Роберт Чамберс - Who Goes There!

When at last he went back to the compartment, Karen was sitting up, twisting her hair into shape.

"Do you feel rested?" he asked cheerfully, seating himself beside her.

"Yes, thank you. Where are we, Kervyn?"

"I don't know."

She was still busy with her hair, but her eyes remained on him.

"Can I do anything for you? Do you need anything?" he asked.

"I seem to need almost everything!" she protested, "including a bath and a clergyman. Oh, Kervyn, what a wedding journey! Is there anything about me that resembles a bride? And I'm not even that, yet—just a crumpled, soiled, disreputable child!"

"You are absolutely adorable just as you are!"

"No! I am unspeakable. And I want to be attractive to you. I really can be very nice–looking, only you never saw me so―"

"Dearest!"

"I haven't had any clothes since I first met you!" she said excitedly. "You know I can scarcely bear it to have you think of me this way. Will I have time to buy a gown in Antwerp? How long will it take us to marry each other? Because, of course, I shall not let you ride away with your regiment until you are my husband."

She flushed again, and the tears sprang to her eyes. It was plain that her nerves had given way under the long strain.

"Kervyn! Only yesterday war meant almost nothing to me. And look at me now!—look at the girl you saw in England only a few days ago!—a woman today!—a wife tomorrow, please God—and the fear of this war already overwhelming me."

She brushed the starting tears from her eyes; they filled again. She said miserably: "We women all inherit sorrow, it seems, the moment our girlhood leaves us. A few days ago I didn't know what it was to be afraid. Then you came. And with you came friendship. And with friendship came fear—fear for you !…And then, very swiftly, love came; and my girlhood was gone—gone—like yesterday—leaving me alone in the world with you and love and war!"

He drew her face against his shoulder:

"This world war is making us all feel a little lonely," he said. "The old familiar world is already changing under our bewildered eyes. It is a totally new era which is dawning; a new people is replacing the inhabitants of earth, born to new thoughts, new ideals, new ambitions.

"I think the old tyranny is already beginning to pass from men's souls and minds; the old folk–ways, the old and out–worn terrors, the tinselled dogmas, the old false standards, the universal dread of that absolute intellectual freedom which alone can make a truly new heaven and a new earth.

"All this is already beginning to pass away in the awful intellectual revelation which this world war is making hour by hour.

"What wonder that we feel the approaching change, the apprehension of that mortal loneliness which must leave us stripped of all that was familiar while the old order passes—vanishes like mist at dawn."

He bent and touched her hand with his lips:

"But there will be a dawn, Karen. Never doubt it, sweet!"

"Shall our children see it—if God is kind to us?" she whispered.

"Yes. If God is very kind, I think that we shall see it, too."

The girl nodded, pressing her cheek against his, her eyes clear and sweetly grave.

He said: "No man ever born, since Christ, has dared to be himself. No woman, either…. I think our children will begin to dare."

She mused, wide–eyed, wondering.

"And he who takes up a sword," he said in a low voice, "shall find himself alone like a mad dog in a city street, with every living soul bent upon his extermination.

"Thus will perish emperors and kings. Our children's children shall have heard of them, marvelling that we had lived to see them pass away into the mist of fable."

After a while she lifted her face and looked at him out of wistful eyes:

"Meanwhile you fight for them," she said.

"I am of today—a part of the mock mystery and the tarnished tinsel. That grey old man of Austria quarrels with his neighbour of Servia, and calls out four million men to do his murders for him. And an Emperor in white and steel buckles on his winged helmet summons six million more in the name of God.

"That is a tragedy called 'Today.' But it is the last act, Karen. Already while we hold the stage the scene shifters are preparing the drama called 'Tomorrow.'

"Already the last cues are being given; already the company that held the stage is moving slowly toward the eternal wings. The stage is to be swept clean; everything must go, toy swords and cannon, crowns and ermine, the old and battered property god who required a sea of blood and tears to propitiate him; the old and false idol once worshiped as Honour, and set upon a pedestal of dead bones. All these must go, Karen—are already going…. But—I am in the cast of 'Today'; I may only watch them pass, and play my part until the curtain falls."

They remained silent for a long time. The train had been running very slowly. Presently it stopped.

Guild rose and went to the door of the compartment, where a lantern glimmered, held high. Soldiers opened the door; an officer of Guard Cuirassiers saluted.

"We control the line no farther," he said. "Telegraphic orders direct me to send you forward with a flag."

"May I ask where we are?" said Guild.

"Not far from Antwerp. Will you aid Madam to descend? Time presses. We have a motor car at your disposal."

He turned, aided Karen to the wooden platform, which was thronged with heavy cavalrymen, then lifted out their luggage, which a soldier in fatigue cap took.

"There was also a box," said Guild to the officer of Cuirassiers.

"It is already in the tonneau." He drew a telegram from his pocket and handed it to Guild, and the young man read it under the flickering lantern light:

CAPTAIN THE COMTE D'YVOIR:

I am told that I shall recover. It has been, so far, between us, only the sword; but I trust, one day, it shall be the hand. Luck was against me. Not your fault.

I send to you and to my daughter my respect and my good will.

Until a more auspicious day, then, and without rancour.

Your friend the enemy,

VON REITER, Maj.–Gen'l.

Karen, reading over his shoulder, pressed his arm convulsively. Tears filled her eyes, but she was smiling.

"May we send a wire?" asked Guild of the officer.

An orderly came with pencil and telegraph blank. Guild wrote:

We are happy to learn that you are to recover. Gratitude, respect, salute from me; from her, gratitude and love. It will always be the hand. May the auspicious day come quickly.

GUELDRES, Capt. Reserve.

The orderly took the blank; Guild returned the salute of the Cuirassier and followed the soldier who was carrying their luggage.

An automobile stood there, garnished with two white lanterns and a pair of white flags.

A moment later they were speeding through the darkness out across a vast dim plain.

An officer sat in the front seat beside a military chauffeur; behind them, on a rumble, was seated a cavalryman.

In a few minutes the first challenge came; they stopped; helmeted figures clustered around them, a few words were whispered, then on they rolled, slowly, until there came another challenge, another delay; and others followed in succession as the tall phantoms of Uhlans loomed up around them in the night.

Two of these lancers wheeled and accompanied the automobile at a canter. One of the riders was a trumpeter; and very soon the car halted and the Uhlan set his trumpet to his lips and sounded it.

Almost immediately a distant bugle answered. The cavalryman on the rumble stood up, hung one of the lanterns to a white flag, and waved it slowly to and fro. Then the mounted Uhlan tied the flag to his lance–tip, hung the lantern to it, and raised it high in the air. Already the chauffeur had piled their luggage by the roadside; the officer got out, came around, and opened the door. As Karen descended he gave her his arm, then saluted and sprang to his place. The car backed in a half circle, turned, backed again, swung clear around, and went humming away into the darkness.