it, I sometimes think and think and wish that my father could
spend more time with me--with me!--a most silly and thoughtless
girl who would sacrifice the welfare of France to her own
caprice. Think of it! I pray--very often--that I may learn to be
unselfish; but I must be very bad, for I often cry myself to
sleep. Is it not wicked?"
"Very," said Jack, but his smile faded and there was a catch in
his voice.
"You see," she said, with a gesture of despair, "even you feel
it, too!"
"Do you really wish to know what I do think--of you?" he asked,
in a low voice.
It was on the tip of her tongue to say "Yes." She checked
herself, lips apart, and her eyes became troubled.
There was something about Jack Marche that she had not been able
to understand. It occupied her--it took up a good share of her
attention, but she did not know where to begin to philosophize,
nor yet where to end. He was different from other men--that she
understood. But where was that difference?--in his clear, brown
eyes, sunny as brown streams in October?--in his serious young
face?--in his mouth, clean cut and slightly smiling under his
short, crisp mustache, burned blond by the sun? Where was the
difference?--in his voice?--in his gestures?--in the turn of his
head?
Lorraine did not know, but as often as she gave the riddle up she
recommenced it, idly sometimes, sometimes piqued that the
solution seemed no nearer. Once, the evening she had met him
after their first encounter in the forest carrefour--that evening
on the terrace when she stood looking out into the dazzling
Lorraine moonlight--she felt that the solution of the riddle had
been very near. But now, two weeks later, it seemed further off
than ever. And yet this problem, that occupied her so, must
surely be worth the solving. What was it, then, in Jack Marche
that made him what he was?--gentle, sweet-tempered, a delightful
companion--yes, a companion that she would not now know how to do
without.
And yet, at times, there came into his eyes and into his voice
something that troubled her--she could not tell why--something
that mystified and checked her, and set her thinking again on the
old, old problem that had seemed so near solution that evening on
the moonlit terrace.
That was why she started to say "Yes" to his question, and did
not, but stood with lips half parted and blue eyes troubled.
He looked at her in silence for a moment, then, with a
half-impatient gesture, turned to the river.
"Shall we sit down on the moss?" she asked, vaguely conscious
that his sympathies had, for a moment, lost touch with hers.
He followed her down the trodden foot-path to the bank of the
stream, and, when she had seated herself at the foot of a
linden-tree, he threw himself at her feet.
They were silent. He picked up a faded bunch of blue corn-flowers
which they had left there, forgotten, the day before. One by one
he broke the blossoms from the stalks and tossed them into the
water.
She, watching them floating away under the bridge, thought of the
blue bits of paper--the telegram--that she had torn up and tossed
upon the water two weeks before. He was thinking of the same
thing, for, when she said, abruptly: "I should not have done
that!" he knew what she meant, and replied: "Such things are
always your right--if you care to use it."
She laughed. "Then you believe still in the feudal system? I do
not; I am a good republican."
"It is easy," he said, also laughing, "for a young lady with
generations of counts and vicomtes behind her to be a republican.
It is easier still for a man with generations of republicans
behind him to turn royalist. It is the way of the world,
mademoiselle."
"Then you shall say: 'Long live the king!'" she said; "say it
this instant!"
"Long live--your king!"
"My king?"
"I'm his subject if you are; I'll shout for no other king."
"Now, whatever is he talking about?" thought Lorraine, and the
suspicion of a cloud gathered in her clear eyes again, but was
dissipated at once when he said: "I have answered the _Herald's_
telegram."
"What did you say?" she asked, quickly.
"I accepted--"
"What!"
There was resentment in her voice. She felt that he had done
something which was tacitly understood to be against her wishes.
True, what difference did it make to her? None; she would lose a
delightful companion. Suddenly, something of the significance of
such a loss came to her. It was not a revelation, scarcely an
illumination, but she understood that if he went she should be
lonely--yes, even unhappy. Then, too, unconsciously, she had
assumed a mental attitude of interest in his movements--of
partial proprietorship in his thoughts. She felt vaguely that she
had been overlooked in the decision he had made; that even if she
had not been consulted, at least he might have told her what he
intended to do. Lorraine was at a loss to understand herself. But
she was easily understood. For two weeks her attitude had been
that of every innocent, lovable girl when in the presence of the
man whom she frankly cares for; and that attitude was one of
mental proprietorship. Now, suddenly finding that his sympathies
and ideas moved independently of her sympathies--that her mental
influence, which existed until now unconsciously, was in reality
no influence at all, she awoke to the fact that she perhaps
counted for nothing with him. Therefore resentment appeared in
the faintest of straight lines between her eyes.
"Do you care?" he asked, carelessly.
"I? Why, no."
If she had smiled at him and said "Yes," he would have despaired;
but she frowned a trifle and said "No," and Jack's heart began to
beat.
"I cabled them two words: 'Accept--provisionally,'" he said.
"Oh, what did you mean?"
"Provisionally meant--with your consent."
"My--my consent?"
"Yes--if it is your pleasure."
Pleasure! Her sweet eyes answered what her lips withheld. Her
little heart beat high. So then she did influence this cool young
man, with his brown eyes faintly smiling, and his indolent limbs
crossed on the moss at her feet. At the same moment her instinct
told her to tighten her hold. This was so perfectly feminine, so
instinctively human, that she had done it before she herself was
aware of it. "I shall think it over," she said, looking at him,
gravely; "I may permit you to accept."
So was accomplished the admitted subjugation of Jack Marche--a
stroke of diplomacy on his part; and he passed under the yoke in
such a manner that even the blindest of maids could see that he
was not vaulting over it instead.
Having openly and admittedly established her sovereignty, she was
happy--so happy that she began to feel that perhaps the victory
was not unshared by him.
"I shall think it over very seriously," she repeated, watching
his laughing eyes; "I am not sure that I shall permit you to go."
"I only wish to go as a special, not a regular correspondent. I
wish to be at liberty to roam about and sketch or write what I
please. I think my material will always be found in your
vicinity."
Her heart fluttered a little; this surprised her so much that her
cheeks grew suddenly warm and pink. A little confused, she said
what she had not dreamed of saying: "You won't go very far away,
will you?" And before she could modify her speech he had
answered, impetuously: "Never, until you send me away!"
A mottled thrush on the top of the linden-tree surveyed the scene
curiously. She had never beheld such a pitiably embarrassed young
couple in all her life. It was so different in Thrushdom.
Lorraine's first impulse was to go away and close several doors
and sit down, very still, and think. Her next impulse was to stay
and see what Jack would do. He seemed to be embarrassed, too--he
fidgeted and tossed twigs and pebbles into the river. She felt
that she, who already admittedly was arbiter of his goings and
comings, should do something to relieve this uneasy and strained
situation. So she folded her hands on her black dress and said:
"There is something I have been wishing to tell you for two
weeks, but I did not because I was not sure that I was right, and
I did not wish to trouble you unnecessarily. Now, perhaps, you
would be willing to share the trouble with me. Would you?"
Before the eager answer came to his lips she continued, hastily: "The
man who made maps--the man whom you struck in the carrefour--is the
same man who ran away with the box; I know it!"
"That spy?--that tall, square-shouldered fellow with the pink
skin and little, pale, pinkish eyes?"
"Yes. I know his name, too."
Jack sat up on the moss and listened anxiously.
"His name is Von Steyr--Siurd von Steyr. It was written in pencil
on the back of one map. The morning after the assault on the
house, when they thought I was ill in bed, I got up and dressed
and went down to examine the road where you caught the man and
saved my father's little steel box. There I found a strip of
cloth torn from your evening coat, and--oh, Monsieur Marche!--I
found the great, flat stone with which he tried to crush you,
just as my father fired from the wall!"
The sudden memory, the thought of what might have happened, came
to her in a flash for the first time. She looked at him--her
hands were in his before she could understand why.
"Go on," he whispered.
Her eyes met his half fearfully--she withdrew her fingers with a
nervous movement and sat silent.
"Tell me," he urged, and took one of her hands again. She did not
withdraw it--she seemed confused; and presently he dropped her
hand and sat waiting for her to speak, his heart beating
furiously.
"There is not much more to tell," she said at last, in a voice
that seemed not quite under control. "I followed the broken
bushes and his footmarks along the river until I came to a stone
where I think he sat down. He was bleeding, too--my father shot
him--and he tore bits of paper and cloth to cover the wound--he
even tore up another map. I found part of it, with his name on
the back again--not all of it, though, but enough. Here it is."
She handed him a bit of paper. On one side were the fragments of
a map in water-colour; on the other, written in German script, he
read "Siurd von Steyr."
"It's enough," said Jack; "what a plucky girl you are, anyway!"
"I? You don't think so!--do you?"
"You are the bravest, sweetest--"
"Dear me! You must not say that! You are sadly uneducated, and I
see I must take you under my control at once. Man is born to
obey! I have decided about your answer to the _Herald's_
telegram."
"May I know the result?" he asked, laughingly.
"To-morrow. There is a brook-lily on the border of the sedge-grass.
You may bring it to me."
So began the education of Jack Marche--under the yoke. And
Lorraine's education began, too--but she was sublimely unconscious
of that fact.
This also is a law in the world.
IX
SAARBRÜCK
On the first day of August, late in the afternoon, a peasant
driving an exhausted horse pulled up at the Château Morteyn,
where Jack Marche stood on the terrace, smoking and cutting at
leaves with his riding-crop.
"What's the matter, Passerat?" asked Jack, good-humouredly; "are
the Prussians in the valley?"
"You are right, Monsieur Marche--the Prussians have crossed the
Saar!" blurted out the man. His face was agitated, and he wiped
the sweat from his cheeks with the sleeve of his blouse.
"Nonsense!" said Jack, sharply.
"Monsieur--I saw them! They chased me--the Uhlans with their
spears and devilish yellow horses."
"Where?" demanded Jack, with an incredulous shrug.
"I had been to Forbach, where my cousin Passerat is a miner in
the coal-mines. This morning I left to drive to Saint-Lys, having
in my wagon these sacks of coal that my cousin Passerat procured
for me, à prix réduit. It would take all day; I did not care--I
had bread and red wine--you understand, my cousin Passerat and I,
we had been gay in Saint-Avold, too--dame! we see each other
seldom. I may have had more eau-de-vie than another--it is
permitted on fête-days! Monsieur, I was tired--I possibly
slept--the road was hot. Then something awakes me; I rub my
eyes--behold me awake!--staring dumfounded at what? Parbleu!--at
two ugly Uhlans sitting on their yellow horses on a hill! 'No!
no!' I cry to myself; 'it is impossible!' It is a bad dream! Dieu
de Dieu! It is no dream! My Uhlans come galloping down the hill;
I hear them bawling 'Halt! Wer da!' It is terrible! 'Passerat!' I
shriek, 'it is the hour to vanish!'"
The man paused, overcome by emotions and eau-de-vie.
"Well," said Jack, "go on!"
"And I am here, monsieur," ended the peasant, hazily.
"Passerat, you said you had taken too much eau-de-vie?" suggested
Jack, with a smile of encouragement.
"Much? Monsieur, you do not believe me?"
"I believe you had a dream."
"Bon," said the peasant, "I want no more such dreams."
"Are you going to inform the mayor of Saint-Lys?" asked Jack.
"Of course," muttered Passerat, gathering up his reins; "heu!
da-da! heu! cocotte! en route!" and he rattled sulkily away,
perhaps a little uncertain himself as to the concreteness of his
recent vision.
Jack looked after him.
"There might be something in it," he mused, "but, dear me! his
nose is unpleasantly--sunburned."
That same morning, Lorraine had announced her decision. It was
that Jack might accept the position of special, or rather
occasional, war correspondent for the New York _Herald_ if he
would promise not to remain absent for more than a day at a time.
This, Jack thought, practically nullified the consent, for what
in the world could a man see of the campaign under such
circumstances? Still, he did not object; he was too happy.
"However," he thought, "I might ride over to Saarbrück. Suppose I
should be on hand at the first battle of the war?"
As a mere lad he had already seen service with the Austrians at
Sadowa; he had risked his modest head more than once in the
murderous province of Oran, where General Chanzy scoured the hot
plains like a scourge of Allah.
He had lived, too, at headquarters, and shared the officers' mess
where "cherba," "tadjines," "kous-kous," and "méchoin" formed the
menu, and a "Kreima Kebira" served as his roof. He had done his
duty as correspondent, merely because it was his duty; he would
have preferred an easier assignment, for he took no pleasure in
cruelty and death and the never-to-be-forgotten agony of proud,
dark faces, where mud-stained turbans hung in ribbons and
tinselled saddles reeked with Arab horses' blood.
War correspondent? It had happened to be his calling; but the
accident of his profession had been none of his own seeking. Now
that he needed nothing in the way of recompense, he hesitated to
take it up again. Instinctive loyalty to his old newspaper was
all that had induced him to entertain the idea. Loyalty and
deference to Lorraine compelled him to modify his acceptance.
Therefore it was not altogether idle curiosity, but partly a sense
of obligation, that made him think of riding to Saarbrück to see
what he could see for his journal within the twenty-four-hour
limit that Lorraine had set.
It was too late to ride over that evening and return in time to
keep his word to Lorraine, so he decided to start at daybreak,
realizing at the same time, with a pang, that it meant not seeing
Lorraine all day.
He went up to his chamber and sat down to think. He would write a
note to Lorraine; he had never done such a thing, and he hoped
she might not find fault with him.
He tossed his riding-crop on to the desk, picked up a pen, and
wrote carefully, ending the single page with, "It is reported
that Uhlans have been encountered in the direction of Saarbrück,
and, although I do not believe it, I shall go there to-morrow and
see for myself. I will be back within the twelve hours. May I
ride over to tell you about these mythical Uhlans when I return?"
He called a groom and bade him drive to the Château de Nesville
with the note. Then he went down to sit with the old vicomte and
Madame de Morteyn until it came dinner-time, and the oil-lamps in
the gilded salon were lighted, and the candles blazed up on
either side of the gilt French clock.
After dinner he played chess with his uncle until the old man
fell asleep in his chair. There was an interval of silence.
"Jack," said his aunt, "you are a dear, good boy. Tell me, do you
love our little Lorraine?"
The suddenness of the question struck him dumb. His aunt smiled;
her faded eyes were very tender and kindly, and she laid both
frail hands on his shoulders.
"It is my wish," she said, in a low voice; "remember that, Jack.
Now go and walk on the terrace, for she will surely answer your
note."
"How--how did you know I wrote her?" he stammered.
"When a young man sends his aunt's servants on such very
unorthodox errands, what can he expect, especially when those
servants are faithful?"
"That groom told you, Aunt Helen?"
"Yes. Jack, these French servants don't understand such things.
Be more careful, for Lorraine's sake."
"But--I will--but did the note reach her?"
His aunt smiled. "Yes. I took the responsibility upon myself, and
there will be no gossip."
Jack leaned over and kissed the amused mouth, and the old lady
gave him a little hug and told him to go and walk on the terrace.
The groom was already there, holding a note in one hand,
gilt-banded cap in the other.
His first letter from Lorraine! He opened it feverishly. In the
middle of a thin sheet of note-paper was written the motto of the
De Nesvilles, "Tiens ta Foy."
Beneath, in a girlish hand, a single line:
"I shall wait for you at dusk. Lorraine."
All night long, as he lay half asleep on his pillow, the words
repeated themselves in his drowsy brain: "Tiens ta Foy!" "Tiens
ta Foy!" (Keep thy Faith!). Aye, he would keep it unto death--he
knew it even in his slumber. But he did not know how near to
death that faith might lead him.
The wood-sparrows were chirping outside his window when he awoke.
It was scarcely dawn, but he heard the maid knocking at his door,
and the rattle of silver and china announced the morning coffee.
He stepped from his bed into the tub of cold water, yawning and
shivering, but the pallor of his skin soon gave place to a
healthy glow, and his clean-cut body and strong young limbs
hardened and grew pink and firm again under the coarse towel.
Breakfast he ate hastily by candle-light, and presently he
dressed, buckled his spurs over the insteps, caught up gloves,
cap, and riding-crop, and, slinging a field-glass over his
Norfolk jacket, lighted a pipe and went noiselessly down-stairs.
There was a chill in the gray dawn as he mounted and rode out
through the shadowy portals of the wrought-iron grille; a vapour,
floating like loose cobwebs, undulated above the placid river;
the tree-tops were festooned with mist. Save for the distant
chatter of wood-sparrows, stirring under the eaves of the
Château, the stillness was profound.
As he left the park and cantered into the broad red highway, he
turned in his saddle and looked towards the Château de Nesville.
At first he could not see it, but as he rode over the bridge he
caught a glimpse of the pointed roof and single turret, a dim
silhouette through the mist. Then it vanished in the films of
fog.
The road to Saarbrück was a military road, and easy travelling.
The character of the country had changed as suddenly as a
drop-scene falls in a theatre; for now all around stretched
fields cut into squares by hedges--fields deep-laden with
heavy-fruited strawberries, white and crimson. Currants, too,
glowed like strung rubies frosted with the dew; plum-trees spread
little pale shadows across the ruddy earth, and beyond them the
disk of the sun appeared, pushing upward behind a half-ploughed
hill. Everywhere slender fruit-trees spread their grafted
branches; everywhere in the crumbling furrows of the soil, warm
as ochre, the bunched strawberries hung like drops of red wine
under the sun-bronzed leaves.
The sun was an hour high when he walked his horse up the last
hill that hides the valley of the Saar. Already, through the
constant rushing melody of bird music, his ears had distinguished
another sound--a low, incessant hum, monotonous, interminable as
the noise of a stream in a gorge. It was not the river Saar
moving over its bed of sand and yellow pebbles; it was not the
breeze in the furze. He knew what it was; he had heard it before,
in Oran--in the stillness of dawn, where, below, among the
shadowy plains, an army was awaking under dim tents.
And now his horse's head rose up black against the sky; now the
valley broke into view below, gray, indistinct in the shadows,
crossed by ghostly lines of poplars that dwindled away to the
horizon.
At the same instant something moved in the fields to the left,
and a shrill voice called: "Qui-vive?" Before he could draw
bridle blue-jacketed cavalrymen were riding at either stirrup,
carbine on thigh, peering curiously into his face, pushing their
active light-bay horses close to his big black horse.
Jack laughed good-humouredly and fumbled in the breast of his
Norfolk jacket for his papers.
"I'm only a special," he said; "I think you'll find the papers in
order--if not, you've only to gallop back to the Château Morteyn
to verify them."
An officer with a bewildering series of silver arabesques on
either sleeve guided a nervous horse through the throng of
troopers, returned Jack's pleasant salute, reached out a gloved
hand for his papers, and read them, sitting silently in his
saddle. When he finished, he removed the cigarette from his lips,
looked eagerly at Jack, and said:
"You are from Morteyn?"
"Yes."
"A guest?"
"The Vicomte de Morteyn is my uncle."
The officer burst into a boyish laugh.
"Jack Marche!"
"Eh!" cried Jack, startled.
Then he looked more closely at the young officer before him, who
was laughing in his face.
"Well, upon my word! No--it can't be little Georges Carrière?"
"Yes, it can!" cried the other, briskly; "none of your damned
airs, Jack! Embrace me, my son!"
"My son, I won't!" said Jack, leaning forward joyously--"the
idea! Little Georges calls me his son! And he's learning the
paternal tricks of the old generals, and doubtless he calls his
troopers 'mes enfants,' and--"
"Oh, shut up!" said Georges, giving him an impetuous hug; "what
are you up to now--more war correspondence? For the same old
_Herald_? Nom d'une pipe! It's cooler here than in Oran. It'll
be hotter, too--in another way," with a gay gesture towards the
valley below. "Jack Marche, tell me all about everything!"
On either side the blue-jacketed troopers fell back, grinning
with sympathy as Georges guided his horse into a field on the
right, motioning Jack to follow.
"We can talk here a bit," he said; "you've lots of time to ride
on. Now, fire ahead!"
Jack told him of the three years spent in idleness, of the vapid
life in Paris, the long summers in Brittany, his desire to learn
to paint, and his despair when he found he couldn't.
"I can sketch like the mischief, though," he said. "Now tell me
about Oran, and our dear General Chanzy, and that devil's own
'Legion,' and the Hell's Selected 2d Zouaves! Do you remember
that day at Damas when Chanzy visited the Emir Abd-el-Kader at
Doummar, and the fifteen Spahis of the escort, and that little
imp of the Legion who was caught roaming around the harem, and--"
Georges burst into a laugh.
"I can't answer all that in a second! Wait! Do you want to know about
Chanzy? Well, he's still in Bel-Abbès, and he's been named commander
of the Legion of Honour, and he's no end of a swell. He'll be coming
back now that we've got to chase these sausage-eaters across the
Rhine. Look at me! You used to say that I'd stopped growing and could
never aspire to a mustache! Now look! Eh? Five feet eleven and--_what_
do you think of my mustache? Oh, that African sun sets things growing!
I'm lieutenant, too."
"Does the African sun also influence your growth in the line of
promotion?" asked Jack, grinning.
"Same old farceur, too!" mused Georges. "Now, what the mischief
are you doing here? Oh, you are staying at Morteyn?"
"Yes."
"I--er--I used to visit another house--er--near by. You know the
Marquis de Nesville?" asked Georges, innocently.
"I? Oh yes."
"You have--perhaps you have met Mademoiselle de Nesville?"
"Yes," said Jack, shortly.
"Oh."
There was a silence. Jack shuffled his booted toes in his
stirrups; Georges looked out across the valley.