But Berta had evidently more to say. “It is remarked that the Grand-Duchess was not so ill-pleased at what last night happened, only she …”
That was too much for Gill’s fast-waning patience. She sat up in a hurry, holding to her head.
“What? You think the Duchess was humbugging, do you?” she inquired. “Where did you get that choice bit of information, I wonder? The people who told it you didn’t see her face, or hear her voice when she told Captain Cartaret to settle that … that precious cad, you may be sure then!”
Berta’s ordinarily rather colourless face became of a dull red colour. She got up. “I shall inform my mother how you speak of the Kaiser’s son,” she told Gill, “and for Cartaret the Englishman, he has by now been duly punished for his presumption, since there was a duel between Captain von Posen and himself this morning.”
“What! ” cried Gill.
“A duel,” Berta repeated. “His Imperial Highness naturally commanded that Captain von Posen should seek it—he is a fine swordsman.”
Gillian remembered the incident of the dinner-napkin at Estinotti’s, and understood. But though she felt horribly afraid for her friend, Berta’s calm assumption that it was the Englishman who must get the worst of the encounter was not to be borne.
“I wouldn’t be so cocky if I were you,” she flared. “Englishmen don’t say so much about being fine shots and fine swordsmen and all the rest; they just turn out to be it, when you try them. I expect you’ll find out one day that Germans aren’t the only people in the world, Berta; when you’ve grown up, and travelled a bit, and know more.”
The last remark was a throwing down of the glove, and Gillian realised it, and would not have said as much in a cooler moment. “I’m sorry if I’ve been rude,” she added, “but you’ve got to hear it some time from someone, you know.”
If Berta had been red before, she was nearly purple now. She backed away from Gillian’s bed almost as far as the window, as though the English girl were suffering from some infectious disease.
“You are a pig-dog, Gillian Courtney,” she said. “For me, I would have nothing to do with you, if it were not that my mother desires that I quickly acquire your accursed language that I may be at ease with it when we have conquered London. It will not then be that you talk to me of ‘one day’ when I have travelled and know more. It is a different ‘Day’ that you will look to, you Englisher, and that not far distant.”
Gillian forgot all about her headache, got out of bed, and, bundling into her dressing-gown and slippers, marched up to Berta at the window.
“Look here, I’m not going to be talked to like this,” she said. “I don’t know what on earth you mean—if you’re having hysterics on your own you can let me know—but I won’t be called a ‘pig-dog’ by anyone, hysterical or not. If you don’t apologise, and pretty quickly, you’ll have to acquire my ‘accursed’ language (wonder where you left your manners when you got up this morning?) from someone else, and I shall go and tell the Baroness so, directly I’m dressed.”
Gillian had come right up to the window, and unconsciously she looked out as she finished speaking. It was a hot sunny morning, that Saturday, 2nd August, and on the near side of the street the sun blazed in a way that had brought out all the ladies’ parasols, and, in a few cases, giant umbrellas from old market-women to supplement the shelter of their big white caps. Only the men trudged about their business without further shelter than their hats afforded.
Two men were passing as Gill reached the window, two men in the “straw” that marks the Englishman. Gill knew them at once, and could hardly restrain a shriek of excitement. For they were Dick Cheshire and—Captain Cartaret.
They were talking—as they went directly under the widely opened window a few words floated up to the listening girls.
“Thanks, old chap, but I shall go in the dining-car. You might try for some English papers if you will, though—this idiotic affair has run me fine for seeing to my ticket, so …”
The rest was lost, as the two passed on, and Gill drew back her head with a sigh of relief.
Captain Cartaret was walking briskly to the station, alive and unhurt. There was a small neat strip of sticking-plaster on the back of the hand nearest to her, which was ungloved, but it was quite small; and his mind appeared to be entirely on the arrangements for his journey. The duel which was intended to “punish his presumption” was casually dismissed as the “idiotic affair” which was cutting him rather fine for getting his English newspapers.
Gill could not resist a glance of triumph at Berta. She would not have triumphed over a fallen adversary if Berta had not been so very insulting; as it was she really could not help it.
“Looks a little as though the punishing had happened to someone else, doesn’t it?” she remarked.
Berta had seen what Gill saw, if she did not understand all that Cartaret said, and Gillian almost thought that her eyes were going to start from her head.
She used a very strong expression, one not often heard from the lips of a girl of sixteen, and then turned upon Gillian in a burst of fury quite unexpected from one usually so phlegmatic.
“You laugh and mock, you English, and are proud that you are unlike us,” she said. “Wait! there is only Insterburg and Belgium between us and you, and what are they but a road that lies down to say ‘Walk over us.’ …”
Something seemed to jump at Gillian’s heart and set it throbbing with a violence that almost turned her sick. She knew all in an instant that the words Berta had spoken were not just the wild ravings of a girl who was hysterical with anger, but something serious and secret let out by a girl who was too angry to mind what she said. She knew that she was right, from the sudden scared way in which the German girl broke off. She could not adjust her thoughts all in a moment, though; while all the odd things which had happened since she came were rushing at her, and trying to fit themselves into the groundwork that Berta’s words had given. She only felt desperately certain that she must have a little quiet time in which to think and to see.
“I am going to get up, so do you mind going away?” she said stiffly to Berta. “While I am dressing, you are quite at liberty to tell your mother what I said about Prince Waldemar, if you wish. Nothing would induce me to stay here in any case, after the way you have insulted me this morning. It doesn’t seem to be the custom among Germans to apologise, even when they have been unbearably rude; and I prefer to go back to people who have manners, if they are not quite so great on education.”
And Gillian stalked with dignity to her wash-stand, and poured out her thimbleful of hot water with as vigorous a splash as it was capable of producing.
Berta went out. Gill flattered herself that the German girl was really afraid to stay, but though she had the room to herself at last, and excitement had done a great deal towards driving away her headache, she let her water grow quite cold before she even attempted to use it. She was thinking over Berta’s words; trying to see another meaning than the almost incredible one which had come to her when Berta spoke them, or rather flung them at her, first.
Was it war? If it wasn’t, what else could Berta have meant? And if it were war, what did the word “road” mean as applied to Insterburg and Belgium? It meant—it must mean that a German Army (Gill thought of it in that way, not having realised Army Corps, and other technical divisions) intended passing through two countries whose neutrality had been strictly guaranteed by the Great Powers.
It was that—it must be that! Gillian had not seen a paper since she left home, nor, to be quite honest, for some days before that, in all the excitement of packing and preparation.
She had no idea of any trouble brewing—was it between Germany and France, she wondered, or was it something about Serbia, which she had vaguely heard being discussed between two shrill-voiced ladies in the train, as she crossed Belgium in Miss Seacombe’s company?
Or was it a blow aimed directly at England? Gillian had been to National Service meetings mo
re than once, and remembered a photograph, reproduced upon the lantern-sheet, of Germans practising “Landing manœuvres”—manœuvres not exactly needed when you merely had to cross a frontier to invade. Berta had spoken of studying English with a view to practising it in a conquered London; that might merely have been said as the most insulting thing that she could say to an English girl, or it might have been—something else.
In any case, something was going to happen—something that deeply concerned Carina’s little independent Grand-Duchy, if there was any truth at all in what Berta had said. Gill felt quite certain that there was some truth. “Berta is much too stupid to invent all that,” she told herself, and then remembered suddenly that she was still in her dressing-gown, and began to get up with all despatch.
As she dressed she evolved her plans. She must leave the house in the Rue St. Denise; she would probably be sent away in any case, but she flattered herself that she had made it tolerably clear to Berta that she was going of her own accord as well. It was a bother, of course, to have to go home again so very soon; the new hold-all, umbrella and everything practically wasted; but even Aunt Edith would not expect her to stay in a place where they insulted England and addressed an English girl as “pig-dog.”
Gill stopped in the middle of her dressing to pack the hold-all, with an angry speed that made it more than doubtful in what condition her things would emerge, and then went on with her planning as she brushed her hair with vigorous bangs.
Would Mademoiselle de Monti meet her somewhere, if she telegraphed and explained that she was leaving the Von Traumes’ and had something important to say. Gill thought she would, and fell to thinking of the place of meeting, finally deciding upon Estinotti’s, as conveniently central. At Estinotti’s it would be possible to really talk, and to tell Mademoiselle de Monti everything, from the episode of the windows yesterday to Berta’s extraordinary statements this morning. Only she must give notice to the Von Traumes first; a sturdy sense of honour made Gillian feel that she could not act in any way as an enemy while she was still their guest.
Once she was out of the house and with Mademoiselle de Monti, Gillian felt that the future would be simple. Mademoiselle de Monti would tell her the best train to choose, etc., and probably start her off upon the journey to England, and perhaps even, as she had been so very kind already, write a note to Aunt Edith to explain that the sudden return really was not in the least Gill’s fault.
Gill thought that at least she would ask Mademoiselle de Monti if she could write that note; it would make a great deal of difference to the rather unpleasant business of going home, after staying for little more than thirty-nine hours out of the seven weeks.
Gill could not conceal from herself that she hated the prospect of going back so soon; but the prospect must be faced. She could not stay. “And at least I shall have something to tell the others,” she said, as philosophically as she could, while she tied her hair-ribbon.
She put on her out-door things before going downstairs, and then went to look for the Baroness.
That elegant lady was not either in the drawing-room or the room which was used as a schoolroom; Gill wondered whether she could have gone out. The girl was in the hall, hesitating for a moment whether to try the dining-room, which seemed unlikely at this hour, or to explore in the unknown parts of the house where the Baron presumably kept his study and smoking-room, when a door that was new to her opened, and the Baron looked out.
“Is that you, Miss Gillian Courtney? I want you.”
Gill went to him at once, feeling a little shaky about the knees now that the time had actually arrived for giving notice to her host and hostess. It was to be both, for, as she discovered the moment that she entered the door, the Baron and Baroness were sitting together, in conclave or in judgment.
Gill felt rather a girl alone, but remembered that she was an English girl.
CHAPTER XIV
Declaration of War
The Baron addressed her, sitting himself but not offering Gill a chair.
“Exactly as though I were a prisoner at the bar,” she thought to herself indignantly.
“Why have you out-door dress on, Miss Courtney?”
“Because—I was looking for the Baroness to explain—because I wish to leave this house,” Gillian said, trying hard for a manner of calm and grown-up dignity. “I suppose I need not explain the reason, as Berta has probably done that already, but I wished to thank you for what you have done for me, and to say good-bye.”
The speech had been rehearsed while Gill put her coat and hat on, but she certainly had not the remotest idea how the Baron and Baroness would take it. She had expected a frosty assent to her departure—an intimation that after Berta’s disclosures it was better that they should part—possibly a few more strictures upon English behaviour. What Gill had not expected was that there would be no comment at all, bad or good. She made a pause for one, and, when it did not come, grew scared by the silence and blundered on.
“I’m sorry if I seem discourteous or inconsiderate, but you see I’m English.”
She stopped again, and still there was no word from either the Baron or the Baroness.
“I have my things packed,” Gillian went on desperately. “I was sure you would not wish me to remain after …”
“After what?” inquired the Baron, at last breaking the uncanny silence. The Baroness was still speechless, surveying the English girl with fixed unwavering attention.
Gill had to say something, and she plunged boldly.
“After what is said here about England.”
“You were awake when Von Eckart and I talked in my room the other day,” the Baron sprang the accusation upon her, “and that is the reason you desire to leave my house?” His voice had changed and had suddenly become a little frightening, Gill thought.
She pulled her courage together. “I heard one thing you said before I knew I was going to hear it, and that was all,” she told him. “Of course I didn’t go on listening, but I did hear that sentence; and so of course I must have given up eating your food and going about with Berta, anyway, in honour, even if we hadn’t had the kind of row that makes it quite impossible for me to stay.”
“I observe,” said the Baron drily. “And it is your idea to take your luggage and go from this house, either to the Grand-Ducal Palace, or to somewhere meet Cartaret the Englishman, and to him communicate all that you have heard. Was it he who desired you to listen at the door of the small smoking-room at Estinotti’s last night, by the way?”
“I wasn’t listening,” Gillian flashed indignantly. “I don’t do that.”
“Except when you overhear so accidentally what my friend and I discuss next door long after you are in bed,” sneered the Baron.
“I didn’t listen; it was just I had forgotten to hang my coat up,” explained poor Gill, feeling the futility of such an explanation to someone who did not know instinctively that one was speaking the truth.
The Baron waved the remark aside as though it were not worth the smallest attention.
“Your claim to leave my employment will be considered later,” he said magisterially. “In the meantime you will return to your bedroom, Miss Gillian Courtney, and remain there till further orders.”
“Why?” Gillian demanded, with a good deal of indignation and just a little dismay.
“You can think over the reason at your leisure—it will give you something with which to occupy your time,” the Baron said suavely. “Come, Miss Courtney.”
“You haven’t the smallest right to shut me up unless our countries are at war,” Gill said, her schemes for reaching Mademoiselle de Monti receding into dreadfully dim distance. “And anyway Insterburg isn’t Germany.”
A curious cold smile appeared upon the Baron’s face for an instant, but he only repeated his “Come, Miss Courtney.”
Resistance was, of course, useless and Gill walked upstairs in front of him like a naughty child to her room.
The Baron survey
ed her hold-all for a moment through his gold-rimmed eye-glasses. Then he said:
“You may employ your leisure in unpacking that for you will not leave this house to-night.”
He walked out, locking the door. Gill sat down on her bed and considered.
If they took all this trouble to keep her a prisoner it was quite clear that there was a very strong reason from their point of view that she should not be allowed to communicate either with the Grand-Duchess, or with Cartaret, who had shown himself so well able to act effectively on Her Highness’ behalf.
A very strong reason, and she had to sit here, a prisoner, doing—nothing; while harm or danger was coming to Carina. Poor Gill felt quite wild at the thought.
She did not worry about herself. They could do nothing to her, an English girl, except be angry that she had tumbled across such information as she had. But they could keep her from getting information to the friends of the Grand-Duchess, and clearly that was what they meant to do. Gill began to think that she had been foolishly over-scrupulous in bothering to say good-bye to her host and hostess. Only it is difficult to change round all at once and behave as though you were a supernaturally wise heroine in a story-book instead of a very ordinary schoolgirl, used to the everyday customs of politeness on a visit, and to writing a proper “bread and butter” letter after it is over.
Gillian got up impatiently and walked round her room. By and by no doubt she would begin to feel angry at the fact that Germans had dared to lock her in; just now she could think of nothing but Carina.
She looked out of the window; if only Captain Cartaret would pass under it again, how thankful she would be! He had been such a tower of strength last night—so certain and decided in all he said. Gill felt as though she would have given anything for a sight of his brown, handsome face; but of course he was speeding across Belgium as fast as the train could carry him, with no idea how badly he was wanted in Chardille.
Wanted, an English Girl Page 12