Роберт Чамберс - Who Goes There!

He awoke in a flood of brightest sunshine; his bed, the floor, the walls, were bathed in it; netted reflections of water danced and quivered on the ceiling; and he lay looking at it, pleasantly conscious of green leaves stirring near his open window and of the golden splashing of a fountain.

There was a little bird out there, too, diligently practicing a few notes. The song was not elaborate. Translated, it seemed to consist of tweet! tweet! twilly–willy–willy! repeated an indefinite number of times.

Curious to discover what his surroundings resembled he rose and looked out of the curtained window. There was a grassy carrefour where a fountain spouted into a stone pool; all else was forest; a stream sparkled between tree–trunks, bridged where the drive crossed it.

To bathe and dress did not take him very long. In the hall, which seemed to be the main living–room below, he prowled about, examining a number of antlers and boar–heads mounted on the beamed and plastered walls. The former had been set up in German fashion, antlers, brow–antlers, and frontal bone; and these trophies appeared to him uninteresting—even a trifle ghastly when the bleached skull also was included.

The boars' heads were better, nothing extraordinary in size, but well–tusked. The taxidermy, however, was wretched.

The square hall itself did not appear particularly inviting. The usual long oak table and benches were there, a number of leather arm–chairs, book–racks, cue–racks, gun–racks with glazed panes to protect the weapons, a festoon of spears, hunting knives and curly hunting horns, skins on the floor, brown bear, wolf, and stag.

A badly stuffed otter displayed its teeth on the mantle over the fireplace between a pair of fighting cock pheasants and a jar of alcohol containing a large viper, which embellishments did not add to the cheerfulness of the place.

For the rest there was a billiard table shrouded in a rubber cloth, and three well–engraved portraits on the walls, Bismarck, after Lehnbach, Frederick the Great playing on a flute like fury, and the great War Lord of Europe himself, mustaches on end, sombre–eyed, sullen, cased in the magnificent steel panoply of the Guard Cuirassiers. The art gallery bored Guild, and he opened a door which he suspected communicated with the pantry.

It was a valet's closet and it smelled of camphor. Shooting–coats hung on stretchers; high–laced shooting–boots were ranged in rows. On a chair lay Karen's skirt and blouse–coat of covert cloth. Both were still slightly damp and wrinkled. Evidently they had been brought down here to be brushed and pressed while Karen slept.

Passing his hand over the brown silk lining of the coat gave him no clue to the hiding–place of the papers; what revealed their presence was a seam which had been hurriedly basted with black thread. The keen point of his pocket–knife released the basting. He drew out the papers, counted them, identified them one by one, and placed them in his breast pocket. Then he laid the coat across the back of the chair again and went out.

He had two hours to wait before there could be any decent hope of breakfast. Nobody seemed to be stirring in the house. After a few minutes he unlocked the front door and went out into the early sunshine.

It was as warm as a spring day; rain had freshened grass and trees; he sat down on the fountain's rim and looked into the pool where a dozen trout lay motionless, their fins winnowing the icy water.

No doubt some spring, high on the wooded hills, had been piped down to furnish the pool with this perpetually bubbling jet.

The little bird who had entertained him vocally earlier in the morning was still vocal somewhere in a huge beech–tree. Around a spot of moisture on the gravel–drive two butterflies flitted incessantly. And over all brooded the calm and exquisite silence of the forest.

An hour or more later he got up and re–entered the house.

First he took a look at the valet's room. Evidently Karen's clothes had been brushed and pressed, for they had disappeared.

Another door in the square hall promised to lead into the pantry, judging from significant sounds within.

It did, and the housekeeper was in there as energetically busy as every German woman always is when occupied. And German women are always occupied.

The kindly soul appeared to be much flattered by his visit. They had quite a gossiping time of it while she was preparing the breakfast dishes.

It was mostly a monologue.

No, she and Fritzl were not lonely at Quellenheim, although it was pleasant to have the Lodge open and a noble company there shooting. But, like Marlbrook, the Herr Baron had gone to the wars—alas!—and it might take him some time to capture Paris and London and set the remainder of the world in order.

But it really seemed too bad; the Herr Baron was fond of his shooting; Fritzl had reported some good antlers in the forest, and a grey boar or two—but enormous! As for the place it would certainly go to ruin what with faggot stealers and godless poachers!—And the foresters, keepers, and even the wood–choppers all gone off and deserting the place—think of it!—the ungrateful Kerls—gone!—and doubtless to join the crazy Belgian army which had refused to permit Prussian troops to pass! Prussian troops! The impudence of it! Gratitude! There was little of that in the world it seemed.

"When does the Herr Baron return here?" inquired Guild, smiling.

It appeared that the Herr Baron was to have arrived at Quellenheim this very week. But yesterday his adjutant telegraphed that he could not come perhaps for many weeks. No doubt he was very busy chasing the French and English. It was a pity; because the autumn is wunderschön at Quellenheim. And as for the deer!—they stand even in the driveway and look at the Lodge, doubtless wondering, sir, why they are neglected by the hunters, and asking one another why good fat venison is no longer appreciated at Quellenheim.

"Could you tell me where I may telegraph to the Herr Baron?" asked the young man, immensely amused by her gossip.

"That I can, sir. My careful household reports are sent to the Herr Baron through military headquarters at Arenstein, Prussia. That is where he is to be addressed."

"And a telegraph office?"

"At the railroad station."

"In communication with Prussia?"

"Yes, sir," she said with a vigorous nod. "And whenever any of the yokels here about tamper with the wires the Uhlans come and chase them till they think the devil is after them!"

"Uhlans. Here?"

"And why not? Certainly the Uhlans come occasionally. They come when it is necessary. Also they cross the Grand Duchy when they please."

"Then, if I write out a telegram here―"

"Fritzl will take it, never fear, sir. Leave it on the billiard table—any telegrams or letters—and they shall be sent when Fritzl drives to the station."

"Where," he inquired, "is Lesse Forest?" And could he send a messenger?

"Lesse Forest? Why the chasse wall separates the range of the Lesse Hills from Quellenheim. Any peasant at Trois Fontaines who possesses a bicycle could take a message and return in an hour."

"Do you know who leases the chasse at Lesse?"

"Yes. Some wealthy Americans."

So he smiled his thanks and returned to the hall. There was writing material on the long oak table. And first of all he wrote out a brief telegram to General von Reiter saying that he had fulfilled his promise.

This was all he might venture to say in a telegram; the rest he embodied in his letter to the Herr Baron:

Having telegraphed to you, and fulfilled my enforced obligations to the letter, I am confident that you, in your turn, will fulfill yours, release the hostages held by your troops at Yslemont, and spare the village any further destruction and indemnity.