She sighed. “Are we to — differ again? I am so sleepy.”
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.
“You will let 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 sleep so much!”
“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’t care to 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 how he 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 — words to 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: “He does mean 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.
“He does mean 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 — I don’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 and mind 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! Was this love? 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 I must have 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. I know 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 General von 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 — to you — 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 — and your 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.”
“Your vengeance?”
“Yes, mine. Oh, if you only did do 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?”
“That is one 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?”
Works of Robert W Chambers Page 762