Роберт Чамберс - Who Goes There!

There was a profound silence. Then a voice from the darkness, very distinct:

"I have seen red. It is necessary for me to bleed an Uhlan!"

Guild walked toward the sound of the voice: "Who are you?" he demanded.

" Moi, je suis de Moresnet! "

"Then you'd better go back to the zinc mines of Moresnet, my friend. No Uhlans will trouble you down there."

And, aside to Michaud: "Look out for that young man from Moresnet. He's too hotly a Belgian to suit my taste."

"Monsieur, he is a talker," said Michael with a shrug.

"My friend, be careful that he is nothing more dangerous."

"Ah, sacré bleu!" exclaimed the forester, reddening to his white temples—"if any of that species had the temerity to come among us!―"

"Michaud, they might even be among the King's own entourage…. No doubt that fellow is merely, as you say, a talker. But—he should not be left to wander about the woods alone . And, tell me, is there anybody else you know of who might do something rash tonight along the boundary?"

"Monsieur—there are two or three poor devils who escaped the firing squads at Yslemont. They live in our forest, hiding. Our people feed them."

Guild said in a troubled voice: "Such charity is an obligation. But nevertheless it is a peril and a menace to us all."

"Were this estate my own," said the sturdy forester, "I would shelter them as long as they desired to remain. But I am responsible to Monsieur Paillard, and to his tenant, Madame Courland. Therefore I have asked these poor refugees to continue on to Diekirch or to Luxembourg where the sight of an Uhlan's schapska will be no temptation to them."

"You are right, Michaud." He held out his hand; the forester grasped it. "Tomorrow we should talk further. Our duty is to join the colours, not to prowl through the woods assassinating Uhlans. Good night! In the morning then?"

"At Monsieur's service."

"And both of us at the service of the bravest man in Europe—Albert, the King!"

Off came their hats. And, as they stood there in silence under the stars, from far away across the misty sea of trees came the sound of a gun–shot.

"One of your men?" asked Guild sharply.

"I don't know, Monsieur. Big boar feed late. A poacher perhaps. Perhaps a garde–de–chasse at Trois Fontaines."

"I hope nothing worse."

"I pray God not."

They continued to listen for a while, but no other sound broke the starry silence. And finally Guild turned away with a slight gesture, and walked slowly back to the Lodge.

Lights from the tall windows made brilliant patches and patterns across terrace and grass and flowers; the front door was open and the pleasant ruddy lamp–light streamed out.

Valentine passing and mounting the stairs caught sight of him and waved her hand in friendly salute.

"We're sterilizing Harry's shins—mother and I. The foolish boy was rather badly tusked."

"Is he all right?"

"Perfectly, and bored to death by our fussing."

She ran on up the stairs, paused again: "We're not dressing for dinner," she called down to him, and vanished.

Guild said, "All right!" glanced at the hall clock, and sauntered on into the big living–room so unmistakably American in its brightness and comfort.

But it was not until he had dropped back into the friendly embrace of a stuffed arm–chair that he was aware of Karen curled up in the depths of another, sewing.

"I didn't know you were here," he said coolly. "Have you had an agreeable afternoon?"

"Yes, thank you."

"It's a very charming place."

"Yes."

"I think the Courlands are delightful."

"Very."

"Miss Courland and I had a wonderful walk. We had no trouble in taking all the trout we needed for dinner, and then we went to a rock called The Pulpit, where we lay very still and talked only in whispers until three wild boars came out to feed."

Karen lifted her eyes from her sewing. They seemed unusually dark to him, almost purple.

"After that," he went on, "we walked back along the main ride to a carrefour where the drive crosses; and so back here. That accounts for my afternoon." He added, smiling carelessly: "May I ask you to account for yours?"

"Yes, please."

"Very well, then I do ask it."

She bent over her sewing again: "I have been idle. The sun was agreeable. I went for a little stroll alone and found an old wall and a pool and a rose garden."

"And then?"

"The rose garden is very lovely. I sat there sewing and—thinking―"

"About what?"

"About—you—mostly."

He said steadily enough: "Were your thoughts pleasant?"

"Partly."

"Only partly?"

"Yes…. I remembered that you are joining your regiment."

"But that should not be an unpleasant thought for you, Karen."

"No. I would have it so, of course. It could not be otherwise under the circumstances."

"It could not be otherwise," he said pleasantly; but his grey eyes never left the pale, sweet profile bent above the leisurely moving needle.

"I understand."

"I know you understand that —at least, Karen."

"Yes. Other matters, too—a little better than I did—this morning."

"What matters?" he asked casually. But his heart was threatening to meddle with his voice; and he set his lips sternly and touched his short mustache with careless fingers.

Karen bent still lower over her sewing. The light was perfectly good, however.

"What," he asked again, "are the matters which you now understand better than you did this morning?"

"Matters—concerning—love."

He laughed: "Do you think you understand love?"

"A little better than I did."

"In what way? You are not in love, are you, Karen?"

"I think—a—little."

"With whom?"

No answer.

"Not with me ?"

"Yes." She turned swiftly in the depths of her chair to confront him as he sprang to his feet.

"Wait!" she managed to say; and remained silent, one slim hand against her breast. And, after a moment: "Would you not come any nearer, please."

"Karen―"

"Not now, please…. Sit there where you were…. I can tell you better—all I know—about it."

She bent again over her needle, sewing half blindly, the hurrying pulses making her hand unsteady. After he was seated she turned her head partly around for a moment, looking at him with a fascinated and almost breathless curiosity.

"If I tell you, you will come no nearer; will you?" she asked.

"No. Tell me."

She sewed for a while at random, not conscious what her fingers were doing, striving to think clearly in the menace of these new emotions, the power of which she was divining now, realizing more deeply every second.

"I'll try to tell you," she said: "I didn't know anything—about myself—this morning. What we had been to each other I considered friendship. Remember it was my first friendship with a man. And—I thought it was that."

After a silence: "Was it anything deeper?" he asked.

"Yes, deeper…. You frightened me at first…. I was hurt…. But not ashamed or angry. And I did not understand why…. Until you spoke and said—what you said."

"That I love you?"

"Yes…. After that things grew slowly clearer to me. I don't know what I said to you—half the things I said on the way back—only that I made you angry—and I continued, knowing that you were angry and that I—I was almost laughing—I don't know why—only that I needed time to try to think…. You can't understand, can you?"

"I think so."

She looked up, then bowed her head once more.

"That is all," she said under her breath.

"Nothing more, Karen?"

"Only that—after you had gone away this afternoon I began to be a little in love."

"Will it grow?"