CANDLE LIGHT
It was nearly eleven o'clock at night before they bivouacked without
fires in the woods behind the Lodge at Quellenheim.
The circuitous forest route had wearied the men; they threw themselves
on the dead leaves and moss; some slept where they lay, others groped in
sacks with toil-stiffened fingers searching for crusts, which they
munched slowly, half asleep.
Guild drew Darrel and Michaud aside.
"To go by Luxembourg and Holland is too long and too uncertain," he
said. "If we could cross the railway beyond Trois Fontaines before
daylight we should have a clear country before us to Antwerp."
It had been days since the household at Lesse had heard any war news,
but Darrel recollected that there had been rumours of a German drive
toward Antwerp.
Michaud nodded. "It is possible," he said. "Brussels they may have
taken; I don't know; but Antwerp, never! I _know_, Monsieur; I served my
time with the artillery in the Scheldt forts. No German army could pass
the outer ring of fortresses; the country can be flooded. Also our King
is there with his Guides and Lancers and Chasseurs-à-cheval; the entire
army is there. No, Monsieur, Antwerp is open to us if you desire to take
us there."
"I do," said Guild. "It is the better way for all of us if the country
still remains clear. It is better for us than to engage in a Chasse aux
Uhlans. If I could lead a dozen sturdy recruits into Antwerp it would be
worth while. And, except for the post at Trois Fontaines and the troops
patrolling the railway, I can not see why the country is not open to us
north of Liège."
"I know this country. It is my country," said Michaud, "and troops or no
troops I can take you across the railroad before daylight." He shrugged
his massive shoulders: "What is a Prussian patrol to a head forester?"
"You believe you can do it?"
"I pledge my honour, Monsieur."
Guild looked at Darrel: "I wish I knew whether there has been a drive
toward Antwerp. If there has been it must have come from the sea by
Ostend. But I do not believe Ostend has been taken." He turned to
Michaud: "If the country is clear, why could we not pick up more men en
route? Why should we not recruit in every hamlet, every village?"
"Mon Dieu, Monsieur, if there are hardy companions willing to go with
the ragged men of the forest, well and good. Yet I could wish for at
least one uniform among us. That represents authority and gives
security."
Guild said thoughtfully: "I have an officer's uniform of the Guides
among my luggage."
"Lord!" exclaimed Darrel, "you brought it with you?"
"There was to have been a regimental dinner in Brussels in September. I
was asked last June, and they requested me to wear uniform. I had my
uniform, so I packed it."
"Then it is there in your luggage at Quellenheim!"
"Yes."
"Well," said Darrel heartily, "I'm devilish glad of it. If they catch
you in uniform they can't court-martial you with a jerk of their
thumbs."
"I'm not worrying about that," said Guild carelessly, "but," looking at
Michaud, "if you think a reserve officer in uniform is likely to
encourage recruiting, I certainly shall use my uniform. You know your
own people better than I do. I leave it to you, Michaud."
"Then, Monsieur, wear your uniform. It means everything to us all; we
honour and respect it; it represents authority; better still, it
reassures our people. If an officer of the Guides is seen in charge of a
batch of recruits, no young man, whose class has been summoned to the
colours, would entertain any misgivings. Nor dare anybody hang back! Our
women would jeer and ridicule them."
"Very well," said Guild. "Now take me as far as the wood's edge where I
can see the house at Quellenheim. Wait for me there and guide me back
here, for I never could find this dark bivouac alone."
"Follow, Monsieur," said the old man simply.
In single file the three men moved forward through the darkness, Michaud
leading without hesitation, Guild following close, and Darrel bringing
up the rear.
In a few minutes the bluish lustre of the stars broke through the
forest's edge. An overgrown ride ran westward; beyond, the highway from
Trois Fontaines bisected it; and out of this curved the Lodge road.
It was dark and deserted; and when Guild came in sight of the Lodge,
that, too, was dark.
Up the long avenue he hastened to the house; the fountain splashed
monotonously in the star-light; the circle of tall trees looked down
mournfully; the high planets twinkled.
He walked around the house, hoping to find a light in the kitchen. All
was black, silent, and wrapped in profoundest shadow.
He picked up a few pebbles from the driveway, counted the windows until
he was certain which one was Karen's. Her window was open. He tossed a
pebble against it; and then another into the room itself.
Suddenly the girl appeared at the window.
"Karen!" he called. She leaned out swiftly, her braided hair falling to
the sill.
"Kervyn!" she whispered.
"Dear, I've only a moment. Could you come down and let me in without
waking the others?"
"The others? Kervyn, they have gone!"
"Gone!"
"Everybody's gone! A patrol of hussars galloped here from Trois
Fontaines and ordered them across the Dutch frontier. I felt dreadfully;
but there was nothing to do. So poor Mrs. Courland and her daughter and
her servants have gone on toward Luxembourg with all their luggage. I'm
here alone with the Frau Förster. Shall I let you in?"
"Did my luggage go to Luxembourg?"
"No; it is in the room you occupied."
"Then come down quickly and let me in," he said. "If there are German
patrols abroad I don't care to be caught here."
The girl disappeared; Guild went to the front door and stood looking
down the driveway and listening to catch any warning sound.
The next moment the door behind him opened and Karen's trembling hands
were in his.
He gazed down into the pale face framed by its heavy braids. In her slim
nightdress and silken chamber robe she appeared very girlish.
"What has happened, Kervyn? Your clothes are torn and muddy and you look
dreadfully white and tired."
"Karen, they burned Lesse this morning."
"Oh!" she gasped.
"Everything at Lesse is in ashes. Some of the men are dead. The
survivors are in the woods behind your house waiting for me."
She clung to his arm as they entered the house; Guild picked up one of
the lighted candles from the oak table. She took the other and they
ascended the stairs together.
"There was sniping," he said. "That always brings punishment to innocent
and guilty alike. Lesse is a heap of cinders; they drove the forest and
shot the driven game from the steps of the carrefour shrine. Men fell
there, too, under their rifles--the herdsman, Schultz, the Yslemont men,
the little shepherd lad with both his dogs. When their bearers came our
way we fired on them."
"_You!_ Oh, Kervyn! It means death if they find you!"
"I shall not be found." He took her by the hands a moment, smiled at
her, then turned swiftly and entered his room holding the candle above
his head.
After his door had remained closed for a few moments she knocked.
"Kervyn," she called, "I am frightened and I am going to dress."
"No need of that," came his voice; "I shall be gone in five minutes."
But she went away with her lighted candle and entered her room. The
travelling gown she wore from England lay ready; boots, spats, and
waist.
Swiftly she unbraided and shook out her hair and twisted it up again,
her slim fingers flying. A sense of impending danger seized and
possessed her; almost feverishly she flung from her the frail night
garments she wore, and dressed with ever-increasing fear of something
indefinitely menacing but instant. What it might be she did not even try
to formulate in thought; but it frightened her, and it seemed very, very
near.
She dragged on her brown velvet hat and pinned it, and at the same
moment she heard a sound in the hallway which almost stopped her heart.
It was the ringing step of a spurred boot.
Terrified, she crept to her door, listened, opened a little way. Near
the stair-head a candle shone, its yellow light glimmering on the wall
of the passage. Then she heard Guild's guarded voice:
"Karen?"
"Y-yes," she faltered in amazement as a tall figure turned toward her
clothed in the complete uniform of the Guides.
"Kervyn! Is it _you_? Why are you in that uniform?" She came toward him
slowly, her knees still tremulous from fear, and rested one hand on his
arm.
"Dearest, dearest," he said gently, "why are you trembling? There is no
reason for fear. I am in uniform because I shall attempt to take a few
recruits and volunteers across the railway line tonight. We are going to
try to make Antwerp, which is a quicker, and I think a surer, route than
through Luxembourg and Holland. Besides, they _might_ interne us. They
would without a doubt if I were in uniform and if the Lesse men came to
the frontier with their guns and bandoulières."
"Kervyn, how _can_ you get to Antwerp? You can't _walk_, dear!"
"We'll start on foot, anyway," he said cheerfully. "Now I must go.
They're waiting. Why did you dress, Karen?"
"I don't know." She looked up at him in a dazed way. "I wanted to be
with you."
"I'm going back to the forest, dear."
"Could I come?"
"No. I don't want you to be out at night. There's only a fireless camp
there and a dozen ragged and dirty men. Besides, there might be some
sort of trouble."
"Trouble?"
"Not likely. Still there _might_ be patrols out from Trois Fontaines,
even from Lesse. I don't know. Michaud says he can take us across the
railway line before daylight. If he can do that I think we shall find
the country clear beyond. Anyway, we'll know soon. Now I must say
good-bye."
She laid her cold hands in his, tried to speak, but could not. Then, of
a sudden, her fingers gripped his in terror; there came the rushing
swish of an automobile around the gravel circle outside, a loud resonant
humming, a sharp voice speaking in German, a quick reply in the same
tongue.
"The--the valet's room. Quick!" she gasped, pushing him backward across
the room and through the doorway. Behind him the swinging leather door
closed silently again; the girl stood rigid, white as a sheet, then she
walked to the oak table, picked up a book, and dropped into the depths
of a leather arm-chair.
Outside the mellow whirr of the motor had ceased; the door of the car
closed with a click; quick, firm steps ascended the path; there came a
low jingling sound, the clash of metal, then a key was rattled in the
outer lock, turned sharply, and the door creaked open.
Karen rose to her feet. Every atom of colour had fled her cheeks.
"Karen!"
"You?" she said in a ghost of her own voice.
Kurt von Reiter seemed astonished. He came forward very quickly, a tall,
thin, faultless figure moulded perfectly into his tight sea-grey
uniform. Bending only a very little from the waist as though too tightly
buttoned in, he bowed above the icy hand she extended, paid his respects
with flawless courtesy, straightened up, placed his shrouded spiked
helmet on the table.
"I had scarcely expected to find you awake," he said. "It is after two
o'clock in the morning."
She made a supreme effort at self-control.
"I have been a trifle nervous, Kurt. There was trouble at Lesse Forest
last evening."
"Yes. Who told you?"
"I was there."
"At Lesse!"
"Yes, a guest of Mrs. Courland--an American lady."
"I know about her. She is a friend of Mr. Guild."
Karen nodded; a painful and fixed smile quivered in her colourless lips.
"Was Mr. Guild there also?" inquired von Reiter.
"Yes."
"He left with the others, I suppose."
She said: "Everybody was in a panic. I invited them to come here, but a
patrol from Trois Fontaines galloped up and ordered them to go through
Luxembourg--across the Dutch frontier. It seemed very harsh."
The girl had seated herself again; von Reiter drew up a chair beside the
table opposite her and sat down. Candle light played over his dry,
sandy-blond face and set his blue eyes glittering.
"Are you well, Karen?"
"Quite, thank you. And you?"
"God be thanked, in perfect health." He did not mention three broken
ribs still bandaged and which had interfered with the perfectly
ceremonious bow of a German officer.
He said: "I took this opportunity to come. It was my first chance to see
you. Been travelling since noon."
"You--remain tonight?"
"I can not. I came for one reason only. You know what it is, Karen."
She did not answer.
He waited a moment, looked absently around the room, glanced up at the
stag's antlers, then his gaze returned to her.
"Were you much frightened by what happened at Lesse?" he asked. "You do
not look well."
"I am well."
"Did you experience any trouble in leaving England?"
"Yes, some."
"And Mr. Guild? Was he--useful?"
"Yes."
Von Reiter gazed at the girl thoughtfully. One elbow rested on the table
corner, the clenched fist supporting his chin. In the other hand he
continued to crumple his gloves between lean, powerful, immaculate
fingers.
"Karen," he said, "did you bring with you whatever papers you happened
to possess at the time?"
After a moment the girl answered in a low voice: "No."
"Did you destroy them?"
"No."
"What became of them?" he insisted. A mottled flush gathered on his
cheek-bones; after a few seconds the carefully scrubbed features of the
man grew pink.
"What papers had you?" he asked.
She looked up at him in silence and a deeper colour stained his face so
that in contrast his pale mustache, en croc, and his clipped hair
appeared almost white.
"Kurt," she said, "how could you permit me to be involved in such
matters?"
"Karen, do you imagine I supposed that war with England was imminent? I
never dreamed that England would intervene! And when she did, and when
it was already too late to reach you, the anxiety concerning you, and
concerning what papers might still be passing from the Edmeston Agency
through your hands, nearly drove me insane."
"Yet you instructed me to bring back with me any papers I might have in
my possession."
"I tell you I did not count on war with England. Nobody did. I meant
only that you were to bring with you what papers you had when you
returned. Did not Grätz instruct you to destroy your papers?"
"No."
Von Reiter's lean jaws snapped. "Then what did you do with them?"
"I put them into my satchel. On board the steamer the satchel was opened
and the papers taken."
Anger, apprehension, twitched at his thin lips; then a deeper emotion
softened the grim lines of his features.
"God be thanked," he said, "that you were not involved in England. It
was a living nightmare to me--that constant uncertainty concerning you.
I could not reach you; I could do nothing, make no arrangements. Cipher
code was forbidden even from neutral countries. It was only at the last
moment I found a secret wireless lane still open to us. In that way I
managed to notify Grätz that this man Guild was on his way to find you
and bring you back here; that no more papers were to be sent through you
to me; and that what you had were to be destroyed. Did you hear from him
at all?"
"He telephoned that my maid had been arrested on a serious charge and
that I was to leave Hyacinth Villa at once with Mr. Guild. He said
nothing about papers. But I remembered what I had promised you, and I
put into my satchel what papers I had.... They nearly lost me my life,"
she added, gazing steadily at him.
"Do you mean to say that you knew the papers were compromising and still
you undertook to bring them? Were you insane to attempt such a thing?"
"Had I not promised you, Kurt?"
"Circumstances alter conditions and absolve promises however solemn.
Common sense decides where honour is involved."
She flushed brightly: "There I am more English than German, Kurt. A
promise is a promise, and not"--she looked at him musingly--"not what
the British press reproaches us for calling a 'scrap of paper.'"
He said grimly: "When a supposed friend suddenly aims a blow at you,
strike first if you can and discuss the ethics afterward. We tore up
that 'scrap of paper' before the dirty fingers of England could clutch
it, that's all."
"And lost the world's sympathy. Oh, Kurt!"
"But we retained the respect born of fear. We invaded Belgium before the
others could do it, that's all.... I do not care to discuss the matter.
The truth is known to us and that is sufficient."
"It is not sufficient if you desire the sympathy of the world."
Von Reiter's eyes became paler and fixed and he worried the points of
his up-brushed mustache with powerful, lean fingers.
"Make no mistake," he said musingly. "America's turn will come.... For
all the insolence she has offered in our time of need, surely, surely
the time is coming for our reckoning with her. We have not forgotten von
Diederichs; we shall not forget this crisis. All shall be arranged with
method and order when we are ready.... Where is that American--or
Belgian, as he seems to think his honour of the moment requires him to
be?"
"Mr. Guild?"
"Yes."
"He did not come here when the others arrived from Lesse Forest."
"He's a fire-brand," said von Reiter coldly. "Our system of information
informed us sufficiently. I should have had him extinguished at Yslemont
had he not been the one man who stood any chance of getting into England
and bringing you back."
"Also you trusted him," she said quietly.
"Yes, I did. He is a Gueldres of Yvoir. The Gueldres have never lied.
When he said he'd return, that settled the matter." Von Reiter's eyes
had an absent look as though following a detached idea, and his features
became expressionless.
"When the war ends," he said, "and if that man ever comes to Berlin, it
would afford me gratification to offer him my hand--or my card. Either
extreme would suit me; he is not a man to leave one indifferent; it is
either friendship or enmity--the hand or the card. And I do not know yet
which I might prefer."
He looked up and around at her, his sombre, blond features hardening:
"I need not ask you whether his attitude toward you was respectful."
"It was--respectful."
"That question, of course, answered itself. The record of that family is
part of Belgian history.... Do you know where he went after he kept his
word and delivered you here?"
"He went to Lesse."
"And then?"
She remained silent.
"Do you know?" he repeated.
"Yes."
"Is there any reason why you should not tell me?"
She was mute.
"Karen," he said gently, "is there any reason why your confidence should
be withheld from me? I have come here tonight for my answer. I have only
an hour to stay. It was a long way to come for one single word from a
young girl. But I would have travelled the world over for that word from
you. Will you give me my answer, Karen?"
She looked up, dumb, her mouth tremulous, unable to control her emotion
for the moment. His keen eyes searched hers; he waited, thin lips
compressed.
"Kurt--I--do not love you," she whispered.
He took it in silence; not a muscle quivered.
"Will you marry me, Karen, and try?"
"I can not."
"Is it your profession? Is it your desire for liberty?"
"No."
"Is it--_another man_?"
As he spoke he saw in her eyes that he had guessed the truth.
For a full minute he sat there like a statue, one arm extended on the
table, the bony hand clenched. After a long while he lifted his head and
turned upon her a visage terrifying in its pallour and rigidity.
"Is it--Guild?" he asked with an effort.
"Kurt!"
"_Is_ it?" The heavy colour suddenly flooded his face; lie drew a deep,
sharp breath. "Is he still in this neighbourhood? Is he, perhaps, coming
here to see you? Is _that_ why you are awake and dressed at this hour?"
"Kurt, you have no right----"
"I am at liberty to ask you these questions----"
"No! It is an impertinence----"
"Do you regard it that way? Karen! Is _this_ what has happened--" He
choked, turned his congested face, glaring about him at the four walls
of the room. Suddenly some instinct of suspicion seized him, possessed
him, brought him to his feet in one bound. And instantly the girl rose,
too.
"I know why you are awake and dressed!" he said harshly. "You _are_
expecting him! Are you?"
She could not answer; her breath had deserted her, and she merely stood
there, one hand resting on the table, her frightened eyes fixed on the
man confronting her.
But at his first step forward she sprang in front of him. She strove to
speak; the infernal blaze in his eyes terrified her.
"Is _this_ what you have done to me?" he said; and moved to pass her,
but she caught his arm, and he halted.