degradation.
Love? No, indeed. But a dreadful, unaccountable exposure of her own unaccountable capacity for familiarity! That was it. She was common—common at heart, common by instinct. She had thought she had a will of her own. It seemed she had not. She had nothing!—nothing admirable in her—neither quality nor fineness nor courage nor intellect. It must be so, or how could she be where she was, blotting her tears against the shoulder of a man she had known two days!—biting at her quivering lip in silence there, miserable, bewildered, lonely—lonely beyond belief.
"Karen?"
She made the effort, failed, tried again:
"Yes," she managed to say.
"Don't cry any more."
"No."
"Because I don't mean to make you unhappy."
"No-o——"
"But I must have those papers—mustn't I?"
"Y-yes."
"But you are not going to give them to me, are you?"
"No-o."
"And I am not going to—to tear you to pieces, am I?"
"No-o-o——"
"And yet Imusthave them, mustn't I?"
"Yes."
"You know I am going to get them, don't you?"
"Yes."
"How do you think I am going to do it?"
"I d-don't know."
"I think I know one way."
She remained silent.
"It is quite a wonderful way ... if it could occur—happen, come about."
She said nothing.
"I don't know—I don't know—I won't think about it any more ... for a while.... It's too important to think about ... in that way ... if it is going to be important at all.... I don't know exactly what I'm saying, Karen. I seem to be thinking out loud.... The idea came ... and then remained.... You won't cry any more, will you?"
"No."
"I frightened you, didn't I?"
"No.... Yes.... Not exactly."
"You know," he said, "I don't understand you."
"Don't you?"
"Not clearly.... Do you care a little for me, still?"
"I don't know—how I feel."
"Could you care for me—be friends again—as naturally and as honestly as you were once?"
"I—trusted you. Friendship is trust."
"I know. I have destroyed your confidence."
"Yes—my confidence in friendship."
"That is a terrible thing to do," he said miserably.
"Yes. Friendship ends when distrust begins. I do distrust you and I don't understand why—why distrusting you makes me care for you—even more."
"Karen!"
"I do care—more than I did. Can you explain it?"
He was silent, surprised and touched.
"I can't explain it to myself," she said. "I have been trying to and I can't. I should detest you, but I don't. If there is any contempt it is for myself—because I can not feel it for you, perhaps. I think it's that. I don't know. The years we have lived together in these two days must account for my liking you.... Not altogether, because it began in the beginning when you came to Hyacinth Villa.... And it's been so all the time."
"Not all the time. Not in our stateroom."
"Yes—even there."
"When I——"
"Yes! Yes! Isn't it degrading? Isn't it unaccountable—terrible! I'm frightened I tell you. I am afraid that whatever you do—will not—change me."
There was no emotion in her young voice, only an accentless admission of facts with a candour and directness that silenced him.
After a moment she went on, without emphasis, and thoughtfully, as though in self-communion to make things clearer to herself:
"I'm really well born. You might be pardoned for not thinking so——"
"Your father is of that caste."
"General von Reiter is not my father."
"What!" he exclaimed, astounded.
She turned her face from his shoulder and looked up at him.
"He spoke to you of me as his daughter. You spoke to me of him in that relation, too. I did not enlighten you because it did not seem to matter. But it is not true."
"Is he—your guardian?"
"No; I need none. My father was a German officer—of that caste. My mother was Danish.... Something happened—I do not know what. I was very little. And my mother would never speak of it. She was very beautiful. I remember her quite well. We lived in Copenhagen.
"Whatever happened occurred before I was born. Iknow that. Mother told me. My father dropped both title and name and left the army and went with my mother to Copenhagen. He took the name of his mother who was English—Girard. I never was even told what our name had been. Neither father nor mother would ever speak of it."
She rested there silent, absent-eyed, gazing into space as though recalling years that had not been unpleasant. Then, serenely meeting his gaze, she smiled up at him.
"You know," she said, "my life has been a happy one. My father was a man of means. We lived very happily in Denmark. I've always thought of myself as Danish.
"My childhood was really wonderful. I had a passion for study, for learning; and I learn very easily—almost without effort. And you know, perhaps, how thorough the Danish schools are, how much they demand of a child, physically as well as mentally.
"And I did everything, Kervyn; learned the accomplishments of a young Danish girl—and was flattered I am afraid, and perhaps spoiled.
"And always I desired to go on the stage—always—from the very beginning—from the time I was first taken to the theatre.
"It was quite hopeless. I did act for charity, and at school; and afterward took lessons. But as long as my father and mother lived that career was not possible.... Afterward I decided for myself. And first I went to Germany and they gave me a small part in a company that was going to Posen. And there Generalvon Reiter, who had been my father's friend and brother-officer, met me.
"He was very kind. He wished to adopt me and give me his name. He was very insistent, too—a man—Kervyn, not unlike you—in some respects. But I never dreamed of permitting him to sway me—as you do.
"He knew my desire for a stage career; he has for three years attempted to destroy in me that desire. When I had no engagement, or was studying, he insisted that I stay with his brother and his brother's wife, with whom he lived. He spoke freely of his desire and intention of legally adopting me, called me his daughter when he spoke to others of me—and always I felt the constant, iron pressure of his will—always—not harshly, but with the kindly patience of resolution.
"Then I decided to go to England, study, and if possible gain some experience on the London stage.
"And then"—she bit her lip—"I think I may say it—toyou—not saying it lightly, Kervyn—then, on the eve of my departure, he asked me to marry him.
"And because he would not accept my answer he exacted of me a promise that in November I would return to Berlin, give him my final answer, and choose then between marrying him or a return to the profession I care for most.
"That is my history, Kervyn. No man has ever figured in it; none except General Baron von Reiter has ever even invaded it ... until you have done so ... and have made your wishes mine—I don't know how—andyour will my inclination—and me more than the friend I was.
"One thing only you could not do—and in my heart I know you do not wish it of me—and that is, make me break my word—make me forget a promise.
"Now I have told you all," she said with a little sigh, and lay there looking at him.
"Not all, Karen."
"Yes, I think so."
"No. You have not told me what answer you mean to make."
Her eyes opened at that. "I am not in love. What answer should I make?"
"You return to your career?"
"Of course, once my promise is kept."
"What promise?"
"To see him and tell him what I have decided."
"Do you think he might persuade you?"
"No!"
"Are you sure?"
"Perfectly."
He said, looking at her with a hint of a smile in his eyes: "Do you think I might ever persuade you to give up your career?"
She smiled frankly: "I don't think so."
"Not if I asked?"
"You wouldn't do such a thing."
"I might if I fell in love with you."
She lay perfectly still, quite tranquil, looking up at him. Suddenly her expression changed.
"Is it likely?" she said, the tint of excitement in her cheeks.
"Do you think so?"
"I don't know. Is it?"
"It's perfectly possible I imagine."
"That you could fall in love with me?"
"Yes."
After a moment she laughed as a child laughs at the prospect of beholding wonders.
"Kervyn," she said, "please do so. I will give you every opportunity if you will remain at Trois Fontaines."
"I mean to remain in that vicinity," he said, meaningly; and she laughed again, deliciously, almost maliciously.
"It would finish you thoroughly," she said. "It would be poetic justice with a vengeance."
"Yourvengeance?"
"Yes, mine. Oh, if you onlydiddo that!"
"I think, considering the way you look at it, that I'd better not," he said, rather seriously. "Besides, I've no time."
"No time to fall in love with me?"
"No time."
"Why?"
"Shall I tell you?"
"Yes, please."
"Very well. Because after I have the papers I shall enter the Belgian army." He added with a hint of impatience—"Where I belong and where I ought to be now."
She became very silent at that. After a few moments she said: "Had you decided to do that before I met you?"
"Yes. I was on my way—trying to avoid the very trap I fell into."
"The German army?"
"Yes."
After another silence she said: "I shall be very sorry when you go. I shall think of you when I am in England."
"You can't go back to England, Karen."
"That is true. I forgot."
"Where will you go?"
"I don't know."
"Don't go to Germany."
"Why?"
"There may be an invasion."
She had lifted her head as he spoke. After a moment she sighed like a tired child, laid her head back on his arm and rested one slender hand on his shoulder.
It suddenly seemed to her that the world, which had been going very well with her, had halted, and was beginning to go the other way.
"Kervyn?"
"Yes?"
"You could take the papers when I am asleep, I suppose. I couldn't help it, could I?"
"Thatisone way," he said, smiling.
"What was the other?"
He did not reply.
She sighed again. "I suggested it," she said, "in order to give you a little more time to do—what you said you thought—possible."
"Fall in love?" he asked lightly. "Yes."
"What would be the use, Karen?"
"Use?"
"Yes. I'm going into the army. It will be a long war. If I fell in love with you I'd not have time to win your love in return before I went away—admitting that I could ever win it. Do you see?"
"I quite see that."
"So I had better take the papers when I can, and get into touch with the reserves of my regiment if I can."
"What regiment?"
"The Guides."
"The Guides! Are you an officer?"
"Yes, of the reserve."
She knew quite well what that meant. Only the Belgian nobility of ancient lineage served as officers in the Guides.
A happiness, a wonderful tranquillity crept over her. No wonder she had found it difficult to really reproach herself with her behaviour. And it was a most heavenly comfort to her to know that if she had been indiscreet, at least she had been misbehaving with one of her own caste.
"The next station," said the German guard, squintingin at them from the window under his lifted lantern, "is Trois Fontaines."
"What!" exclaimed Guild surprised. "Have we passed the customs?"
"The customs? This is a German military train! What business is it of the Grand Duchy where we go or what we do?"
He lowered his lantern and turned away along the running-board, muttering: "Customs, indeed! The Grand Duchy had better mind its business—and the Grand Duchess, too!"
A few moments later the locomotive whistled a long signal note to the unseen station.
"Karen," said Guild quietly, "in a few moments I shall be out of debt to General von Reiter. My life will be my own to do with as I please. That means good-bye."
She said with adorable malice: "I thought you were going to rob me first."
"I am," he said, smiling.
"Then I shall make the crime a very difficult one for you.... So that our—parting—may be deferred."
The train had already come to a standstill beside a little red-tiled station. Woods surrounded it; nothing was visible except the lamps on a light station-wagon drawn up to the right of the track.
The guard unlocked and opened their compartment. A young man—a mere boy—came up smilingly and lifted his cap:
"Mademoiselle Girard? Monsieur Guild? I comefrom Quellenheim with a carriage. I am Fritz Bergner."
He took their luggage and they followed to the covered station-wagon. When they were seated the boy stepped into the front seat, turned his horses, and they trotted away into the darkness of a forest through which ran the widely winding road.
Fresh and aromatic with autumn perfume the unbroken woods stretched away on either hand beneath the splendour of the stars. Under little stone bridges streams darkled, hurrying to the valley; a lake glimmered through the trees all lustrous in the starlight.
Something—perhaps the beauty of the night, possibly the imminence of his departure, kept them silent during the drive, until, at last, two unlighted gate-posts loomed up to the right and the horses swung through a pair of iron gates and up a driveway full of early fallen leaves.
A single light sparkled far at the end of the vista.
"Have you ever before been here?" asked Guild.
"Once, to a hunt."
Presently Guild could see the long, two-storied hunting lodge of timber and stucco construction with its high peaked roof and dormers and a great pair of antlers spreading above the hood of the door.
Out of the doorway came a stout, pleasant-eyed, brown-skinned woman who curtsied to them smilingly and welcomed them in German.
Everything was ready; they had been expected. There was a fire in the hall and something to eat.
Guild asked to be driven to an inn, and the housekeeper seemed surprised. There was no inn. Her orders were to prepare a room for Herr Guild, who was expected to remain over night. She regretted that she could not make them more comfortable, but the Lodge had been closed all summer, and she had remained alone with her son Fritzl to care for the place.
There seemed to be nothing for him to do but to stay over night.
Karen, waiting for his decision, looked pale and tired.
"Very well," he said to Frau Bergner, who curtsied and went away for their candles. Then he walked over to where Karen was standing, lifted her hand and touched the slender fingers with his lips.
"Good night," she said; "I hope your dreams will be agreeable."
"I hope yours will be, also."
"I hope so. I shall try to continue a dream which I had on the train. It was an odd one—something about a frontier and a sentry box. You woke me before I had entirely crossed the frontier. I'd like to cross and find out what really is on the other side."
He laughed:
"I hope you will find, there, whatever you desire."
"I—hope so. Because if I should cross the boundary and find—nobody—there, it might make me unhappy for the rest of my life." And she looked up at him with a slight blush on her cheeks.
Then her features grew grave, her eyes serious, clear, and wistful.
"I think I am—learning to care—a great deal for you. Don't let me if I shouldn't. Tell me while there is time."
She turned as the housekeeper came with the lighted candles.
Guild stood aside for her to pass, his grave face lowered, silent before this young girl's candour and the troubled sincerity of her avowal.
In his own room, the lighted candle still in his hand, he stood motionless, brooding on what she had said.
And in his heart he knew that, although he had never liked any woman as much as he liked this young girl, he was not in love with her. And, somehow or other, he must tell her so—while there was still time.
He awoke in a flood of brightest sunshine; his bed, the floor, the walls, were bathed in it; netted reflections of water danced and quivered on the ceiling; and he lay looking at it, pleasantly conscious of green leaves stirring near his open window and of the golden splashing of a fountain.
There was a little bird out there, too, diligently practicing a few notes. The song was not elaborate. Translated, it seemed to consist of tweet! tweet! twilly-willy-willy! repeated an indefinite number of times.
Curious to discover what his surroundings resembled he rose and looked out of the curtained window. There was a grassy carrefour where a fountain spouted into a stone pool; all else was forest; a stream sparkled between tree-trunks, bridged where the drive crossed it.
To bathe and dress did not take him very long. In the hall, which seemed to be the main living-room below, he prowled about, examining a number of antlers and boar-heads mounted on the beamed and plastered walls. The former had been set up in German fashion, antlers, brow-antlers, and frontal bone; and these trophies appearedto him uninteresting—even a trifle ghastly when the bleached skull also was included.
The boars' heads were better, nothing extraordinary in size, but well-tusked. The taxidermy, however, was wretched.
The square hall itself did not appear particularly inviting. The usual long oak table and benches were there, a number of leather arm-chairs, book-racks, cue-racks, gun-racks with glazed panes to protect the weapons, a festoon of spears, hunting knives and curly hunting horns, skins on the floor, brown bear, wolf, and stag.
A badly stuffed otter displayed its teeth on the mantle over the fireplace between a pair of fighting cock pheasants and a jar of alcohol containing a large viper, which embellishments did not add to the cheerfulness of the place.
For the rest there was a billiard table shrouded in a rubber cloth, and three well-engraved portraits on the walls, Bismarck, after Lehnbach, Frederick the Great playing on a flute like fury, and the great War Lord of Europe himself, mustaches on end, sombre-eyed, sullen, cased in the magnificent steel panoply of the Guard Cuirassiers. The art gallery bored Guild, and he opened a door which he suspected communicated with the pantry.
It was a valet's closet and it smelled of camphor. Shooting-coats hung on stretchers; high-laced shooting-boots were ranged in rows. On a chair lay Karen's skirt and blouse-coat of covert cloth. Both werestill slightly damp and wrinkled. Evidently they had been brought down here to be brushed and pressed while Karen slept.
Passing his hand over the brown silk lining of the coat gave him no clue to the hiding-place of the papers; what revealed their presence was a seam which had been hurriedly basted with black thread. The keen point of his pocket-knife released the basting. He drew out the papers, counted them, identified them one by one, and placed them in his breast pocket. Then he laid the coat across the back of the chair again and went out.
He had two hours to wait before there could be any decent hope of breakfast. Nobody seemed to be stirring in the house. After a few minutes he unlocked the front door and went out into the early sunshine.
It was as warm as a spring day; rain had freshened grass and trees; he sat down on the fountain's rim and looked into the pool where a dozen trout lay motionless, their fins winnowing the icy water.
No doubt some spring, high on the wooded hills, had been piped down to furnish the pool with this perpetually bubbling jet.
The little bird who had entertained him vocally earlier in the morning was still vocal somewhere in a huge beech-tree. Around a spot of moisture on the gravel-drive two butterflies flitted incessantly. And over all brooded the calm and exquisite silence of the forest.
An hour or more later he got up and re-entered the house.
First he took a look at the valet's room. Evidently Karen's clothes had been brushed and pressed, for they had disappeared.
Another door in the square hall promised to lead into the pantry, judging from significant sounds within.
It did, and the housekeeper was in there as energetically busy as every German woman always is when occupied. And German women are always occupied.
The kindly soul appeared to be much flattered by his visit. They had quite a gossiping time of it while she was preparing the breakfast dishes.
It was mostly a monologue.
No, she and Fritzl were not lonely at Quellenheim, although it was pleasant to have the Lodge open and a noble company there shooting. But, like Marlbrook, the Herr Baron had gone to the wars—alas!—and it might take him some time to capture Paris and London and set the remainder of the world in order.
But it really seemed too bad; the Herr Baron was fond of his shooting; Fritzl had reported some good antlers in the forest, and a grey boar or two—but enormous! As for the place it would certainly go to ruin what with faggot stealers and godless poachers!—And the foresters, keepers, and even the wood-choppers all gone off and deserting the place—think of it!—the ungrateful Kerls—gone!—and doubtless to join the crazy Belgian army which had refused to permit Prussian troops to pass!Prussiantroops! The impudence of it! Gratitude! There was little of that in the world it seemed.
"When does the Herr Baron return here?" inquired Guild, smiling.
It appeared that the Herr Baron was to have arrived at Quellenheim this very week. But yesterday his adjutant telegraphed that he could not come perhaps for many weeks. No doubt he was very busy chasing the French and English. It was a pity; because the autumn iswunderschönat Quellenheim. And as for the deer!—they stand even in the driveway and look at the Lodge, doubtless wondering, sir, why they are neglected by the hunters, and asking one another why good fat venison is no longer appreciated at Quellenheim.
"Could you tell me where I may telegraph to the Herr Baron?" asked the young man, immensely amused by her gossip.
"That I can, sir. My careful household reports are sent to the Herr Baron through military headquarters at Arenstein, Prussia. That is where he is to be addressed."
"And a telegraph office?"
"At the railroad station."
"In communication with Prussia?"
"Yes, sir," she said with a vigorous nod. "And whenever any of the yokels here about tamper with the wires the Uhlans come and chase them till they think the devil is after them!"
"Uhlans. Here?"
"And why not? Certainly the Uhlans come occasionally. They come when it is necessary. Also they cross the Grand Duchy when they please."
"Then, if I write out a telegram here——"
"Fritzl will take it, never fear, sir. Leave it on the billiard table—any telegrams or letters—and they shall be sent when Fritzl drives to the station."
"Where," he inquired, "is Lesse Forest?" And could he send a messenger?
"Lesse Forest? Why the chasse wall separates the range of the Lesse Hills from Quellenheim. Any peasant at Trois Fontaines who possesses a bicycle could take a message and return in an hour."
"Do you know who leases the chasse at Lesse?"
"Yes. Some wealthy Americans."
So he smiled his thanks and returned to the hall. There was writing material on the long oak table. And first of all he wrote out a brief telegram to General von Reiter saying that he had fulfilled his promise.
This was all he might venture to say in a telegram; the rest he embodied in his letter to the Herr Baron:
Having telegraphed to you, and fulfilled my enforced obligations to the letter, I am confident that you, in your turn, will fulfill yours, release the hostages held by your troops at Yslemont, and spare the village any further destruction and indemnity.You had made it a part of the contract that, in case you were not at Quellenheim, I was to remain over night under your roof.I therefore have done so. It was not an agreeable sensation, and your forced hospitality, youwill recognize, imposes no obligations upon an unwilling guest.Now, as I say, the last and least item of my indebtedness to you is finally extinguished, and I am free once more to do what I choose.I shall be a consistent enemy to your country in whatever capacity the Belgian Government may see fit to employ me. I shall do your country all the harm I can. Not being a public executioner I have given the spies in your employment in London a week's grace to clear out before I place proofs of their identity in the hands of the British Government.This, I believe, closes, for the present, our personal account.Miss Girard is well, suffered no particular hardship, and is, I suppose, quite safe at Quellenheim where your capable housekeeper and her son are in charge of the Lodge.May I add that, personally, I entertain no animosity toward you or toward any German, individually—only a deep and inextinguishable hatred toward all that your Empire stands for, and a desire to aid in the annihilation of this monstrous anachronism of the twentieth century.
Having telegraphed to you, and fulfilled my enforced obligations to the letter, I am confident that you, in your turn, will fulfill yours, release the hostages held by your troops at Yslemont, and spare the village any further destruction and indemnity.
You had made it a part of the contract that, in case you were not at Quellenheim, I was to remain over night under your roof.
I therefore have done so. It was not an agreeable sensation, and your forced hospitality, youwill recognize, imposes no obligations upon an unwilling guest.
Now, as I say, the last and least item of my indebtedness to you is finally extinguished, and I am free once more to do what I choose.
I shall be a consistent enemy to your country in whatever capacity the Belgian Government may see fit to employ me. I shall do your country all the harm I can. Not being a public executioner I have given the spies in your employment in London a week's grace to clear out before I place proofs of their identity in the hands of the British Government.
This, I believe, closes, for the present, our personal account.
Miss Girard is well, suffered no particular hardship, and is, I suppose, quite safe at Quellenheim where your capable housekeeper and her son are in charge of the Lodge.
May I add that, personally, I entertain no animosity toward you or toward any German, individually—only a deep and inextinguishable hatred toward all that your Empire stands for, and a desire to aid in the annihilation of this monstrous anachronism of the twentieth century.
When he had signed and sealed this, and directed it, he wrote to his friend Darrel:
Dear Harry:If you are at Lesse Forest still, which I understand adjoins the hills of Quellenheim—and ifyour friends the Courlands still care to ask me for a day or two, I shall be very glad to come. I am at Quellenheim, Trois Fontaines.Please destroy the letter I intrusted to you to send to my mother. Everything is all right again. I may even have time to fish with you for a day or two.The messenger from Trois Fontaines who takes this will wait for an answer.Please convey my respect and my very lively sense of obligation to the Courlands. And don't let them ask me if it inconveniences them. I can go to Luxembourg just as well and see you there if you can run over.Did you get my luggage? I am wearing my last clean shirt. But my clothes are the limit.If I am to stop for a day or two at the Courlands please telegraph to Luxembourg for my luggage as soon as you receive this.Yours as usual,GuildP. S.Do Uhlans ever annoy the Courlands? I imagine that Lesse is too far from the railway and too unimportant from a military standpoint to figure at all in any operations along the edge of the Grand Duchy. And also any of the Ardennes is unfit as a highway between Rhenish Prussia and France. Am I correct?G.
Dear Harry:
If you are at Lesse Forest still, which I understand adjoins the hills of Quellenheim—and ifyour friends the Courlands still care to ask me for a day or two, I shall be very glad to come. I am at Quellenheim, Trois Fontaines.
Please destroy the letter I intrusted to you to send to my mother. Everything is all right again. I may even have time to fish with you for a day or two.
The messenger from Trois Fontaines who takes this will wait for an answer.
Please convey my respect and my very lively sense of obligation to the Courlands. And don't let them ask me if it inconveniences them. I can go to Luxembourg just as well and see you there if you can run over.
Did you get my luggage? I am wearing my last clean shirt. But my clothes are the limit.
If I am to stop for a day or two at the Courlands please telegraph to Luxembourg for my luggage as soon as you receive this.
Yours as usual,Guild
P. S.
Do Uhlans ever annoy the Courlands? I imagine that Lesse is too far from the railway and too unimportant from a military standpoint to figure at all in any operations along the edge of the Grand Duchy. And also any of the Ardennes is unfit as a highway between Rhenish Prussia and France. Am I correct?
G.
He had sealed and directed this letter, and was gazing meditatively out of the diamond-leaded windows atthe splashing fountain in the court, when a slight sound attracted his attention and he turned, then rose and stepped forward.
Karen gave him her hand, smiling. In the other hand she held the last of her orchids.
"Are you rested?" he asked.
"Yes. Are you?"
"Perfectly, thank you. Really it is beautiful outside the house."
She lifted her lovely eyes and stood gazing out into the sunshine.
"There is no word from General von Reiter?" she asked, absently caressing her cheek with the fragrant blossom in her hand.
"Not yet," he said.
"If none comes, what are you going to do?"
"I am free, anyhow, to leave now."
"Free?"
"Free of my engagement with Baron von Reiter."
"Free of your obligations to—me?" she asked in a low voice.
He turned to her seriously: "My allegiance to you needs no renewal, Karen, because it has never been broken. You have my friendship if you wish for it. It is yours always as long as you care for it."
"I do.... Are you going to leave—Quellenheim?"
"Yes."
"When?"
"When a messenger brings me an answer to a letter which I shall send this morning."
She stood caressing her lips with his flower and gazing dreamily into the forest.
"So you really are going," she said.
"I cannot help it."
"I thought"—she forced a smile—"that you intended to rob me first."
He did not answer.
"Had you forgotten?" she asked, still with the forced smile.
"No."
"Do you still mean to do it?"
"I told you that I had to have the papers."
"Yes, and I told you that I should make it as difficult as I could for you. And I'm going to. Because I don't want you to go." She laughed, then sighed very frankly: "Of course," she added, "I don't suppose I could keep them very long if you have made up your mind to take them."
"Is that your idea of me?" he asked, laughing.
She nodded, thoughtfully: "You take what you want, sooner or later. There is no hope in opposing you. You are that kind of man. I have learned that."
She touched the orchid to her chin meditatively. "It surprised me," she added. "I have not been accustomed to authority like yours. I am my own mistress, and I supposed I was accountable to myself alone. But—" she lifted her eyes, "it appears that I am accountable to you. And the realization does not seem to anger me very deeply."
He looked away: "I do not try to control you, Karen," he said in a low voice.
"You have done so whether or not you have tried. I don't know what has happened to me. Do you?"
"Nothing," he said, forcing a laugh. "Except you are learning that the greatest pleasure of friendship is a confidence in it which nothing can disturb."
"Confidence in friendship—yes. But confidence inyou!—that ended in our stateroom. Without confidence I thought friendship impossible.... And here I am asking you not to go away—because I—shall miss you. Will you tell me what is the matter with a girl who has no confidence in a man and who desires his companionship as I do yours?" Her cheeks flushed, but her eyes were steady, bright, and intelligent: "Am I going to fall in love with you, Kervyn?"
He laughed mirthlessly: "No, not if you can reason with yourself about it," he said. "It merely means that you are the finest, most honest, most fearless woman I ever knew, capable of the most splendid friendship, not afraid to show it. That is all it means, Karen. And I am deeply, humbly grateful.... And very miserable.... Because——"
The entrance of Frau Bergner with the breakfast tray checked him. They both turned toward the long oak table.
Fortunately the culinary school where the housekeeper had acquired her proficiency was not German. She had learned her art in Alsace.
So the coffee was fragrant and the omelette a dream;and there were grapes from the kitchen arbour and ham from a larder never lacking the succulent by-products of thesanglierof the Ardennes.
Frau Bergner took his letters and telegram, promising that Fritzl should find somebody with a bicycle at Trois Fontaines to carry the other note to Lesse Forest.
She hovered over them while they ate. The breakfast was a silent one.
Afterward Karen wrote a number of notes addressed to her modiste in Berlin and to various people who might, in her present emergency, supply her with something resembling a wardrobe.
Guild had taken his pipe out to the fountain, where she could see him through the window, seated on the coping of the pool, smoking and tracing circles in the gravel with a broken twig.
She hurried her notes, called the housekeeper to take them, then, without taking hat or gloves, she went out into the sunshine. The habit, so easily acquired, of being with Guild was becoming a necessity, and neither to herself nor to him had it yet occurred to her to pretend anything different.
There was, in her, an inherent candour, which unqualified, perhaps unsoftened by coquetry, surprises more than it attracts a man.
But its very honesty is its undoing; it fails to hold the complex masculine mind; its attractiveness is not permanent. For the average man requires the subtlety of charm to stir him to sentiment; and charm means uncertainty; and uncertainty, effort.
No effortless conquest means more to a man than friendship. And friendship is nothing new to a man.
But it was new to Karen; she had opened her mind to it; she was opening her heart to it, curious concerning it, interested as she had never before been, sincere about it—sincere with herself.
Never before had the girl cared for a man more than she had cared about any woman. The women she had known had not been inferior in intelligence to the men she knew. And a normal and wholesome mind and heart harbour little sentiment when the mind is busy and the body sound.
But since she had known this man she knew also that he had appealed to something more than her intelligence.
Vaguely realizing this in the crisis threatened by his violence, she had warned him that he was violating something more than friendship.
Then the episode had passed and become only an unquiet memory; but the desire for his companionship had not passed; it increased, strengthening itself with every hour in his company, withstanding self-analysis, self-reproach, defying resentment, mocking her efforts to stimulate every tradition of pride—even pride itself.
Deeply conscious of the power his personality exercised over her, perplexed, even bewildered at herself, she had not only endured the intimacy of contact with him, but in her heart she accepted it, cared for it, was conscious of relaxation and contentment except for the constant array of traditional indictments which her consciencewas busily and automatically finding against her.
She could not comprehend why what he had done had not annihilated her interest in him; why she, even with effort, could find in her mind no abiding anger, no scorn, no contempt for him or for what he had done.
And because she was intelligent and healthy, in her perplexity she had tried to reason—had found nothing to account for her state of mind unless love could account for it—and knowing nothing of love, had admitted the possibility to herself and even to him. Intelligence, candour, ignorance of deeper emotion—coupled with the normal mental and physical innocence of a young girl—this was the character she had been born with and which had naturally and logically developed through nineteen years of mental and bodily cultivation. The girl was most fatally equipped for an awakening.
He stood up when she appeared, knocked out his pipe and advanced to meet her. He had been doing a lot of thinking. And he had concluded to talk very frankly to her about her friendship with him—frankly, kindly, discouraging gaily any mistaken notion she might harbour that there could be any room, any reason, any fitness for a deeper sentiment in this friendship—anything more significant than the delightful and frank affection now existing between them.
"Shall we walk in the forest, Karen?" he said.
"Yes, please."