IN CONFIDENCE
They awoke with a light shining in their eyes; the guard stood on the
running rail, one hand on the knob of the door.
"The frontier," he said. "Descend if you please for the customs, and
kindly have your papers ready."
The girl's blue eyes were sleepy and humorous as she rested her hand on
his arm to rise.
"Are we ever to have a good night's sleep again?" she murmured as he
aided her to descend in the lantern-lit darkness.
"It's our punishment," he said.
"For what, please?"
"For ever doubting each other."
She said nothing. A soldier picked up their luggage and carried it
across the platform where another train stood waiting.
And all at once Guild realized that the soldiers around the station and
custom-house were not Belgians but Germans. He had forgotten that, and
it gave him a distinct shock.
As he and Karen, following the soldier, entered the long room in the
custom-house, an officer all in sea-grey from the shrouded spike on his
helmet to his ankles came forward and saluted; and Guild coolly lifted
his cap.
"Have I by chance the honour of addressing Herr Guild?" asked the
officer.
"I am Herr Guild."
"And--gnädiges Fräulein?"--at salute and very rigid.
"Fräulein Girard."
"The gracious young lady has credentials?--a ring, perhaps?"
Karen drew off her glove, slipped the ring from her finger. A soldier
held up a lantern; the lieutenant adjusted a single eye-glass,
scrutinized the ring, returned it with a tight-waisted bow.
"Papers in order!" he said, turning to the customs officials. "Pass that
luggage without inspection!"
He was very polite. He escorted them to the Belgian train, found an
empty compartment for them, thanked them with empressement, and retired
into the darkness which had hatched him.
As the train started Karen said in a low voice: "Would you care to call
that officer a barbarian, Kervyn?"
"You haven't seen Louvain. But probably that officer has--through his
monocle."
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?"
"Use?"
"Yes. I'm going into the army. It will be a long war. If I fell in love
with you I'd not have time to win your love in return before I went
away--admitting that I could ever win it. Do you see?"
"I quite see that."
"So I had better take the papers when I can, and get into touch with the
reserves of my regiment if I can."
"What regiment?"
"The Guides."
"The Guides! Are you an officer?"
"Yes, of the reserve."
She knew quite well what that meant. Only the Belgian nobility of
ancient lineage served as officers in the Guides.
A happiness, a wonderful tranquillity crept over her. No wonder she had
found it difficult to really reproach herself with her behaviour. And it
was a most heavenly comfort to her to know that if she had been
indiscreet, at least she had been misbehaving with one of her own caste.
* * * * *
"The next station," said the German guard, squinting in at them from the
window under his lifted lantern, "is Trois Fontaines."
"What!" exclaimed Guild surprised. "Have we passed the customs?"
"The customs? This is a German military train! What business is it of
the Grand Duchy where we go or what we do?"
He lowered his lantern and turned away along the running-board,
muttering: "Customs, indeed! The Grand Duchy had better mind its
business--and the Grand Duchess, too!"
A few moments later the locomotive whistled a long signal note to the
unseen station.
"Karen," said Guild quietly, "in a few moments I shall be out of debt to
General von Reiter. My life will be my own to do with as I please. That
means good-bye."
She said with adorable malice: "I thought you were going to rob me
first."
"I am," he said, smiling.
"Then I shall make the crime a very difficult one for you.... So that
our--parting--may be deferred."
The train had already come to a standstill beside a little red-tiled
station. Woods surrounded it; nothing was visible except the lamps on a
light station-wagon drawn up to the right of the track.
The guard unlocked and opened their compartment. A young man--a mere
boy--came up smilingly and lifted his cap:
"Mademoiselle Girard? Monsieur Guild? I come from Quellenheim with a
carriage. I am Fritz Bergner."
He took their luggage and they followed to the covered station-wagon.
When they were seated the boy stepped into the front seat, turned his
horses, and they trotted away into the darkness of a forest through
which ran the widely winding road.
Fresh and aromatic with autumn perfume the unbroken woods stretched away
on either hand beneath the splendour of the stars. Under little stone
bridges streams darkled, hurrying to the valley; a lake glimmered
through the trees all lustrous in the starlight.
Something--perhaps the beauty of the night, possibly the imminence of
his departure, kept them silent during the drive, until, at last, two
unlighted gate-posts loomed up to the right and the horses swung through
a pair of iron gates and up a driveway full of early fallen leaves.
A single light sparkled far at the end of the vista.
"Have you ever before been here?" asked Guild.
"Once, to a hunt."
Presently Guild could see the long, two-storied hunting lodge of timber
and stucco construction with its high peaked roof and dormers and a
great pair of antlers spreading above the hood of the door.
Out of the doorway came a stout, pleasant-eyed, brown-skinned woman who
curtsied to them smilingly and welcomed them in German.
Everything was ready; they had been expected. There was a fire in the
hall and something to eat.
Guild asked to be driven to an inn, and the housekeeper seemed
surprised. There was no inn. Her orders were to prepare a room for Herr
Guild, who was expected to remain over night. She regretted that she
could not make them more comfortable, but the Lodge had been closed all
summer, and she had remained alone with her son Fritzl to care for the
place.
There seemed to be nothing for him to do but to stay over night.
Karen, waiting for his decision, looked pale and tired.
"Very well," he said to Frau Bergner, who curtsied and went away for
their candles. Then he walked over to where Karen was standing, lifted
her hand and touched the slender fingers with his lips.
"Good night," she said; "I hope your dreams will be agreeable."
"I hope yours will be, also."
"I hope so. I shall try to continue a dream which I had on the train. It
was an odd one--something about a frontier and a sentry box. You woke me
before I had entirely crossed the frontier. I'd like to cross and find
out what really is on the other side."
He laughed:
"I hope you will find, there, whatever you desire."
"I--hope so. Because if I should cross the boundary and
find--nobody--there, it might make me unhappy for the rest of my life."
And she looked up at him with a slight blush on her cheeks.
Then her features grew grave, her eyes serious, clear, and wistful.
"I think I am--learning to care--a great deal for you. Don't let me if I
shouldn't. Tell me while there is time."
She turned as the housekeeper came with the lighted candles.
Guild stood aside for her to pass, his grave face lowered, silent before
this young girl's candour and the troubled sincerity of her avowal.
In his own room, the lighted candle still in his hand, he stood
motionless, brooding on what she had said.
And in his heart he knew that, although he had never liked any woman as
much as he liked this young girl, he was not in love with her. And,
somehow or other, he must tell her so--while there was still time.