Роберт Чамберс - Who Goes There!

"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.