The lamps had not yet been lighted in the big, comfortable living-room and late sunlight striped wall and ceiling with rose where Karen sat sewing, and Darrel, curled up in a vast armchair, frowned over a book. And well he might, for it was a treatise on German art.
His patience arriving at the vanishing point he started to hurl the book from him, then remembering that it was not his to hurl, slapped it shut.
Which caused Karen to lift her deep violet eyes inquiringly.
"Teutonic Kultur! I've got its number," he said. Which observation conveyed no meaning to Karen.
"German art," he explained. "It used to be merely ample, adipose, and indigestible. Now the moderns have made it sinister and unclean. The ham-fist has become the mailed fist; the fat and trickling source of Teutonic inspiration has become polluted. There is no decadence more hideous than the brain cancer of a Hercules."
Karen followed him with intelligent interest. Shesaid with hesitation: "The moderns, I think, are wandering outside immutable boundaries. Frontiers are eternal. If any mind believes the inclosed territory exhausted, there is nothing further to be found outside in the waste places—only chaos. And the mind must shift to another and totally different pasture—which also has its boundaries eternal and fixed."
"Right!" exclaimed Darrel. "No sculptor can find for sculpture any new mode of expression beyond the limits of the materials which have always existed; no painter can wander outside the range of black and white, or beyond the surface allotted him; the composer can express himself in music only within the limits of the audible scale; the writer is a prisoner to grammatical expression, walled always within the margins of the printed page. Outside, as you say, lies chaos, possibly madness. The moderns are roaming there. And some of them are announcing the discovery of German Kultur where they have barked their mental shins in outer darkness."
Karen smiled. "It is that way in music I think. The dissonance of mental disturbance warns sanity in almost every bar of modern music. It is that which is so appalling to me, Mr. Darrel—that in some modernism is visible and audible more and more the menace of mental and moral disintegration. And the wholesome shrink from it."
Darrel said: "Three insane 'thinkers' have led Germany to the brink where she now stands swaying. God help her, in the end, to convalescence—" he stared at the fading sunbeams on the wall, and staring, quoted:
"'Over broken oaths andThrough a sea of blood.'"
"'Over broken oaths andThrough a sea of blood.'"
He looked up. "I'm sorry: I forget you are German."
"I forget that I am supposed to be, too.... But you have not offended me. I know war is senseless. I know that war will not always be the method used to settle disputes. There will be great changes beginning very soon in the world, I think."
"I believe so, too. It will begin by a recognition of the rights of smaller nations to self-government. It will be an area of respect for the weak. Government by consent is not enough; it must become government by request. And the scriptures shall remain no more sacred than the tiniest 'scrap of paper' in the archives of the numerically smallest independent community on earth.
"The era of physical vastness, of spheres of influence, of scope is dying. The supreme wickedness of the world is Force. That must end for nations and for men. Only one conflict remains inevitable and eternal; the battle of minds, which can have no end."
For an American and an operator in real estate, Darrel's philosophy was harmlessly respectable if not very new. But he thought it both new and original, which pleased him intensely.
As for Karen, she had been thinking of Guild for the last few minutes. Her sewing lay in her lap, her dark, curly head rested in the depths of her arm-chair. Sunlight had almost faded on the wall.
Through the window she could see the trees. The golden-green depths of the beech-wood were growing dusky. Against the terrace masses of salvia and geraniums glowed like coals on fire. The brown-eyed girl had been away with him a long while.
Mrs. Courland came in, looking more youthful and pretty than ever, and seated herself with her knitting. The very last ray from the sinking sun fell on her ruddy hair.
"Think you are right, Harry," she said quietly to Darrel. "I think we will sail when you do. The men on the place are becoming very much excited over this Uhlan raid on the cattle. I could hear them from my bedroom window out by the winter fold, and they were talking loudly as well as recklessly."
"There's no telling what these forest people may do," admitted Darrel. "I am immensely relieved to know that you and Valentine are to sail when I do. As for Kervyn Guild—" he made a hopeless gesture—"his mind is made up and that always settles it with him."
"He won't return with you?"
"No. He's joining the Belgians."
"Really!"
"Yes. You see his people were Belgian some generations back. It's a matter of honour with him and argument is wasted. But it hits me pretty hard."
"I can understand. He is a most delightful man."
"He is as straight and square as he is delightful. His mother is charming; his younger brother is everything you'd expect him to be after knowing Kervyn. Theirsis a very united family, but, do you know I am as certain as I am of anything that his mother absolutely approves of what he is about to do. She is that sort. It may kill her, but she'll die smiling."
Mrs. Courland's serious, sweet eyes rested on him, solemn with sympathy for the mother she had never met.
"The horrid thing about it all," continued Darrel, "is that Kervyn is one man in a million;—and in a more terrible sense that is all he can be in this frightful and endless slaughter which they no longer even pretend to call one battle or many.
"He's a drop in an ocean, only another cipher in the trenches where hell's hail rains day and night, day and night, beating out lives without distinction, without the intelligence of choice—just raining, raining, and beating out life!... I can scarcely endure the thought of Kervyn ending that way—such a man—my friend——"
His voice seemed hoarse and he got up abruptly and walked to the window.
Ashes of roses lingered in the west; the forest was calm; not a leaf stirred in the lilac-tinted dusk.
Karen, who had been listening, stirred in the depths of her chair and clasped her fingers over her sewing.
Mrs. Courland said quietly:
"It is pleasant for any woman to have known such a man as Mr. Guild."
"Yes," said Karen.
"If the charm of his personality so impresses us who have known him only a very little while, I am thinkingwhat those who are near and dear to him must feel."
"I, too," said Karen, faintly.
"Yet she loves him best who would not have it otherwise it seems."
"Yes; he must go," said Karen. "Some could not have it—otherwise."
A man came to light the lamps. And a little while after they were lighted Mrs. Courland quietly looked up from her knitting. One swift, clear glance she gave; saw in the young girl's eyes what she had already divined must be there. Then bent again above her ivory needles. After a while she sighed, very lightly.
"They're late," remarked Darrel from the window.
"They are probably strolling up the drive; Valentine knows enough not to get lost," said her mother.
After a few moments Karen said: "Would my playing disturb you?"
"No, dear. Please!"
So Karen rose and walked to the piano. Presently Darrel turned and seated himself to listen to the deathless sanity of Beethoven flowing from the keys under a young girl's slender fingers.
She was still seated there when Valentine came in, and turned her head from the keyboard, stilling the soft chords.
"We had such a good time," said Valentine. "We caught half a dozen trout, and then I took him to the Pulpit where we sat down and remained very quiet; and just at sunset three boar came out to feed on the oakmast; and he said that one of them was worth shooting!"
"You evidentlyhavehad a good time," said Darrel, smiling. "What happened to Guild. Did the boar treehim?"
"I think he'd be more likely to tree the boar," remarked the girl. And to her mother she said: "He went on toward the winter fold to talk to Michaud who has just returned from Trois Fontaines. There were a lot of men there, ours and a number of strangers. So I left him to talk to Michaud. What have you all been doing this afternoon?" turning to Karen, and from her, involuntarily to Darrel.
"Miss Girard and I have conversed philosophically and satisfactorily concerning everything on earth," he said. "I wish my conversations with you were half as satisfactory."
Valentine laughed, but there was a slight flush on her cheeks, and again she glanced at Karen, whose lovely profile only was visible where she bent in silence above the keyboard.
"Your mother," remarked Darrel, "has decided to sail with me. Would you condescend to join us, Valentine?"
"Mother, are you really going back when Harry sails?"
"Yes. I don't quite like the attitude of the men here. And Harry thinks there is very likely to be trouble between them and the Germans across the border."
The girl looked thoughtfully at her mother, then at Darrel, rather anxiously.
"Mother," she said, "I think it is a good idea to get Harry out of the country. He is very bad-tempered, and if the Germans come here and are impudent to us he'll certainly get himself shot!"
"I! I haven't the courage of a caterpillar!" protested Darrel.
"You're the worst fibber in the Ardennes! Youdidkill that grey boar this morning! What do you mean by telling us that you went up a tree! Maxl, the garde-de-chasse at the Silverwiltz gate, heard your shot and came up. And you told him to dress the boar and send a cart for it. Which he did!—you senseless prevaricator!"
"Oh, my!" said Darrel meekly.
"And you're wearing a bandage below your knee where the boar bit you when you gave him the coup-de-grâce! Maxl washed and bound it for you! What a liar you are, Harry! Does it hurt?"
"To be a liar?"
"No! where you were tusked?"
"Maxl was stringing you, fair maid," he said lightly.
"He wasn't! You walk lame!"
"Laziness and gout account for that débutante slouch of mine. But of course if you care to hold my hand——"
The girl looked at him, vexed, yet laughing:
"I don'twantpeople who do not know you to think you really are the dub you pretend to be! Do you wish Miss Girard to believe it?"
"Truth is mighty and must——"
"I know more about you than you think I do, Harry. Mr. Guild portrayed for me a few instances of your 'mouse'-like courage. And I don't wish you to lose your temper and be shot if the Uhlans ride into Lesse and insult us all! Therefore I approve of our sailing for home. And the sooner the better!"
"You frighten me," he said; "I think I'll ask Jean to pack my things now." And he got up, limping, and started for the door.
"Mother," she said, "that boar's tusks may poison him. Won't you make him let us bandage it properly?"
"I think you had better, Harry," said Mrs. Courland, rising.
"Oh, no; it's all right——"
"Harry!" That was all Valentine said. But he stopped short.
"Take his other arm, mother," said the girl with decision.
She looked over her shoulder at Karen; the two young girls exchanged a smile; then Valentine marched off with her colossal liar.
Michaud, head forester, had taken off his grey felt hat respectfully when Valentine introduced him to Guild, there in the lantern light of the winter sheep fold. A dozen or more men standing near by in shadowy groups had silently uncovered at the same time. Two wise-looking sheep dogs, squatted on their haunches, looked at him.
Then the girl had left Guild there and returned to the house.
"I should like to have a few moments quiet conversation with you," said Guild; and the stalwart, white-haired forester stepped quietly aside with him, following the younger man until they were out of earshot of those gathered by the barred gate of the fold.
"You are Belgian?" inquired Guild pleasantly.
"De Trois Fontaines, monsieur."
It was a characteristic reply. A Belgian does not call himself a Belgian. Always he designates his nationality by naming his birthplace—as though the world must know that it is in Belgium.
"And those people over there by the sheep fold?" asked Guild.
"Our men—some of them—from Ixl, from the Black Erenz and the White, from Lesse—one from Liège. And there is one, a stranger."
"From where?"
"Moresnet."
"Has he any political opinions?"
"He says his heart is with us. It is mostly that way in Moresnet."
"In Moresnet ten per cent of the people are Germans in sympathy," remarked Guild. "What is this man? A miner?"
"A charcoal burner."
"Does he seem honest?"
"Yes, Monsieur," said the honest forester, simply.
Guild laid one hand on the man's broad shoulder:
"Michaud," he said quietly, "I know I am among friends if you say I am. I mean friends to Belgium."
The dark eyes of the tall forester seemed to emit a sudden sparkle in the dusk.
"Monsieur is American?"
"Yes. My grandfather was Belgian."
"Monsieur is a friend?"
"Michaud, my name, in America is Guild. My name in Belgian is Kervyn Gueldres. Judge, then, whether I am a friend to your country and your king."
"Gueldres!" whispered the forester, rigid. "Kervyn of Gueldres, Comte d'Yvoir, Hastiere——"
"It is so written on the rolls of the Guides."
"Monsieur le Comte has served!"
"Two years with the colours. I am here to report for duty. Do you feel safe to trust me now, Michaud, my friend?"
The tall, straight forester uncovered. "Trust a Gueldres! My God!"
"Put on your hat," said Guild, bluntly, "I am American when I deal with men!"
"Monsieur le Comte——"
"'Monsieur' will do. Give me your hand! That is as it should be. We understand each other I think. Now tell me very clearly exactly what happened this morning on the hill meadows of the Paillard estate."
"Monsieur le——"
"Please remember!"
"Pardon! Monsieur Guild, the Grey Uhlans rode over the border and laughed at the gendarme on duty. Straight they made for our hill meadows, riding at ease and putting their horses to the hedges. Schultz, our herdsman, saw them trotting like wolves of the Black Erenz, ran to the wooden fence to close the gate, but their lances rattling on the pickets frightened him.
"They herded the cattle while their officers sat looking on by the summer fold.
"'Do not these cattle and sheep belong to the Paillard estate?' asks one of the officers of Schultz. And, 'Very well then!' says he; 'we are liquidating an old account with Monsieur Paillard!'
"And with that a company of the Grey Ones canters away across the valley and up the slope beyondwhere our shepherd, Jean Pascal, is sitting with his two dogs.
"'You, there!' they call out to him. 'Send out your dogs and herd your sheep!' And, when he only gapes at them, one of their riders wheels on him, twirling his lance and shoves him with the counter-balance.
"So they make him drive his flock for them across the valley, and then over the border—all the way on foot, Monsieur; and then they tell him to loiter no more but to go about his business.
"That is what has happened on our hill pasture. He, the lad, Pascal, is over there with his dogs"—pointing toward the fold—"almost crazed with grief and shame. And, Schultz, he wishes us to organize as a franc-corps. Me? I don't know what to do—what with Monsieur Paillard away, and the forests in my care. Were it not for my responsibility——"
"I know, Michaud. But what could an isolated franc-corps do? Far better to join your class if you can—when your responsibility here permits. Those young men, there, should try to do the same."
"Monsieur is right! Even the classes of 1915, '16, and '17 have been called. I have reminded them. But this outrage on the hill pastures has inflamed them and made hot-heads of everybody. They wish to take their guns and hunt Grey Uhlans. They don't know what they are proposing. I saw something of that in '70. Why the Prussians hung or shot every franc-tireur they caught; and invariably the nearest village was burned. And I say to them that even if Monsieur Paillard isdead, as many are beginning to believe, his death does not alter our responsibility. Why should we bring reprisals upon his roof, his fields, his forests? No, that is not honest conduct. But if we are now really convinced of his death, as soon as Madame Courland leaves, let us turn over the estate to the proper authorities in Luxembourg. Then will each and all of us be free to join the colours when summoned—if God will only show us how to do it."
"Madame Courland and mademoiselle ought to go tomorrow," said Guild. "One or another of your hotheads over there might get us into trouble this very night."
"The man from Moresnet talks loudest. I have tried to reason with him," said Michaud. "Would you come to the fold with me?"
They walked together toward the lantern light; the men standing there turned toward them and ceased their excited conversation.
"Friends," said old Michaud simply, "this gentleman's name is Kervyn of Gueldres. I think that is sufficient for any Belgian, or for any man from the Grand Duchy?"
Off came every hat.
"Cover yourselves," continued Michaud calmly. "Monsieur, who has become an American, desires to be known as Monsieur Guild without further mark of respect. This also is sufficient for us all, I suppose. Thou! Jean Pascal, cease thy complaints and stand straight and wipe thy tears. By God, I think there areother considerations in Lesse Forest than the loss of thy sheep and of Schultz's cattle!"
"M-my sheep are gone!" blubbered the boy, "I was too cowardly to defend them——"
"Be quiet," said Guild. "It was not a question of your courage! You did wisely. Show equal wisdom now."
"But I shall go after Uhlans now with my fusil-de-chasse! Ah, the cowards of Germans! Ah, the brigands——"
"Cowards! Assassins!" muttered the other. "Grey wolves run when a man goes after them——"
"You are wrong," said Guild quietly. "Germans are no cowards. If they were there would be no credit for us in fighting them. Don't make any mistake you men of the Ardennes; their soldiers are as brave as any soldiers. And where you belong is with your colours, with your classes, and in uniform. That's where I also belong; that's where I am going if I can find out how to go. Perhaps one of you can guide me. Think it over. Keep cool, and listen to Michaud, who is older and wiser than all of us."
There was a profound silence. Then a voice from the darkness, very distinct:
"I have seen red. It is necessary for me to bleed an Uhlan!"
Guild walked toward the sound of the voice: "Who are you?" he demanded.
"Moi, je suis de Moresnet!"
"Then you'd better go back to the zinc mines of Moresnet,my friend. No Uhlans will trouble you down there."
And, aside to Michaud: "Look out for that young man from Moresnet. He's too hotly a Belgian to suit my taste."
"Monsieur, he is a talker," said Michael with a shrug.
"My friend, be careful that he is nothing more dangerous."
"Ah, sacré bleu!" exclaimed the forester, reddening to his white temples—"if any of that species had the temerity to come among us!——"
"Michaud, they might even be among the King's own entourage.... No doubt that fellow is merely, as you say, a talker. But—he should not be left to wander about the woodsalone. And, tell me, is there anybody else you know of who might do something rash tonight along the boundary?"
"Monsieur—there are two or three poor devils who escaped the firing squads at Yslemont. They live in our forest, hiding. Our people feed them."
Guild said in a troubled voice: "Such charity is an obligation. But nevertheless it is a peril and a menace to us all."
"Were this estate my own," said the sturdy forester, "I would shelter them as long as they desired to remain. But I am responsible to Monsieur Paillard, and to his tenant, Madame Courland. Therefore I have asked these poor refugees to continue on to Diekirch or to Luxembourg where the sight of an Uhlan's schapska will be no temptation to them."
"You are right, Michaud." He held out his hand; the forester grasped it. "Tomorrow we should talk further. Our duty is to join the colours, not to prowl through the woods assassinating Uhlans. Good night! In the morning then?"
"At Monsieur's service."
"And both of us at the service of the bravest man in Europe—Albert, the King!"
Off came their hats. And, as they stood there in silence under the stars, from far away across the misty sea of trees came the sound of a gun-shot.
"One of your men?" asked Guild sharply.
"I don't know, Monsieur. Big boar feed late. A poacher perhaps. Perhaps a garde-de-chasse at Trois Fontaines."
"I hope nothing worse."
"I pray God not."
They continued to listen for a while, but no other sound broke the starry silence. And finally Guild turned away with a slight gesture, and walked slowly back to the Lodge.
Lights from the tall windows made brilliant patches and patterns across terrace and grass and flowers; the front door was open and the pleasant ruddy lamp-light streamed out.
Valentine passing and mounting the stairs caught sight of him and waved her hand in friendly salute.
"We're sterilizing Harry's shins—mother and I. The foolish boy was rather badly tusked."
"Is he all right?"
"Perfectly, and bored to death by our fussing."
She ran on up the stairs, paused again: "We're not dressing for dinner," she called down to him, and vanished.
Guild said, "All right!" glanced at the hall clock, and sauntered on into the big living-room so unmistakably American in its brightness and comfort.
But it was not until he had dropped back into the friendly embrace of a stuffed arm-chair that he was aware of Karen curled up in the depths of another, sewing.
"I didn't know you were here," he said coolly. "Have you had an agreeable afternoon?"
"Yes, thank you."
"It's a very charming place."
"Yes."
"I think the Courlands are delightful."
"Very."
"Miss Courland and I had a wonderful walk. We had no trouble in taking all the trout we needed for dinner, and then we went to a rock called The Pulpit, where we lay very still and talked only in whispers until three wild boars came out to feed."
Karen lifted her eyes from her sewing. They seemed unusually dark to him, almost purple.
"After that," he went on, "we walked back along the main ride to a carrefour where the drive crosses; and so back here. That accounts for my afternoon." He added, smiling carelessly: "May I ask you to account for yours?"
"Yes, please."
"Very well, then I do ask it."
She bent over her sewing again: "I have been idle. The sun was agreeable. I went for a little stroll alone and found an old wall and a pool and a rose garden."
"And then?"
"The rose garden is very lovely. I sat there sewing and—thinking——"
"About what?"
"About—you—mostly."
He said steadily enough: "Were your thoughts pleasant?"
"Partly."
"Only partly?"
"Yes.... I remembered that you are joining your regiment."
"But that should not be an unpleasant thought for you, Karen."
"No. I would have it so, of course. It could not be otherwise under the circumstances."
"It could not be otherwise," he said pleasantly; but his grey eyes never left the pale, sweet profile bent above the leisurely moving needle.
"I understand."
"I know you understandthat—at least, Karen."
"Yes. Other matters, too—a little better than I did—this morning."
"What matters?" he asked casually. But his heart was threatening to meddle with his voice; and he set hislips sternly and touched his short mustache with careless fingers.
Karen bent still lower over her sewing. The light was perfectly good, however.
"What," he asked again, "are the matters which you now understand better than you did this morning?"
"Matters—concerning—love."
He laughed: "Do you think you understand love?"
"A little better than I did."
"In what way? You are not in love, are you, Karen?"
"I think—a—little."
"With whom?"
No answer.
"Not withme?"
"Yes." She turned swiftly in the depths of her chair to confront him as he sprang to his feet.
"Wait!" she managed to say; and remained silent, one slim hand against her breast. And, after a moment: "Would you not come any nearer, please."
"Karen——"
"Not now, please.... Sit there where you were.... I can tell you better—all I know—about it."
She bent again over her needle, sewing half blindly, the hurrying pulses making her hand unsteady. After he was seated she turned her head partly around for a moment, looking at him with a fascinated and almost breathless curiosity.
"If I tell you, you will come no nearer; will you?" she asked.
"No. Tell me."
She sewed for a while at random, not conscious what her fingers were doing, striving to think clearly in the menace of these new emotions, the power of which she was divining now, realizing more deeply every second.
"I'll try to tell you," she said: "I didn't know anything—about myself—this morning. What we had been to each other I considered friendship. Remember it was my first friendship with a man. And—I thought itwasthat."
After a silence: "Was it anything deeper?" he asked.
"Yes, deeper.... You frightened me at first.... I was hurt.... But not ashamed or angry. And I did not understand why.... Until you spoke and said—what you said."
"That I love you?"
"Yes.... After that things grew slowly clearer to me. I don't know what I said to you—half the things I said on the way back—only that I made you angry—and I continued, knowing that you were angry and that I—I was almost laughing—I don't know why—only that I needed time to try to think.... You can't understand, can you?"
"I think so."
She looked up, then bowed her head once more.
"That is all," she said under her breath.
"Nothing more, Karen?"
"Only that—after you had gone away this afternoon I began to be a little in love."
"Will it grow?"
"I think so."
"May I tell you that I love you?"
"Yes, please."
His clasped hands tightened on his knees; he said in a low unsteady voice: "All my heart is yours, Karen—all there is in me of love and loyalty, honour and devotion, is yours. Into my mind there is no thought that comes which is not devoted to you or influenced by my adoration of you. I love you—every word you utter, every breath you draw, every thought you think I love. The most wonderful thing in the world would be that you should love me; the greatest miracle that you might marry me. Dare I hope for you, Karen?"
"Yes—please."
"That you will grow to really love me?"
"Yes."
"With all your heart?"
"I think so."
In the tremulous silence she turned again and looked at him, bending very low over her work.
"Will you be gentle with me, Kervyn?"
"Dearest——"
"I mean—considerate—at first.... There is a great deal I don't know about men—and being in love with one of them.... Brought up as I have been, I could not understand that you should take me—in your arms.... I was not angry—not even ashamed.... Only, never having thought of it—and taking it for granted that, among people of your caste and mine, to touch a man's lips was an act—of betrothal—perhaps of marriage——"
"Dearest, itwas!"
"Yes, I understand now. But for a while I felt—strangely—overwhelmed.... You can understand—having no mother—and suddenly face to face with—you——"
She leaned her cheek against the back of the chair and rested so, her small white hands folded over her sewing.
"I have yet to see Baron Kurt," she said half to herself. "I shall say to him that I care for you. After that—when you come back, and if you wish me to marry you—ask me."
He stood up: "How near may I come to you, Karen?"
"Notverynear—just now."
"Near enough to kiss your finger-tip."
"Yes, please."
Without turning her head she extended her arm; his lips touched lightly the fragrant skin, and she pressed her fingers a trifle closer—a second only—then her arm fell to her lap.
"After dinner," she said, "I shall show you the roses in the garden."
"They are no sweeter than your hand, Karen."
She smiled, her flushed cheek still resting against the cushions.
"It is very wonderful, very gentle after all," she murmured to herself.
"What, Karen?"
"I meant love," she said, dreamily.
Dinner was ended. Darrel lay on a lounge in the sitting-room, a victim against his will to romance. Beside him on a low footstool sat Valentine, reading aloud to him when she thought he ought to be read to, fussing with his pillows when she chose to fuss, taking his cigarette from his lips and inserting a thermometer at intervals, and always calmly indifferent to his protests or to her mother's laughter.
For she had heard somewhere that a wild boar's teeth poisoned like a lion's mauling; and the sudden revelation of a hero under the shattered shell of modesty and self-depreciation which so long obscured the romantic qualities in this young man determined her to make him continue to play a rôle which every girl adores—the rôle of the stricken brave.
Never again could Darrel explain to her how timidity, caution, and a native and unfeigned stupidity invariably characterized his behaviour at psychological moments.
For Guild had told her all about this young man's cool resourcefulness and almost nerveless courage during those hair-raising days in Sonora when the great YoEspero ranch was besieged, and every American prisoner taken was always reported "Shot in attempting to escape."
She had never even known that Darrel had been in Mexico until Guild told her about their joint mining enterprise and how, under a spineless Administration, disaster had wiped out their property, and had nearly done the same for them.
"Mother," said the girl, "I think I'll look at his shin again."
"Nonsense!" protested Darrel, struggling to sit up, and being checked by a soft but firm little hand flat against his chest.
"I don't want to have my shin looked at," he repeated helplessly.
"Mother, I am going to change the dressing. Will you help?"
"For the love of Mike——"
"Be quiet, Harry!"
"Then make Guild go out of the room! He's laughing at me now!"
Karen was laughing, too, and now she turned to Guild: "Come," she said, smilingly; "we are not welcome here. Also I do want you to see the rose garden by star-light." And to Mrs. Courland, naïvely: "May we please be excused to see your lovely garden?"
The pretty young matron smiled and nodded, busy with the box of first-aid bandages for which Valentine was now waiting.
So Karen and Guild went out together into thestar-light, across the terrace and lawns and down along a dim avenue of beeches.
The night was aromatic with the clean sweet odour of the forest; a few leaves had fallen, merely a tracery of delicate burnt-gold under foot.
Karen turned to the right between tall clipped hedges.
Mossy steps of stone terminated the alley and led down into an old sunken garden with wall and pool and ghostly benches of stone, and its thousands of roses perfuming the still air.
They were all there, the heavenly company, dimly tinted in crimson, pink, and gold—Rose de Provence, Gloire de Dijon, Damask, Turkish, Cloth of Gold—exquisite ghosts of their ardent selves—immobile phantoms, mystic, celestial, under the high lustre of the stars.
Mirror-dark, the round pool's glass reflected a silvery inlay of the constellations; tall trees bordered the wall, solemn, unstirring, as though ranged there for some midnight rite. The thin and throbbing repetition of hidden insects were the only sounds in that still and scented place.
They leaned upon the balustrade of stone and looked down into the garden for a while. She stirred first, turning a little way toward him. And together they descended the steps and walked to the pool's rim.
Once, while they stood there, she moved away from his side and strolled away among the roses, roaming at random, pausing here and there to bend and touch with her face some newly opened bud.
Slender and shadowy she lingered among the unclosingmiracles of rose and gold, straying, loitering, wandering on, until again she found herself beside the pool of mirror black—and beside her lover.
"Your magic garden is all you promised," he said in a low voice—"very wonderful, very youthful in its ancient setting of tree and silvered stone. And now the young enchantress is here among her own; and the spell of her fills all the world."
"Do you mean me?"
"You, Karen, matchless enchantress, sorceress incomparable who has touched with her wand the old-familiar world and made of it a paradise."
"Because I said I loved you—a little—has it become a paradise? You know I only said 'a little.'"
"I remember."
"Of course," she added with a slight sigh, "it has become more, now, since I first said that to you. I shouldn't call it 'a little,' now; I should call it——" She hesitated.
"Much?"
She seemed doubtful. "Yes, I think it is becoming 'much'—little by little."
"May I kiss—your hand?"
"Yes, please."
"And clasp your waist—very lightly—thisway?"
"In sign of betrothal?"
"Yes."
She looked up at him out of the stillest, purest eyes he had ever beheld.
"You know best, Kervyn, what we may do."
"I know," he said, drawing her nearer.
After a moment she rested her cheek against his shoulder.
Standing so beside the pool, breathing the incense of the roses, she thought of the dream, and the gay challenge, "Who goes there?" She was beginning to suspect the answer, now. It was Love who had halted her on that flower-set frontier; the password, which she had not known then, was "Love." Love had laughed at her but had granted her right of way across that border into the Land of Dreams. And now, unchallenged, save by her own heart, she had come once more to the borderland of flowers.