THE DAY OF WRATH
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 that she 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 was the 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--to _think_ that she, Karen, was actually at 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.