BEFORE DINNER
Michaud, head forester, had taken off his grey felt hat respectfully
when Valentine introduced him to Guild, there in the lantern light of
the winter sheep fold. A dozen or more men standing near by in shadowy
groups had silently uncovered at the same time. Two wise-looking sheep
dogs, squatted on their haunches, looked at him.
Then the girl had left Guild there and returned to the house.
"I should like to have a few moments quiet conversation with you," said
Guild; and the stalwart, white-haired forester stepped quietly aside
with him, following the younger man until they were out of earshot of
those gathered by the barred gate of the fold.
"You are Belgian?" inquired Guild pleasantly.
"_De Trois Fontaines, monsieur._"
It was a characteristic reply. A Belgian does not call himself a
Belgian. Always he designates his nationality by naming his
birthplace--as though the world must know that it is in Belgium.
"And those people over there by the sheep fold?" asked Guild.
"Our men--some of them--from Ixl, from the Black Erenz and the White,
from Lesse--one from Liège. And there is one, a stranger."
"From where?"
"Moresnet."
"Has he any political opinions?"
"He says his heart is with us. It is mostly that way in Moresnet."
"In Moresnet ten per cent of the people are Germans in sympathy,"
remarked Guild. "What is this man? A miner?"
"A charcoal burner."
"Does he seem honest?"
"Yes, Monsieur," said the honest forester, simply.
Guild laid one hand on the man's broad shoulder:
"Michaud," he said quietly, "I know I am among friends if you say I am.
I mean friends to Belgium."
The dark eyes of the tall forester seemed to emit a sudden sparkle in
the dusk.
"Monsieur is American?"
"Yes. My grandfather was Belgian."
"Monsieur is a friend?"
"Michaud, my name, in America is Guild. My name in Belgian is Kervyn
Gueldres. Judge, then, whether I am a friend to your country and your
king."
"Gueldres!" whispered the forester, rigid. "Kervyn of Gueldres, Comte
d'Yvoir, Hastiere----"
"It is so written on the rolls of the Guides."
"Monsieur le Comte has served!"
"Two years with the colours. I am here to report for duty. Do you feel
safe to trust me now, Michaud, my friend?"
The tall, straight forester uncovered. "Trust a Gueldres! My God!"
"Put on your hat," said Guild, bluntly, "I am American when I deal with
men!"
"Monsieur le Comte----"
"'Monsieur' will do. Give me your hand! That is as it should be. We
understand each other I think. Now tell me very clearly exactly what
happened this morning on the hill meadows of the Paillard estate."
"Monsieur le----"
"Please remember!"
"Pardon! Monsieur Guild, the Grey Uhlans rode over the border and
laughed at the gendarme on duty. Straight they made for our hill
meadows, riding at ease and putting their horses to the hedges. Schultz,
our herdsman, saw them trotting like wolves of the Black Erenz, ran to
the wooden fence to close the gate, but their lances rattling on the
pickets frightened him.
"They herded the cattle while their officers sat looking on by the
summer fold.
"'Do not these cattle and sheep belong to the Paillard estate?' asks one
of the officers of Schultz. And, 'Very well then!' says he; 'we are
liquidating an old account with Monsieur Paillard!'
"And with that a company of the Grey Ones canters away across the valley
and up the slope beyond where our shepherd, Jean Pascal, is sitting with
his two dogs.
"'You, there!' they call out to him. 'Send out your dogs and herd your
sheep!' And, when he only gapes at them, one of their riders wheels on
him, twirling his lance and shoves him with the counter-balance.
"So they make him drive his flock for them across the valley, and then
over the border--all the way on foot, Monsieur; and then they tell him
to loiter no more but to go about his business.
"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 garden."
"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.