“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 is dead, 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 are other 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 woods alone. 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 garde
n.”
“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 understand that — 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 his lips 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 with me?”
“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 it was that.”
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, it was!”
“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?”
“Not very near — 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.
CHAPTER XXI
SNIPERS
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 Yo Espero 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 the star-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.
Works of Robert W Chambers Page 768