Роберт Чамберс - Who Goes There!

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.

The dim light fell on them where they slept seated upright, unconscious, swaying as the car swayed. Unseen forests swept past on either side under a dark sky set with stars; low mountains loomed in the night, little rivers sparkled under trestles for a second and vanished in the dull roar of the rushing train.

The man, sunk back against the upholstered seat, lay as though dead.

But after a while the girl dreamed. It was the frontier toward which they were rushing through the night—a broad white road running between meadows set with flowers, such as she had often seen.

Two painted sentry boxes stood on either side of the boundary; the one on her side was empty, but in the other she realized that her enemy was on guard, hidden, watching her.

She desired to cross. In all her life never had she so longed for anything as she longed to cross that still, sunny, flower–bordered frontier.

She dared not. Her enemy stood hidden, armed, watching her from within that painted sentry box. She knew it. She was afraid. She knew that her enemy would step out with weapon levelled and challenge her the instant she set foot across that flowering frontier. She was afraid of his challenge, afraid even to learn what her enemy might look like.

Yet she must cross. Something had to be done—something had to be done while the sun was shining and the breeze in the meadow set the flowers all swaying. She looked desperately at the silent sentry box. Nothing moved. Yet she knew her enemy was watching her.

Then, frightened, she set one foot across the line—took one more step, very timidly.

" Halt! Who goes there? "

She knew it—she knew it! It had come—it had happened to her at last!

"F–friend!" she faltered—"but I do not know the countersign."

" Pass, friend, without the countersign! "

Could she believe her ears!

She listened again, her hand resting against her heart. But she only heard a child laughing inside the sentry box, and the smothered ruffle of preening wings.

Her dream partly awoke her; she lay very still, vaguely conscious of where her cheek was resting, then closed her eyes to seek her enemy again among her dreams.

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.