Works of Robert W Chambers

by Robert W. Chambers

  Early that morning, while the rain drove into the ground in one sheeted downpour, they buried Sir Thorald and little Alixe, side by side, on the summit of a mound overlooking the river Lisse. Jack drove the tumbril; four soldiers of the line followed. It was soon over; the mellow bugle sounded a brief “lights out,” the linesmen presented arms. Then Jack mounted the cart and drove back, his head on his breast, the rain driving coldly in his face. Some officers came later with a rough wooden cross and a few field flowers. They hammered the cross deep into the mud between Sir Thorald and little Alixe. Later still Jack returned with a spade and worked for an hour, shaping the twin mounds. Before he finished he saw Lorraine climbing the hill. Two wreaths of yellow gorse hung from one arm, interlaced like thorn crowns; and when she came up, Jack, leaning silently on his spade, saw that her fair hands were cut and bleeding from plaiting the thorn-covered blossoms.

  They spoke briefly, almost coldly. Lorraine hung the two wreaths over the head-piece of the cross and, kneeling, signed herself.

  When she rose Jack replaced his cap, but said nothing. They stood side by side, looking out across the woods, where, behind a curtain of mist and rain, the single turret of the Château de Nesville was hidden.

  She seemed restless and preoccupied, and he, answering aloud her unasked question, said, “I am going to search the forest to-day. I cannot bear to leave you, but it must be done, for your sake and for the sake of France.”

  She answered: “Yes, it must be done. I shall go with you.”

  “You cannot,” he said; “there is danger in the forest.”

  “You are going?”

  “Yes.”

  They said nothing more for a moment or two. He was thinking of Alixe and her love for Sir Thorald. Who would have thought it could have turned out so? He looked down at the river Lisse, where, under the trees of the bank, they had all sat that day — a day that already seemed legendary, so far, so far in the mist-hung landscape of the past. He seemed to hear Molly Hesketh’s voice, soft, ironical, upbraiding Sir Thorald; he seemed to see them all there in the sunshine — Dorothy, Rickerl, Cecil, Betty Castlemaine — he even saw himself strolling up to them, gun under arm, while Sir Thorald waved his wine-cup and bantered him.

  He looked at the river. The green row-boat lay on the bank, keel up, shattered by a shell; the trees were covered with yellow, seared foliage that dropped continually into the water; the river itself was a canal of mud. And, as he looked, a dead man, face under water, sped past, caught on something, drifted, spun giddily in an eddy, washed to and fro, then floated on under the trees.

  “You will catch cold here in the rain,” he said, abruptly.

  “You also, Jack.”

  They walked a few steps towards the house, then stopped and looked at each other.

  “You are drenched,” he said; “you must go to your room and lie down.”

  “I will — if you wish,” she answered.

  He drew her rain-cloak around her, buttoned the cape and high collar, and settled the hood on her head. She looked up under her pointed hood.

  “Do you care so much for me?” she asked, listlessly.

  “Will you give me the right — always — forever?”

  “Do you mean that — that you love me?”

  “I have always loved you.”

  Still she looked up at him from the shadow of her hood.

  “I love you, Lorraine.”

  One arm was around her now, and with the other hand he held both of hers.

  She spoke, her eyes on his.

  “I loved you once. I did not know it then. It was the first night there on the terrace — when they were dancing. I loved you again — after our quarrel, when you found me by the river. Again I loved you, when we were alone in the Château and you came to see me in the library.”

  He drew her to him, but she resisted.

  “Now it is different,” she said. “I do not love you — like that. I do not know what I feel; I do not care for that — for that love. I need something warmer, stronger, more kindly — something I never have had. My childhood is gone, Jack, and yet I am tortured with the craving for it; I want to be little again — I want to play with children — with young girls; I want to be tired with pleasure and go to bed with a mother bending over me. It is that — it is that that I need, Jack — a mother to hold me as you do. Oh, if you knew — if you knew! Beside my bed I feel about in the dark, half asleep, reaching out for the mother I never knew — the mother I need. I picture her; she is like my father, only she is always with me. I lie back and close my eyes and try to think that she is there in the dark — close — close. Her cheeks and hands are warm; I can never see her eyes, but I know they are like mine. I know, too, that she has always been with me — from the years that I have forgotten — always with me, watching me that I come to no harm — anxious for me, worrying because my head is hot or my hands cold. In my half-sleep I tell her things — little intimate things that she must know. We talk of everything — of papa, of the house, of my pony, of the woods and the Lisse. With her I have spoken of you often, Jack. And now all is said; I am glad you let me tell you, Jack. I can never love you like — like that, but I need you, and you will be near me, always, won’t you? I need your love. Be gentle, be firm in little things. Let me come to you and fret. You are all I have.”

  The intense grief in her face, the wide, childish eyes, the cold little hands tightening in his, all these touched the manhood in him, and he answered manfully, putting away from himself all that was weak or selfish, all that touched on love of man for woman:

  “Let me be all you ask,” he said. “My love is of that kind, also.”

  “My darling Jack,” she murmured, putting both arms around his neck.

  He kissed her peacefully.

  “Come,” he said. “Your shoes are soaking. I am going to take charge of you now.”

  When they entered the house he took her straight to her room, drew up an arm-chair, lighted the fire, filled a foot-bath with hot water, and, calmly opening the wardrobe, pulled out a warm bath-robe. Then, without the slightest hesitation, he knelt and unbuttoned her shoes.

  “Now,” he said, “I’ll be back in five minutes. Let me find you sitting here, with your feet in that hot water.”

  Before she could answer, he went out. A thrill of comfort passed through her; she drew the wet stockings over her feet, shivered, slipped out of skirt and waist, put on the warm, soft bath-robe, and, sinking back in the chair, placed both little white feet in the foot-bath.

  “I am ready, Jack,” she called, softly.

  He came in with a tray of tea and toast and a bit of cold chicken. She followed his movement with tired, shy eyes, wondering at his knowledge of little things. They ate their luncheon together by the fire. Twice he gravely refilled the foot-bath with hotter water, and she settled back in her soft, warm chair, sighing contentment.

  After a while he lighted a cigarette and read to her — fairy tales from Perrault — legends that all children know — all children who have known mothers. Lorraine did not know them. At first she frowned a little, watching him dubiously, but little by little the music of the words and the fragrance of the sweet, vague tales crept into her heart, and she listened breathless to the stories, older than Egypt — stories that will outlast the last pyramid.

  Once he laid down his book and told her of the Prince of Argolis and Æthra; of the sandals and sword, of Medea, and of the wreathed wine-cup. He told her, too, of the Isantee, and the legends of the gray gull, of Harpan and Chaské, and the white lodge of hope.

  She listened like a tired child, her wrist curved under her chin, the bath-robe close to her throat. While she listened she moved her feet gently in the hot water, nestling back with the thrill of the warmth that mounted to her cheeks.

  Then they were silent, their eyes on each other.

  Down-stairs some rain-soaked officer was playing on the piano old songs of Lorraine and Alsace. He tried to sing, too, but his voice brok
e, whether from emotion or hoarseness they could not tell. A moment or two later a dripping infantry band marched out to the conservatory and began to play. The dismal trombone vibrated like a fog-horn, the wet drums buzzed and clattered, the trumpets wailed with the rising wind in the chimneys. They played for an hour, then stopped abruptly in the middle of “Partons pour la Syrie,” and Jack and Lorraine heard them trampling away — slop, slop — across the gravel drive.

  The fire in the room made the air heavy, and he raised one window a little way, but the wet wind was rank with the odour of disinfectants and ether from the stable hospital, and he closed the window after a moment.

  “I spent all the morning with the wounded,” said Lorraine, from the depths of her chair. The child-like light in her eyes had gone; nothing but woman’s sorrow remained in their gray-blue depths.

  Jack rose, picked up a big soft towel, and, deliberately lifting one of her feet from the water, rubbed it until it turned rosy. Then he rubbed the other, wrapped the bath-robe tightly about her, lifted her in his arms, threw back the bed-covers, and laid her there snug and warm.

  “Sleep,” he said.

  She held up both arms with a divine smile.

  “Stay with me until I sleep,” she murmured drowsily. Her eyes closed; one hand sought his.

  After a while she fell asleep.

  CHAPTER XXIV

  LORRAINE AWAKES

  When Lorraine had been asleep for an hour, Jack stole from the room and sought the old general who was in command of the park. He found him on the terrace, smoking and watching the woods through his field-glasses.

  “Monsieur,” said Jack, “my ward, Mademoiselle de Nesville, is asleep in her chamber. I must go to the forest yonder and try to find her father’s body. I dare not leave her alone unless I may confide her to you.”

  “My son,” said the old man, “I accept the charge. Can you give me the next room?”

  “The next room is where our little Sister of Mercy died.”

  “I have journeyed far with death — I am at home in death’s chamber,” said the old general. He followed Jack to the death-room, accompanied by his aide-de-camp.

  “It will do,” he said. Then, turning to an aid, “Place a sentry at the next door. When the lady awakes, call me.”

  “Thank you,” said Jack. He lingered a moment and then continued: “If I am shot in the woods — if I don’t return — General Chanzy will take charge of Mademoiselle de Nesville, for my uncle’s sake. They are sword-brothers.”

  “I accept the responsibility,” said the old general, gravely.

  They bowed to each other, and Jack went out and down the stairs to the lawn. For a moment he looked up into the sky, trying to remember where the balloon might have been when Von Steyr’s explosive bullet set it on fire. Then he trudged on into the wood-road, buckling his revolver-case under his arm and adjusting the cross-strap of his field-glasses.

  Once in the forest he breathed more freely. There was an odour of rotting leaves in the wet air; the branches quivered and dripped, and the tree-trunks, moist and black, exhaled a rank aroma of lichens and rain-soaked moss.

  Along the park wall, across the Lisse, sentinels stood in the rain, peering out of their caped overcoats or rambling along the river-bank. A spiritless challenge or two halted him for a few moments, but he gave the word and passed on. Once or twice squads met him and passed with the relief, sick boyish soldiers, crusted with mud. Twice he met groups of roving, restless-eyed franc-tireurs in straight caps and sheepskin jackets, but they did not molest him nor even question him beyond asking the time of day.

  And now he passed the carrefour where he and Lorraine had first met. Its only tenant was a sentinel, yellow with jaundice, who seized his chassepot with shaking hands and called a shrill “Qui Vive?”

  From the carrefour Jack turned to the left straight into the heart of the forest. He risked losing his way; he risked more than that, too, for a shot from sentry or franc-tireur was not improbable, and, more-over, nobody knew whether Uhlans were in the woods or not.

  As he advanced the forest growth became thicker; underbrush, long uncut, rose higher than his head. Over logs and brush tangles he pressed, down into soft, boggy gullys deep with dead leaves, across rapid, dark brooks, threads of the river Lisse, over stony ledges, stumps, windfalls, and on towards the break in the trees from which, on clear days, one could see the turret-spire of the Château de Nesville. When he reached this point he looked in vain for the turret; the rain hid it. Still, he could judge fairly well in which direction it lay, and he knew that the distance was half a mile.

  “The balloon dropped near here,” he muttered, and started in a circle, taking a gigantic beech-tree as the centre mark. Gradually he widened his circuit, stumbling on over the slippery leaves, keeping a wary eye out for the thing on the ground that he sought.

  He had seen no game in the forest, and wondered a little. Once or twice he fancied that he heard some animal moving near, but when he listened all was quiet, save for the hoarse calling of a raven in some near tree. Suddenly he saw the raven, and at the same moment it rose, croaking the alarm. Up through a near thicket floundered a cloud of black birds, flapping their wings. They were ravens, too, all croaking and flapping through the rain-soaked branches, mounting higher, higher, only to wheel and sail and swoop in circles, round and round in the gray sky above his head. He shivered and hesitated, knowing that the dead lay there in the thicket. And he was right; but when he saw the thing he covered his eyes with both hands and his heart rose in his throat. At last he stepped forward and looked into the vacant eye-sockets of a skull from which shreds of a long beard still hung, wet and straggling.

  It lay under the washed-out roots of a fir-tree, the bare ribs staring through the torn clothing, the fleshless hands clasped about a steel box.

  How he brought himself to get the box from that cage of bones he never knew. At last he had it, and stepped back, the sweat starting from every pore. But his work was not finished. What the ravens and wolves had left of the thing he pushed with sticks into a hollow, and painfully covered it with forest mould. Over this he pulled great lumps of muddy clay, trampling them down firmly, until at last the dead lay underground and a heap of stones marked the sepulchre.

  The ravens had alighted in the tree-tops around the spot, watching him gravely, croaking and sidling away when he moved with abruptness. Looking up into the tree-tops he saw some shreds of stuff clinging to the branches, perhaps tatters from the balloon or the dead man’s clothing. Near him on the ground lay a charred heap that was once the wicker car of the balloon. This he scattered with a stick, laid a covering of green moss on the mound, placed two sticks crosswise at the head, took off his cap, then went his way, the steel box buttoned securely in his breast. As he walked on through the forest, a wolf fled from the darkening undergrowth, hesitated, turned, cringing half boldly, half sullenly, watching him with changeless, incandescent eyes.

  Darkness was creeping into the forest when he came out on the wood-road. He had a mile and a half before him without lantern or starlight, and he hastened forward through the mire, which seemed to pull him back at every step. It astonished him that he received no challenge in the twilight; he peered across the river, but saw no sentinels moving. The stillness was profound, save for the drizzle of the rain and the drip from the wet branches. He had been walking for a minute or two, trying to keep his path in the thickening twilight, when, far in the depths of the mist, a cannon thundered. Almost at once he heard the whistling quaver of a shell, high in the sky. Nearer and nearer it came, the woods hummed with the shrill vibration; then it passed, screeching; there came a swift glare in the sky, a sharp report, and the steel fragments hurtled through the naked trees.

  He was running now; he knew the Prussian guns had opened on the Château again, and the thought of Lorraine in the tempest of iron terrified him. And now the shells were streaming into the woods, falling like burning stars from the heavens, bursting over the tree-tops;
the racket of tearing, splintering limbs was in his ears, the dull shock of a shell exploding in the mud, the splash of fragments in the river. Behind him a red flare, ever growing, wavering, bursting into crimson radiance, told him that the Château de Nesville was ablaze. The black, trembling shadows cast by the trees grew blacker and steadier in the fiery light; the muddy road sprang into view under his feet; the river ran vermilion. Another light grew in the southern sky, faint yet, but growing surely. He ran swiftly, spurred and lashed by fear, for this time it was the Château Morteyn that sent a column of sparks above the trees, higher, higher, under a pall of reddening smoke.

  At last he stumbled into the garden, where a mass of plunging horses tugged and strained at their harnessed guns and caissons. Muddy soldiers put their ragged shoulders to the gun-wheels and pushed; teamsters cursed and lashed their horses; officers rode through the throng, shouting. A squad of infantry began a fusillade from the wall; other squads fired from the lawn, where the rear of a long column in retreat stretched across the gardens and out into the road.

  As Jack ran up the terrace steps the gatling began to whir like a watchman’s rattle; needle-pointed flames pricked the darkness from hedge and wall, where a dark line swayed to and fro under the smoke.

  Up the stairs he sped, and flung open the door of the bedroom. Lorraine stood in the middle of the room, looking out into the darkness. She turned at the sound of the opening door:

  “Jack!”

  “Hurry!” he gasped; “this time they mean business. Where is your sentinel? Where is the general? Hurry, my child — dress quickly!”

  He went out to the hall again, and looked up and down. On the floor below he heard somebody say that the general was dead, and he hurried down among a knot of officers who were clustered at the windows, night-glasses levelled on the forest. As he entered the room a lieutenant fell dead and a shower of bullets struck the coping outside.

  He hastened away up-stairs again. Lorraine, in cloak and hat, met him at the door.