“What did you say?” she asked, quickly.
“I accepted—”
“What!”
There was resentment in her voice. She felt that he had done something which was tacitly understood to be against her wishes. True, what difference did it make to her? None; she would lose a delightful companion. Suddenly, something of the significance of such a loss came to her. It was not a revelation, scarcely an illumination, but she understood that if he went she should be lonely — yes, even unhappy. Then, too, unconsciously, she had assumed a mental attitude of interest in his movements — of partial proprietorship in his thoughts. She felt vaguely that she had been overlooked in the decision he had made; that even if she had not been consulted, at least he might have told her what he intended to do. Lorraine was at a loss to understand herself. But she was easily understood. For two weeks her attitude had been that of every innocent, lovable girl when in the presence of the man whom she frankly cares for; and that attitude was one of mental proprietorship. Now, suddenly finding that his sympathies and ideas moved independently of her sympathies — that her mental influence, which existed until now unconsciously, was in reality no influence at all, she awoke to the fact that she perhaps counted for nothing with him. Therefore resentment appeared in the faintest of straight lines between her eyes.
“Do you care?” he asked, carelessly.
“I? Why, no.”
If she had smiled at him and said “Yes,” he would have despaired; but she frowned a trifle and said “No,” and Jack’s heart began to beat.
“I cabled them two words: ‘Accept — provisionally,’” he said.
“Oh, what did you mean?”
“Provisionally meant — with your consent.”
“My — my consent?”
“Yes — if it is your pleasure.”
Pleasure! Her sweet eyes answered what her lips withheld. Her little heart beat high. So then she did influence this cool young man, with his brown eyes faintly smiling, and his indolent limbs crossed on the moss at her feet. At the same moment her instinct told her to tighten her hold. This was so perfectly feminine, so instinctively human, that she had done it before she herself was aware of it. “I shall think it over,” she said, looking at him, gravely; “I may permit you to accept.”
So was accomplished the admitted subjugation of Jack Marche — a stroke of diplomacy on his part; and he passed under the yoke in such a manner that even the blindest of maids could see that he was not vaulting over it instead.
Having openly and admittedly established her sovereignty, she was happy — so happy that she began to feel that perhaps the victory was not unshared by him.
“I shall think it over very seriously,” she repeated, watching his laughing eyes; “I am not sure that I shall permit you to go.”
“I only wish to go as a special, not a regular correspondent. I wish to be at liberty to roam about and sketch or write what I please. I think my material will always be found in your vicinity.”
Her heart fluttered a little; this surprised her so much that her cheeks grew suddenly warm and pink. A little confused, she said what she had not dreamed of saying: “You won’t go very far away, will you?” And before she could modify her speech he had answered, impetuously: “Never, until you send me away!”
A mottled thrush on the top of the linden-tree surveyed the scene curiously. She had never beheld such a pitiably embarrassed young couple in all her life. It was so different in Thrushdom.
Lorraine’s first impulse was to go away and close several doors and sit down, very still, and think. Her next impulse was to stay and see what Jack would do. He seemed to be embarrassed, too — he fidgeted and tossed twigs and pebbles into the river. She felt that she, who already admittedly was arbiter of his goings and comings, should do something to relieve this uneasy and strained situation. So she folded her hands on her black dress and said: “There is something I have been wishing to tell you for two weeks, but I did not because I was not sure that I was right, and I did not wish to trouble you unnecessarily. Now, perhaps, you would be willing to share the trouble with me. Would you?”
Before the eager answer came to his lips she continued, hastily: “The man who made maps — the man whom you struck in the carrefour — is the same man who ran away with the box; I know it!”
“That spy? — that tall, square-shouldered fellow with the pink skin and little, pale, pinkish eyes?”
“Yes. I know his name, too.”
Jack sat up on the moss and listened anxiously.
“His name is Von Steyr — Siurd von Steyr. It was written in pencil on the back of one map. The morning after the assault on the house, when they thought I was ill in bed, I got up and dressed and went down to examine the road where you caught the man and saved my father’s little steel box. There I found a strip of cloth torn from your evening coat, and — oh, Monsieur Marche! — I found the great, flat stone with which he tried to crush you, just as my father fired from the wall!”
The sudden memory, the thought of what might have happened, came to her in a flash for the first time. She looked at him — her hands were in his before she could understand why.
“Go on,” he whispered.
Her eyes met his half fearfully — she withdrew her fingers with a nervous movement and sat silent.
“Tell me,” he urged, and took one of her hands again. She did not withdraw it — she seemed confused; and presently he dropped her hand and sat waiting for her to speak, his heart beating furiously.
“There is not much more to tell,” she said at last, in a voice that seemed not quite under control. “I followed the broken bushes and his footmarks along the river until I came to a stone where I think he sat down. He was bleeding, too — my father shot him — and he tore bits of paper and cloth to cover the wound — he even tore up another map. I found part of it, with his name on the back again — not all of it, though, but enough. Here it is.”
She handed him a bit of paper. On one side were the fragments of a map in water-colour; on the other, written in German script, he read “Siurd von Steyr.”
“It’s enough,” said Jack; “what a plucky girl you are, anyway!”
“I? You don’t think so! — do you?”
“You are the bravest, sweetest—”
“Dear me! You must not say that! You are sadly uneducated, and I see I must take you under my control at once. Man is born to obey! I have decided about your answer to the Herald’s telegram.”
“May I know the result?” he asked, laughingly.
“To-morrow. There is a brook-lily on the border of the sedge-grass. You may bring it to me.”
So began the education of Jack Marche — under the yoke. And Lorraine’s education began, too — but she was sublimely unconscious of that fact.
This also is a law in the world.
CHAPTER IX
SAARBRÜCK
On the first day of August, late in the afternoon, a peasant driving an exhausted horse pulled up at the Château Morteyn, where Jack Marche stood on the terrace, smoking and cutting at leaves with his riding-crop.
“What’s the matter, Passerat?” asked Jack, good-humouredly; “are the Prussians in the valley?”
“You are right, Monsieur Marche — the Prussians have crossed the Saar!” blurted out the man. His face was agitated, and he wiped the sweat from his cheeks with the sleeve of his blouse.
“Nonsense!” said Jack, sharply.
“Monsieur — I saw them! They chased me — the Uhlans with their spears and devilish yellow horses.”
“Where?” demanded Jack, with an incredulous shrug.
“I had been to Forbach, where my cousin Passerat is a miner in the coal-mines. This morning I left to drive to Saint-Lys, having in my wagon these sacks of coal that my cousin Passerat procured for me, à prix réduit. It would take all day; I did not care — I had bread and red wine — you understand, my cousin Passerat and I, we had been gay in Saint-Avold, too — dame! we see each other
seldom. I may have had more eau-de-vie than another — it is permitted on fête-days! Monsieur, I was tired — I possibly slept — the road was hot. Then something awakes me; I rub my eyes — behold me awake! — staring dumfounded at what? Parbleu! — at two ugly Uhlans sitting on their yellow horses on a hill! ‘No! no!’ I cry to myself; ‘it is impossible!’ It is a bad dream! Dieu de Dieu! It is no dream! My Uhlans come galloping down the hill; I hear them bawling ‘Halt! Wer da!’ It is terrible! ‘Passerat!’ I shriek, ‘it is the hour to vanish!’”
The man paused, overcome by emotions and eau-de-vie.
“Well,” said Jack, “go on!”
“And I am here, monsieur,” ended the peasant, hazily.
“Passerat, you said you had taken too much eau-de-vie?” suggested Jack, with a smile of encouragement.
“Much? Monsieur, you do not believe me?”
“I believe you had a dream.”
“Bon,” said the peasant, “I want no more such dreams.”
“Are you going to inform the mayor of Saint-Lys?” asked Jack.
“Of course,” muttered Passerat, gathering up his reins; “heu! da-da! heu! cocotte! en route!” and he rattled sulkily away, perhaps a little uncertain himself as to the concreteness of his recent vision.
Jack looked after him.
“There might be something in it,” he mused, “but, dear me! his nose is unpleasantly — sunburned.”
That same morning, Lorraine had announced her decision. It was that Jack might accept the position of special, or rather occasional, war correspondent for the New York Herald if he would promise not to remain absent for more than a day at a time. This, Jack thought, practically nullified the consent, for what in the world could a man see of the campaign under such circumstances? Still, he did not object; he was too happy.
“However,” he thought, “I might ride over to Saarbrück. Suppose I should be on hand at the first battle of the war?”
As a mere lad he had already seen service with the Austrians at Sadowa; he had risked his modest head more than once in the murderous province of Oran, where General Chanzy scoured the hot plains like a scourge of Allah.
He had lived, too, at headquarters, and shared the officers’ mess where “cherba,” “tadjines,” “kous-kous,” and “méchoin” formed the menu, and a “Kreima Kebira” served as his roof. He had done his duty as correspondent, merely because it was his duty; he would have preferred an easier assignment, for he took no pleasure in cruelty and death and the never-to-be-forgotten agony of proud, dark faces, where mud-stained turbans hung in ribbons and tinselled saddles reeked with Arab horses’ blood.
War correspondent? It had happened to be his calling; but the accident of his profession had been none of his own seeking. Now that he needed nothing in the way of recompense, he hesitated to take it up again. Instinctive loyalty to his old newspaper was all that had induced him to entertain the idea. Loyalty and deference to Lorraine compelled him to modify his acceptance. Therefore it was not altogether idle curiosity, but partly a sense of obligation, that made him think of riding to Saarbrück to see what he could see for his journal within the twenty-four-hour limit that Lorraine had set.
It was too late to ride over that evening and return in time to keep his word to Lorraine, so he decided to start at daybreak, realizing at the same time, with a pang, that it meant not seeing Lorraine all day.
He went up to his chamber and sat down to think. He would write a note to Lorraine; he had never done such a thing, and he hoped she might not find fault with him.
He tossed his riding-crop on to the desk, picked up a pen, and wrote carefully, ending the single page with, “It is reported that Uhlans have been encountered in the direction of Saarbrück, and, although I do not believe it, I shall go there to-morrow and see for myself. I will be back within the twelve hours. May I ride over to tell you about these mythical Uhlans when I return?”
He called a groom and bade him drive to the Château de Nesville with the note. Then he went down to sit with the old vicomte and Madame de Morteyn until it came dinner-time, and the oil-lamps in the gilded salon were lighted, and the candles blazed up on either side of the gilt French clock.
After dinner he played chess with his uncle until the old man fell asleep in his chair. There was an interval of silence.
“Jack,” said his aunt, “you are a dear, good boy. Tell me, do you love our little Lorraine?”
The suddenness of the question struck him dumb. His aunt smiled; her faded eyes were very tender and kindly, and she laid both frail hands on his shoulders.
“It is my wish,” she said, in a low voice; “remember that, Jack. Now go and walk on the terrace, for she will surely answer your note.”
“How — how did you know I wrote her?” he stammered.
“When a young man sends his aunt’s servants on such very unorthodox errands, what can he expect, especially when those servants are faithful?”
“That groom told you, Aunt Helen?”
“Yes. Jack, these French servants don’t understand such things. Be more careful, for Lorraine’s sake.”
“But — I will — but did the note reach her?”
His aunt smiled. “Yes. I took the responsibility upon myself, and there will be no gossip.”
Jack leaned over and kissed the amused mouth, and the old lady gave him a little hug and told him to go and walk on the terrace.
The groom was already there, holding a note in one hand, gilt-banded cap in the other.
His first letter from Lorraine! He opened it feverishly. In the middle of a thin sheet of note-paper was written the motto of the De Nesvilles, “Tiens ta Foy.”
Beneath, in a girlish hand, a single line:
“I shall wait for you at dusk. Lorraine.”
All night long, as he lay half asleep on his pillow, the words repeated themselves in his drowsy brain: “Tiens ta Foy!” “Tiens ta Foy!” (Keep thy Faith!). Aye, he would keep it unto death — he knew it even in his slumber. But he did not know how near to death that faith might lead him.
The wood-sparrows were chirping outside his window when he awoke. It was scarcely dawn, but he heard the maid knocking at his door, and the rattle of silver and china announced the morning coffee.
He stepped from his bed into the tub of cold water, yawning and shivering, but the pallor of his skin soon gave place to a healthy glow, and his clean-cut body and strong young limbs hardened and grew pink and firm again under the coarse towel.
Breakfast he ate hastily by candle-light, and presently he dressed, buckled his spurs over the insteps, caught up gloves, cap, and riding-crop, and, slinging a field-glass over his Norfolk jacket, lighted a pipe and went noiselessly down-stairs.
There was a chill in the gray dawn as he mounted and rode out through the shadowy portals of the wrought-iron grille; a vapour, floating like loose cobwebs, undulated above the placid river; the tree-tops were festooned with mist. Save for the distant chatter of wood-sparrows, stirring under the eaves of the Château, the stillness was profound.
As he left the park and cantered into the broad red highway, he turned in his saddle and looked towards the Château de Nesville. At first he could not see it, but as he rode over the bridge he caught a glimpse of the pointed roof and single turret, a dim silhouette through the mist. Then it vanished in the films of fog.
The road to Saarbrück was a military road, and easy travelling. The character of the country had changed as suddenly as a drop-scene falls in a theatre; for now all around stretched fields cut into squares by hedges — fields deep-laden with heavy-fruited strawberries, white and crimson. Currants, too, glowed like strung rubies frosted with the dew; plum-trees spread little pale shadows across the ruddy earth, and beyond them the disk of the sun appeared, pushing upward behind a half-ploughed hill. Everywhere slender fruit-trees spread their grafted branches; everywhere in the crumbling furrows of the soil, warm as ochre, the bunched strawberries hung like drops of red wine under the sun-bronzed lea
ves.
The sun was an hour high when he walked his horse up the last hill that hides the valley of the Saar. Already, through the constant rushing melody of bird music, his ears had distinguished another sound — a low, incessant hum, monotonous, interminable as the noise of a stream in a gorge. It was not the river Saar moving over its bed of sand and yellow pebbles; it was not the breeze in the furze. He knew what it was; he had heard it before, in Oran — in the stillness of dawn, where, below, among the shadowy plains, an army was awaking under dim tents.
And now his horse’s head rose up black against the sky; now the valley broke into view below, gray, indistinct in the shadows, crossed by ghostly lines of poplars that dwindled away to the horizon.
At the same instant something moved in the fields to the left, and a shrill voice called: “Qui-vive?” Before he could draw bridle blue-jacketed cavalrymen were riding at either stirrup, carbine on thigh, peering curiously into his face, pushing their active light-bay horses close to his big black horse.
Jack laughed good-humouredly and fumbled in the breast of his Norfolk jacket for his papers.
“I’m only a special,” he said; “I think you’ll find the papers in order — if not, you’ve only to gallop back to the Château Morteyn to verify them.”
An officer with a bewildering series of silver arabesques on either sleeve guided a nervous horse through the throng of troopers, returned Jack’s pleasant salute, reached out a gloved hand for his papers, and read them, sitting silently in his saddle. When he finished, he removed the cigarette from his lips, looked eagerly at Jack, and said:
“You are from Morteyn?”
“Yes.”
“A guest?”
“The Vicomte de Morteyn is my uncle.”
The officer burst into a boyish laugh.
“Jack Marche!”
“Eh!” cried Jack, startled.
Then he looked more closely at the young officer before him, who was laughing in his face.
Works of Robert W Chambers Page 60
